Colin ignored her.
“Shall we start?” Colin invited, ready to hear some answers.
Robert took a sip and put his cup on Colin’s desk.
“Pretty basic stuff, you’ll be pleased to know,” he began, his words slightly surprised Colin and Colin watched him pull a thick file out of a briefcase.
“Sibyl Jezebel Godwin,” Robert started and something shifted inside Colin as Robert read out her full name, her real name, truly she was a Godwin. Some part of him never believed that, for some reason. To have it read to him so calmly felt like a blow.
Christ, did Beatrice Godwin’s descendant walk into Lacybourne three weeks ago?
Dear Christ, had she done so only to have him shout at her?
“Born to Albert Godwin, an Englishman.” Robert lifted his eyes to Colin and the other man’s were benign. They showed no signs that anything he was about to say would be life changing even though, with the two pieces of information he’d given Colin, they already were.
Sibyl’s father was English. She could be descended from Beatrice’s family.
Robert continued. “Her father was born in Wells. He teaches Medieval History and took his first post in Arizona where he met his wife, Marguerite. She was born Marguerite Wilhemina Den in Sedona, Arizona. Bit of a wild one, is Marguerite, an aging hippy, studies witchcraft, been arrested seven times, mostly during demonstrations for civil rights, women’s rights, anti-war, stuff like that. Nothing serious.”
Colin sat in stunned silence as the pieces of Sibyl’s puzzle flew together. Everything about her fit, the damned granola she always seemed to be eating, her lecture about fuel economy, her pets’ names. Not to mentions Sibyl’s bizarre muttered comments of “Oh my goddess” were because her mother had brought her up Wiccan.
Robert went on, “Albert and Marguerite had two children, both girls, yours, of course, Sibyl, and a younger daughter, Scarlett. They both were straight A students, honour role, Who’s Who, barely missed school, travelled a lot with their parents as the father went from university to university. Never showed any signs of trouble with all the moving around, as kids sometimes do. Though Scarlett is a bit of a wild one, like her mother. Sibyl seems less, er… prone to that, or at least in that way. Sibyl has two degrees, a Bachelor of Arts in languages and another in Social Work. Scarlett is finishing up the final months of a neurology residency.”
Robert kept talking and Colin felt his gut clench painfully as the information flowed at him, something about Customs and Immigration, something else about a domestic abuse charity and something alarming about an animal shelter.
Sibyl owned Brightrose Cottage outright, deeded over to her by her parents upon her move to England over a year ago.
She had only had three boyfriends that Robert could find, a fact Colin could hardly believe.
She had close relationships with family and friends, a fact Colin definitely believed.
She currently worked part-time at a community centre on a deprived council estate in Weston-super-Mare (which must be the source of “the girls” who needed her).
Robert only imparted one small piece of information to Colin that he already knew. Sibyl ran a small, but rather lucrative, business on the side making bath salts and shampoo. It would have been very lucrative if she didn’t divide forty percent of her profits between Amnesty International and a small, local animal shelter that took in abused cats that couldn’t be re-homed.
“From what I heard, they love her at the Centre and she spends more time there then she gets paid for. Pretty tight with the family that runs the place as volunteers, a Kyle and Tina and especially their daughter Jemma. There was a little bit of trouble a few weeks ago but you saw to that, obviously,” Robert finished and nodded at Colin, with what, Colin thought, was a strange gesture of respect.
Colin stared at him. He had no idea what the man was talking about. He hadn’t even known Sibyl worked at a community centre.
Therefore, he asked, “Sorry?”
“The minibus. Your girl was making some waves about the local minibus company the council had contracted with to transport the pensioners. Some issue with a blind lady who was living in squalor, your girl found out about it, cleaned up the woman’s house and set up a rota to look after her. She raised hell with Social Services that the driver didn’t report it. They couldn’t do a thing and your girl was furious. She lost her nut with the minibus driver when she saw him. A few days later, during a delivery to the Day Centre, one of the pensioners fell out of the bus, broke a hip. Apparently this lady was a particular favourite of Sibyl’s and she took it hard. Then, out-of-the-blue, there was a convenient ‘anonymous’ donation, clearly from you, fifty thousand pounds. Bang, new minibus, enough to train one of the volunteers as a driver, insure the bus, well… I don’t have to tell you.”
Colin felt his heart squeeze painfully and he found he was having difficulty breathing but Fitzwilliam wasn’t done.
“Lucky she met you. Found herself a nice patron, you two make a striking couple if you don’t mind my saying. Of course, investigating her I had to watch you for awhile, you understand, since you spend so much time with her. Can’t say I blame you…”
Colin wasn’t listening to him, he was thinking of Sibyl, who she was and what she’d done.
Sibyl had sold her body for a minibus for old-age pensioners.
Not only that, she’d quit her job (before she could be fired) at the domestic violence charity because she’d been found sitting on the porch of a client training her father’s shotgun on an abuser who had dared to approach his estranged wife’s house in the middle of the night.
And what had Robert said about what she did to the people who brought in the dog who’d been burned by cigarette butts?
He didn’t want to think, couldn’t think, all he could remember was her staring at the money in the briefcase and saying, “Thank you,” like it was the answer to her prayers.
Clearly it was the answer to a prayer, a prayer for a bunch of old people to whom she was not related, who simply came to her Centre. People who were in the hands of a thoughtless driver who wasn’t responsible for them but should have had enough feeling to at least take note and some care, and didn’t.