Part 6
“No.”
“Should we expect journalists?”
“Possibly.”
A muffled conversation sounded behind him.
“Clara, you know I’m not judging you.”
“You’re assessing risk.”
“I am obligated to assess risk.”
“I understand.”
“Can you work from home today?”
“You mean stay away.”
“I mean give this forty-eight hours.”
She looked through the kitchen doorway. Oliver sat on the floor in the sitting room, building a model plane without its instructions.
“All right.”
“Are you going to issue a statement?”
“My solicitor says no.”
“Good. Silence looks better than improvisation.”
After the call, Clara opened the newspaper article.
Anonymous guests described a “sudden and inexplicable attack.” One called Lady Beatrice “the picture of restraint.” Another claimed Oliver had appeared “perfectly calm” before Clara arrived.
The article mentioned that Clara had become Oliver’s guardian after the “double tragedy” of his parents’ deaths.
It did not mention the marks.
At eleven fifteen, an email arrived from Lady Beatrice’s solicitors.
They sought an interim order preventing Clara from obstructing contact between Oliver and his paternal grandmother. They alleged emotional manipulation, aggressive behavior, and an escalating attempt to damage the Harcourt family’s reputation.
Attached was a statement from Sir Malcolm.
I saw Ms. Whitmore approach Lady Beatrice in an agitated state and strike her without visible provocation.
Clara read the phrase twice.
Without visible provocation.
She thought of Oliver’s wrist mostly concealed beneath his cuff. The truth had been present. It had simply not been visible to the right people.
Helen called five minutes later.
“They’ve requested an emergency directions hearing for Friday.”
“That fast?”
“They’re using the assault to argue immediate concern.”
“Can they take him?”
“Not on this material alone.”
“Not alone.”
“Stop finishing my cautionary sentences.”
Clara stood and paced to the window.
“What do we do?”
“We disclose the photographs, the police reference, your account, and the school incident from March. We ask Mrs. Patel to speak with Oliver before Friday, provided she considers it appropriate.”
“What about what he told me last night?”
“You document it. You do not make him repeat it to us.”
“The letter from Beatrice to Eleanor?”
“We need to authenticate it.”
“Daniel can.”
“Daniel has not admitted sending it.”
“He knows.”
“Knowing is not testifying.”
Clara watched a delivery cyclist struggle with a package across the street.
“Why would Beatrice do this?” she asked. “Why push for more contact now? She barely saw him during the first six months.”
“Control.”
“That’s too easy.”
Helen was quiet.
“Yes,” she said. “It usually is.”
Clara opened the anonymous diary page again.
March seventeenth. Dr. Vale.
“Who is Dr. Vale?”
“I don’t know.”
“There was an appointment after Eleanor met Beatrice.”
“Could be a dentist.”
“Could be.”
“You’re going to investigate.”
“Yes.”
“Carefully.”
Clara searched the name anyway.
There were dozens of Dr. Vales in London. One result made her stop.
Dr. Stephen Vale, consultant psychiatrist, retired.
His private practice had once operated from an address two streets from Lady Beatrice’s London house.
Clara called Helen back.
“You lasted six minutes,” Helen said.
Clara told her.
“Do not contact him.”
“Why would Beatrice meet a psychiatrist after seeing Eleanor?”
“We don’t know that Eleanor attended the eleven o’clock appointment. The diary entry is ambiguous.”
“It says E. Harcourt.”
“Eleanor was legally a Harcourt.”
“So was Beatrice.”
“Exactly.”
Clara hated when caution sounded sensible.
At noon, Mrs. Patel arrived.
She wore a navy coat and carried a canvas bag with a broken zipper. Oliver knew her from two previous visits and disliked the card game she used to make conversations less formal.
“I brought a different one,” she told him when he saw the bag.
“I don’t like card games.”
“Excellent. Neither do I.”
That earned the smallest lift at the corner of his mouth.
They spoke in the sitting room with the door closed. Clara remained in the kitchen, where she wiped the same section of counter until Marta took the cloth from her.
“You’re making the wood nervous,” Marta said.
Clara sat down.
An hour passed.
Then another twenty minutes.
When Mrs. Patel emerged, her expression offered nothing.
“Oliver would like hot chocolate.”
“He doesn’t usually—”
Mrs. Patel gave her a look.
Clara stopped.
“I’ll make it.”
“You and I need to speak privately.”
They went into the dining room. Model airplane pieces covered one end of the table. Mrs. Patel moved a wing before setting down her notebook.
“Oliver described yesterday’s incident.”
Clara waited.
“He said Lady Beatrice questioned him about what he remembered from his parents’ marriage and what he intended to tell me. He described pressure on his wrist. I observed residual marks.”
“Did he tell you about the blue room?”
Mrs. Patel’s face changed slightly.
“Why are you asking?”
“He told me last night.”
“Tell me exactly how that conversation began.”
Clara did.
Mrs. Patel took notes.
“Did you ask whether Julian struck Eleanor?”
“No.”
“Did you tell Oliver you believed that happened?”
“No.”
“Have you discussed the anonymous documents with him?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Clara folded her arms.
“Do you believe him?”
“My belief is not the standard.”
“He’s seven.”
“Yes.”
“He thinks he can destroy his father by telling the truth.”
“I understand.”
“No, I don’t think anyone understands. His father frightened him. His mother protected the man who frightened him. His grandmother wants him to protect the family that protected his father. And now everyone with a professional title is going to ask whether he has been influenced.”
Mrs. Patel allowed the anger to pass without interrupting.
“You are also influencing him,” she said.
Clara stared at her.
“Every caregiver influences a child. By what they say, what they avoid, what expression crosses their face when a name is mentioned. The question is whether you can give Oliver enough room to hold feelings that may not match yours.”
“I’ve never told him to hate them.”
“That is not what I said.”
May you like
Clara looked away.
In the sitting room, a cupboard opened. Marta asked Oliver whether he wanted cinnamon. He said no, then changed his mind.
