‘Fascinating,’ Kitty said, looking at the wall and wondering how to change the conversation. ‘Is it possible for me to speak with Ambrose today?’
‘I’m afraid Ambrose isn’t working in the museum today.’
‘Is she at home? Could I call to her there?’
‘Oh, I doubt she’s in there on a day like this,’ Eugene chuckled. ‘Ambrose is working on a butterfly conservation garden on her land. She really is extremely dedicated to protecting our butterflies and making sure we don’t do damage to their natural populations or environments.’
Kitty looked out at the picnic area and saw the ‘Private. Staff Only’ gate leading from the premises.
‘She sounds like a wonderful woman,’ Sally said.
‘Oh, yes indeed, she is,’ Eugene became a little flustered and he blushed. ‘She has dedicated her life to conserving butterflies. Ms Logan,’ he lowered his voice so that the people listening to his lecture wouldn’t overhear, ‘Ambrose is … very private, you see. If there’s anything you would like me to ask her for you I promise I will do so and get in immediate contact with you. It’s just that … well, Ambrose is private,’ he repeated and then he resumed his normal tone. ‘This beautiful butterfly here is called the Dark Green Fritillary from the Nymphalidae family, also known as Mesoacidalia aglaia. It is a large, powerful, bright orange butterfly, which you often see battling with the breeze on a cliff top, limestone pavement or sand dune. Startlingly visible yet frustratingly evasive, it is a grassland species that breeds on common dog-violet. Both sexes have a greenish underside on the hindwing.’
As more people gathered around to hear Eugene speak, Kitty slowly backed away from the group while he was distracted. She headed straight to the picnic area, and when she noticed Eugene looking in her direction warily, she pointed discreetly to the ladies’ toilet and he nodded and continued his talk. As soon as he looked away Kitty hurried to the gate that said, ‘Private. Staff Only’. She pushed it open and stepped into a wonderland, a long lawn bursting with colour, butterflies fluttering to and fro, skimming her nose as they hurried to get out of her way. At the end of the garden Kitty saw a stooped figure.
‘Excuse me,’ Kitty called.
The figure stood up straight, turned round, then turned her back on Kitty. She pulled her hair down, long wild red hair, like fire, that fell to the small of her back.
‘Stop!’ she called, and her voice was so adamant that Kitty immediately halted.
‘I’m sorry,’ Kitty called. ‘My name is—’
‘You’re not allowed in here,’ the woman shouted.
‘Yes, I know, I’m very sorry, I—’
‘This is private premises. Please go back!’
Her voice was authoritative, but Kitty discerned a note of panic at the periphery of her words, and her posture showed she was afraid.
Kitty took steps back and then changed her mind. She had one chance to do this.
‘My name is Kitty Logan,’ she called. ‘I work for Etcetera magazine. I wanted to talk to you about your stunning set-up here. I’m sorry to have frightened you. I just wanted to talk to you.’
‘Eugene deals with press,’ she barked. ‘Out!’ Then she added more gently, ‘Please.’
Kitty backed away but when at the gate she tried one more time. ‘I just need to know one thing. Did Constance Dubois contact you at any stage in the past year?’
She expected to be shouted at again, to find the gardening fork being flung at her head, but instead there was silence.
‘Constance,’ she said suddenly and Kitty’s heart started racing. ‘Constance Dubois,’ she repeated.
Ambrose still wouldn’t turn around.
‘Yes. Do you know her?’ Kitty asked.
‘She called me. One time. She asked about a caterpillar.’
‘She did?’ Kitty asked, in shock, her mind racing. Had these names got to do with her initial interview? ‘An Oleander caterpillar?’
‘That means something to you?’
‘Yes,’ Kitty said breathlessly, trying to take it in and process what this could possibly mean for a story.
Ambrose finally turned round but all Kitty could see was her wild hair. ‘You can wait for me in there.’ She pointed the gardening fork at the open door that led to her house.
Kitty looked at it in surprise. ‘Thank you.’
She stepped inside and found herself in the kitchen. It was a modest home, a charming country cottage that had been updated but kept true to its roots. The Aga took over the room, its heat still emanating from breakfast time. She sat at the kitchen table and watched the woman finish up work, make her way towards the house, head down, all wild red hair covering her, still not meeting Kitty’s eye even as she stepped into the house and asked her if she’d like a cup of tea.
Kitty thought of Sally being lectured on butterflies of Ireland by Eugene and guiltily said yes to the tea. Ambrose did most of her talking with her back turned, and when she finally sat at the rectangular table, which seated eight, she chose to sit not opposite Kitty but at the end of the table, at the corner, looking away. It took a long time and an awkward warming-up conversation for Kitty finally to be able to make eye contact with Ambrose, and when she did she noticed something unusual. Ambrose had eyes of different colours, one a striking green and the other a deep dark brown. And it wasn’t just that: when her thick hair finally did move a centimetre from where it had been strategically placed, Kitty could see the discoloration that spread from the middle of her forehead and went down her nose, over her lips, half her chin, and disappeared beneath her high-collared blouse. The burn, if it was that, looked like a flame licking unevenly at the right side of her face, and as quickly as Kitty had seen it, it disappeared again as the thick veil of red hair was closed, and one bright green eye remained staring out at the kitchen table.
If Kitty had been told that Ambrose had never before spoken to a human being, she would have believed it. She wasn’t rude but she had no real understanding of how a conversation worked. There was no eye contact, or at least only an accidental one, enough for Kitty to see the disfigured face and the varying eye colours. Perhaps Kitty’s reaction had been reflected in her face because Ambrose had chosen not to look at her again. Apart from failing to look her in the eye, where she positioned herself at the end of the table, she could turn her body away from Kitty. Kitty was looking at Ambrose’s right side. At least the hair there had been tucked behind her ear to show pale porcelain skin. She really was the most unusual person Kitty had ever met, not just physically, but characterwise too.
Her conversation was as unsettling as her demeanour. Her voice was quiet but, as if conscious of it, she spoke up on certain words and then forgot again, other words disappearing in whispers. Kitty had to listen hard to hear.
‘She called me. Yes it was. Last year. I remember. Because it was. Unusual.’ She shouted the word ‘unusual’, and then as if she’d given herself a fright she continued in a whisper, ‘She wanted to come to see me. To interview me. Yes, that’s what it was. I told her no. That I don’t. Do interviews.’
‘Did she say what the interview was about?’
‘Eugene. I told her to talk to Eugene about the museum. He deals with the public. Not me. She said it wasn’t about the museum. She didn’t know about the butterflies.’
‘It was about you personally?’
‘That’s what she said. I told her I didn’t want to. The list. She said she would keep