Unforgettable (Gloria Cook) - By Gloria Cook Page 0,83

break off with him. Thank God she did. To think it took something like someone else’s misery to see I’d been so unloving and horrid to my own daughter.’

Perkin was now sobbing his heart out. ‘I’m s–so sorry, Dorrie . . . t–tell her for me . . . p–please . . . do you think she’ll forgive us?’

‘Of course I will tell her, Perkin dear, and Verity will be very pleased to hear it. I’m pleased too and I’m sure she’ll forgive you and want to put the past behind her. Verity doesn’t bear grudges.’ Dorrie had great sympathy for her brother; it took a good man to admit his faults, and she would not rub salt into his wounds by telling him how wretched Verity had been left by the extent of Urquart’s malicious behaviour.

‘As soon as I get home I’ll talk to Camilla. I’m sure she’ll see things my way; she’s beginning to say she misses Verity. Then we’ll both write to her separately and say how sorry we are. What time does Verity arrive home? I say “home” because Verity wrote that she considers her home is with you and Greg now. I’ll ring her and explain and apologize to her. I don’t suppose she’ll want to come up here to see Camilla and me again but I’ll stress we’ll be very happy to see her and have her stay at any time. We’ll be proud to take her out to dine at the Ritz and show her off to everyone. My duties end at the courts next month, Dorrie. I’m going to retire. Dare I ask if we can come down and stay with you for a few days to spend time with Verity? Would you smooth things over with Greg for us – well, try to, for Verity’s sake?’

‘Yes to both,’ Dorrie replied cheerily to soothe Perkin, although she wasn’t sure how far she would get with Greg. He and Perkin had been at war throughout all their childhood, playing tit for tat to a fine degree and few kind words had passed between them since.

‘He doesn’t know how blessed he is to have such a lovely, intelligent, vibrant daughter.’ Greg had raged after Verity’s arrival. ‘We lost our only children. He’s still got two.’

After Perkin’s heartfelt goodbye, Dorrie returned to her chair and considered all he had said. She rehearsed what she would say to Greg, how she would implore him to allow bygones to stay in the past. She knew the story of the condemned man Perkin had spoken about; Dorrie had read all about it in The Times. Poor man. It was easy to understand how he had been driven to murder, even to applaud the fact he had removed two sadistic evil beings from the world. That had not been the case of the paid killer who had shot Mary Rawling and Neville Stevens. One thing Dorrie was still chillingly worried about was that the person or persons who ordered the executions must be local, probably harbouring a secret they would go to the last and final wicked length to keep under wraps. Could it have been something to do with the war? She thought not. Mary Rawling had worked on Meadows Farm throughout the war and had not ventured beyond the village boundaries. There was no possibility she could have discovered anything in the way of national espionage. Neville Stevens had been a motor mechanic at Wadebridge, and had been denied enlistment into the Forces because of his colour blindness, but he had joined the Home Guard. He was most unlikely to have discovered something Top Secret. Their murders were done over plain and simple, deadly blackmail.

Dorrie admonished herself. Why still be bothered about it? Everyday concerns were enough to keep in mind. Making Greg see that Perkin really was sorry for shunning Verity and planned to make amends was enough for now.

Twenty-Seven

A bonfire was about to start at Meadows House. With Verity at his side, Jack had lit a brazier in a secluded spot far from the back of the house, near a marshy pond. Down at their feet were three boxes of the dolls and other things Lucinda had disturbingly destroyed. The large vaguely circular pond was fed by the stream, currently wending its way over the stony bed, its surface sun dappled with darts of bright light that kept it from falling into stagnation and decay. Dragonflies hovered and danced about the reeds and bulrushes, but