House of Echoes

House of Echoes Barbara Erskine When Joss, an adopted child, discovers that her real mother has left the beautiful family home, Belheddon Hall, to her, she is thrilled, until she discovers that the Hall is haunted by a presence which will not tolerate husbands or sons living in the house.Joss Grant is eager to begin a new life when she inherits Belheddon Hall. She brings her husband, Luke, and their small son, Tom, to the dilapidated house, and sets about discovering her family roots.But not long after they move in, Tom wakes screaming at night. Joss hears echoing voices and senses an invisible presence watching her from the shadows. Are they spirits from the past? As she learns, with mounting horror, of Belheddon’s tragic history, she realises that both her family and her own sanity are at the mercy of a violent and powerful energy that seems beyond anyone’s control. Copyright (#ulink_91621831-4f5a-5017-b83b-35aeb9af72a0) Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1996 This edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016 Copyright © Barbara Erskine 1996 Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016 Cover photographs © PhotoAlto/Frederic Cirou/Getty Images (leaves); Colin New/Trevillion Images (woman & trees). Barbara Erskine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. 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Source ISBN: 9780007280780 Ebook Edition © March 2016 ISBN: 9780007320943 Version: 2017-09-07 Joss Grant’s family tree Contents Cover (#u9d4539b7-2c1b-5f6f-9a79-a038849882d9) Title Page (#ueacf35df-752a-56c9-9fb6-e8c3e94e3da0) Copyright (#ue223a043-d638-54d8-a929-4bc67df96d02) Prologue (#ubb0d308f-1cd5-5dc1-bc42-5964469ef368) Chapter One (#ud42684d1-a61b-5b26-8cfe-02414ecb0510) Chapter Two (#u38abfe3d-d3bd-5cdb-9c92-6026a997f279) Chapter Three (#ub3ffc33d-297d-5794-9708-d6e5598eaadf) Chapter Four (#u4049bb24-1dda-588c-8683-de4e4cb457f1) Chapter Five (#u7cacfde7-7d86-57e9-9689-ce115febbbd9) Chapter Six (#u75ba3dbc-15ba-5a16-8c97-c679eb89a7b8) Chapter Seven (#uf47a278a-ee7e-5ea7-bd4b-8897906273f1) Chapter Eight (#uecec68c8-16da-5f08-9ab3-dde772451ba4) Chapter Nine (#ue5cc72b3-229d-5f34-94fd-3a4d45d1b156) Chapter Ten (#u39dfca6c-4c01-5ba3-99b0-e6b3b8633c81) Chapter Eleven (#u78278bce-ce8a-5ed5-9171-8c5f077c3db2) Chapter Twelve (#u4a584182-9091-57a6-b347-9573912338e8) Chapter Thirteen (#u6c12929f-3c88-5593-a0e3-4a5b5d54e87f) Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading Barbara Erskine’s Novels (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading Sleeper’s Castle (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) Also by Barbara Erskine (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Prologue (#ulink_777de17a-812a-52b3-b2ad-9bd08dd065f9) A beam of cold sunshine finds its way through a knot hole in the wood of the shutters and strays across the dusty boards. Laser like, it creeps from right to left until it reaches the flower lying in its path. One by one, in the spotlight, the petals fall open, their thin creamy whiteness already edged with brown. In the silence the skirt skimming over the boards makes no sound; the footsteps from the past are quiet. With no ear there to hear them the echoes in the house are silent. 1 (#ulink_7da90047-0a25-597c-b55c-8c6fec6facaa) Had she really not wanted to know? Joss put her foot down and accelerated into a bend. Or had she been afraid of the truth? ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?’ Before she left home her husband Luke reached in through the open window and put his hand over hers as it rested on the wheel. On the seat beside her was the gazetteer and the file with the copy of her birth and adoption certificates and the note of the address. Belheddon Hall. She had glanced up at him and shaken her head. ‘I must do this alone, Luke. Just this first time.’ The gate, hidden behind the yews and laurels, had not been opened for a long while. The wood was damp and swollen and slimy with lichen. It caught on the untrimmed grass as she pushed it back and it hung open behind her as she stepped out onto an overgrown path which appeared to lead into an area of woodland. Pushing her hands down into her pockets she walked cautiously forward, feeling half guilty, half exhilarated as the wind whipped her hair into her eyes. The woods around her smelled of rotting leaves and beech mast, bitter and sharp with early autumn. Somewhere near her a pheasant crashed out of the undergrowth with an explosion of alarm calls and she stopped, her heart thundering under her ribs, staring round. As the frightened bird flew low through the trees and out of sight the silence returned. Even the cheerful rustling of the leaves overhead died away as the wind dropped. She stared round, straining her ears for some kind of sound. Ahead, the path curved out of sight around a stand of holly trees, their glossy leaves almost black in the dull afternoon light, their berries shocking in their abundant redness. The holly bears a berry as red as any blood. The line from the carol floated through her head. She gazed at the trees for a moment, strangely reluctant to walk any further, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling as she became aware suddenly that eyes were watching her from the thicket on her left. Holding her breath she turned her head. For several seconds she and the fox stared at each other, then he was gone. He made no sound but the space he had filled beneath the old hawthorn bush was empty. She was so relieved she almost laughed out loud. Whatever thoughts had raced through her head at that moment they had not included a fox. With a lighter heart she stepped forward, aware that the wind was once more blowing strongly in her face and two minutes later she rounded the corner near the holly bushes to find herself on the edge of an overgrown lawn. In front of her stood the house. It was an old grey building with gabled roofs and mullioned windows, the plastered walls covered in ivy and wisteria and scarlet Virginia creeper. She stood quite still, staring. Belheddon Hall. Her birthplace. Almost on tiptoe she crept forward. Internal shutters gave the windows which faced her a strangely blind aspect, but for a moment she had the strangest feeling that she was being watched from somewhere behind those shutters. She shivered and turned her attention firmly to the porticoed front door which looked up the long tree lined drive leading out of sight, presumably to the front gates. Where once there had been gravel there were now knee-high thistles and ragwort and wind-blown rose bay. She sniffed. Emotions she didn’t know she had been harbouring seemed to be welling up inside her: loss, grief, loneliness, disappointment, even anger. Abruptly she turned her back on the house and gazed down the drive, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. She spent a long time wandering round the overgrown gardens and lawns, exploring the lake with its perimeter of reeds and bulrushes and weeds, and the stableyard and coach houses which lay through the archway at the side of the house. Her shoulders hunched against the wind she tried the front door and the back, both locked and bolted as she had known they would be, and she stood at last on the terrace at the back of the house looking down towards the lake. It was a wonderful house; wild, deserted, locked in its dreams of yesterday. With a sigh she turned and stared up at the blind windows. It had been her home if only for a few months, and presumably the scene of whatever unhappiness had made her mother give her away. It was in her blood and it had rejected her. It was for Tom she was doing this she had reflected wryly as she drove through the network of quiet North Essex lanes. Tom. Her baby son. Until she had held him in her arms and gazed into that small, crumpled red face, so like his father’s, she had been content to leave her origins a mystery. She had been happy and secure with her adoptive parents. She was special after all; a chosen child. Her day dreams about her real parents had been vague and stereotypical, her mother in turn princess, parlour maid, poet, painter, prostitute. The choices and permutations were endless; harmless fun. One day she would search for the truth but if she were honest she knew she had put off looking for fear that the truth might be dull. It was not until she had looked down at Tom and known what it was like to hold her own baby in her arms that she realised she had to find out not just who her own real mother was, but how and why she had been able to give away her daughter. Between one minute and the next vague curiosity had become burning obsession. At first it was too easy. Her mother, it appeared from the records, was Laura Catherine Duncan, n?e Manners, her father Philip George Henry Duncan, deceased. He had died seven months before she was born. She was born at Belheddon Hall, in Essex on 21st June, 1964. Alice and Joe, her adoptive parents, long prepared for this moment, had tried to persuade her to go to one of the agencies which tracks down families for adopted children but she had said no, this was something she had wanted to do for herself. Even if her mother no longer lived at Belheddon Hall she wanted to see it, to explore the village where she was born; to see if she could feel her roots. On the map Belheddon featured as a small village on the coast of East Anglia on the border between Suffolk and Essex. Surprisingly remote, it looked north across the broad expanse of water where the Stour Estuary met the North Sea, some five miles from the small town of Manningtree. She had hoped for something more romantic than Essex, the West Country perhaps, or Scotland, but her brief to herself had been strict. She was not going to prejudge anything or anyone. She was keeping an open mind. Her mouth was dry with nerves as at last she drove into Belheddon and pulled up outside the single small shop, its window unaesthetically lined with yellowing cellophane paper. Belheddon Post Office and Stores. She had closed her eyes, as she put on the hand brake and turned off the engine, surprised to find that her hands were shaking. On the cold pavement a scatter of dead leaves cartwheeled past the car. The sign above the door swung violently backwards and forwards in the wind as, climbing stiffly out, Joss glanced round. It had been a long journey. If she had pictured the whole of Essex as a suburban wasteland irrevocably merged into north-east London she couldn’t have been more wrong. The drive had taken more than two and a half hours from Kensington, where she and Luke lived, and for at least the last hour it had been through deep country. Ahead of her the street was empty of both cars and people. Straight at this point, it ran between two lines of pretty cottages before curving away across the village green towards the estuary. It was only a small village – no more perhaps than a couple of dozen houses, a few thatched, two or three timber framed, the last spires of windswept hollyhocks standing sentinel in their gardens. There was no sign of a church. Taking a deep breath she pushed open the door of the shop which was to her surprise a great deal more sophisticated than she had expected. To her left the window of the small post office was enclosed behind piles of postcards and stationery and racks of sweets; to her right she found herself facing an attractive and well stocked delicatessen counter. The woman serving behind it was small, stocky, perhaps some sixty years old, with wispy white hair and piercing grey eyes. Reaching with a plastic gloved hand into the display for a lump of green cheese she glanced up at Joss and smiled. ‘I won’t keep you a moment, my dear.’ The woman in front of Joss in the queue succumbed to her curiosity and turned round. Tall, with dark hair escaping from a knotted head scarf, and with a weather-beaten face which spoke of years living within reach of the cold east wind, she gave Joss a friendly grin. ‘Sorry, I’ve been buying up the shop. Won’t be two ticks now.’ ‘That’s all right.’ Joss smiled. ‘I actually came in to ask if you can direct me to Belheddon Hall.’ Both women looked surprised. ‘It’s up by the church.’ The woman in front of her had narrowed her eyes. ‘It’s all closed up, you know. There’s no one there.’ Joss bit her lip, trying to master her disappointment. ‘So the Duncans don’t live there any more?’ Both women shook their heads. ‘It’s been empty for years.’ The woman behind the counter shivered theatrically. ‘Spooky old place.’ Wrapping the cheese deftly in some cling film she slipped the parcel into a paper bag. She glanced up at her customer. ‘There you are, my dear. That will be four pounds ten pence altogether. My husband and I have only had the shop since ’89.’ She smiled back at Joss. ‘I never knew the people up at the Hall.’ The other woman shook her head. ‘Nor I. I believe old Mrs Duncan who used to live at the schoolhouse was a relation. But she died a couple of years back.’ Joss pushed her hands down into her pockets. Her sense of let down was acute. ‘Is there anyone who might know what happened to the family?’ The post mistress shook her head. ‘I always heard they kept themselves to themselves at the end. Mary Sutton, though. She would remember. She used to work up at the Hall. She sometimes acts a bit ga-ga, but I’m sure she could tell you something.’ ‘Where could I find her?’ ‘Apple Cottage. On the corner of the green. With the blue gate.’ The gate was stiff and warped. Joss pushed it open and made her way up the narrow path, dodging between overhanging thistles, downy with blown silk. There was no bell or knocker on the door so she rapped with her knuckles. Five minutes later she gave up. There was obviously no one at home. Standing at the gate she stared round. Now that she had walked a little way out of the village street she could see the church tower partially concealed by trees on the far side of the green. And the Hall was somewhere beside it. Leaving the car where it was she began to walk across the grass. ‘So, do you like our little church? It’s thirteenth century, you know.’ The voice behind her made her jump as she leaned thoughtfully on the lych gate staring up the path which disappeared round the church. Behind her a tall, thin man in a dog collar was propping his bicycle against the hedge. He saw her glance at it and shrugged. ‘My car’s in dock. Something wrong with the brakes. Anyway I enjoy cycling on these lovely autumn afternoons.’ He had seen the pensive woman as he turned out of New Barn Road. Coming to a stop he had watched her for several minutes, impressed by her stillness. As she turned now and smiled at him he saw that she was youngish – late twenties or early thirties perhaps – and attractive in a quirky sort of way. Her hair was dark and heavy, cut in a bob with a fringe across her eyes – eyes which were a vivid Siamese cat blue. He watched as his bicycle subsided into the nettles and gave a humorous shrug. ‘I was just coming to collect some books I left in the vestry. Would you like to see round before I lock up?’ She nodded. ‘I was actually looking for the Hall. But I’d love to see the church.’ ‘You can reach the Hall through the gate over there, behind the yews.’ He led the way up the path. ‘It’s empty, alas. Has been for many years.’ ‘Did you know the people who lived there?’ The intensity of the gaze she fixed on him disarmed him slightly. ‘I’m afraid not. It was empty when I came to the parish. It’s a shame. We need a family there.’ ‘Is it for sale then?’ She was dismayed. ‘No. No, that’s the problem. It still belongs to the Duncan family. I believe Mrs Duncan lives in France now.’ Mrs Duncan. Laura Catherine. Her mother. ‘You don’t have her address, do you?’ Joss could hear her voice shaking slightly. ‘I’m a sort of relative. That’s why I came.’ ‘I see.’ He gave her another quick glance as they reached the church. Taking out a key he unlocked the door in the porch and ushering her into the dim interior he reached for the light switches. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know where she is, but my predecessor might. He was in the parish for twenty-five years and I think he kept in touch with her when she left. I can give you his address at least.’ ‘Thank you.’ Joss stared round. It was a beautiful small church, plain, with a whitewashed interior which showed off the carved stone of the thirteenth-century windows and the arched doorways and the brasses and plaques with which it was lined. On the south side there was a side aisle where the oak pews gave way to rows of rush seated chairs. The church had been decorated for Harvest Festival and every window sill and shelf and pew end was piled with fruit and vegetables and flowers. ‘It’s lovely.’ ‘Isn’t it.’ He surveyed it with fond pride. ‘I’m lucky to have such a charming church. I have three others of course with three other parishes, but none is as nice as this.’ ‘Is my –’ Joss was looking round. My father, she had been going to say. ‘Is Philip Duncan buried here?’ ‘Indeed he is. Out by the oak tree. You’ll see his grave if you walk through to the Hall.’ ‘Is it all right if I go and look at the house? Is there a caretaker or something?’ Joss called after him as he disappeared to collect his books. ‘No. I’m sure it will be all right if you go and wander round. There’s no one to mind any more, sadly. The gardens used to be beautiful, but they’re a wilderness now.’ He reappeared from the shadows and closed the vestry door behind him. ‘Here, I’ve scribbled down Edgar Gower’s address. I don’t know his phone number off hand, I’m afraid. He lives near Aldeburgh.’ He pushed a piece of paper into her hand. She watched from the churchyard as he strode back to his bike, vaulted onto it and rode away, his pile of books heaped in the bicycle basket. Suddenly she felt very lonely. The grave stone by the oak tree was simple and unadorned. Philip DuncanBorn 31st January 1920Died 14th November 1963 Nothing else. No mention of his grieving widow. Or his child. She looked down at it for several minutes. When at last she turned away pulling the collar of her coat up with a shiver against the strengthening wind she found there were tears in her eyes. It was a long time before she could drag herself away from the old house and walk, thoughtfully, back to the car. Climbing in, savouring the familiar atmosphere of home, she leaned back in her seat and looked round. On the shelf lay one of Tom’s socks, pulled off as he sat in his car seat behind her, as a prelude to sucking his toes. She stayed slumped for several minutes, lost in thought, then suddenly she sat upright and gripped the steering wheel. In her pocket she had the address of someone who knew her mother; who remembered her; who would know where she was now. Leaning across the seat she reached for the road atlas. Aldeburgh was not all that far away. She glanced up. The sky was a patchwork of scudding black clouds and brilliant sunshine. Evening was still a long way off. 2 (#ulink_98450754-7489-58c5-a879-cac0b06c2cb7) Pulling into the long broad main street in Aldeburgh she sat still for a moment peering through the windscreen at the shops and houses. It was an attractive place, bright, neat and at the moment very quiet. Clutching her piece of paper she climbed out of the car and approached a man who was standing staring into the window of an antique shop. At his feet a Jack Russell terrier strained at the leash anxious to get to the beach. He glanced at her piece of paper. ‘Crag Path? Through there. Overlooking the sea.’ He smiled. ‘A friend of Edgar Gower’s are you? Delightful man. Delightful.’ Unexpectedly he gave a shout of laughter as he strode away. Joss found she was smiling herself as, intrigued, she followed the direction of his pointing finger and threaded her way down the side of a fisherman’s cottage, crossed a narrow road and found herself on a promenade. On one side stood a line of east-facing houses, on the other, beyond the sea wall, a shingle beach and then a grey, turbulent sea. The wind was very cold here and she shivered as she walked down the road looking for house numbers. Edgar Gower’s house was tall and narrow, white painted with a high balcony overlooking the sea. To her relief she could see lights on in the downstairs room and there was a stream of pale wood smoke coming from the chimney. He opened the door to her himself, a tall, angular man with a ruddy complexion and a startling halo of white hair. His eyes were a brilliant blue. ‘Mr Gower?’ Under his piercing gaze Joss suddenly felt extraordinarily self conscious. He did not appear to be gentle or reassuring as his successor at Belheddon had been; this man of the cloth was a complete contrast. ‘Who wants me?’ The eyes did not appear to have blinked. Although his gaze was fierce his voice was comparatively soft, scarcely audible as behind her the waves, crashing successively onto the beach, rattled the shingle in a shifting deafening background roar. ‘I was given your address by the rector at Belheddon. I’m so sorry to come without telephoning –’ ‘Why have you come?’ He cut short her floundering. He had made no move to ask her in and she realised suddenly that he had a coat on over a thick rough knit sweater. He had obviously been on the point of going out. ‘I’m sorry. This is obviously not a good time –’ ‘Perhaps you will allow me to be the judge of that, my dear.’ He spoke with ill-concealed though mild irritation. ‘Once you have told me the purpose of your visit.’ ‘I think you know my mother.’ She blurted it out without preamble, transfixed by the unblinking eyes. ‘Indeed?’ ‘Laura Duncan.’ For a moment he stared at her in complete silence and she saw that at last she had succeeded in disconcerting him. She held her breath, returning his gaze with difficulty. ‘So,’ he said at last. ‘You are little Lydia.’ Suddenly Joss found it difficult to speak. ‘Jocelyn,’ she whispered. ‘Jocelyn Grant.’ ‘Jocelyn Grant. I see.’ He nodded slowly. ‘You and I should walk, I think. Come.’ Stepping out onto the path he slammed his door behind him and turned right, striding purposefully along the road behind the sea wall without a backward glance to see if she were following. ‘How did you find out about your mother?’ He spoke loudly against the noise of the wind. His hair was streaming behind him, reminding Joss irresistibly of an Old Testament prophet in full cry. ‘I went to St Catherine’s House to find my birth certificate. My name is Jocelyn, not Lydia.’ She was growing short of breath, trying to keep up with him. ‘Jocelyn Mary.’ ‘Mary was your great grandmother, Lydia your grandmother.’ ‘Please, is my mother still alive?’ She had had to run a few steps to stay beside him. He stopped. His expression, beaten by the wind into fiery aggressiveness suddenly softened with compassion. Joss’s heart sank. ‘She’s dead?’ she whispered. ‘I’m afraid so, my dear. Several years ago. In France.’ Joss bit her lip. ‘I had so hoped –’ ‘It is as well there is no chance of your meeting, my dear. I doubt if your mother would have wanted it,’ he said. The kindness and sympathy in his voice were palpable; she was beginning to suspect that he must have been a very good pastor. ‘Why did she give me away?’ Her voice was trembling and she felt her tears on her cheeks. Embarrassed she tried to wipe them away. ‘Because she loved you. Because she wanted to save your life.’ ‘Save my life?’ Shocked, Joss echoed him numbly. He looked down at her for a moment, then he reached into his pocket and drew out a handkerchief. Carefully he wiped her cheeks. He smiled, but there was unhappiness in his eyes as he shook his head. ‘I prayed you would never come to find me, Jocelyn Grant.’ He turned away from her and took several steps back along the path then he stopped and swung back to face her. ‘Are you able to forget that you ever went to Belheddon? Are you able to put it out of your mind forever?’ Joss gasped. Confused she shook her head. ‘How can I?’ His shoulders slumped. ‘How indeed.’ He sighed. ‘Come.’ Abruptly he began to retrace his steps and she followed him in silence, her stomach churning uncomfortably. His narrow front hall, as he closed the door against the roar of wind and sea, was uncannily quiet. Shrugging off his own coat he helped her with her jacket and slung both onto a many branched Victorian hat stand then he headed for the staircase. The room into which he showed her was a large comfortable study overlooking the sea wall and the white-topped waves. It smelled strongly of pipe smoke and the huge vase of scented viburnum and tobacco flowers mixed with Michaelmas daisies, which stood on a table amidst piles of books. Gesturing her to a deep shabby arm chair he went back to the door and bellowed down the stairs. ‘Dot! Tea and sympathy. My study. Twenty minutes!’ ‘Sympathy?’ Joss tried to smile. He hauled himself onto the edge of his large untidy kneehole desk and looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Are you strong, Jocelyn Grant?’ She took a deep breath. ‘I think so.’ ‘Are you married?’ His eyes had travelled thoughtfully to her hands and his gaze rested on her wedding ring. ‘As you see.’ ‘And do you have children?’ She glanced up. His gaze was steady. She tried to read it and failed. ‘I have a little boy, yes. He’s eighteen months old.’ He sighed. Standing up he walked round his desk and went to stand at the window, staring down at the sea. There was a long silence. ‘It was after I had Tom that I realised I wanted to find out about my real parents,’ she said at last. ‘Of course.’ He did not turn round. ‘Is that my father – the Philip who is buried in the churchyard at Belheddon?’ she went on after another silence. ‘It is.’ ‘Did you bury him?’ He nodded slowly. ‘What did he die of?’ ‘He had a riding accident.’ He turned. ‘I liked Philip very much. He was a kind and courageous man. He adored your mother.’ ‘Was it because of the accident she gave me away?’ He hesitated. ‘Yes, I think that was part of it, certainly.’ Sitting down behind his desk he leaned forward on his elbows and rubbed his face wearily. ‘Your mother was never very strong physically, although emotionally she was the strongest of us all. After Philip’s death she gave up. There had been two other children before you. They both died before they reached their teens. Then there was a long gap and then you came along. She had already planned to leave. I don’t think she and Philip wanted any more children …’ His voice died away thoughtfully. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, but you must have been expecting some tale of woe; why else would a woman of Laura’s background give away her child?’ ‘I …’ Joss cleared her throat and tried again. ‘I didn’t know anything about her background. Only the address.’ He nodded. ‘Jocelyn. Once more, can I beg you to forget about all this? For your own sake and the sake of your family don’t embroil yourself in the affairs of the Duncans. You have your own life, your own child. Look forward, not backwards. There is too much unhappiness attached to that house.’ His face lightened as a quiet tap sounded at the door. ‘Come in, Dot!’ The door opened and the corner of a tray emerged, pushing it back. Mr Gower did not stand up. He was frowning. ‘Come in, my love and join us for tea. Meet Jocelyn Grant.’ Joss half turned in her chair and smiled at the small, slim woman who had appeared, bent beneath the weight of the tray. Leaping to her feet she reached out to help her. ‘It’s all right, my dear. I’m stronger than I look!’ Dot Gower’s voice was not only strong but also melodious. ‘Sit down, sit down.’ She plonked the tray down in front of her husband where, balanced on top of his papers it sloped alarmingly towards the window. ‘So, shall I pour?’ ‘Dot,’ Edgar Gower said slowly. ‘Jocelyn is Laura Duncan’s child.’ Dot Gower’s eyes were, Joss suddenly discovered, as piercing as her husband’s. Disconcerted by the woman’s stare she subsided back into her chair. ‘Poor Laura.’ Dot turned after a moment back to her teapot. ‘She would have been so proud of you, my dear. You are very beautiful.’ Joss felt suddenly very uncomfortable. ‘Thank you. What was she like?’ ‘Middle height; slim; grey hair, even when she was comparatively young; grey eyes.’ Edgar Gower appraised Joss once more. ‘You don’t have her eyes – or Philip’s. But you do have her build, and I should imagine her hair was like yours once. She was kind, intelligent, humorous – but the deaths of the boys – she never got over that and once Philip had gone …’ He sighed as he reached out to take his tea cup. ‘Thank you, my dear. Jocelyn, please. For your own sake, forget Belheddon. They have all gone. There is nothing there for you.’ ‘Edgar!’ Dot straightened from the tray and turned on her husband, her face sharp. ‘You promised!’ ‘Dot. No!’ They were locked for a moment in some intense silent conflict which Joss didn’t understand. The atmosphere in the room had become tense. Abruptly Edgar slammed down his cup, slopping tea into the saucer and stood up. He strode over to the fireplace. ‘Think, Dot. Think what you are saying …’ ‘Excuse me,’ Joss said at last. ‘Please. What are you talking about? If this is something to do with me, I think I should know about it.’ ‘Yes it is.’ Dot’s voice was very firm. ‘Edgar made your mother a solemn promise before she left England and he has to keep it.’ Edgar’s face was working furiously, reflecting some inner battle as yet unresolved. ‘I promised, but nothing but unhappiness will come of it.’ ‘Come of what?’ Joss stood up. ‘Please. I obviously have a right to know.’ She was growing afraid. Suddenly she didn’t want to know, but it was too late. Edgar took a deep breath. ‘Very well. You are right. I have to abide by Laura’s wishes.’ He sighed again and then, straightening his shoulders, walked back to his desk. ‘In fact, there is nothing very much that I can tell you myself, but I promised her that should you ever come back to Belheddon I would see to it that you were given the address of her solicitors in London. I suspect she has left you something in her will; I know she wrote you a letter the day you were legally adopted. She gave it to John Cornish, her lawyer.’ He reached into a bottom drawer of his desk and after a moment or two riffling through the papers produced a card. He pushed it across the desk towards her. ‘But why didn’t you want me to know about it?’ Joss looked at him in confusion. ‘Why did you feel I shouldn’t know?’ A jolt of excitement had shot through her. She clutched the card tightly. A glance had shown her it was a large firm of solicitors in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. ‘Belheddon Hall is an unhappy house, my dear, that’s why. The past is the past. I feel it should be allowed to rest. Your mother felt that way too. That is why she wanted you to have a fresh start.’ ‘Then why did she write to me?’ ‘I suspect to comfort herself.’ Joss looked down at the card. ‘Can I come and see you again after I have seen the solicitors?’ For a moment she thought he was going to shake his head. A shadow had crossed his face, and something else. Fear. She stared at him aghast, but as quickly as it had appeared the expression had gone. He gave her a grave smile. ‘You may come whenever you wish, my dear. Dot and I will help you in every way we can.’ It was not until she was out in the rapidly falling dusk and retracing her steps towards the car that she thought again about that remark and wondered what exactly he had meant. Why should she need help – help was the word he had used – and why was he afraid? 3 (#ulink_ae5b3bd6-a05c-5900-82ca-f7e8edff5fb4) It was very late before she drove at last into the narrow mews in Kensington and backed the car into an impossibly small space near the house. Wearily she climbed out and reached for her front door keys. The light was still on in the kitchen at the back. Luke was sitting wedged into the corner behind the small table, staring down at a cup of cold coffee. His tall frame and broad shoulders dwarfed the narrow room; his elbows, spread over a scattering of papers, supported his chin as though he could scarcely lift his head. His normally ruddy complexion was pale. ‘Hi, darling!’ She bent and kissed him on the top of the ruffled dark hair. ‘I’m sorry it’s so late. I had to go all the way up to Aldeburgh. Is Tom asleep?’ She was aching to go up and cuddle the little boy. He nodded. ‘Hours ago. How did it go?’ At last noticing his drawn, tired face her bubbling excitement died. ‘Luke? What is it? What’s wrong?’ She slid onto the stool next to him and reached out to touch his hand. He shook his head slowly. ‘Joss, I don’t know how to tell you. Henderson and Grant is no more.’ She stared at him in shock. ‘But Barry said –’ ‘Barry has done a bunk, Joss. And he’s taken all the money. I thought he was my friend. I thought our partnership was secure. I was wrong. Wrong!’ He slammed the table suddenly with his fist. ‘I went to the bank and the account had been emptied. I’ve been with accountants all day and the police. Your sister came and looked after Tom. I didn’t know what to do.’ He ran his fingers through his dishevelled hair and it dawned on Joss that he was near to tears. ‘Oh, Luke –’ ‘We’re going to lose the house, Joss.’ He blundered to his feet, sending the stool on which he was sitting sliding across the tiles. Wrenching open the back door which led into their pocket handkerchief sized garden he stepped out onto the dark terrace and stared upwards towards the sky. Joss hadn’t moved. All thoughts of her day had vanished. She was staring at the pale terracotta tiles on the wall above the worktop. It had taken her eighteen months to save up for those tiles, to find them and get someone to put them up for her. It had at long last finished the kitchen, the dream kitchen of their first home. ‘Joss.’ Luke was standing in the doorway. ‘I’m sorry.’ She rose to her feet and went to him, resting her head on his chest as he folded his arms around her. He smelled comfortably of Luke – a mixture of engine oil and aftershave and old wool and – Luke. She snuggled against him, drawing strength from just being near him. ‘We’ll think of something,’ she murmured into his jersey. ‘We’ll manage.’ He clutched her even tighter. ‘Will we?’ ‘I’ll go back to teaching. That will tide us over. Especially if Lyn will look after Tom. I’m lucky to have a sister who likes babies. She gets on with him so well …’ her voice trailed away. She had hated teaching towards the end; loathed it, feeling frustrated and confined by the syllabus, not enjoying the challenge of the kids any more. She had been in the wrong job; she knew that, though she was good at it; very good. She was not a born teacher, she was an academic and a romantic. The two did not go well together. Her pregnancy had been a godsend – unplanned, unexpected – and unbelievably, a joy and one of its greatest good points had been the fact that she could finish with teaching forever. She had resigned at the end of the spring term, resisted the blandishments of David Tregarron, the head of department, to change her mind and thrown herself into the joys of approaching motherhood. She sighed. There was a chance the school could have her back. She had only recently heard that her replacement was already leaving. But even if that didn’t happen they would certainly give her a good reference. The trouble was she didn’t want to teach any more. She wanted to look after Tom. Taking a deep breath she stood back. The comforting normality of filling the kettle and plugging it in gave her time to gather her wits a little. ‘Hot drink and then bed. Neither of us is any good at thinking when we’re tired,’ she said firmly. ‘Tomorrow we will make a plan.’ ‘Bless you, Joss.’ He hugged her quickly. Then guiltily he remembered where she had been. ‘So, tell me what happened. How did you get on? Did you find your mother?’ She shook her head, spooning the coffee into the mugs. ‘She died several years ago. The house is empty. I don’t think there is any family left.’ ‘Oh, Joss –’ ‘It doesn’t matter, Luke. I’ve found out about them. She was unhappy and ill and her husband had died. That was why she gave me away. And,’ suddenly she brightened, ‘apparently she left me a letter. There is a firm of solicitors I’ve got to contact. Who knows,’ she laughed suddenly. ‘Perhaps she has left me a fortune.’ ‘Mrs Grant?’ John Cornish appeared at the door of his office and ushered her inside. ‘Forgive me for keeping you waiting.’ He waved her towards a chair and sat down himself at his desk. A slim plastic file lay on the blotter in front of him. He drew it towards him and then glanced up at her. A man in his early sixties, his dark suit and austere manner belied the kindness in his gentle face. ‘You brought your birth and adoption certificates and your wedding certificate? I’m sorry. It’s a formality –’ She nodded and pulled them out of her shoulder bag. ‘And you got my name from Edgar Gower?’ Joss nodded again. Cornish shook his head. ‘I must say, I have always wondered if you would get in touch. There were only two years to go, you know.’ ‘Two years?’ Joss sat tensely on the edge of the chair, her fingers knotted into the soft leather of her bag. He nodded. ‘It’s a strange story. May I give you some coffee before I start?’ He gestured towards a tray already standing on the table by the wall. ‘Please.’ She needed coffee. Her mouth was very dry. When they were both served John Cornish resumed his seat and sat back in his chair. He did not touch either the file on his desk or the envelope of certificates she had given him. ‘Your mother, Laura Catherine Duncan died on 15th February 1989. She moved to France from Belheddon Hall in Essex in the spring of 1984 and since then the house has remained empty. Her husband, your father, Philip Duncan, died in November 1963, his mother, who lived in the village of Belheddon, died three years ago and the two sons of Laura and Philip, your brothers, died in 1953 and 1962 respectively. I am afraid to my knowledge there is no close family extant.’ Joss bit her lip. Dragging her eyes away from his face she stared down into her cup. ‘Your mother left two letters for you,’ Cornish went on. ‘One, I understand, was written at the time of your adoption. The other was entrusted to me before she left the country. It had some rather strange conditions attached to it.’ ‘Conditions?’ Joss cleared her throat nervously. He smiled. ‘I was instructed to give it to you only if you appeared within seven years of her death. I was not to seek you out in any way. It had to be your decision to look for your roots.’ ‘And if I hadn’t contacted you?’ ‘Then you would not have inherited Belheddon Hall.’ Joss’s mouth fell open. ‘What did you say?’ Her hands had started to shake. He smiled at her, clearly delighted at the effect of his words. ‘The house and its grounds which I believe extend to about ten acres, are yours, my dear. It has been waiting for you. I understand a lot of the contents are still there as well, although some things were sold before Laura left England.’ ‘What would have happened to it if I hadn’t contacted you?’ Stunned, Joss frowned. She was still trying to make sense of his words. ‘Then the house was to be sold at auction with its contents and the proceeds were to go to charity.’ He paused. ‘My dear, I should warn you that although enough provision was made for the payment of any inheritance taxes there is no money to go with the bequest. It is possible that you have been left an appallingly large white elephant, and there are conditions and covenants attached to the bequest. You may not turn it down, even though of course you cannot be forced to live there, and, you may not sell the property for a period of seven years starting from the first day you set foot inside the house.’ He turned to the file before him and stood up. ‘I shall give you her letters and leave you alone for a moment while you read them.’ He handed her two envelopes with a smile. ‘I shall be in my secretary’s office if you need me.’ She sat looking down at the two envelopes for several minutes without moving. One was addressed: To my daughter, Lydia. The other had her name – the name she had taken from her step parents, Jocelyn Davies – and the date April 1984. She picked up the one addressed to Lydia and slowly ran her finger under the flap. The single page was embossed with the address: Belheddon Hall, Belheddon, Essex. My darling Lydia, One day, I hope you will understand why I have done as I have done. I had no choice. I love you. I shall always love you. Please God you will be happy and safe with your new mother and father. My blessings go with you, my darling baby. God bless you always. There was no signature. Joss felt her eyes flood with tears. She sniffed frantically, dropping the letter onto the desk. It was several seconds before she tore open the second envelope. It too was headed Belheddon Hall. This letter was longer. My dearest Jocelyn. I am not supposed to know your name but there are people who find out these things and once in a while I have had news of you. I hope you have been happy. I have been so proud of you, my darling. Forgive me, Jocelyn, but I can no longer fight your father’s wishes, I have no strength left. I am leaving Belheddon with all its blessings and its curses, but he will only let me escape if I give in. He wants Belheddon to be yours and I have to obey. If you read this letter, he will have got his way. God bless you, Jocelyn, and keep you safe. Laura Duncan. Joss read the letter again, puzzled. So, it was her father’s wish that she inherit the house. She thought of the lone grave beneath the oak tree and shook her head slowly. It was five minutes later that John Cornish put his head around the door. ‘All right?’ She nodded numbly. ‘I’m finding it hard to assimilate all this.’ He resumed his chair and gave her a kind smile. ‘I can imagine.’ ‘What happens now?’ He shrugged eloquently. ‘I give you a box of keys and you go away and, as our American cousins say, enjoy.’ ‘And that is all?’ ‘Bar a few small formalities – papers to sign and so forth – that is all.’ She hesitated. ‘My husband’s engineering company has just folded. He’s been swindled by his partner. There is a chance he is going to be made bankrupt. We’ve lost our house – I won’t lose Belheddon?’ He shook his head. ‘I’m so sorry. But this house is yours, not your husband’s. Unless you yourself are being made bankrupt, it is safe.’ ‘And we could go and live there?’ He laughed. ‘Indeed you can. Though you should remember it has been closed up a long time. I have no idea what condition it is in.’ ‘I don’t care what condition it’s in. It is going to save our lives!’ Joss could hardly contain herself. ‘Mr Cornish, I don’t know how to thank you!’ He beamed at her. ‘It is your mother you should thank, Mrs Grant, not I.’ ‘And my father.’ Joss bit her lip. ‘I gather it was my father who wanted me to have the house.’ It was several minutes before John Cornish’s secretary, on his instructions, appeared in his office carrying a small tin box which she laid reverently on the desk. ‘The keys, if I remember, are all neatly labelled.’ John Cornish pushed it towards Joss. ‘If you have any problems, let me know.’ She stared down at it. ‘You mean, that’s it?’ He smiled happily. ‘That’s it.’ ‘It’s my house?’ ‘It’s your house, to do with as you wish, provided you abide by the conditions.’ He stood up again, and extended his hand. ‘Congratulations, Mrs Grant. I wish you and your husband every happiness with your inheritance.’ 4 (#ulink_1bf2a872-5e6b-5d4a-a160-63ffe7c5e6aa) ‘I don’t believe it. Things like that don’t happen in real life.’ Lyn Davies was sitting opposite her adoptive sister at the small kitchen table, her eyes round with envy. Joss reached down to Tom, sitting playing by her feet and hoisted him onto her knee. ‘I can’t believe it’s true either. I have to keep pinching myself. It makes up for losing this.’ She glanced round her at the little kitchen. ‘I’ll say. Talk about falling on your feet!’ Lyn scowled. ‘Have you told Mum and Dad about all this?’ Two years younger than Joss, she had been conceived after Joss’s adoption, five years after Alice had been told she could never have a child of her own. Totally unlike Joss to look at – she was squarely built, had short, curly blond hair and deep grey eyes. Nobody ever had taken them for sisters. Joss nodded. ‘I rang last night. They think it’s like a fairy story. You know, Mum was so worried I’d be disappointed when I wanted to look for my real parents; but she was so good about it.’ She glanced at Lyn. ‘She didn’t mind.’ ‘Of course she minded!’ Lyn reached for the pot and poured herself another mug of thick black coffee. ‘She was desperately unhappy about it. She was frightened you might find another family and forget her and Dad.’ Joss was shocked. ‘She wasn’t! She can’t have believed that.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘She didn’t feel that at all. You’re stirring again, Lyn. I wish you wouldn’t.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Look, are you sure you want Tom tomorrow?’ She hugged the little boy close. ‘Luke and I can take him with us –’ Lyn shook her head. ‘No. I’ll have him. He’ll only get in your way while you’re measuring for curtains or whatever.’ Catching sight of Joss’s face she scowled again. ‘All right, sorry. I didn’t mean it. I know you can’t afford curtains. Go on, you and Luke go and enjoy your day out. It will do him good to get away from all this mess with H & G. Mum and I will love having Tom!’ Luke drove, his handsome square face haggard with worry and loss of sleep. For a second Joss reached over and touched his hand. ‘Cheer up. You’re going to love it.’ ‘Am I?’ He turned to her and finally he grinned. ‘Yes, you’re right, I am. If the roof keeps most of the rain out and there is a garden big enough to grow vegetables in, I’m going to love it. I don’t care what it looks like.’ The last week had been a nightmare of solicitors, bank managers and police investigators. Meetings with them and with creditors and accountants had filled Luke’s every waking hour as he watched the small engineering company which had been his whole life being taken apart and put under the microscope. They were not to be bankrupted at least. But it was no comfort to know that Barry Henderson was being sought by Interpol. The sour taste Barry’s betrayal had left in his mouth and the inevitable loss of the mews cottage had detracted badly from his pleasure in Joss’s windfall. And from the relief he felt when he realised that for the time at least they would have a roof, however leaky, over their heads whilst they decided what to do with the rest of their lives. They pulled up at last outside the village shop. ‘Are you going to introduce yourself?’ Luke smiled at her. ‘The new lady of the manor.’ Joss shrugged. ‘What do I say?’ ‘Tell them the truth. You’ve got to tell them, Joss. They are the post office. They’ll be delivering mail pretty soon. Go on. Give the village something to gossip about.’ He swung himself out of the car. The wind was icy, worrying the branches of the ash tree which grew at the road junction opposite like an angry dog, tearing off the remaining leaves. Joss followed him, turning up the collar of her jacket with a shudder as the wind tore at her hair and whipped it into her eyes. The shop was empty. They stood looking round, savouring the mixed smells of cheese and ham and exotic smoked sausages and the silence after the wind. Moments later the post mistress appeared from a doorway at the back of the counter. She was carrying a cup of coffee. ‘Hello, my dears. How can I help you?’ She set the cup down. Then she peered at Joss. ‘Of course, you were in here the other day, asking about the Hall. Did you manage to find Mary Sutton?’ Joss shook her head. ‘There was no one there when I knocked but I met the vicar up at the church and he gave me the address of his predecessor who knew the Duncans.’ ‘I see.’ The woman put her head on one side. ‘You’ve some special interest in the Hall, have you?’ Her eyes were bright with curiosity. Joss heard Luke chuckle. She trod heavily on his toe. Smiling, she held out her hand. ‘Perhaps I should introduce myself. I am Joss Grant – this is my husband, Luke. It looks as though we are going to be living there, at least for a while. Laura and Philip Duncan were my parents. They gave me up for adoption when I was a baby, but it appears that they left the house to me.’ The woman’s mouth dropped open. ‘Well I never! Oh, my dear! That great place!’ Far from being pleased as Joss expected, she appeared to be horrified. ‘You’re never going to live there! You couldn’t possibly.’ Taken aback, Joss frowned. ‘Why on earth not? It didn’t look to me as though it was in too bad condition.’ ‘Oh, I didn’t mean that.’ The woman was immediately embarrassed. ‘Take no notice of me! It’s a lovely place. You are very lucky. The village will be pleased. The Hall has been empty too long. Much too long.’ She shook her head. ‘There’s me forgetting my manners. I’m Sally Fairchild. My husband Alan is the post master here; I’m the deli counter.’ She laughed. ‘Alan retired from his accountancy five years back and we thought we’d take over a village shop in our declining years. Thought it would be a nice restful job. Haven’t had time to sit down since …’ Luke looked across at Joss as they settled themselves back into the car. On the back seat there was a box of supplies – enough for an army for three days at least, Luke had said with a smile, as they selected a picnic for themselves from Sally Fairchild’s luxurious counter. ‘So. What do you make of all that?’ Joss reached for her seatbelt. ‘Nice woman. I had the feeling though, that whatever she said about the village being pleased, they wouldn’t be.’ Glancing into the mirror Luke pulled the car away from the kerb. ‘Up here? She certainly had reservations, didn’t she. Do you still want to stop off and see this Mary Sutton?’ Joss shook her head. ‘Let’s go to the house first. I can’t wait to see what it’s like inside.’ She reached into the glove compartment and brought out the box of keys, hugging it against her chest. ‘We can’t expect the locals to accept us just like that. When I rang David Tregarron to tell him our plans he said it would take twenty years for anyone round here to accept a stranger. As I was a blood relation, probably nineteen years eight months.’ Luke laughed. ‘Up there now, round the green,’ Joss went on. ‘I think the drive must lead off the lane beyond the church. He said he would come and see us.’ David had been more than just her boss. Confidant, friend, sparring partner, his warmth and genuine regret when she had phoned him a couple of days earlier had touched her deeply. ‘There. That must be it.’ The wrought iron gate, standing between two stone gate posts, topped with moss-covered pineapples, was standing half open in the tall hedge. Luke drew the car to a halt. Climbing out he peered up the drive as he tried to force the gate back over the muddy gravel. There was no notice to say this was Belheddon Hall, no sign of the house as the overgrown driveway curved out of sight between the high laurel hedges. He climbed back into the car. ‘OK?’ Her excitement was tangible. He reached across and squeezed her hand. ‘The return of the prodigal daughter. Let’s go.’ The drive was not very long. One sweep past the hedges and they were there, drawing up on the grassy gravel in front of the house. Luke pulled up and cut the engine. ‘Joss!’ It was all he said. For several seconds they sat in silence, staring through the windscreen. It was Joss who moved first, opening the door and stepping out into the freezing wind. Silently she stood staring up at the house. It was her birthplace. Her inheritance. Her home. Behind her Luke stood for a moment watching her. He was intensely proud of his wife; she was beautiful, intelligent, hard working, sexy – sternly he cut short that train of thought – and now an heiress as well! Silently he stepped up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘So, how does it feel to be home?’ he said softly. He had read her thoughts exactly. She smiled, brushing her cheek against his hand. ‘Strange. A little frightening.’ ‘It’s a big house, Joss.’ ‘And we have no money.’ She turned and looked up at him. ‘You have always liked challenges.’ Her eyes were sparkling. ‘If we’re seriously going to live here for any length of time, we’ll need cash from somewhere for taxes, heat, electricity and food. On top of that there will be endless ongoing repairs. Shouldn’t be a problem.’ He grinned. ‘Your mother did leave you a magic lamp, a bag of gold coins and six live-in servants?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘Then, as I said, no problem. Come on. Where’s the key? Let’s go in.’ The keyhole in the front door was two inches high. Joss already knew the contents of the key box by heart; there was nothing in there which would fit. She reached for a couple of yale keys. Both were labelled ‘Back door’. They walked along the front of the house, passing the shuttered lower windows and turned through the stone archway. There a square range of coach houses, garages and stables surrounded a cobbled courtyard one side of which was the east wall of the house. By the back door stood a black iron pump. ‘Joss!’ Luke stared round. ‘You realise what I could do here, don’t you! I’ve had the most brilliant idea! Looking for jobs in London will probably be a dead loss, but I could work here!’ In three steps he had reached one of the doors. Pulling it open he peered into an empty garage. ‘Cars! I can restore cars. I can start again. My God, there would be room to do it, too. It would give us a living of sorts.’ Excitedly he peered into the stable and outbuildings. Behind him Joss was smiling. The house was working its spell. She could see his depression lifting as she watched. She stood there for a few minutes more, then, unable to resist it any longer she turned alone to the back door. It was swollen with damp and grated against the York stone flags of a narrow dark hallway. ‘Wait for me!’ Coming up behind her, Luke caught her hand. ‘I think this is somewhere I should carry you over the threshold, don’t you?’ Giggling, Joss clung to his neck as he swept her off her feet and he walked with her into the darkness of the first room down the passage. There he set her down, panting. ‘My God, woman. What have you been eating? Bricks?’ They stared round in silence. The huge room was shadowy, a pale, reluctant light filtering around the edge of the shutters. ‘It’s the kitchen,’ Joss whispered. A huge fireplace took up the whole of one wall. In it a double size cooking range slumbered like some great black engine. On it stood an iron kettle. In the centre of the room stood a scrubbed oak table with round it six bentwood chairs. One was pulled out, as though the person seated on it had only a moment before stood up and left the room. To the left a glass-fronted dresser, dusty and hung with spiders’ webs, showed the gleam of china. Silently, hand in hand like two trespassing children, Joss and Luke moved towards the door in the far wall. Over it a board hung with a line of fifteen bells, each controlled by a wire, showed how in days gone by the servants had been summoned from the kitchen quarters to other parts of the house. Beyond the kitchen they found a bewildering range of small pantries and sculleries, and at the end of the passage a baize-lined door. They stopped. ‘Upstairs and downstairs.’ Luke smiled, running his hands over the green door lining. ‘Are you ready to go above stairs?’ Joss nodded. She was trembling. Luke pushed the door open and they peered out into a broad corridor. Again it was shadowy, bisected by fine lines of dusty sunlight. Here the scrubbed flags finished and they found themselves walking on broad oak boards which once had carried gleaming polish. Instead of an array of exotic carpets a drift of dried leaves had blown in under the front door and lay scattered over it. To the right on one side of the front door they found the dining room. A long table stood there in the shuttered darkness, surrounded by – awed, Luke counted out loud – twelve chairs. To the left a large door, much older than anything they had seen so far, Gothic, churchlike, led into an enormous, high-ceilinged room. Amazed they stood staring up at the soaring arched beams and the minstrel’s gallery, screened by oak panelling, carved into intricate arches. ‘My God.’ Joss took a few steps forward. ‘It’s a time warp.’ She stared round with a shiver. ‘Oh Luke.’ There was very little furniture. Two heavy oak coffer chests stood against the walls and there was a small refectory table in the middle of the floor. The fireplace still held the remains of the last fire that had been lit there. On the far side of the room an archway hung with a dusty curtain led into a further hallway from which a broad oak staircase curved up out of sight into the darkness. They stood peering up. ‘I think we should open some shutters,’ Luke said softly. ‘What this house needs is some sunlight.’ He felt vaguely uneasy. He glanced at Joss. Her face was white in the gloomy darkness and she looked unhappy. ‘Come on, Joss, let’s let in the sun.’ He strode towards the window and spent several minutes wrestling with the bars which held the shutters closed. Finally he managed to lift them out of their sockets and he threw open the shutters. Sunshine poured in across the dusty boards. ‘Better?’ He hadn’t been imagining it. She was deathly pale. She nodded. ‘I’m stunned.’ ‘Me too.’ He looked round. ‘What this room needs is a suit of armour or two. You know, we could run this place as a hotel! Fill it with tourists. Make our fortune.’ He strode across the floor to a door beyond the hall and threw it open. ‘The library!’ he called. ‘Come and look! There are enough books here even for you!’ He disappeared from sight and she heard the rattle of iron on wood as once again he fought with a set of shutters. She did not follow him for a moment. Turning round slowly she stared about her at the empty room. The silence of the house was beginning to oppress her. It was as if it were listening, watching, holding its breath. ‘Joss! Come and see.’ Luke was in the doorway. He was beaming. ‘It’s wonderful.’ Joss gave herself a small shake. With a shiver she followed him through the doorway and immediately she felt better. ‘Luke!’ It was, as he had said, wonderful. A small, bright room, full of mellow autumn light, looking down across the back lawns towards the small lake. The walls were lined to the ceiling with books except where an old roll top desk stood, with in front of it a shabby leather chair. Round the fire stood a cluster of three arm chairs, a side table, an overflowing magazine rack and a sewing basket, still with its silks and needles, witness to the last hours of Laura Duncan’s occupancy. Joss stared round, a lump in her throat. ‘It is as if she just stood up and walked out. She didn’t even take her sewing things –’ She ran her hand over the contents of the basket. There were tears in her eyes. ‘Come on.’ Luke put his arm around her again. ‘Everything was planned. She didn’t need her sewing things, that’s all. She was looking forward to a life of leisure in France. I bet in her shoes, you wouldn’t take your darning needles either.’ He squeezed her shoulder. ‘The desk is locked. Is the key there, in the box?’ It wasn’t. They tried a succession before they gave up and resumed their tour of the house. The only other room on the ground floor was a small sitting room which looked out across the drive. The squeaking shutters opened reluctantly to show their car, already dusted with crisp brown leaves from the chestnut tree on the edge of the front lawn. On the grass a trio of rabbits grazed unconcerned within a few feet of its wheels. At the foot of the stairs Joss paused. Above them a gracious sweep of oak treads curved around out of sight into the darkness. Aware that Luke was immediately behind her she still hesitated a moment, her hand on the carved newel post. ‘What’s the matter?’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I just had the feeling – as if there was someone up there. Waiting.’ Luke rumpled her hair affectionately. ‘Perhaps there is. The skeleton in the cupboard. Come on, let Uncle Luke go first.’ He took the stairs two at a time, disappearing around the corner and out of sight. Joss did not move. She heard his footsteps echoing across the floor, the now familiar rattle of shutters and suddenly the stairs above her head were flooded with light. ‘Come on. No skeletons.’ His footsteps crossed the floor again, growing fainter until she could hear them no more. ‘Luke!’ Suddenly she was frightened. ‘Luke, where are you?’ Slowly she began to climb. The stairs creaked slightly beneath her weight. The polished handrail was smooth and cold under her palm. She looked up, her concentration focused on the upper landing as she rounded the curve towards it. A broad corridor ran crossways in front of her with three doors opening off it. ‘Luke?’ There was no reply. She stepped onto a faded Persian rug and glanced quickly into the doorway on her right. It led into a large bedroom which looked out across the back garden and beyond it, over the hedge towards a huge stubble field and then the estuary. The room was sparsely furnished. A bed, covered by a dust sheet, a Victorian chest of drawers, a mahogany cupboard. There was no sign of Luke. The doorway half way down the landing led into a large, beautiful bedroom dominated by an ornate four-poster bed. Joss gasped. In spite of the dust sheets which covered the furniture she could see how exquisite it all was. Stepping forward she pulled at the sheet which lay over the bed to reveal an embroidered bedcover, matching the hangings and tester. ‘So, Mrs Grant. What do you think of your bedroom, eh?’ Luke appeared behind her so suddenly she let out a little cry of fright. He put his arms around her. ‘This is the kind of style to which you would like to be accustomed to live, I suspect?’ He was laughing. Her fear forgotten, Joss smiled. ‘I can’t believe it. It’s like Sleeping Beauty’s palace.’ ‘And Sleeping Beauty needs a kiss from a prince to wake her up and show her she’s not dreaming!’ ‘Luke –’ Her squeal of protest as he pulled her onto the high bed and began to kiss her was muffled as he climbed up beside her. ‘I think we need to stake our claim on this bed, don’t you, Mrs Grant?’ He was fumbling for the buttons on her jersey under her jacket. ‘Luke, we can’t –’ ‘Why not? It’s your house, your bed!’ She gasped as his hands, ice cold from the chill in the house, met the warm flesh of her breasts and pulled away her bra. Her excitement was rising to match his. ‘Luke –’ ‘Shut up.’ He dropped his mouth teasing her with his tongue, his hands busy with her skirt and tights. ‘Concentrate on your husband, my love,’ he smiled down at her. ‘I am.’ She reached up pulling away his sweater and shirt and pushing them back so that she could kiss his chest, his shoulders, pulling him down towards her, oblivious to everything now but the urgency which was building between them. In the corner of the room a shadowy figure stood motionless, watching them. ‘Yes!’ Luke’s cry of triumph was muffled by the hangings of the bed. In the ceiling beams the stray sunlight from the garden wavered and died as dark clouds raced in from the east. Clinging to Luke, Joss opened her eyes, staring up at the embroidered tester above her head. A rosette of pale cream silk, threadbare, cobwebbed, nestled in the centre of the fabric. Stretching, contented as a cat, Joss gazed round, not wanting to move, enjoying Luke’s weight, his warmth, his closeness. It was a moment before her eyes registered something in the corner, another fraction of a second before her brain reacted. She blinked, suddenly frightened, but there was nothing there. Just a trick of the light. Luke raised his head at last and looked down. Joss was crying. ‘Sweetheart, what is it?’ Contrite he wiped the tears with a gentle hand. ‘Did I hurt you?’ She shook her head. ‘Take no notice. I’m all right. I don’t know why I’m crying.’ Sniffing she wriggled away from him and slid off the bed. Pulling down her skirt she went to retrieve her tights from the dusty boards. It was as she was putting them on that the sound of a bell pealed through the house. Luke stood up. Pulling his sweater on over his head he padded across to the front window and looked out. ‘There’s someone at the front door!’ He smothered a laugh. ‘How embarrassing! Our first visitor and we’re caught in delicto!’ ‘Not caught!’ She pushed her feet into her shoes and smoothed her hair. ‘Go on, then. Let them in.’ They couldn’t. Of the front door key there was no sign. By dint of shouting through the two-inch keyhole, Luke directed their visitor to the back door and it was in the shadowy kitchen that they received their first guest, a tall distinguished-looking woman, dressed in a heavy woollen coat, swathed in a tartan scarf. ‘Janet Goodyear. Next-door neighbour.’ She extended a hand to them both in turn. ‘Sally Fairchild told me you were here. My dears, I can’t tell you how excited the village will be when they hear you’ve arrived. Are you seriously going to live here? It’s such a God-forsaken pile.’ Pulling off her gloves and throwing them on the table she walked over to the range and pulled open the door of one of the ovens. She wrinkled her nose cheerfully. ‘This kitchen is going to need at least twenty thou spent on it! I know a brilliant designer if you need one. He would make a really good job of all this.’ Luke and Joss exchanged glances. ‘Actually, I want to leave the kitchen as it is,’ Joss said. Luke frowned. Her voice was ominously quiet. ‘The range will refurbish beautifully.’ Their visitor looked surprised. ‘I suppose so. But you’d do much better, you know, to swop it for a decent Aga. And God help you when it comes to the roof. Laura and Philip were always having trouble with the roof.’ She turned back from her poking around, her smile all warmth. ‘Oh, my dears, I can’t tell you how lovely it will be to have neighbours here. I can’t wait for you to move in. Now, what I’ve actually come for is to ask if you’d like to pop over for lunch. We live just across the garden there; in the farmhouse.’ She waved a vaguely expansive hand. ‘My husband owns most of the land round here.’ Joss opened her mouth to reply, but Luke was ahead of her. ‘It’s kind of you, Mrs Goodyear, but we’ve brought our own food. I think on this occasion we’ll take a rain check, if you don’t mind. We’ve got a lot of measurements and notes to take while we’re here.’ ‘Twenty thou!’ He exploded with laughter when at last they had managed to get rid of her. ‘If she knew that we are going to move in here without a penny to our name she would probably have us struck off her Christmas card list before we were ever on it!’ ‘I don’t think she meant to sound so frightening. I quite liked her.’ Joss had pulled open one of the tall cupboards. ‘She’s right in one way, though, Luke. There is a lot to do. The roof – presumably – water, electricity; we don’t know if it all works. And the stove. I suppose we could get it going –’ she stared at it doubtfully ‘– but it is going to gobble fuel.’ ‘We’ll cope.’ He put his arms round her again and gave her a hug. He was, she noticed, looking happy for the first time since he had found out about Barry’s treachery. Really happy. ‘For a start there was a massive amount of coal in one of the sheds in the courtyard, did you notice?’ he said. ‘And there will be logs. We’ll manage, Joss. Somehow. You’ll see.’ 5 (#ulink_15d80125-a1e4-5fb9-8cb0-4edddc7f8210) An empty beer glass had left a wet ring on the pub table which Joss was busy transforming into a figure of eight with variations when David Tregarron fought his way back towards her from the bar carrying two spritzers and a bag of nuts. The head of the History Department at Dame Felicia’s School in Kensington, David was thirty-eight years old, two years divorced and, as house master and second head lived above the job, over four dormitories of unruly little boys, in a Victorian flat with minimal mod cons. His divorce had been an unpleasant messy business, and Joss had been one of his anchor points at the time. She and he might not agree over teaching methods but her loyalty to him as his marriage had unravelled had been unswerving. She had comforted him as his wife took off into the sunset with her new man, propped him up in the staff room with coffee and Alka Seltzer and cheerfully agreed with all his maudlin lamentations over a woman she had never actually met. When once, some time after the divorce was made absolute, he had grabbed her hand and said, ‘Joss, divorce Luke and marry me,’ he had realised as soon as he had said it that he was only half joking. He had seen the danger in time and pulled himself together. Being fond of Joss was permissible. Anything more was totally beyond the pale. ‘So, how is Luke taking all this new-found wealth?’ He lowered himself cautiously onto a plush-covered stool and passed her one of the glasses. Joss gave a wry grin. ‘Amazement. Relief. Disbelief. Not necessarily in that order.’ ‘And you?’ She sighed. ‘Roughly the same. I’m still pinching myself. So much has happened to us in the last few weeks, David! I don’t think even in my wildest dreams I ever imagined anything like this happening to us!’ She sipped thoughtfully from her glass for a moment. ‘It was nice of you to call and ask me out. Do you know this is the first break I’ve had away from the house in days. There has been so much to do. The firm going under has been a complete nightmare.’ David grimaced. ‘I was so sorry to hear about it.’ He glanced at her. ‘Are they making Luke bankrupt?’ Joss shook her head. ‘No, thank God! The mews cottage has saved us. Luke’s grandfather bought it after the war when it was worth a few hundred pounds. When Luke’s father gave it to us as a wedding present he handed us a fortune, bless him.’ She gave a sad, fond smile. ‘It’s going on the market for a lot of money. If I ever get my hands on Barry I’ll throttle him personally if Luke or the police don’t get to him first. Our lovely little house!’ ‘That’s really tough. But now you have your stately roof in East Anglia to fall back on.’ She gave a wry grin. ‘I know. It sounds like a fairy tale. It is a fairy tale! Oh, David, it was so beautiful! And Luke is full of plans. He’s going to turn his hand to restoring old cars again. He is a trained engineer after all, and it’s what he always loved doing best. I think he was pretty sick of spending all his time on management and paperwork. And they’ve let him keep some of the machinery and tools from H & G – it’s out dated by other people’s standards apparently and the buyer didn’t want them. He’s retrieved lathes and boring and gear-cutting equipment and all sorts of stuff. I hope he’s right in thinking he can make us some money that way, because we’re going to be awfully short of cash. Next summer we can live off the garden, but it’s a lousy time of year to be starting out as gardeners! Do you realise we’ll be moving in only a few weeks before Christmas!’ ‘Joss, I’ve had an idea.’ David edged himself out of the way of a crowd of noisy drinkers who were settling around the table next to theirs. ‘That’s why I persuaded you to come and have this drink.’ He paused and gave a theatrical sigh. ‘I know you and I didn’t always see eye to eye over history and its teaching!’ Joss laughed. ‘Always the master of understatement!’ ‘And we’ve had the odd tiff.’ ‘Ditto.’ She raised her eyes to his fondly. ‘What is this leading to, David? You are not usually so deferential in your suggestions.’ ‘First, tell me, are you intending to go back to teaching up there in your new home?’ Joss shook her head. ‘I doubt it. I expect there’s a village school – I don’t even know that yet – but I shouldn’t think there’s any scope locally for the kind of teaching I do. Anyway, I think I’ve had it with teaching, David, to be honest.’ ‘You weren’t sorry when you handed in your resignation before Tom was born. Even I could see that.’ ‘And you were probably relieved to see the back of me.’ She looked down at her glass. ‘You know that’s not true.’ He hesitated. ‘You’re a good teacher, Joss. I was desperately sorry to lose you.’ He paused. ‘In more ways than one.’ There was an uncomfortable silence. Pulling himself together with a visible effort he went on. ‘You care about the kids, and you inspire them. Something not all history teachers manage by any means. I know we sometimes rowed about your methods, but I was only worried about your ability to stick to the curriculum.’ He stopped and shook his head. ‘I’m making a mess of this. What I’m trying to say is, that I’ve a suggestion to make and I don’t want you to get hold of the wrong end of the stick. This is not an insult or a sinister plot to undermine your intellectual integrity. And above all I am not criticising your knowledge or interpretation of history, but I think you should give some serious consideration to the idea of turning your hand to writing. Fiction.’ He waited, his eyes fixed on her face. ‘Which is more my line than serious history, you mean.’ Joss hid a smile. ‘I knew you would say that!’ He smacked the table with the palm of his hand. ‘No, it is not what I mean. All right. You told the kids stories. They loved it. I don’t think it was good history but it was good teaching. They wanted more and they missed you like hell when you left. Joss, what I’m saying is that you are a born story teller. You could make money out of it. I’m sure you could. I’ve read some of your short stories. You even won that competition. I’m being serious. I have a feeling that you could do it. I know one or two people in the publishing business, and if you like, I will show them some of your writing. I don’t want to get your hopes up too much because it’s a chancy business, but I have a feeling about you.’ He smiled at her again. ‘A good feeling, Joss.’ She returned his smile. ‘You’re a nice man, David.’ She reached out her hand to his. ‘I know.’ He left his fingers lying there beneath hers on the table for just a moment too long then reluctantly he withdrew them. ‘So, I have your permission to show some stories around?’ ‘You have my permission. Thanks.’ ‘And I can come and see you as soon as you’re settled?’ ‘Of course you can. I shall miss you, David.’ He picked up his glass. ‘And I you, Joss. And I you.’ Joss was kneeling on the floor packing china when she told Luke of David’s idea that evening. He considered it for a minute, his head on one side, then thoughtfully he nodded. ‘You can write and you did win that competition. Joss, it’s a brilliant scheme!’ ‘Winning a competition with a short story is not the same as making a living out of writing, Luke.’ ‘No, but you could give it a go. And we are going to need money, Joss. Make no mistake about it.’ She frowned, wrapping her arms around her knees as she sat on the floor. ‘It’s going to be tough at Belheddon, isn’t it.’ He nodded. ‘Just pray the roof doesn’t leak. Your mother and father meant well, leaving the place to you, I’m sure they did, but it’s going to take some looking after.’ ‘We’ll manage though. Or you will. I’m glad I married a practical man! And who knows, once we’re settled, maybe I’ll even write a best seller, too.’ She glanced up at him through the dark fringe of her hair. ‘It’s a dream come true, Luke.’ He slid from his chair and sat down next to her amongst the debris of boxes and partly packed cups and plates. ‘I know it is, Joss.’ Putting his arm round her shoulders he pulled her to him and kissed her. ‘Just remember, we have to keep a tight grip on reality. We are going to have to work our socks off to keep that place going, and it’s not going to be easy.’ 6 (#ulink_585c39be-48ee-5956-ab63-d7c7b0f3f054) As the removal van drove slowly out of the drive and turned out of sight Joss turned to Luke. She caught his hand. ‘That’s it. Bridges burned. No going back. No regrets?’ She looked up at him. He smiled. ‘No Joss, no regrets. This is the start of a big adventure.’ Slowly they walked back into the kitchen. The room had in many ways not changed at all since the first day they had seen it. The range was still there, and to their joy had been found to be fully functional after an overhaul; the plates and cups on the dresser had been washed and were sparkling. The heavy table, decorated now with a scarlet poinsettia, a gift from John Cornish, had been scrubbed almost white by Joss’s mother, Alice. The crates of their own china and glass stood piled along the wall. Tom’s high chair was pulled up at the head of the table. Alice was bending over the pan on the stove, stirring something which smelled extremely appetising as they walked in. ‘Removal men gone?’ Her husband, Joe, was unwrapping saucepans with his small grandson’s help, making a huge pile of newspaper in the middle of the room. ‘Gone at last, thank God.’ Luke threw himself down in one of the chairs. ‘That smells wonderful, Alice.’ His mother-in-law smiled. ‘You know, I’m really enjoying cooking on this range. I think I’m getting the hang of it at last. This is real cooking!’ The range had been one of the urgent things they had had repaired before the move. She glanced at Joss. ‘Why don’t we all have a glass of wine, while I finish this. Let Lyn take Tom, Joe. She can give him his tea.’ Comfortably she stood away from the stove, wiping her hands on the front of her apron. There were two bottles of wine in a Sainsbury’s carrier on the table and a six pack of beer. ‘Corkscrew?’ Joss extricated the bottles and stood them in line with the poinsettia. After the weeks of worry and packing and organising the move she was so exhausted she could hardly stand. ‘On my boy scout knife.’ Luke grinned at her. ‘Do you remember the removal foreman telling us: “Leave out the kettle and the corkscrew or you’ll never find them again after.”’ He fished around in the pocket of his jacket and produced a corkscrew which had obviously been nowhere near a boy scout in its life. ‘Beer for you, Joe? And I think I’ll join you. It’s thirsty work, moving house!’ Sitting at the table, watching her sister cut up an apple and put the pieces in front of Tom Joss felt a sudden wave of total contentment. It would probably take them years to sort out the house; months to unpack, but at least they were here properly now. No more London; no more office for Luke as he tried to sort out the last-minute details of his former life. And here they had enough room to put up Joe and Alice and Lyn and anyone else who wanted to come and stay for as long as they wanted. Helping herself to a glass Alice sat down next to her. ‘I’ll leave that to simmer for a couple of hours. Then we can eat. You look done in, love.’ She put her hand over Joss’s. ‘Done in, but happy.’ Joss smiled. ‘It’s going to work. I know it is.’ ‘Course it is.’ Joe had gone back to pushing the crumpled newspaper into a black plastic sack, considerably hampered by Tom who was pulling out the pieces as fast as Joe was putting them in, and tossing them around the room. ‘You’re all going to be very happy here.’ He reached for his beer. ‘So, let’s drink a toast. To Belheddon Hall and all who sail in her!’ The sound of the back doorbell was almost drowned by their raised voices. It was Luke who, with a groan, levered himself to his feet and went to answer it. They had met Janet Goodyear several times since she had introduced herself on their first visit to the house almost three months before and Joss was beginning to like her more and more. Her first impression of an interfering and nosy neighbour had been replaced by one of a good-hearted and genuinely kind, if not always tactful, woman, who, far from being pushy was in fact diffident about intruding on her new neighbours. In her basket this time was a bottle of Scotch (‘For emergencies, but I can see you’ve thought of the alcohol bit already’,) and, what turned out to be a corn dolly. Accepting a glass of wine from Luke she pulled up a chair next to Joss. ‘You’ll probably think I’m dotty,’ she said cheerfully, ‘but I want you to hang this up somewhere in the kitchen here. For luck.’ Joss reached over and picked up the intricately plaited figure. ‘It’s beautiful. I’ve seen them of course –’ ‘This isn’t a souvenir shop piece of tweeness,’ Janet interrupted. ‘Please don’t think it is. It was made specially for you. There’s an old chap who used to work on the farm – he does some odd gardening jobs for us now – and he made it for you. He asked me to bring it. It’s to ward off evil.’ Joss raised her eyes from the plaited straw. ‘Evil?’ ‘Well –’ Janet shrugged ‘– you have probably gathered by now that the locals are a bit funny about this house.’ She laughed uncomfortably. ‘I don’t believe it. I’ve always loved it here. It has such a nice atmosphere.’ ‘What do they say exactly?’ Clearing away the remains of his apple, Joss pushed a plate of scrambled egg in front of Tom and put a spoon into his hand. ‘I don’t know that we want to know, dear,’ Alice put in quietly. ‘You look at the range, Mrs Goodyear. What do you think of it now?’ Joss had told her mother about the estimate of twenty thousand. ‘I think it’s wonderful.’ Still cheerfully unaware of the consternation her initial comments on the state of the house had caused, Janet swung round to inspect it. ‘It’s so clever of you to get it fixed so quickly.’ ‘You could join us for supper later,’ Joss interrupted. ‘Mum has made enough for an army as usual.’ ‘Thank you but no.’ Janet drained her glass and stood up. ‘I only came to bring you the dolly. The last thing you all want is a visitor on your first evening. Later, though, I’d love to come. And in the mean time if you need anything at all we are very close. Please, please don’t hesitate to ask.’ She smiled round at them, then pulling her scarf back over her head, she was gone. ‘Nice woman, Janet Goodyear,’ Luke said to Joss when they were alone in the great hall later. They had made no attempt to introduce any of their furniture there. The room was too big, too stately, and, they both agreed needed no more than was there already. The meal had been eaten and the beds made up and Luke’s first job, a rusty, shabby 1929 Bentley, had been ushered into the yard on the back of a low loader. It hadn’t even required an advertisement in the paper. A card in the shop, and a few words in the pub and the phone had rung three days later. Colonel Maxim, from the next village had owned the car for twelve years and had never got round to working on it himself. Luke could start on it as soon as possible, and when that was done, there was a 1930 Alvis belonging to a friend. Tom, exhausted by the excitement of the day had gone to bed in his own room without a murmur. The old nurseries led off the main bedroom which was to be Joss and Luke’s, and, with the doors open into the short passage which separated the two rooms they would easily be able to hear him if he cried. The nursery complex consisted of three rooms, one of which had been converted into a bathroom. It was a cold, north facing room, and even the string bag full of Tom’s colourful bath toys did nothing to cheer it up. ‘Curtains, bright rug, wall heater and lots of vivid, warm towels,’ Joss dictated as she took the little boy on her knee after his bath and cuddled him dry. Lyn was making a shopping list, sitting on the closed lid of the loo. ‘Tom’s bathroom and bedroom are a priority.’ She shivered in spite of the heat from the gas cylinder heater Luke had put into the room. ‘I want him to love this place.’ ‘At least your four poster will keep the draught out,’ Lyn commented. The bedroom she had been allocated off the main staircase, although facing south across the garden, was bitterly cold. In the past it was obvious a fire had been lit in the grate in there. There was a rudimentary central heating system, working off the range, but the heat didn’t seem to reach the bedrooms, and they had already decided that they would just have to stay cold. A thousand blankets, hot-water bottles and thermal pyjamas were going to be the order of the day from now on. ‘How long do you think Joe and Alice will stay?’ Joss pulled the fleece-lined pyjama top over Tom’s curls. ‘As long as you like.’ Lyn was adding soap, loo paper and cleaning materials to her list. ‘Mum doesn’t want to get in the way, but she’d really love to stay right up to Christmas. She’d help you get the place straight.’ ‘I know she would, bless her. And I’d like her to. In fact I’d love you all to stay, if you’d like to.’ * * * ‘So, what do you think of it all?’ Luke put his arm round Joss’s shoulders. They had lit a small fire and were standing looking down at it as the dry logs cracked and spat. Lyn and Alice and Joe had all gone to bed, exhausted by their day. ‘I suppose it’s like a dream come true.’ Joss leaned her elbow against the heavy oak bressummer beam that spanned the huge fireplace, looking down into the flames. ‘I think we should have the tree in here. A huge one, covered in fairy lights.’ ‘Sounds good.’ ‘Tom will be thrilled. He was too young to know what was going on last year.’ Joss smiled to herself. ‘Did you hear him talking to Dad: “Tom put paper there”. He was getting really cross, taking it out of the bag as fast as Dad put it in.’ ‘Luckily your father loved it.’ Luke frowned. ‘It must be very strange for them, knowing this house belonged to your real parents.’ ‘Strange for them!’ Joss shook her head hard, as if trying to clear her brain. ‘Think what it’s like for me. I don’t even like to call Dad, Dad. It’s as if I feel my other father might be listening.’ Luke nodded. ‘I rang my parents while you were upstairs. Just to say we’re here.’ Joss smiled fondly. ‘How are they? How is life in Chicago?’ She knew how much Luke was missing them, especially his father. Geoffrey Grant’s sabbatical year in the States seemed to have dragged on for a long, long time. ‘They’re great. And they’re coming home early next summer.’ He paused. He and Joss had been planning a trip out to see them. That was not going to happen now, of course. ‘They can’t wait to see the house, Joss. It’s hard to know how to explain all this over the phone.’ He gave a snort of laughter. Joss smiled. ‘I suppose it is!’ She lapsed into thoughtful silence. ‘Have you had another look for the key to the desk in the study yet?’ Luke nudged the logs with the toe of his trainer and watched with satisfaction as a curtain of sparks spread out over the sooty bricks at the back of the hearth. ‘I haven’t been in the study since we arrived this morning.’ She stood up straight. ‘I’m going to have a tot of Janet Goodyear’s present and then I think I might go and have a poke around while you have your bath.’ * * * The room was cold, the windows black reflections of the night. With a shiver Joss set her glass down on one of the little tables and went to close the shutters and pull the heavy brocade curtains. The table lamp threw a subdued light across the rugs on the floor, illuminating the abandoned work basket beside it. Joss stood looking down at it for a long time. There was a lump in her throat at the thought that her mother had used those small, filigree scissors and that the silver thimble must have fitted her finger. Hesitantly Joss reached for it and slipped it on her own finger. It fitted. There was a key in the bottom of the work basket, lost under the silks and cotton threads – a small ornate key which Joss knew instinctively would fit the keyhole in the desk. Reaching up she switched on the lamp which rested on the top of the desk, and stared at the array of small pigeon holes which the opened lid revealed. It was tidy but not empty and it was immediately obvious that the desk had been her mother’s. Taking a sip from her glass Joss reached for a bundle of letters. With a strange feeling half of guilt, half excitement she pulled off the ribbon which bound them together. They were all addressed to her mother and they came from someone called Nancy. She glanced through them, wondering who Nancy was. A close friend and a gossip by the look of it, who had lived in Eastbourne. They told her nothing at all about her mother, but quite a lot about the unknown Nancy. With a tolerant smile she retied the ribbon and tucked them back in their place. There were pens and a bottle of ink, paper clips, tags, envelopes, all the paraphernalia of a busy person; a drawer of unused headed note paper, and there, in another drawer by itself, a leather-bound notebook. Curiously Joss pulled it out and opened it. On the flyleaf, in her mother’s hand was written ‘For my daughter, Lydia’. Joss shivered. Had her mother been so sure then that she would come to Belheddon; that one day she would sit down on this chair at this desk and pull open the drawers one by one until she found – she flicked it open – not a diary, as she had half expected, just empty pages, undated. And one short scrawled paragraph, towards the middle of the book: He came again today, without warning and without mercy. My fear makes him stronger – ‘Joss?’ Luke’s voice in the doorway made her jump out of her skin. He was dressed in his bathrobe and from where she sat she could smell the musky drift of his aftershave. She slammed the book shut and took a deep breath. ‘What is it? Is something wrong?’ ‘No. Nothing.’ Slotting the notebook back into its drawer she pulled down the flap on the desk, turning the key. ‘The desk was my mother’s. It seems so strange to read her letters and things –’ My fear makes him stronger Who, for God’s sake? Who was her mother so frightened of and why had she written about him in an otherwise empty notebook which she had left especially for Joss to read? As she lay in the four-poster bed, staring up at the silk decoration in the darkness over her head Joss found it hard to close her eyes. Beside her Luke had fallen into a restless sleep almost as soon as his head had touched the pillow. They were both worn out. After all, the day had started at five in London and now, at midnight, they were at Belheddon, and for better or for worse this was now their home. Moving her head slightly to left or right Joss could see the squares of starlight which showed the two windows on opposite sides of the room. Divided by stone mullions in the old plaster one looked over the front of the house and down the drive towards the village, the other across the back garden and down towards the lake and beyond it, over the hedge to the river estuary and beyond it the distant North Sea. Initially Luke had closed the curtains when he came upstairs. They were heavy with woollen embroidery, double lined against the cold, luxurious. Looking at them Joss was grateful for their weight against the draughts, but even so, she pulled them open before she climbed into the high bed. ‘Too claustrophobic,’ she explained to Luke as he lay back beside her. His only answer, minutes later, was a gentle snore. Outside the moon shone onto a garden as bright as day as the frosty sparkle hardened into a skim of ice. Shivering, Joss huddled down under the duvet – a modern concession, the embroidered bed cover carefully folded away for safety – glad of the solid warmth of her sleeping husband. Surreptitiously her hand strayed to his shoulder. As she snuggled up against him in the darkness she did not see the slight movement in the corner of the room. 7 (#ulink_ae5f1fb0-45ab-51f2-9651-3687e738d6e5) It was still dark when Joss slipped from the bed, tiptoeing across the icy floor in bare feet. Behind her Luke gave a quiet murmur and, punching the pillow turned over and went back to sleep. Switching on the light in the bathroom Joss reached for her clothes, left piled on the chair. Thick trousers, shirt, two sweaters, heavy thermal socks. In the ice cold room her breath came in small clouds. On the window pane, as she held back the curtain and peered out into the darkness she was enchanted and horrified to find the beautiful, lacy designs of Jack Frost on the inside of the glass. With a rueful smile she padded across the floor and glanced through Tom’s door. Worn out by the excitement of the day before he was sleeping flat on his back, his arms above his head on the pillow, his cheeks pink with sleep. Tiptoeing to the chest where his night light burned she glanced at the thermometer which Alice had suggested they keep in the room. The temperature was steady. With a fond smile, she tiptoed out of the room and left the door slightly ajar. If he woke, Luke would hear him. Putting the kettle onto the stove Joss went to the back door and pulled it open. The morning blackness was totally silent. No bird song. No traffic murmur in the distance as there would have been in London; no cheerful clank of milk bottles. Pulling on her heavy coat she stepped out into the courtyard. The bulk of the old Bentley had been pulled into the coach house and the doors closed. There was nothing here now, but their own Citro?n, covered in a thick white frost. The gate out into the garden was painfully cold even beneath her gloved hands as she pushed it back and let herself out onto the matted lawn. Above her head the stars were still blazing as though it were full night. Glancing up she could see a faint light shining from behind the curtains in Lyn’s room. Was she too unable to sleep in a strange bed? The grass was spiky, brittle beneath her boots. Almost she could hear the tinkle of broken glass as she walked across it, skirting the skeletal branches of a blackly silhouetted tree, down towards the gleam of water. In the east now, she realised, the stars were dimming. Soon it would begin to grow light. She stood for several moments, gloved hands in pockets, staring down at the ice as around her the garden began imperceptibly to brighten. She was numb with cold, but through the chill she could feel something else. Apprehension – fear even – for what they had done. They had had no real choice. Even if Luke had found a job working for someone else she doubted if they could have afforded the rent on a flat of a decent size and certainly they couldn’t have bought somewhere of their own. They could no longer live in London. But this, this was so different. Another world from the one they had planned together when they had first got married. She frowned, stamping her feet, reluctant as yet to go back inside. A new world, new people, new memories – no, memories wasn’t the right word. A history to be learned and assimilated and in some way lived. Sammy! The voice, a boy’s voice, called suddenly out of the darkness behind her. Joss spun round. Sammy! It came again, more distant now. Across the lawn, in the house, a light had appeared in her and Luke’s bedroom. The curtains weren’t quite closed and a broad vee of light flooded out across the frosted grass. ‘Hello?’ Joss’s voice was a husky intrusion into the intense silence. ‘Who’s there?’ She glanced round. The stars were disappearing fast now. A dull greyness was drifting in amongst the bushes in the shrubbery near her. She frowned. ‘Is there someone there?’ She called again, more loudly this time, her voice seeming to echo across the water. In the distance a bird called loudly. Then the silence returned. Turning sharply back to the house she found she was shivering violently as she hurried back in the direction of the kitchen. Pulling off her boots and gloves she ran inside, blowing on her fingers, to find the kettle cheerfully filling the room with steam. When Luke appeared, some ten minutes later, she was sitting at the table, still in her heavy coat, her hands cupped around a mug of tea. ‘So, Joss, how is it?’ He smiled at her as he found himself a mug on the draining board. She reached up to kiss him on the mouth. ‘Wonderful, strange. Terrifying.’ He laughed, briefly resting his hand over hers. ‘We’ll cope. Joss.’ His face became serious for a moment. ‘Are you happy about Alice and Joe staying? You don’t want to establish your own territory a bit before they muscle in?’ He searched her face seriously. ‘I know how much this house means to you, love. I do understand how you must feel about it all. If there is any conflict –’ ‘There isn’t.’ She shook her head adamantly. ‘I need them here, Luke. I can’t explain it, but I need them. It’s as though they represent something solid, something to hang on to – a life belt – from my old life. Besides, I love them. They are my parents. Whatever, whoever Laura was, I never knew her.’ Pushing back the chair she stood up abruptly. ‘I don’t want her taking over my life. I don’t want her to think she can buy my affection – my love – with all this.’ She gestured at the kitchen around them. ‘I don’t think that’s what she intended, Joss.’ Luke was watching her, puzzled. Her dark hair had fallen in a curtain across her eyes and she hadn’t tossed it back, a habitual gesture of hers which he loved. Instead it hung there, hiding her face, concealing her expression. ‘Luke.’ She still hadn’t looked at him. ‘I walked down to the lake while it was still dark. There was someone out there.’ ‘Out in the garden?’ He pulled up a chair and sat opposite her. ‘Who?’ ‘They were calling. For someone called Sammy.’ He laughed. ‘Probably a cat. You know how sound travels. On a cold, still night, and near water. It was probably someone in the village.’ At last she had pushed back her hair. She gave him a small lop-sided grin, blowing on her tea. ‘Of course. Why didn’t I think of that.’ ‘Because you are an idiot and I love you.’ He smiled, still watching her face. She was white with exhaustion. The stress of the last two months had told heavily on her. Preoccupied with the business he had had to leave the organisation of the sale of the house, the packing and the move to her as well as the frequent trips to East Anglia to supervise the opening up of the house and the checks to the plumbing and electricity and although Lyn had from time to time taken Tom off her hands for a few hours to help her, he knew the strain had been enormous. She had lost about a stone and the dark rings under her eyes were gaunt reminders of night after night tossing sleepless beside him as they lay staring up at the ceiling locked in silent thought in the dark before the move. ‘First day of the rest of our lives, Joss.’ He raised his mug to clink against hers. ‘Cheers.’ ‘Cheers.’ She smiled. Alice and Joe appeared some half hour later as Joss was strapping Tom into his high chair. ‘Good morning, sweetheart.’ Alice stopped and kissed the little boy on the head. ‘Joss, my love, your father and I have been talking and we’ve decided to go back to town today.’ ‘But Mum –’ Joss stared at her aghast. ‘Why? I thought you liked it here –’ ‘We do, Jossie.’ Joe sat down and pulled the teapot towards him. ‘And we’ll be back. We’ve things to do at home, and shopping.’ He wiggled his eyebrows at Tom, who giggled and banged his spoon on the table in front of him. ‘Shopping to do with Father Christmas. We’ll be back, love, before you know it. Your mum needs to rest a bit, Joss. She’s not really up to doing much at the moment.’ He shook his head. ‘And I know her. She won’t be able to sit still as long as she knows there’s work to be done and besides, I think, and your mother agrees with me, that you and Luke need a few days to settle in on your own.’ ‘But we don’t. We’ve already discussed this, and I want you here.’ She knew she sounded like a spoiled child. With a miserable sniff Joss turned towards the stove and reached for the kettle. ‘You can’t go. Mum needn’t do anything heavy. She can rest here –’ ‘I think maybe they’re right, Joss,’ Luke said quietly. He glanced over her head at his father-in-law. ‘Well, at least Lyn can stay.’ Joss took a deep breath. Picking up a jug of milk she reached for Tom’s beaker. ‘No, love. Lyn is coming with us.’ Joe hooked the toast rack towards him. Selecting a piece he buttered it and cut it into strips, putting them down in front of his grandson. ‘We’ve talked it over with her too. She can come back next week if you want her, if she hasn’t got another temporary job by then.’ He sighed. Uninterested in anything academic Lyn had left school at sixteen and drifted from one unsatisfactory temporary job to another. While Joss had stayed on to do her A levels and followed that with a brilliant career at Bristol University and then a teaching post, Lyn, at the age of twenty-eight, with two failed relationships and an aborted attempt at running her own catering business behind her, had moved back in with her parents and resumed her half-hearted trawl through the agencies. Joe shook his head. ‘Then your mum and I will return on the Wednesday after that in plenty of time for Christmas. And we’ll all stay as long as you like to help you get straight.’ ‘They had it all planned!’ Standing in the coach house later, with Tom’s gloved hand clutched in her own Joss stared at her husband’s back as he leaned over the huge rusting engine of the Bentley. ‘Why? Was it your idea?’ Luke straightened. ‘No, it wasn’t. But I had the same feeling they did. You need to be here on your own, Joss. It’s important. You need to explore. To get the feel of the place. They know you as well as I do – better, for God’s sake. We all know how special places are to you.’ He walked over to the bench by the wall where already he had laid out a selection of his tools. She shook her head. ‘Am I so predictable? You can all tell how I feel before I feel it?’ ‘Fraid so!’ He chuckled. ‘And what about you? What are you going to feel about this place?’ ‘Cold mostly.’ And uneasy, he was going to say, though he wasn’t quite sure why. The same way Joe and Alice had felt. They hadn’t said anything, but he could see it in their eyes. No wonder they had wanted to get away. ‘So, if you could arrange to have the kettle on in say half an hour, I can come in and thaw out. I want to keep to my plan if I can. Work on the old bus for George Maxim in the mornings, and on the house and garden in the afternoon. That way I can divide my time. Joss –’ He looked suddenly concerned. ‘We weren’t all ganging up on you, love. I promise. Listen, if you think you are going to feel a bit lonely, why don’t you ask that Goodyear woman and her husband over for a meal. They are obviously dying to find out about us and we can do some reciprocal pumping about the house.’ ‘Right, Tom Tom, let’s start at the top today for a change.’ Two days of unrelenting unpacking and sorting and cleaning later, her phone call made, and her invitation for supper at the end of the week ecstatically accepted by the Goodyears and the Fairchilds at the post office, Joss picked up a duster and broom and made for the stairs, the little boy running purposefully behind her. In the attics a series of small rooms led out of one another, all empty, all wallpapered in small faded flowers and leaves, all with sloping ceilings and dark, dusty beams. Those facing south were full of bright winter sunshine warm behind the glass of the windows; those which looked out over the front of the house were cold and shadowed. Joss glanced at the little boy. He was staying very close to her, his thumb firmly held in his mouth. ‘Nice house, Tom?’ She smiled at him encouragingly. They were looking at a pile of old books. ‘Tom go down.’ He reached out for her long sweater and wound his fingers into it. ‘We’ll go down in a minute, to make Daddy some coffee –’ She broke off. Somewhere nearby she heard a child’s laugh. There was a scuffle of feet running, then silence. ‘Boy.’ Tom informed her hopefully. He peered round her shyly. Joss swallowed. ‘There aren’t any boys here, Tom Tom.’ But of course, there must be. Boys from the village. The house had been empty so long it would have been very strange if no one had found their way in to explore the old place. ‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Who’s there?’ There was silence. ‘Sammy?’ She remembered the name out of nowhere; out of the dark. ‘Sammy, are you there?’ The silence was intense. It no longer seemed to be the silence of emptiness; it was a listening, enquiring silence. ‘Mummy, look.’ Tom tugged at her sweater. ‘Flutterby!’ A ragged peacock butterfly, woken by the heat of the sun on the glass was fluttering feebly against the window, its wings shushing faintly, shedding red-blue dust. ‘Poor thing, it’s trapped.’ Joss looked at it sadly. To let it go out into the cold would mean certain death. The laughter came from the other end of the attic this time; pealing, joyous, followed again by the sound of feet. Tom laughed. ‘See boys,’ he cried. ‘Me wants to see boys.’ ‘Mummy wants to see boys too,’ Joss agreed. She stooped and picked him up, abandoning the butterfly as she pulled open the door which separated this room from the next. ‘They shouldn’t be here. We’re going to have to tell them to go home for their lunch –’ She broke off. The next room, larger than the rest, was the last. Beyond it, out of the high windows she could look down on the stableyard, seeing the doors pulled wide where Luke was standing in the coach house entrance talking to a strange man. Joss swung round. ‘Where have those naughty boys gone?’ ‘Naughty boys gone.’ Tom echoed sadly. He too was staring round, tears welling in his eyes. This was where the sound of the children had come from without a doubt, but the room was empty even of the clutter which had stood in some of the others. The boards, sloping with age, were dusty. They showed no foot marks. ‘Tom, I think we’ll go downstairs.’ She was uneasy. ‘Let’s go and make Daddy his coffee, then you can go and call him for me.’ She backed towards the door. Suddenly she didn’t want to meet these hidden children after all. The morning of their first informal supper party three days later Luke pulled open the cellar door and switched on the lights. Tom was asleep upstairs when he had dragged Joss away from her polishing. ‘Let’s have a real look at that wine. We’ll see if we can find something decent to drink tonight.’ Running down the creaking staircase ahead of her he stared round. The cellar was cold and smelled strongly of damp. A preliminary glance a few days earlier had to their excitement told them the cellar contained a great deal of wine; racks of bottles, bins and cases stretched away into the darkness of a second cellar beyond the first. ‘Joss?’ He turned and looked for her. Joss was standing at the top of the stairs. ‘Joss, come on. Help me choose.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Luke. No.’ She took a step backwards. She couldn’t explain her sudden revulsion. ‘I’ll go and put on the coffee or something.’ He stared up at the doorway. ‘Joss? What’s wrong?’ But she had gone. He shrugged. Turning he stood in front of the first wine rack and stared at it. Joss’s father had obviously had a good eye. He recognised some of the vintages, but this would need an expert to look at it one day. Perhaps David Tregarron would advise him when he came down to see them. David’s passion for wine, even greater than his love of history had been legendary in Joss’s staff room. Luke shivered. It was cold down here – good for the wine of course, but not for people. Reaching out towards the rack he stopped suddenly and turning looked behind him. He thought he had heard something in the corner of the cellar out of sight behind the racks. He listened, his eyes searching the shadows where the light from the single strip light failed to reach. There was no other sound. Uncomfortably he moved slightly. ‘Joss? Are you still up there?’ His voice sounded very hollow. There was no reply. He turned back to the wine rack, trying to concentrate on the bottles, but in spite of himself he was listening, glancing towards the darker corners. Grabbing two bottles at last, more or less at random, he looked round with a shiver and then turning for the stairs, raced up them two at a time. Slamming the cellar door behind him he turned the key with relief. Then he laughed out loud. ‘Clot! What did you think was down there!’ By the time he had reached the kitchen and put the bottles on the table he had recovered himself completely. Roy and Janet Goodyear and the Fairchilds arrived together for their first dinner party at exactly eight o’clock, trooping in through the back door and standing staring round in the kitchen with evident delight. ‘Well, you’ve certainly made a fine job of everything,’ Roy Goodyear commented thoughtfully when they had all returned to the kitchen after a tour of the house. ‘It all looks so nice and lived in, now.’ Joss followed his gaze. It did look good. Their china and glass unpacked, the dresser decorated with pretty plates and flowers, the long table laid and the range warming the room to a satisfactory glow. Luke had strung their Christmas cards from the bell wires and a huge bunch of mistletoe hung over the door out into the pantry. ‘I’m sorry we’re eating in the kitchen.’ Joss filled up Janet’s glass. ‘My dear, we wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. You’ve got it really lovely and cosy here.’ Sally Fairchild had seated herself at the table, her elbows spread amongst the knives and forks. Joss could see her gaze going now and then to the corn dolly which Luke had suspended from a length of fishing twine over the table. ‘I expect the Duncans were very formal when they lived here.’ Luke lifted the heavy casserole from the oven and carried it to the table. ‘Sit down, Roy. And you, Alan.’ ‘They were when Philip was alive.’ Roy Goodyear levered his heavy frame into a chair next to his wife. In his late fifties he was taller by a head than Janet, his face weather-beaten to the colour of raw steak, his eyes a strangely light amber under the bushy grey brows. ‘Your father was a very formal man, Joss.’ Both couples now knew the full story of Joss’s parentage. ‘But in the sixties people from his background still did observe all the formalities. They wouldn’t have known anything else. They kept a staff here of course. Cook and housemaid and two gardeners. When we came to dinner here we always dressed. Philip had a magnificent cellar.’ He cocked an eye at Luke. ‘I suppose it’s too much to hope that it’s still there.’ ‘It is, as a matter of fact.’ He glanced at Joss. He had not mentioned his hasty exit from the cellar to her, nor asked her why she had refused to go down there with him. ‘We’ve got a friend in London – Joss’s ex boss, in fact – who is a bit of a wine buff. I thought we might ask him to come down and have a look at it.’ Roy had already glanced at the bottle and nodded contentedly. ‘Well, if he needs any help or encouragement, don’t forget your neighbours across the fields, I would very much like to see what you’ve got.’ ‘Apart from the ghost, of course,’ Janet put in quietly. There was a moment’s silence. Joss glanced at her sharply. ‘I suppose there had to be a ghost.’ ‘And not just any old ghost either. The village say it is the devil himself who lives here.’ Alan Fairchild raised his glass and squinted through it critically. ‘Isn’t that right, Janet? You are the expert on these matters.’ He grinned broadly. Silent until now he was obviously enjoying the sensation his words had caused. ‘Alan!’ Sally Fairchild blushed pink in the candlelight. ‘I told you not to say anything about all that. These poor people! They’ve got to live here.’ ‘Well, if he lives in the cellar, I didn’t see him.’ With a glance at Joss Luke lifted the lid off the casserole for her and handed her the serving ladle, his face veiled in fragrant steam. Joss was frowning. ‘If we’re sharing the house, I’d like to know who with,’ she said. She smiled at Alan. ‘Come on. Spill the beans. Who else lives here? I know we have visits from time to time by village children. I’d quite like that to stop. I don’t know how they get in.’ ‘Kids are the end these days.’ Janet reached for a piece of bread. ‘No discipline at all. It shouldn’t surprise me if they do come here because the house has been empty for so long, but with the legend –’ she paused. ‘I’d have thought they’d be too scared.’ ‘The devil you mean?’ Joss’s voice was light, but Luke could hear the edge to it. He reached for a plate. ‘You’re not serious about the devil, I hope.’ ‘Of course he’s not serious.’ It was Joss who answered. ‘All old houses have legends, and we should be pleased this one is no exception.’ ‘It’s a very old site, of course,’ Janet said thoughtfully. ‘I believe it goes back to Roman times. Houses with a history as long as that always seem very glamorous. They collect legends. It doesn’t mean there is anything to be frightened of. After all Laura lived here for years practically on her own, and I believe her mother did before that, when she was widowed.’ My fear makes him stronger The words in Joss’s head for a moment blotted out all other conversation. Her mother, alone in the house, had been terrified. ‘Have the family owned the house for a long time then?’ Luke was carrying round the dish of sprouts. ‘I should think a hundred years, certainly. Maybe more than that. If you look in the church you’ll see memorials to people who have lived at the Hall. But I don’t think the same name crops up again and again the way it does in some parishes.’ Roy shrugged. ‘You want to talk to one of the local history buffs. They’ll know all about it. Someone like Gerald Andrews. He lives in Ipswich now, but he had a house in the village here for years, and I think he wrote a booklet about this place. I’ll give you his phone number.’ ‘You said my mother lived here practically on her own,’ Joss said thoughtfully. Everyone served at last she sat down and reached for her napkin. ‘Did she not have a companion, then?’ He came again today without warning and without mercy The words had etched themselves into her brain. They conjured for her a picture of a woman alone, victimised. Terrified, in the large, empty house. ‘She had several, I believe. I don’t think any of them stayed very long and at the end she lived here quite alone, although of course Mary Sutton always stayed in close touch with her. I don’t think Laura minded being alone though, do you Janet? She used to walk down to the village every day with her dog, and she had lots of visitors. She wasn’t in any sense a recluse. People used to come down from London. And of course there was the Frenchman.’ ‘The Frenchman?’ Luke’s eyebrows shot up. ‘That sounds definitely intriguing.’ ‘It was.’ Janet smiled. ‘My dear, I don’t know if it’s true. It was just village gossip, but everyone thought, in the end, that that was where she had gone. She went to live in France and we guessed she’d gone to be with him. She was a very attractive woman.’ ‘As is her daughter!’ Gallantly Roy raised his glass. Joss smiled at him. ‘And the house stayed empty after she left?’ ‘Completely. The village was devastated. It was – is – after all the heart and soul of the place, together with the church. Have you made contact with Mary Sutton, yet?’ Joss shook her head. ‘I’ve tried every time I’ve been into the village, but there is never any answer. I wondered if she’s gone away or something?’ The four guests glanced at each other. Sally Fairchild shrugged. ‘That’s strange. She’s there. She’s not ill or anything. She was in the shop yesterday.’ She shook her head. ‘Perhaps she’s nervous of answering the door to a stranger. I’ll have a word next time she comes in. Tell her who you are. You must speak to her. She worked here for years. She would remember your mother as a child.’ ‘And she would presumably remember the devil if she’d met him face to face.’ Joss’s words, spoken with a seriousness which she hadn’t perhaps intended, were followed by a moment of silence. ‘Joss –’ Luke warned. ‘My dear, I’ve upset you.’ Alan was looking contrite. ‘Take no notice of me. It’s a silly tale. Suitable for round the fire, late at night, well-into-your-third-brandy sessions. Not to be taken seriously.’ ‘I know.’ Joss forced a smile. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to sound so portentous.’ She reached for her wine glass and twisted it between her fingers. ‘You knew Edgar Gower, presumably, when he was here?’ She turned to Roy. He nodded. ‘Great fun, Edgar. What a character! Now he knew your mother very well indeed.’ Joss nodded. ‘It was he who put me in touch with the solicitor; it was through him I found out about Belheddon.’ She glanced at Luke and then turned back to the Goodyears. ‘He tried to dissuade me from following it up. He felt the house was an unhappy place.’ ‘He was a superstitious old buffer,’ Janet snorted fondly. ‘He used to encourage Laura to think the house was haunted. It upset her a lot. I got very cross with him.’ ‘So you didn’t believe in the ghosts?’ ‘No.’ The hesitation had been infinitesimal. ‘And don’t let him get to you, either, Joss. I’m sure the bishop thought he was going a bit dotty at the end and that’s why he retired him. Keep away from him, my dear.’ ‘I wrote to him to say we’d inherited the house. I wanted to thank him, but he never replied.’ She had also phoned twice but there had been no answer. ‘That’s hardly surprising. He’s probably too busy having apocalyptic visions!’ Roy put in. ‘No, that’s unfair!’ Janet turned on her husband. ‘They go off to South Africa every winter since his retirement to spend several months with their daughter. That’s why he’s not been in touch, Joss.’ ‘I see.’ Joss was astonished for a moment at her disappointment. She had seen Edgar as a strength, there in the background to advise them if ever they should need it. His words returned to her suddenly – words she tried to push to the back of her mind whenever she remembered them; words she had never repeated to Luke. ‘I prayed you would never come to find me, Jocelyn Grant.’ The conversation had moved on without her. Vaguely she heard Alan talking about village cricket then Sally laughing at some anecdote about a neighbour. She missed it. Edgar’s voice was still there in her ears: ‘There is too much unhappiness attached to that house. The past is the past. It should be allowed to rest.’ She shook her head abruptly. He had asked her if she had children and when she had told him, he had said nothing; and he had sighed. Pushing her chair back with a shiver, she stood up suddenly. ‘Luke, give everyone second helpings. I’m just going to pop upstairs and make sure Tom is all right.’ The hall was silent, lit by the table lamp in the corner. She paused for a moment, shivering in the draught which swept in under the front door. The kitchen was the only room in the house they had so far managed to heat up to modern standards, thanks to the range. She needed to think. Staring at the lamp her mind was whirling. Edgar Gower; the house; her mother’s fear; there had to be some basis for all the stories. And the devil. Why should people think the devil lived at Belheddon? Pushing open the heavy door into the great hall she stopped in horror. Tom’s piercing screams filled the room, echoing down the stairs from his bedroom. ‘Tom!’ She took the stairs two at a time. The little boy was standing up in his cot, tears streaming down his face, his hands locked onto the bars. The room was ice cold. In the near darkness of the teddy bear night light in the corner she could see his small face beetroot red in the shadows. Swooping on him she scooped him up into her arms. His pyjamas were soaking wet. ‘Tom, what is it, darling.’ She nuzzled his hair. He was dripping with sweat. ‘Tom go home.’ His sobs were heart rending. ‘Tom go to Tom’s house.’ Joss bit her lip. ‘This is Tom’s house, darling. Tom’s new house.’ She cradled his head against her shoulder. ‘What happened? Did you have a bad dream?’ She held him away from her on her knee, studying his face. ‘Tom Tom? What is it?’ ‘Tom go home.’ He was staring over her shoulder towards the window, snuffling pathetically, taking comfort from her arms. ‘I tell you what.’ She reached to turn on the main light, flooding the room with brightness. ‘Let’s change your jym-jams, and make you a nice clean, dry bed, then you can come downstairs for a few minutes to Mummy and Daddy’s party before going back to sleep. How would that be?’ Holding him on her hip she went through the familiar routine, extracting clean dry clothes and bedding from his chest of drawers, changing him, sponging his face and hands, brushing his hair with the soft baby hairbrush, aware that every few minutes he kept glancing back towards the window. His thumb had been firmly plugged into his mouth as she sat him on the rug and turned to make his bed, stripping off the wet covers, wiping over the rubber sheet. ‘Man go away.’ He took his thumb out long enough to speak and then plugged it in again. Joss turned. ‘What man?’ Her voice was sharper than she intended, and she saw the little boy’s eyes fill with tears. Desperately he held out his arms to her. Stooping she hauled him off the ground. ‘What man, Tom Tom? Did you dream about a nasty man?’ In spite of herself she followed his gaze to the corner of the room. She had found some pretty ready-made curtains for his window. They showed clowns somersaulting through hoops and balloons and ribbons. Those and the soft colourful rugs had turned the nursery into one of the brightest rooms in the house. But in the shadows of the little night light, had there been anything there to cast a shadow and frighten him? She bit her lip. ‘Tell me about the man, Tom,’ she said gently. ‘Tin man.’ Tom reached for the locket on a chain round her neck and pulled it experimentally. She smiled, firmly extricating it from his grasp. ‘A tin man? From one of your books?’ That explained it. She sighed with relief. Lyn must have been reading him The Wizard of Oz before she left. With a glance round the room she hugged him close. ‘Come on, Tom Tom, let’s take you down to meet the neighbours.’ She knew from experience that within ten minutes, sitting on Luke’s knee in a warm kitchen, the little boy would be fast asleep and tomorrow before anything else she would buy a baby alarm so that never again would the little boy scream unheard in his distant bedroom. With a final glance round she carried him out into the darkened main bedroom. It was very cold in there. The undrawn curtains allowed frosty moonlight to spill across the floor, reflecting a soft gleam on the polished oak boards, throwing the shadow from the four-poster bed as thick bars over the rug in front of her feet. She stopped, cradling Tom’s head against her shoulder, staring suddenly into the far corner. It was deep in shadow. Her jacket, hanging from the wardrobe handle, was a wedge of blackness against the black. Her arms tightened around the little boy protectively. Katherine It was a whisper in the silence. Tom raised his head. ‘Daddy?’ he said. He craned round her shoulder to see. Joss shook her head slightly. It was nothing. Her imagination. Luke was in the kitchen. ‘No, darling. There’s no one there.’ She kissed his head. ‘Daddy’s downstairs. Let’s go and find him.’ ‘Tin man.’ The thumb was drawn out of the mouth long enough for Tom to point over her shoulder into the darkness of the corner. ‘Tin man there.’ His face crumpled and a small sob escaped him before he buried his face in her shoulder again. ‘No, darling. No tin man. Just shadows.’ Joss made for the door. She almost ran along the corridor and down the stairs. ‘Hey, who is this?’ Roy stood up and held out his arms to Tom. ‘How come you’ve been missing the party, old chap?’ ‘Joss?’ Luke had spotted Joss’s white face. ‘What is it. What was wrong?’ She shook her head. ‘Nothing. He was crying and we didn’t hear him. I expect he had had a bad dream.’ A dream about a tin man who skulked in dark corners. 8 (#ulink_87db05bc-e36d-5c7a-9f4f-4488d53404e2) The drawers of the desk were full of papers and letters, the general detritus of a life time, dealt with, filed, and forgotten. Sitting on the floor with them spread out around her a couple of evenings later Joss could find nothing to explain or even relate to her mother’s mysterious notebook. She had studied it again and again. No pages had been torn out. No entries eradicated in any way. It was as if, having carefully inscribed the flyleaf for Joss, her mother had once, and once only, grabbed the empty notebook in desperation and scribbled those two lone sentences in it. They haunted Joss. They were a plea for help, a despairing scream. What had happened? Who could have upset her so much? Could it have been the Frenchman who the village thought had come to woo her? She had said nothing to Luke about the notebook. It was as if her mother had whispered a secret to her and she did not want to betray the confidence. This was something she had to find out on her own. Putting down the notebook she reached for the coffee mug standing on the carpet next to her and sipped thoughtfully, staring out of the French doors across the lawn. There had been another heavy frost in the night and the grass was still white in the shelter of the tall hedge beyond the stables. Above it the sky was a clear brilliant blue. In the silence, through the window she could hear the clear ring of metal on metal. Luke was well into his work on the Bentley. A robin hopped across the York stone terrace outside the window and stood head to one side staring down at the ground. Joss smiled. Earlier she had thrown out the breakfast crumbs, but there was little left now after the flock of sparrows and blackbirds had descended on them from the trees. The house was very silent. Tom was asleep and for now at least she had the place to herself. Lightly she touched the back of the notebook with her finger. ‘Mother.’ The word hovered in the air. The room was very cold. Joss shivered. She had two thick sweaters on over her jeans and a long silk scarf wound round and round her neck against the insidious draughts which permeated the house but even so her hands were frozen. In a moment she would go back to the kitchen to warm up and replenish her coffee. In a moment. She sat still, staring round, trying to feel her mother’s presence. The room had been Laura’s special, favourite place, of that she had no doubt. Her mother’s books, her sewing, her desk, her letters – and yet nothing remained. There was no scent in the cushions, no warmth of contact as her hand brushed the place where her mother’s hand had been, no vibrations which still held the vital essence of the woman who had borne her. The envelope with the French stamp had slipped between some old bills in a faded green cardboard wallet. Joss stared down at it for a moment, registering the slanted handwriting, the faded violet ink. The post mark, she noted was Paris and the year it was posted 1979. Inside was one flimsy sheet of paper. ‘Ma ch?re Laura – As you see I did not reach home yesterday as I intended. My appointment was postponed until tomorrow. I shall ring you afterwards. Take care of yourself, my dear lady. My prayers are with you.’ Joss squinted at the paper more closely. The signature was an indecipherable squiggle. Screwing up her eyes she tried to make out the first letter. P? B? Sighing, she laid the paper down. There was no address. ‘So, what are you up to?’ Luke had come into the room so quietly she had not heard him. Startled she looked up. ‘Sorting through the desk.’ He was dressed like her in several old sweaters; over them the stained overalls and the woollen scarf did nothing to hide how cold he was. He rubbed his oily hands together. ‘Feel like some coffee? I need to thaw out.’ ‘Yes please.’ She was pushing the papers together in a heap on the carpet in front of her when the telephone rang. ‘Mrs Grant?’ The voice was unfamiliar; female; elderly. ‘I understand you have been trying to reach me. My name is Mary Sutton.’ Joss felt a leap of excitement. ‘That’s right, Mrs Sutton –’ ‘Miss, dear. Miss Sutton.’ The voice the other end was suddenly prim. ‘I do not answer my door to strangers, you understand. But now I know who you are you may come and see me. I have something which may interest you.’ ‘Now?’ Joss was taken aback. ‘That’s right. It is here, now.’ ‘Right. I’ll come over now.’ Joss shrugged as she hung up. ‘A somewhat peremptory Miss Sutton wishes to see me now. I’ll take a rain check on the coffee, Luke, and go before she changes her mind. She says she has something for me. Will you watch Tom Tom?’ ‘OK.’ Luke leaned across and kissed her cheek. ‘See you later then.’ This time when Joss knocked at the cottage door on the green it opened almost immediately. Mary Sutton was a small wizened woman with wispy white hair, caught back in a knot on the top of her head. Her narrow, birdlike face was framed by heavy tortoiseshell spectacles. Joss was shown into a small neat front room which smelled strongly of old baking and long dead flowers. A heavy brown oil cloth covered the table on which was a small notebook. It was identical to the one Joss had found in her mother’s desk. Her eyes were glued to it as she took the proffered seat on an upright chair near the window. After several long seconds of silent scrutiny the solemn face before her broke suddenly into a huge beam. ‘You may call me Mary, my dear, as your mother did.’ Mary turned away and began to pour out tea which had been laid ready on a tray on the sideboard. ‘I looked after you when you were very small. It was I who gave you to the adoption people when they came to collect you.’ She blinked hard through her pebble lenses. ‘Your mother could not bring herself to be there. She walked in the fields down by the river until you had gone.’ Joss stared at her aghast, trapped into silence by the lump in her throat. Behind the glasses the old lady’s eyes, magnified into huge half globes, were brimming with tears. ‘Why did she give me away?’ It was several minutes before Joss could bring herself to ask. She accepted the tea cup with shaking hands and put it down hastily on the edge of the table. Her eyes had returned from Mary’s face to the notebook. ‘It was not because she didn’t love you, my dear. On the contrary, she did it because she loved you so much.’ Mary sat down and pulled her skirt tightly over her knees, tucking the voluminous fabric under her bony legs. ‘The others had died, you see. She thought if you stayed at Belheddon, you would die too.’ ‘The others?’ Joss’s mouth was dry. ‘Sammy and George. Your brothers.’ ‘Sammy?’ Joss stared at her. She had gone cold all over. ‘What dear?’ Mary frowned. ‘What did you say?’ ‘You looked after them? My brothers?’ Joss whispered. Mary nodded. ‘Since they were born.’ She gave a wistful little smile. ‘Little rascals they were, both of them. So like their father. Your mother adored them. It nearly broke her when she lost them. First Sammy, then Georgie. It was too much for any woman to bear.’ ‘How old were they when they died?’ Joss’s fingers were clenched in her lap. ‘Sammy was seven, near as makes no difference. Georgie was born a year after that, in 1954, and he died on his eighth birthday, bless him.’ ‘How?’ Joss’s whisper was almost inaudible. ‘Terrible. Both of them. Sammy had been collecting tadpoles. They found him in the lake.’ There was a long silence. ‘When Georgie died it was nearly the end of your mother.’ Joss stared at her speechlessly as, shaking her head, Mary sipped at her tea. ‘They found him at the bottom of the cellar steps, you see. He knew he was never allowed down there, and Mr Philip, he had the cellar keys. They were still there, locked in his desk.’ She sighed. ‘Sorrows long gone, my dear. You must not grieve over them. Your mother would not have wanted that.’ She reached for the notebook and took it off the table, holding it on her lap with little gentle stroking movements of her fingers. ‘I’ve kept this all these years. It’s right you should have them. Your mother’s poems.’ Still she didn’t release the volume, holding it close as if she could not bear to part with it. ‘You must have loved her very much,’ Joss said at last. She found there were tears in her eyes. Mary made no response, continuing to stroke the notebook quietly. ‘Did you – did you know the French gentleman who came here?’ She studied the old lady’s face. There was a slight pursing of the lips, no more. ‘I knew him.’ ‘What was he like?’ ‘Your mother was fond of him.’ ‘I don’t even know his name.’ Mary looked up at last. This at least was something she seemed able to divulge without reservation. ‘Paul Deauville. He was an art dealer. He travelled the world I understand.’ ‘Did he live in Paris?’ ‘He did.’ ‘And my mother went to live with him?’ A definite frisson – almost a shudder. ‘He took your mother away from Belheddon.’ ‘Do you think he made her happy?’ Mary met Joss’s eye and held it steady through the grotesquely magnifying lenses of her glasses. ‘I hope so, my dear. I never heard from her again after she left.’ As if she were afraid she had said too much Mary clamped her lips shut, and after several more perfunctory attempts at questioning her Joss rose to leave. It was only as she turned to walk through the front door into the blinding frosty sunlight that Mary at last relinquished the notebook. ‘Take care of it. There is so little of her left.’ The old lady caught her arm. ‘I will.’ Joss hesitated. ‘Mary, will you come and see us? I should like you to meet my little boy, Tom.’ ‘No.’ Mary shook her head. ‘No, my dear. I’ll not come to the house if you don’t mind. Best not.’ With that she stepped back into the shadows of her narrow front hall and closed the door almost in Joss’s face. The graves were there, beyond her father’s. Quite overgrown now, she hadn’t seen the two small white cross headstones side by side in the nettles under the tree. She stood looking down at them for a long time. Samuel John and George Philip. Someone had left a small bowl of white chrysanthemums on each. Joss smiled through her tears. Mary at least had never forgotten them. Luke and Tom were busy in the coach house when she got home. With one look at their happy oily faces she left them to their mechanical endeavours and clutching the notebook retreated to the study. The sunshine through the window had warmed the room, and she smiled a little to herself as she stooped and throwing on some logs, coaxed the fire back into life. In a few moments it would be almost bearable. Curling up on the arm chair in the corner she opened the notebook at the first page. Laura Manners – Commonplace Book. The inscription in the flyleaf of this notebook was in the same flamboyant hand as that in the other. She glanced at the first few pages and felt a sharp pang of disappointment. She had assumed her mother would have written the poems herself, but these were bits and pieces copied out from many authors – a collection obviously of her favourite poems and pieces of prose. There was Keats’s ode To Autumn, a couple of Shakespeare sonnets, some Byron, Gray’s Elegy. Slowly, page after page she leafed through, reading a few lines here and there, trying to form a picture of her mother’s taste and education from the words on the page. Romantic; eclectic, occasionally obscure. There were lines from Racine and Dante in the original French and Italian, a small verse from Schiller. She was something of a linguist then. There were even Latin epigrams. Then suddenly the mood of the book changed. Stuck between two pages was a single sheet, old and torn, very frail, held in place by tape which had discoloured badly. It was an India paper page, torn, Joss guessed from a Roman Missal. On it, in English and in Latin, was a prayer for the blessing of Holy Water. … I do this that the evil spirit may be driven away from thee, and that thou mayest banish the enemy’s power entirely, uprooting and casting out the enemy himself with all his rebel angels … … so that whatsoever in the homes of the faithful or elsewhere shall have been sprinkled with it may be delivered from everything unclean and hurtful. Let no breath of contagion hover there, no taint of corruption. May all the wiles of the lurking enemy come to nothing, and may anything that threatens the safety or peace of those who dwell there be put to flight by the sprinkling of this water … Joss stared round, letting the book fall into her lap, realising she had been reading the words out loud. The house was very silent. Exorcizo te, in nomine Dei† Patris omnipotentis, et in nomine Jesu† Christi Filii ejus, Domine nostri, et in virtute Spiritus† Sancti … The devil himself lives here … Alan Fairchild’s words echoed through her head. For several minutes she sat staring into space then, closing the notebook she stood up and going to the desk, she reached for the phone. David Tregarron was in the staff room marking test papers when her call was put through. ‘So, how is life in the outback, Jocelyn?’ His booming voice seemed to echo round the room. ‘Quite a strain actually.’ She frowned. The words had come spontaneously, accurately, instead of the easier platitude she had framed in her head. ‘I hope you can come and see us soon.’ She sounded so much more desperate than she had intended. ‘David, would you do me a favour? When you are next in the British Library reading room would you look up Belheddon for me and see if you can find anything about its history?’ There was a slight pause as he tried to interpret her tone. ‘Of course I will. From what you said before it sounds like a wonderful old place. I’m looking forward to my first visit.’ ‘So am I.’ She heard the fervour in her voice with surprise. ‘I’d like to know what the name means.’ ‘Belheddon? That sounds fairly straightforward. Bel – beautiful, of course, or if the name is much older it might come from a Celtic derivation, like the Irish, which if I remember it rightly, has much the same meaning as Aber in Wales or Scotland – the mouth of a river. Or it could come from the old gods Bel, you remember Beltane, or Baal from the Bible who came to represent the devil himself. Then I think heddon means heather – or a temple on a heathery hill or some such –’ ‘What did you say?’ Joss’s voice was sharp. ‘A temple –’ ‘No, before that. About the devil.’ ‘Well, it’s just a possibility I suppose. Rather romantic really. Perhaps the original site housed a temple.’ ‘There’s a local legend, David, that the devil lives here.’ Her voice was strangely thin and harsh. ‘And you sound afraid rather than amused. Oh, come on Joss. You’re not letting the credulous yokels get to you, are you?’ The jovial manner had dropped away abruptly. ‘You don’t believe in any of this, surely?’ ‘Of course not.’ She laughed. ‘I’d just like to know why the house has this reputation. It is a bit sort of dramatic!’ ‘Well, I suppose it is on dark nights with the wind howling round. I must say, I can’t wait to come and see it.’ There was a pause. ‘I don’t suppose I could look in this weekend, could I? I know it’s getting awfully near Christmas but term’s practically over. I can look a few things up for you; find a few books, perhaps?’ She laughed, extraordinarily pleased. ‘Of course you can come! That would be wonderful. One thing we are not short of is space, providing you pack enough warm clothes. It’s like the Arctic here.’ When Luke came in, carrying a filthy small boy, both of them cold and terribly pleased with themselves Joss was smiling to herself as she stirred a huge pan of soup. ‘David’s coming up the day after tomorrow.’ ‘Great.’ Luke held Tom under one arm over the sink and reached for the Swarfega. ‘It will be nice to see him. He’ll bring news no doubt of dear old London and civilisation.’ He chuckled, smearing green goo all over his small son’s hands as Tom crowed with delight. Luke glanced at her over the sticky curls. ‘He’s not going to make you feel you’re missing out, is he? Rural stagnation instead of academia.’ She shook her head. ‘Nope. If I want to get back into it, I can always start some kind of research project with the prospect of a book in about a thousand years’ time. Or something less academic and more lucrative. The book David suggested I have a go at, perhaps. I might just have a chat to him about that.’ The idea had in fact been growing on her. Reaching for the pepper mill she ground it over the soup, stirred, put down the wooden spoon and sat down at the kitchen table. ‘You haven’t asked how I got on with Mary Sutton.’ Luke raised an eyebrow. ‘I could see it was good and bad when you came back. Want to tell me now?’ ‘Both my little brothers died here, Luke. In accidents.’ She was looking at Tom, suddenly aching to hold him. How could her mother have borne to lose two boys? ‘Nothing will happen to Tom Tom, Joss.’ Luke could always read her mind. He changed the subject adroitly. ‘Listen, talking about Tom Tom and your writing what do you think of the idea of asking Lyn if she’d like to come and help you look after him. As a sort of proper job.’ Drying Tom’s hands he posted the little boy in Joss’s direction with a gentle slap on the behind. Joss held out her arms. ‘While she’s out of work, you mean? She’s certainly good with Tom and we could do with some help, though we could only pay her pocket money. It would give me time to get on with the house.’ She smiled. ‘And write my best seller.’ ‘No joking, Joss. We need the money. You’ve had stuff published in the past. I’m sure you could do it.’ ‘In the past it was in academic magazines, Luke. They don’t exactly pay megabucks. And just those few short stories.’ He smiled. ‘Mini bucks would do, love. I do think you should give it a go. Anything to help. Keep us in bread and spuds until next year when we start our own vegetable patch, vineyard, bed and breakfast business, vintage car restoration workshop – with small business grant –’ he had all the papers spread out over the dining room table – ‘herb nursery, play group and counterfeit money press.’ She laughed. ‘I’m glad we’re not contemplating anything too ambitious. Pour me a glass of wine to celebrate and we’ll drink to Grant, Grant and Davies Industries.’ She hauled Tom onto her lap and dropped a kiss onto his hair, screwing up her face at the smell of oil and hand cleaner and dirt. ‘You need a bath young man.’ Tom wriggled round to smile dazzlingly up at her. ‘Tom go swim in the water outside,’ he said. Joss froze. Her arms tightened round him as suddenly the image of another small boy rose before her eyes, a small boy collecting tadpoles from the lake. ‘No, Tom,’ she whispered. ‘Not outside. You don’t swim outside. Not ever.’ 9 (#ulink_58f193ea-0c78-5043-8554-9dba5032f26b) ‘Luke?’ ‘Mmm.’ Luke was poring over some papers, sitting at her mother’s desk in the study. They had had supper and had brought the last of the bottle of wine, eked out from lunch, to drink by the fire. Joss was sitting on the rug, feeding twigs to the hungry crackling flames. Outside the curtains a deep penetrating frost had settled over the silent garden. ‘I suppose with a cellar full of wine, we could afford to open another bottle, couldn’t we?’ Beside her sat a box of letters and papers, extricated from beneath some old silk curtains in the bottom drawer of the chest in her bedroom. It was still tied with a piece of string. The label on the box said Bourne and Hollingsworth. It was post marked September 23 1937 and addressed to John Duncan Esq, Belheddon Hall, Essex. ‘We could. But one of us would have to fetch it.’ ‘Bags you do.’ He laughed. ‘Bags we both do. It means we’d have to go down there.’ ‘Ah.’ She bit her lip. ‘It’s not so scary, Joss. There’s electric light and hundreds and hundreds of wonderful bottles. No rats.’ ‘I’m not scared of rats!’ She was scornful. ‘Right then.’ He threw down his pen and stood up. ‘Come on.’ ‘Why don’t I fetch the corkscrew from the kitchen?’ ‘Joss.’ She gave an awkward shrug. ‘It’s just – Luke, one of my brothers died falling down the cellar stairs.’ He sat down again abruptly. ‘Oh, Joss. Why didn’t you tell me?’ ‘I only found out this morning from Mary Sutton. But last time, when you went down – I felt it. Something strange – something frightening.’ ‘Only the smell of cold and damp, Joss.’ His voice was very gentle. ‘Surely there would be nothing frightening about a little boy’s death. Sad, yes. Very sad. But a long time ago. We are here now, to bring happiness to the house.’ ‘Do you think so?’ ‘Why else did your mother give it to you?’ ‘I’m not sure.’ She hugged her knees, gazing into the flames. ‘She gave it to me because my father wanted me to have it.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s strange. He seems such a shadowy figure. No one talks about him. No one seems to remember him.’ ‘He died a long time before your mother, didn’t he? That’s probably why.’ He stood up again. ‘Come on.’ Stooping he caught her hand and hauled her to her feet. ‘We’ll find a bottle of Philip’s best and get gloriously uninhibited, while Tom’s asleep and we’ve still got the house to ourselves. Sound good?’ ‘Sounds good.’ She reached up and kissed him. The key was in the door. Turning it, Luke reached round into the dark for the light switch and clicked it on, looking down the wooden stairs towards the small underground vaults and the wine racks. Dust lay over the bottles. The cellar was very cold. Cautiously he padded down the steps ahead of Joss and waited for her at the bottom. ‘OK?’ She nodded. The air was a curious combination of stale and fresh – the stillness and silence of a tomb and yet, through the mustiness, the clear freshness of the frosted garden outside. ‘See.’ Luke pointed to the top of the wall. ‘Gratings which lead out to the flower beds outside the front walls of the house. The air gets in, but for some reason the temperature never varies much. Perfect for wine.’ He turned his attention to the rack nearest them. ‘Some of these newer ones are probably best. I’d hate to drink something worth hundreds, just in order to seduce my wife!’ ‘Thanks very much!’ There was nothing frightening down here now. Just stillness and, perhaps, memories. She tried not to think of an eight-year-old boy, excited, happy, on his birthday, opening the door and peering down into the dark … The thought could not be tolerated. Angrily she pushed it away. ‘Just grab something and let’s go. It’s cold down here.’ ‘OK. Here goes. We don’t tell David, right? We’ll dispose of the evidence in the bottle bank before he gets here.’ He pulled two bottles from the rack. ‘Come on then.’ The cellar door safely locked, the corkscrew retrieved from the kitchen, Tom Tom checked – the baby alarm switched on – they settled back by the fire. ‘So, let’s see what we’ve got.’ Luke scrutinised the label. ‘Clos Vougeout 1945. Joss, this is old after all! I suspect this ought to breathe before we drink it.’ ‘Draw the cork and put it by the fire for a bit.’ Joss reached for the box of letters. Anything to take her mind off the child, peering through the door into forbidden territory, full of excitement, on his birthday … Belheddon Hall, Belheddon, Essex 29th September, 1920 Dear John, Samuel and I were so pleased to see you here yesterday, and to hear that you are once more to settle at Pilgrim Hall. And so you are to marry! Lady Sarah is a lovely and gentle person. I know she will make you so very happy. As we told you, my confinement is expected within a few weeks but as soon as possible after that I hope we may entertain you both at Belheddon. My Samuel is hoping next year to resume tennis parties here at the Hall. It would be such fun if you could both come. Your ever affectionate cousin, Lydia Manners. Lydia Manners. Joss turned the sheet of paper over in her hand. The grandmother after whom her mother had named her when she was born. She pulled another small bundle of letters out of the Bourne and Hollingsworth box. Tied with pale blue ribbon they were labelled, ‘Father’s letters’. It was not Laura’s writing. Joss frowned as she leafed through them. Different handwriting, different dates, different addresses, addresses which meant nothing to her. Then another, from Belheddon Hall. It was short and to the point: Our son little Samuel was born safely on 30th November. Please thank Lady Sarah for her note. I will write more soon. Yr affectionate Cousin, Lydia. The envelope was addressed to John Duncan at Pilgrim Hall. So, John was John Duncan, a relative of Philip’s. Perhaps his father and so her own grandfather? Putting down the letters Joss stared into the fire thoughtfully, listening to the voices echoing in her head, voices from her unknown past. ‘How about some wine now?’ Luke had been watching her for some time as she sorted through the box. Pushing aside his invoices with relief, he flung himself down beside her on the floor and put his arm around her. ‘You are looking too serious.’ She smiled, nestling up against him. ‘Not at all. Just learning some more about the past. My father’s family this time.’ She watched as Luke poured two glasses. The wine was delicious. It was dark brown and smoky, like a wood in November. She could feel the rich warmth of it running through her veins. After only a few sips she was feeling extraordinarily sexy. ‘Is it the wine, or just the suggestion,’ she whispered. ‘What suggestion?’ Luke tightened his arm around her, leaning back against the arm chair. His hand drooped lazily over her shoulder and fondled her breast through the heavy wool of her sweater. ‘That one.’ She pushed the box of papers aside with her foot and took another sip. ‘This wine seems very strong.’ Luke chuckled. ‘I suspect it was worth a fortune, but who cares, if we get our money’s worth? Shall we go upstairs?’ He was nuzzling her ear, gently nibbling the lobe. ‘Not yet. Another glass first. Luke –’ She turned to him, suddenly serious. ‘I wouldn’t dare ask you this if I were entirely sober. You don’t regret coming here do you?’ ‘Regret it! Certainly not.’ He inserted his hand under the collar of her sweater. ‘You are sure. We’ve no income to speak of –’ ‘Then we won’t speak of it.’ As he would never speak to her of his nightmares about the business; the creditors lurking in the woodwork, the waves of depression which sometimes swept over him when he thought about Barry and what he had done to them. What was the point? That was all in the past. Putting his glass down he leaned across, pressing his lips against hers. ‘Come on. It’s time we went upstairs.’ Sammy! Sammy, where are you? The snow had melted; already snowdrops were pushing up through the frozen ground. The little boy ducked under the graceful boughs of the old fir tree and disappeared out of sight. When he reappeared, he was running down the lawn towards the lake. ‘Stop!’ Joss screamed. ‘Stop. Don’t go down there, please –’ Someone was in her way. Pushing against him she struggled to get past … ‘Hey! Stop it!’ Luke wriggled out of reach of her flailing fists. ‘Joss, stop it! What’s the matter?’ ‘Sammy!’ She was battling up out of a fog of sleep, her mouth sour, her head thudding like a steam hammer. ‘Sammy!’ ‘Wake up, Joss. You’re dreaming.’ Luke caught her hand as it struggled free of the entangling duvet. ‘Joss! Wake up!’ She was naked, her clothes trailed across the floor; her shoulders, bare above the duvet ached with cold. The moonlight, streaming across the floor showed the overturned glass on the floor beside the bed, the empty bottle on the table by the lamp. Dragging herself back to the present she turned her head on the pillow, still disoriented. ‘Sammy –’ ‘No Sammy. No such person, Joss. It’s Luke, your husband. Remember?’ He stroked her shoulder, wincing at the ice cold feel of her skin, and drew the duvet higher to cover her. ‘Tom –’ ‘Tom’s OK. Not a peep out of him. Go back to sleep. It will soon be morning.’ He tucked her up tenderly and remained, propped on his elbow looking at her for a few moments, studying her face in the strangely ethereal moonlight. Her eyes had closed. She had never really awoken. It had all been some frightening dream. Too much wine. He glanced ruefully at the bottle. He already had the beginnings of a headache. By morning it would have turned into something approaching a hangover. Stupid. He threw himself back on the pillow, staring up at the embroidered bed hangings while beside him Joss’s breathing slowed and settled back into deep sleep. The shadow in the corner, ever watchful, stirred slightly, scarcely more than a flicker of the moonlight on the curtains, and a shiver of lust curled into the darkness. 10 (#ulink_03119e82-d257-5dcd-9586-a602043170d5) Oavid had leapt at the idea of a weekend in East Anglia before he sat down and thought out the consequences. Peering now through the windscreen of his eight-year-old Vauxhall at the ancient, creeper-covered fa?ade of Belheddon Hall he felt a pang of something near terminal jealousy. Then his better nature asserted itself firmly. If anyone deserved the fairy tale romance which had handed her this pile on a plate, it was Joss. He thought again of the few rough notes he had scribbled down for her and he smiled to himself. The house was far far older even than the architecture visible from where he sat implied, and it had an enviably romantic history. Climbing stiffly out of the car he straightened to stretch the exquisite agony of cramp out of his bones before diving head first back in to withdraw suitcase, box of goodies from Harrods food hall and briefcase. ‘See here.’ He tapped a page of notes with his finger as they sat an hour later at the lunch table. ‘The church was built in 1249. I don’t know for sure, but I would think the foundations of this house go back that far at least. I’m no expert of course, but that glorious room of yours with the gallery looks fifteenth century if not earlier. Why haven’t you contacted this local historian chappy yet?’ ‘We haven’t had time.’ Joss whisked off Tom’s bib and wiped his face with it while David watched with horrified disgust. ‘Wait while I put this young man down for his rest, then we’ll talk some more. Put the coffee on, Luke.’ She hauled the child out of his high chair and straddled him across her hip. ‘You don’t know how glad I am to see you, David.’ She rested a hand lightly on his shoulder as she passed. ‘I need to know about the house.’ David frowned as she disappeared through the door. ‘Need to know is rather a strong term.’ ‘It’s weird for her, living here.’ Luke filled the kettle and put it on the hot plate. ‘Imagine it. Generations of her ancestors and yet she knows almost nothing even about her mother.’ Sitting down he leaned forward and cut himself a generous lump of cheese. ‘She’s been having a lot of nightmares. Some tactless old biddy who lives locally told her that both her elder brothers died here in accidents. She’s got a bit obsessed by the thought.’ David raised an eyebrow. ‘I can hardly blame her for that.’ He shivered. ‘How dreadful. Well, the more distant past seems to have been more cheerful. A junior branch of the De Vere family lived here for a couple of hundred years. One of them got his head chopped off in the Tower.’ Luke laughed, reaching for the wine. ‘And you find that more cheerful?’ ‘I’m a historian; it fills me with morbid delight.’ David chuckled contentedly. ‘History is a moving staircase. Characters step onto the bottom, rise slowly. They get to the top, they descend. Occasionally something goes wrong and they fall off or get a foot trapped. They face forwards, looking up at the heights or they face backwards, looking down.’ He smiled, pleased with his metaphor. ‘In the end it makes no difference. One disappears, one leaves no trace and already another queue of figures crowds behind one all rising and falling in just the same way.’ ‘Chateau-bottled philosophy.’ Luke topped up Joss’s glass as she reappeared. She had combed her hair and removed from her cheek the imprint of Tom’s gravy-covered fingers. ‘This has been a house of substance for hundreds of years, my love. You should be very proud to be its chatelaine.’ ‘I am.’ Switching on the baby alarm which stood on the dresser, Joss sat down contentedly. ‘I’ll take you over to the church later, David. It’s very beautiful. They were doing the Christmas decorations and flowers earlier.’ She smiled. ‘Janet said I would be let off helping this year, as we’ve only just arrived.’ ‘Imagine!’ Luke shook his head in wonder. ‘Joss, do you remember the old joke about the flower ladies hanging in the porch? Another few weeks and you’ll be a pillar of the church.’ David was scrutinising Joss’s face. She had lost a lot of weight since he had seen her last; there were dark rings under her eyes and in spite of the laughter he sensed a tenseness about her which worried him. It was two hours before he had the chance to talk to her alone, when she put Tom in his buggy and they pushed him across the drive and down the narrow overgrown path towards the churchyard gate. ‘That’s my father’s grave.’ She pointed down at the headstone. ‘Poor Joss.’ David pushed his hands deep into his pockets against the cold. ‘It must have been disappointing to find neither he nor your mother were still alive.’ ‘To put it mildly.’ She pushed Tom on a few feet and stopped as the little boy pointed at a robin which had alighted on a headstone only a few feet from them. ‘Did you find out anything else about the name?’ ‘Belheddon.’ He chewed his lip. ‘The name goes back a very long way. Multitudes of spellings, of course, like most old English place names, but basically the same in the Domesday Book. That takes you back to about 1087. How far did you want me to go?’ He grinned at her, blowing out a cloud of condensed air to make Tom laugh. ‘You mentioned Celtic. Iron Age? Bronze Age?’ ‘That was guesswork, Joss, and I’m afraid I haven’t made any more progress on the definitions. There was a possibility of it coming from belwe which means bellow in middle English. Heddon does seem most likely to mean heather hill. Perhaps they grazed noisy cattle up here once! But we’re really talking archaeology here. There are recognised sites around here – I noticed in one of the county histories that there are several very close to the house – but who knows when it comes to names? I don’t know yet if there is anything Roman.’ ‘Why would the devil live here, David?’ She had her back to him, watching the robin. He frowned. There was a strange tone to her voice – a forced jocularity. ‘I very much doubt if he does.’ She turned and he met her eye. ‘What is frightening you, Joss?’ She shrugged, fussing with Tom’s harness. The little boy had started to whine. ‘I don’t know. I’m usually quite sane. And I adore the house. It’s just that somehow, something is not right here.’ ‘But not the devil.’ It was his most schoolmasterly tone, stern with just a hint of mocking reproach. ‘No. No, of course not.’ Comforting the child, she sounded far from sure. ‘Joss. If the devil chose anywhere to live on Earth, I doubt that, even as his country residence, he would choose Belheddon.’ He smiled, the corners of his eyes creasing deeply. ‘For one thing it’s far too cold.’ She laughed. ‘And I’m keeping you hanging around. Let’s go into the church.’ The iron latch was icy, even through her gloves. Turning the ring handle with an effort she humped the buggy through the doors and down into the shadowy aisle. ‘It’s a lovely old church.’ David stared round him. She nodded. ‘I’ve even been to one or two services. I’ve always loved evensong.’ She led the way towards the far wall. ‘Look, there are several memorials and brass plaques to people from the Hall. None with the same names, though. It’s as if a dozen families have lived here. It’s so frustrating. I don’t know who, if any, are my relations.’ She stood staring up at a worn stone memorial by the pulpit. ‘Look. Sarah, beloved wife of William Percival, late of Belheddon Hall, died the 4th day of December, 1884. Then, much later, there was Lydia Manners, my grandmother, then my parents’ name was Duncan. All different families.’ ‘Have you found the family Bible?’ He had wandered up into the chancel. ‘Ah, here are some De Veres. 1456 and 1453, both of Belheddon Hall. Perhaps they were your ancestors too.’ Joss pushed the buggy after him. ‘I hadn’t thought to look for a Bible. What a good idea!’ ‘Well if there is one and it is sufficiently huge you ought to be able to find it quite easily. I’ll help you look when we get back to the house. But Joss –’ he put his arm round her gravely, ‘I very much doubt if you are descended from the devil!’ ‘It would be an interesting thought, wouldn’t it.’ She stood in front of the altar rail and stared up at the stained-glass window. ‘I suspect if I was there would have been a smell of scorching by now, if not whirling winds and screaming demons flocking round my head.’ Katherine The sound in the echoing chancel arch above her was no more than a whisper of the wind. Neither of them heard it. David sat down in one of the pews. ‘Joss, about the writing. I gave your short story Son of the Sword, to my friend Robert Cassie at Hibberds. It intrigued me so much when I read it. That mystery thriller angle set in the past: I thought it worked really well and I was always sad it was a short story. I thought it would make a good novel then, and I still do.’ He glanced up at her under his eyelashes. ‘Bob agreed with me. I don’t know if that particular idea appeals, but if you thought you could expand it into a full-length novel, he would be interested to hear your ideas on how to do it; perhaps write some character sketches, a few chapters, that sort of thing.’ She stood stock still, looking down at him. ‘Was he serious?’ David nodded. ‘I told you you could do it, Joss. He liked the characters; he loved the mystery – and of course, in the story, it’s never solved.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you know what happened at the end yourself?’ Joss laughed. ‘Of course I do.’ ‘Well then. All you have to do is tell the story.’ They found the family Bible that evening. The huge, leather-covered tome was stored sideways in the bottom of the bookshelf behind her mother’s chair in the study. ‘Bookworm.’ David fingered the crumbling edges to the pages. ‘And probably mice. And there you are. Dozens of entries written on the end papers. Fascinating! Let’s take it through to the kitchen and we can put it on the table under the bright light.’ Luke was scrubbing oil off his hands at the sink when they carried in their find in triumph and laid it reverently down. ‘Now what have you found.’ He grinned at them tolerantly. ‘You are like a couple of school kids, you two. Such excitement!’ David opened the book with careful fingers. ‘Here we are. The first entry is dated 1694.’ ‘And the last?’ Joss craned over his shoulder. He turned the heavy handmade page. ‘Samuel John Duncan, born 10th September 1946.’ ‘Sammy.’ Joss swallowed hard. Neither Georgie nor she, the rejected member of the Duncan family, were there. David stood back from the table, half diffident, half reluctant to relinquish his treasure. ‘Go on, have a look.’ Joss sat down, leaning forward, her finger on the page. ‘There she is,’ she said, ‘the Sarah in the church. Sarah Rushbrook married William Percival 1st May 1861. Then Julia Mary born 10th April 1862, died 17th June 1862 – she only lived two months.’ ‘It was a cruel time. Infant mortality was appalling, Joss. Remember your statistics,’ David put in sternly. He was suddenly strangely uncomfortable with this close encounter with the past. Joss went on. ‘“Mary Sarah, born 2nd July 1864. Married John Bennet spring 1893. Our firstborn, Henry John was born the 12th October 1900” – she must have written that. “Our daughter Lydia” – I suppose that’s my grandmother – “was born in 1902” and then, oh no –’ she stopped for a moment. ‘Little Henry John died in 1903. He was only three years old. That entry is in a different handwriting. The next entry is dated 24th June, 1919. “In the year 1903, three months after the death of our son Henry, my husband John Bennet disappeared. I no longer expect his return. This day my daughter, Lydia Sarah, married Samuel Manners who has come to Belheddon in his turn.”’ ‘That sounds a bit cryptic.’ Luke was sitting opposite her, his attention suddenly caught. ‘What’s next?’ ‘“Our son, Samuel, was born on 30th November, 1920. Three days later my mother, Mary Sarah Bennet, died of the influenza.”’ ‘Incredible.’ David shook his head. ‘It’s a social history in miniature. I wonder if she caught the tail end of the great flu epidemic which spread round the world after the First World War. Poor woman. So she probably never saw her grandson.’ ‘I wonder what happened to poor old John Bennet?’ Thoughtfully Luke sat back in his chair. ‘There is a letter in the study,’ Joss said slowly, reverting to a previous thought. ‘A note from Lydia to her cousin John Duncan telling him about her son’s birth. She must have written it straight away, before she realised her mother was dying.’ She glanced back at the page. ‘She had three more children, John, Robert and Laura, my mother, each born two years apart and then –’ she paused. ‘Look, she herself died the year after Laura’s birth. She was only twenty-three years old!’ ‘How sad.’ Luke reached out and touched her hand. ‘It was all a long time ago, Joss. You mustn’t get depressed about it, you know.’ She smiled. ‘I’m not really. It’s just so strange. Reading her letter, holding it in my hand. It brings her so close.’ ‘I expect the house is full of letters and documents about the family,’ David put in. ‘The fact that your mother obviously left everything just as it was is wonderful from the historian’s point of view. Just wonderful. There must be pictures of these people. Portraits, photos, daguerreotypes.’ He rocked back on his chair, balancing against the table with his finger tips. ‘You must draw up a family tree.’ Joss smiled. ‘It would be interesting. Especially for Tom Tom when he’s big.’ She shook her head slowly, turning back to the endpapers where the scrawled Italic inscriptions, faded to brown, raced across the page. The first four generations, she realised, had been filled in by the same hand – a catching up job in the front of the new Bible perhaps. After that, year after year, generation after generation, each new branch of the family was recorded by a different pen, a different name. ‘If I copy these out, I can take the list over to the church and find out how many of them were buried there,’ she said. ‘I wonder what did happen to John Bennet. There is no further mention of him. It would be interesting to see if he was buried here. Do you think he had an accident?’ ‘Perhaps he was murdered.’ Luke chuckled. ‘Not every name in this book can have died a gentle natural death …’ ‘Luke –’ Joss’s protest was interrupted by a sudden indignant wail from the baby alarm. ‘I’ll go.’ Luke was already on his feet. ‘You two put away that Bible and start to think about supper.’ Joss stood up and closed the heavy book, frowning at the echoing crescendo of sobs. ‘I should go –’ ‘Luke can deal with it.’ David put his hand on her arm. He left it there just a moment too long and moved it hastily. ‘Joss. Don’t push Luke out with all this, will you. The family. The history. The house. It’s a lot for him to take on board.’ ‘It’s a lot for me to take on board!’ She thumped the heavy book down on the dresser as over the intercom they heard the sound of a door opening, and then Luke’s voice, sharp with fear. ‘Tom! What have you done?’ Joss glanced at David, then she turned and ran for the door. When she arrived in the nursery, with David close on her heels, Tom was in Luke’s arms. The cot was over by the window. ‘It’s OK. He’s all right.’ He surrendered the screaming child. ‘He must have rocked the cot across the floor. It is a bit sloping up here. Then he woke up in a different place and had a bit of a fright, didn’t you old son?’ He ruffled the little boy’s hair. Joss clutched Tom close, feeling the small body trembling violently against her own. ‘Silly sausage. What happened? Did you rock the cot so much it moved?’ Tom snuffled. Already his eyes were closing. ‘It might have been a dream,’ Luke whispered. ‘For all that noise, he’s barely awake, you know.’ Joss nodded. She waited while he pushed the cot back into the corner and turned back the coverings. ‘Tom Tom go back to bed now,’ she murmured gently. The little boy said nothing, the long honey blond eyelashes already heavy against his cheeks. ‘Clever invention, that alarm,’ David commented when they were once more back in the kitchen. ‘Does he often do that?’ Joss shook her head. ‘Not very. Moving has unsettled him a bit, that’s all. And he’s excited about Christmas. Alice and Joe and Lyn will soon be back. Lyn has agreed to come and help me look after him as a part-time nanny. And on top of all that Luke has promised him we will do the tree tomorrow.’ She was laying the table, her careless movements quick and imprecise. David leaned across and neatened the knives and forks, meticulously uncrossing two knife blades with a shake of his head. ‘The devil apart, do you think this house is haunted?’ he asked suddenly, squaring the cutlery with neat precision. ‘Why?’ Luke turned from the stove, wooden spoon in hand and stared at him. ‘Have you seen something?’ ‘Seen, no.’ David sat down slowly. ‘Heard then?’ Joss met his eye. The voices. The little boys’ voices. Had he too heard them? David shrugged. ‘No. Nothing precise. Just a feeling.’ The feeling had been in Tom’s bedroom, but he was not going to say so. It was strange. A coldness which was not physical cold – the Dimplex had seen to that. More a cold of – he caught himself with something like a suppressed laugh. He was going to describe it to himself as a cold of the soul. 11 (#ulink_417aa8d1-b5c5-54da-abca-55bb5a921448) ‘Presents, food, blankets, hot-water bottles. I’m like a Red Cross relief van!’ Lyn had driven into the courtyard next morning, her old blue Mini groaning under the weight of luggage and parcels. ‘Mum and Dad are coming back on Wednesday, but I thought I’d give you a hand.’ She smiled shyly at David. ‘I’m going to be Tom’s nanny so Joss can write world-shaking best sellers!’ ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ David grinned. He had only met Joss’s younger sister on a couple of occasions, and had thought her hard and, he had to admit, a little boring. For sisters the two had had little in common. Now, of course, he knew why. They weren’t sisters at all. It was eleven before he managed to cajole Joss away from the house on the pretext of hunting up some of the names from the Bible in the church. They started in front of Sarah Percival. ‘I noticed her because the memorial was so ornate. There must be older ones,’ she whispered. She wandered away from him down the aisle. ‘Here we are, Mary Sarah Bennet died in 1920. It just says of Belheddon Hall. No mention of her disappearing husband.’ ‘Perhaps she didn’t want him buried with her.’ David was staring absently up into the shadows near the north door. ‘There’s a lovely little brass here. To the memory of Katherine –’ he screwed up his eyes, ‘it’s been polished so often I can’t make out the second name. We need more light.’ He stepped closer, reaching up the wall to trace the letters with his finger. ‘She died in 14- something.’ Katherine In the silence of the old church Joss flinched as though she had been hit. She was standing on the chancel steps, staring at a small plaque on the wall behind the lectern. At David’s words she turned, to see him stroking his fingers lightly over the small, highly polished brass. ‘Don’t touch it, David – ‘she cried out before she had time to think. He stepped back guiltily. ‘Why on earth not? It’s not like walking on them –’ ‘Did you hear?’ She pressed her fingers against her temples. ‘Hear what?’ He stepped away from the pulpit and came to stand next to her. ‘Joss? What is it?’ ‘Katherine,’ she whispered. He had been riding – riding through the summer heat, trying to reach her … ‘That was me, Joss. I read out her name. Look. Up there on the wall. A little brass. There are some dead flowers on the shelf in front of it.’ Riding – riding – the messenger had taken two days to reach him –already it might be too late – In the cut glass bowl the water was green and slimy. Joss stared down at it. ‘We must renew the flowers. Poor things, they’ve been dead so long. Nobody cares –’ Foam flew from his horse’s mouth, flecking his mantle with white … ‘There aren’t any flowers at this time of year unless you go to a shop,’ David commented. He wandered away towards the choir stalls once more. ‘Did you bring a notebook? Let’s copy some of these names down.’ Joss had picked up the vase. She stared at it vacantly. ‘There are always flowers in the country, if you know where to look,’ she said slowly. ‘I’ll bring some over later.’ He glanced at her over his shoulder. She seemed strangely preoccupied. ‘Shouldn’t you leave it to the flower ladies?’ he said after a moment. She shrugged. ‘They don’t seem to have bothered. No one has noticed. The vase was hidden there, in the shadows. Poor Katherine –’ Katherine! Furiously he bent lower over the animal’s neck, urging it even faster,conscious of the thud of hooves on the sunbaked ground, knowing insome reasoning part of himself that his best mount would be lamed forlife if he kept up the pace any longer. ‘David!’ The pounding in Joss’s skull was like the thud of a horse’s hooves, on and on and on, one two three, one two three, over the hard, unrelenting ground. Everything was spinning … ‘Joss?’ As she collapsed onto the narrow oak pew David was beside her. ‘Joss? What is it?’ He took her hand and rubbed it. It was ice cold. ‘Joss, you’re white as a sheet! Can you stand? Come on, let’s take you home.’ Behind him, far behind, a scattering of men, the messenger amongstthem, tried to keep up with him; soon they would have fallen out ofsight. In the silent bedroom Joss lay on the bed. Sitting beside her was their new doctor, Simon Fraser, summoned by Luke. His hand was cool and firm as he held her wrist, his eyes on his watch. At last he put her hand down. He had already listened to her chest and pressed her stomach experimentally. ‘Mrs Grant,’ he looked up at last, his eyes a pale clear blue beneath his gold-rimmed glasses. ‘When did you last have a period?’ Joss sat up, relieved to find her head had stopped spinning. She opened her mouth to answer and then hesitated. ‘What with the move and everything, I’ve sort of lost track –’ Her smile faded. ‘You don’t mean –’ He nodded. ‘My guess is you are about three months pregnant.’ He tucked his stethoscope into his case and clicked the locks shut. ‘Let’s get you down to the hospital for a scan and we’ll find out just how far along you are.’ He stood up and smiled down at her. ‘Was it planned?’ Katherine It was there again, the sound in her head. She strained to hear the words, but they were too far away. Katherine: my love; wait for me … ‘Mrs Grant? Joss?’ Simon Fraser was staring at her intently. ‘Are you all right?’ Joss focused on him, frowning. ‘I asked if the baby was planned,’ he repeated patiently. She shrugged. ‘No. Yes. I suppose so. We wanted another to keep Tom company. Perhaps not quite so soon. There’s so much to do –’ It had gone. The voice had faded. ‘Well, you are not going to be the one doing it.’ He lifted his case. ‘I’m going to be stern, Mrs Grant. That turn you had this morning is probably quite normal – hormones leaping about and rearranging themselves – but I’ve seen too many women wear themselves out in the early months of pregnancy and then regret it later. Just take it easy. The house, the boxes, the unpacking – none of it will go away by itself, but at the same time, none of it is so urgent you need to risk yourself or your baby. Understood?’ He grinned, a sudden boyish smile which lit his face. ‘I’ve always wanted to come and see this house – it’s so beautiful – but I don’t want to be coming up here at all hours because the new lady squire is overtaxing herself. Right?’ Joss sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. ‘It sounds to me as though you’ve been got at. Luke must have talked to you before you came up here, doctor.’ He laughed. ‘Maybe. Maybe not, but I’m a fairly good judge of human nature.’ Luke’s hug, in the kitchen later, swept her off her feet. ‘Clever, clever darling! Let’s have some champagne! David, are you prepared to brave the cellar? There is some there.’ ‘Luke –’ Protesting, Joss subsided into a chair. ‘I shouldn’t have champagne. Besides, shouldn’t we wait until I’ve had the proper tests?’ She still felt a little odd – disorientated, as though she had woken too suddenly from a dream. ‘No chance.’ Luke was glowing with excitement. ‘We’ll have another bottle then. Besides there’s no doubt is there? He said he could feel it! I’m sure, and you are too, aren’t you –’ he paused for a moment on his way to collect four glasses and looked at her shrewdly. ‘A woman always knows.’ Raising her fingers to her forehead Joss pressed distractedly against her brow. ‘I don’t know. I suppose there have been signs.’ Queasiness in the mornings for one. In the rush to get Tom up and dressed she hadn’t taken much notice. Her tiredness she had put down to the fact that she was doing much too much. ‘So nanny –’ she looked at Lyn, ‘you’ll have another charge soon, it seems.’ Lyn’s eyes were sparkling. ‘You’ll have to pay me more to look after two.’ ‘Oh great. Thanks!’ ‘At least writing your book will keep you sitting still. You’ve got no excuse not to start, now,’ Luke said firmly. He put the glasses down on the table and then dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘I’ll go and help David find a bottle.’ David was standing in the cellar in front of the wine racks as Luke walked slowly down the steps. ‘It’s bloody cold down here. This is all vintage, you know. And some of it is still in really good nick.’ He glanced at Luke and lowered his voice. ‘If you need money you could do worse than sell some of this. There are some very valuable wines here. Look at this! Haut-Brion ’49 – and look Chateau d’Yquem!’ ‘What sort of money are we talking about?’ Luke reached for a bottle and extracted it carefully from the rack. ‘This is –’ he squinted ‘– 1948.’ ‘Don’t shake it whatever you do! That’s about 350 quids’ worth you’ve got in your hand. You are looking at thousands, Luke. Ten. Twenty. Maybe more.’ ‘You know, I did wonder. That’s why I wanted you to have a look at them.’ David nodded. ‘I can give you the name of someone at the wine auction house at Sotheby’s who would come and value it and catalogue it. It would be a tragedy in a way to get rid of it, but I know you’re strapped for cash, and with another kid on the way, you could do worse than raise some like this. Besides, you’re just as happy with plonk, aren’t you, you ignoramus!’ He chuckled. ‘I think I’d better put this back –’ Luke glanced at the bottle in his hand. ‘You’d better! Come on. Let’s find some champagne for the baby.’ David selected a bottle from the rack and studied the label, ‘Pommery Brut 1945. Not bad!’ ‘Just twenty or thirty quid a bottle, I suppose?’ Luke groaned. ‘More like fifty! It’s a strange life you lead here, isn’t it.’ David shook his head slowly. ‘All the trappings of grandeur, yet a bit short of cash.’ ‘A bit!’ Luke grinned. He was not going to let himself think about Barry and H & G’s money. ‘We were planning to live off the land here. Literally. The money I can make from doing up cars is peanuts. It’s a mug’s game – so slow – but at least it will bring in enough hopefully for electricity bills and community charge, that sort of thing. Joss would never hear of selling anything out of the house – she is so obsessed with the history of it all, but wine is not quite the same, is it? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind about that. It could make the difference between hell and a hard place for us, David.’ He cradled the bottle in his arms. ‘Tell me something. Do you think Joss really could make any money out of writing?’ David grimaced. ‘She can write. She has a wonderful imagination. I’ve told her that I’ve taken the liberty of showing some of her stuff to a publisher friend of mine. He particularly liked one of her short stories. He’s keen to see more, and he wouldn’t say that unless he meant it. But beyond that it’s in the lap of the gods.’ He gave a sudden shiver. ‘Come on, old chap. Let’s get out of here. It’s so bloody cold. A hot meal is what we all need, I think!’ It wasn’t until quite a bit later that Joss managed to go back to the church alone. She had in her hand a small bunch of holly mixed with red dead nettle, and winter jasmine and shiny green sprigs of ivy covered in flowers. The church was almost dark when she found the key in its hiding place and pushed open the heavy door to make her way up the dim nave. The vase was clean and full of fresh water as she stood it gently on the shelf in front of the little brass. ‘There you are, Katherine,’ she whispered. ‘New flowers for Christmas. Katherine?’ She paused, almost expecting there to be a response, a repeat of the strange reverberation in her head, but there was none. The church was silent. With a wry smile she turned away. The kitchen was empty. For a moment she stood in front of the stove, warming her hands. The others were all out, all occupied. She should be unpacking boxes or packing presents; there was no time to stand and do nothing. On the other hand now would be the perfect time, alone and undisturbed, to turn once more to the box of letters in her mother’s study. And the doctor did tell her to rest … The great hall was already taking on the look of Christmas. Luke and David had brought in the seven foot tree they had cut in the copse behind the lake that morning and the whole room smelled of the fresh spicy boughs. It was standing near the window, firmly wedged into a huge urn filled with earth. Lyn had found the boxes of decorations, and they stood on the floor near the tree. They had promised Tom that he could help decorate the tree after his supper and before he went to bed. She smiled. The little boy’s face as the tree was dragged in had been a sight to behold. She had filled a huge silver bowl with holly and ivy and yellow jasmine and it stood in the centre of the table, a blaze of colour in the dark of the room. Katherine Joss frowned. There was a strange electric tingle in the air, a crackle of static as though a storm were about to break. It was there again: the echo at the back of her head – the voice she could not quite hear. As he thundered into the courtyard the house lay quiet under the blazingsun. His horse’s breath was whistling in its throat as he dragged it to ahalt. There was no sign of servants, even the dogs were silent. Puzzled, Joss shook her head. She was staring hard at the bowl of flowers. The silver, still dull where her quick rub with a duster had failed to remove the years of tarnish gleamed softly in the dull light from the lamp near the table. As she watched a yellow petal from the jasmine fell onto the gleaming black oak. Throwing himself from the saddle he left the sweating trembling horseand ran inside. The great hall, dim after the sunlight, was equally empty.In five strides he was across it and on the stairs which led up to her solar. The smell of resin from the newly cut fir tree was overpowering. Joss could feel the pain tightening in a band around her forehead. ‘Katherine!’ His voice was hoarse with dust and fear. ‘Katherine!’ ‘Joss!’ The cry echoed through the open doorway. ‘Joss, where are you?’ Luke was carrying a great bunch of mistletoe. ‘Joss. Come here. Look what I’ve found!’ In quick strides he crossed the room to her side and held the huge pale green silvery bouquet above her head. ‘A kiss, my love. Now!’ His eyes narrowed with laughter. ‘Come on, before we decide where to put it!’ Katherine! Joss stared at Luke sightlessly, her mind focused inwards, trying to catch the sounds as they came, seemingly from endless distances away. ‘Joss?’ Luke stared at her. He lowered the mistletoe. ‘Joss? What’s wrong?’ His voice grew sharp. ‘Joss, can you hear me?’ Katherine! It was growing fainter; muffled; distant. ‘Joss!’ She smiled suddenly, reaching out to touch the mistletoe berries. They were cold and waxy from the old orchard where lichen-covered apple trees tangled with greengage and plum. In the end they put one bunch in the kitchen and one in the great hall hanging from the gallery. Before he left to return home David gave Joss a lingering kiss under the bunch in the kitchen. ‘If I find out any more about the house I’ll stick it in the post. And in the mean time, you get a couple of chapters under your belt to send to my friend Bob Cassie. I have a good feeling about your writing.’ ‘And so do I, Joss.’ After he had gone Luke and Joss were discussing it in the study. ‘It makes perfect sense. Lyn is here to help you with Tom and the baby when it’s born. You can write, we all know that. And we do need the money.’ He didn’t dare count on the wine yet. ‘I know.’ ‘Have you got any ideas?’ He glanced at her sideways. She laughed. ‘You know I have, you idiot! And you know I’ve already made some notes on how to expand that story. I’m going to take it back to when my hero is a boy living in a house a bit like this one. He’s a page, learning to be a gentleman, and then he gets mixed up in the wars between the white rose and the red.’ ‘Great stuff.’ Luke dropped a kiss on her head. ‘Perhaps they’ll televise it and make us millionaires!’ Laughing she pushed him away. ‘It’s got to be written and published first, so why don’t you go out and play cars while I make a start right now.’ She had found an empty notebook of her mother’s in one of the drawers. Sitting down at the desk she opened it at the first page and picked up a felt-tipped pen. The rest of the story was there, hovering at the edge of her mind. She could see her hero so clearly as a boy. He would be about fourteen at the beginning of the novel. He was tall, with sandy hair and a spattering of freckles across his nose. He wore a velvet cap with a jaunty feather and he worked for the lord of Belheddon. She stared out of the window. She could see a robin sitting on the bare branches of the climbing rose outside. It seemed to be staring in, its bright eyes black and intent. He was called Richard, her hero, and the daughter of the house, the heroine of her short story, his age exactly, was called Anne. Georgie! She shook her head slightly. The robin had hopped onto the window sill. It was pecking at something in the soft moss which grew around the stone of the mullions. Georgie! The voice was calling in the distance. The robin heard it. She saw it stand suddenly still then with a bob of its head it turned and flew off. Joss’s fingers tightened round her pen. Richard was of course in love with Anne, even at the beginning, but it was a sweet innocent adolescent love that only later was to be dragged into adventure and war as opposing sides brought tension and dissent and murder to the house. She wrote tentatively, sketching in the first scene, twice glancing at the window, and once at the door as she thought she heard the scuffle of feet. In the fireplace the logs shifted and spat companionably, once filling the room with sweet-smelling smoke as a gust of wind outside blew back down the chimney. Georgie! Where are you? The voice this time was exasperated. It was right outside the door. Joss stood up, her heart pounding, as she went to pull it open. The hallway outside was empty, the cellar door closed and locked. Shutting the study door she leaned with her back against it, biting her lip. It was her imagination, of course. Nothing more. Stupid. Idiot. The silence of the empty house was getting to her. Wearily she pushed herself away from the door and went back to the desk. On her notebook lay a rose. She stared at it in astonishment. ‘Luke?’ She glanced round the room, puzzled. ‘Luke, where are you?’ A log fell with a crackle in the fire basket and a shower of sparks illuminated the soot-stained brickwork of the chimney. ‘Luke, where are you, you idiot?’ She picked up the flower and held it to her nose. The white petals were ice cold and without scent. She shivered and laid it down. ‘Luke?’ Her voice was sharper. ‘I know you’re there.’ She strode across to the window and pulled the curtain away from the wall. There was no sign of him. ‘Luke!’ She ran towards the door and tugged it open. ‘Luke, where are you?’ There was no answering shout. ‘Luke!’ The scent of resinous pine was stronger than ever as she ran towards the kitchen. Luke was standing over the sink scrubbing his hands. ‘Hello. I wondered where you were –’ He broke off as she threw her arms around his neck. Reaching for the towel on the draining board he dried his hands and then gently he pushed her away. ‘Joss? What is it? What’s happened?’ ‘Nothing.’ She clung to him again. ‘I’m being neurotic and hormonal. It’s allowed, remember?’ ‘You’re not going to let me forget, love.’ He guided her to the table and pushed her into the armchair at the end of it. ‘Now. Tell me.’ ‘The rose. You put a rose on my desk …’ her voice trailed away. ‘You did, didn’t you.’ Luke frowned, puzzled. With a quick glance at her he sat down next to her. ‘I’ve been out working on the car, Joss. It seemed a good idea before it got too dark. The lights in the coach house are not good and it’s freezing out there. Lyn is still out with Tom. They went to collect some fir cones but they’ll be back at any moment, unless they came past me without my noticing. Now what’s this about a rose?’ ‘It appeared on my desk.’ ‘And that frightened you? You cuckoo, David must have left it.’ ‘I suppose so.’ She sniffed sheepishly. ‘I thought I heard –’ she broke off. She had been about to say, ‘Someone calling Georgie,’ but she stopped herself in time. If she had she was going mad. It was her imagination, working overtime in a shadowy too-silent house. ‘Where is this rose? Let’s fetch it in.’ Luke suddenly stood up. ‘Come on, then I’ll help you put the supper on for the infant prodigy. He’s going to refuse to go to bed until he’s had his money’s worth of the Christmas tree this evening.’ The fire in the study had died to ashes. Stooping Luke threw on a couple more logs as Joss walked over to the desk. Her pen lay on the page, a long dash of ink witness to the haste with which she had thrown it down. Next to it lay a dried rose bud, the petals curled and brown, thin and crackly as paper. She picked it up and stared at it. ‘It was fresh – cold.’ She touched it with the tip of her finger. The petals felt like tissue; a crisped curled margin of the leaf crumbling to nothing as she touched it. Luke glanced at her. ‘Imagination, old thing. I expect it fell out of one of those pigeon holes. You said they were full of your mother’s rubbish.’ Gently he took the rose out of her hand. Walking over to the fire he tossed it into the flames and in a fraction of a second it had blazed up and disappeared. 12 (#ulink_ce7835d5-99e8-561d-958e-4abe566a08ec) Lydia’s notebook fell open at the marker, a large dried leaf which smelled faintly and softly of peppermint. 16th March, 1925. He has returned. My fear grows hourly. I have sent Polly to the Rectory for Simms and I have despatched the children with nanny to Pilgrim Hall with a note to Lady Sarah beseeching her to keep them all overnight. Apart from the servants I am alone. Joss looked up, her eyes drawn to the dusty attic window. The sun was slanting directly into the room, lighting the beige daisies which were all that was still visible on a wall paper faded by the years. In spite of the warmth of the sun behind the glass she found she was shivering, conscious of the echoing rooms of the empty house below her. The rest of the page was empty. She turned it and then the next and the next after that. All were blank. The next entry was dated April 12th, nearly a month after the first. And now it is Easter. The garden is full of daffodils and I have gathered baskets of them to decorate every room. The slime from their stems stained my gown – a reprimand perhaps for my attempts to climb from the pit of despair. The best of the flowers I have saved for my little one’s grave. April 14th. Samuel has taken the children to his mama. Without Nanny I cannot look after them. April 15th. Polly has left. She was the last. Now I am truly alone. Except for it. April 16th. Simms came again. He begged me to leave the house empty. He brought more Holy Water to sprinkle, but I suspect like all the perfumes of Arabia, even jugs full of the miraculous liquid cannot wipe away the blood. I cannot go to the Rectory. In the end I sent him away … ‘Joss!’ Luke’s voice at the foot of the attic stairs was loud and sudden. ‘Tom’s crying.’ ‘I’m coming.’ She put the diary back in the drawer of the old dressing table and turned the key. There were only two more entries in the book and suddenly she was afraid to read them. She could hear Tom’s voice now, quite clearly. How could she not have heard it before? Which of Lydia’s children had died? Who amongst her lively, much-loved brood occupied the grave in the churchyard which she had decorated with Easter daffodils? Two at a time she fled down the steep stairs and along the corridor to the nursery. At every step the fretful wails grew louder. He was standing up in his cot, his face screwed up, wet with anger and misery. As he saw her he stretched out his little arms. ‘Tom!’ She scooped him up and cuddled him close. ‘What is it, darling?’ Her face was in his soft hair. It smelled of raspberries from his jelly at lunch. How could Lydia have borne to lose a child: one of her beloved brood? She hugged Tom closer, aware that his bottom was damp. Already the sobs were turning to snuffles as he snuggled against her. ‘Is he OK?’ Luke put his head round the door. Joss nodded. For a moment she couldn’t speak for the lump in her throat. ‘I’ll change him and bring him down. It’s almost time for his tea. Where’s Lyn?’ Luke shrugged. Striding into the room he threw the little boy a pretend punch. ‘You OK soldier?’ He glanced at Joss. ‘You too?’ He raised a finger to her cheek. ‘Still feeling bad?’ Joss forced a smile. ‘Just a bit tired, that’s all.’ Tom changed and smart in a new pair of dungarees and a striped sweater his grandmother had knitted him, Joss carried him into the study. Putting him down on the floor she gave him the pot of pencils to play with, then she sat down at the desk and reached for her notebook. On the table nearby sat Luke’s Amstrad. The file headed Son of the Sword already contained several pages of character studies and the beginning of her synopsis. She looked at her notebook, staring down sightlessly at the pages, then back at the blank screen of the computer. She wanted to get on with her story, but her eye had been caught by the family Bible, lying on its shelf in the corner. With a sigh of resignation she closed the notebook. She knew she could not concentrate on it until she had spent just a bit longer on the story unfolding on the flyleaves of that huge old tome. Heaving it up off its shelf she laid it on the desk and opened it. Lydia Sarah Bennet married Samuel Manners in 1919. They had four children. Baby Samuel who died three months after his birth in 1920, John, who was born the following year and died aged four in 1925, Robert, born in 1922 who died at the age of fourteen, and Laura, her mother who was born in 1924 and died in 1989, aged sixty-five. Lydia herself had died in 1925. Joss bit her lip. The diary entries must have been written only a few months before she herself was dead. She swallowed, looking down at the page in front of her. The faded ink was blurred and in places the pen which had made the entries had blotted the page with a smattering of little stains. Slowly she closed the book. ‘Mummy. Tom’s tea.’ The anxious voice from the carpet caught her attention. He was sitting on the hearth rug looking up at her. His face was covered in purple ink. ‘Oh, Tom!’ Exasperated she bent to pick him up. ‘You dreadful child. Where did you find the pen?’ ‘Tom’s colours,’ he said firmly. ‘Me draw pictures.’ His fist was clamped around a narrow fountain pen which Joss could see at once was very old. It couldn’t have still had ink in it so the lubrication for the nib had appeared when the little boy had sucked it. Shaking her head, she slung him onto her hip.… Exceptfor it … the phrase was running round and round in her head. Except for it …… My fear makes him stronger … Words written by two women in their diaries more than half a century apart, two women driven to extreme fear by something which came to them in the house. Two women who had resorted to the church and to Holy Water to try to protect themselves, but to no avail. As she carried Tom through the great hall she glanced at the Christmas tree. Covered now in silver balls and long glittering swathes of silver cobwebs and decorated with dozens of small coloured lights it stood in the corner of the room like a talisman. Already she and Luke had placed a pile of parcels under it including one for each of them from David. Tomorrow Alice and Joe would arrive and with them lots more presents. ‘Me see tree.’ At the sight of it Tom began to struggle in her arms. ‘Me walk.’ As she set him on his feet he was already running towards the corner, his chubby hand pointing at the top of the tree. ‘Tom’s angel!’ ‘Tom’s angel, to keep us safe,’ Joss agreed. Luke had lifted the little boy up so he could put the finishing touch, the beautiful little doll, made by Lyn, with its sparkling feathered wings. ‘Please,’ she murmured under her breath as she watched the little boy standing open mouthed below the sweeping branches, ‘let it keep us safe.’ They were half way through an early supper when the front doorbell pealed through the house and almost at once they heard the raised voices from the front drive. ‘Carol singers!’ Lyn was first on her feet. The group stayed twenty minutes, standing round the tree while they had a glass of wine each and sang carols. Joss watched from the oak high-backed chair in the corner. For how many hundreds of years had just such groups of singers brought wassail to the house? Through narrowed eyes she could picture them as Anne and Richard in her story would have seen them, clustered in front of the huge fireplace, muffled against the cold, in boots and scarves, with red noses, and chapped hands. Their lanterns were standing in a semi circle on the table, and Lyn had lit the candles in the old sconces and turned out the lights, so there was no electric light save for the little coloured balls of glass upon the tree. Even the carols would have been the same – from This Endris Night they had launched into Adam lay ybounden. She let the words sweep over her, filling the room, resonating around the walls. Katherine might have heard these songs five hundred years ago on just such an icy night. She shivered. She could picture her so easily – long dark hair, hidden by the neat head-dress, her deep sapphire eyes sparkling with happiness, her gown sweeping across the floor as she raised a goblet of wine in toast to her lord … Sweetheart! He had first met her at the Yule tide feast, his eyes followingthe graceful figure as she danced and played with her cousins. The musichad brought a sparkle to her eyes, her cheeks glowed from the heat ofthe fire. Joss shuddered so violently that Lyn noticed. ‘Joss, are you all right?’ She was there beside her, putting her arm around her shoulders. ‘What’s wrong?’ Joss shook her head, staring down at her feet in the candlelight. ‘Nothing. Just a bit cold.’ The singers hadn’t noticed. They sang on, reaching effortlessly for the high notes, their voices curling into the beams. But it was their last carol. They had to move on to the Goodyears’ farm and then to the Rectory itself. Scarves were rewound, gloves pulled on, change found for their collecting bag. The silence when they had gone was strangely profound. As if reluctant to lose the mood they sat on by the fire staring into the embers. Katherine, my love, wait for me! They were so nearly audible, the words, like a half remembered dream, slipping away before it is grasped. With a sigh Joss shook her head. ‘The carols were beautiful. You know, it’s strange, you would expect there to be a feeling of evil in this house if the devil lived here. But there isn’t.’ ‘Of course there isn’t.’ Luke dropped a kiss on her head. ‘I wish you would forget about the devil. This is a fabulous, happy house, full of good memories.’ He ruffled her hair affectionately. ‘The devil would hate it!’ He was asleep when Joss climbed up into the high bed later. She had lain for a long time in the bath, trying to soak the chill out of her bones in water that was not quite hot enough to do the trick, and she had found she was pressing herself against the warm enamel, trying to extricate the last hint of heat from the rapidly cooling bath. When she finally dragged herself out onto the mat and wrapped the towel around her she realised that the heating system such as it was, fired from the range in the kitchen, had long ago turned itself off for the night with its usual ticking and groaning. There would be no more hot water and no more barely warm radiators until next morning when, with more ticking and groaning, the system would, God-willing, drag itself once more back into life. Shivering she looked in on Tom. He was pink and warm, tucked securely under his cellular blankets and fast asleep. Leaving his door a fraction ajar she crept into her room and reluctantly taking off her dressing gown slid in beside Luke. Outside, the moon was a hard silver against a star-flecked sky. Frost had whitened the garden and it was almost as bright as day. Luke hadn’t quite drawn the curtains over the back window and she could see the brilliance of the night through the crack. Moonlight spilled across the floor and onto the quilt. They were all there, in the shadowy room: the servants, the family, thepriest. White faces turned towards him as he burst in, his spurs ringingon the boards and catching in the soft sweet hay which had been spreadeverywhere to muffle the noise. ‘Katherine?’ He stopped a few feet from the high bed, his breathrasping in his throat, his heart thudding with fear. Her face was beautifuland completely calm. There was no sign of pain. Her glorious dark hair, free of its coif, layspread across the pillow; her eyelashes were thick upon the alabastercheeks. ‘KATHERINE!’ He heard his own voice as a scream and at lastsomeone moved. The woman who had so often shown him up to thisvery room and brought him wine, stepped forward, a small bundle inher arms. ‘You have a son, my lord. At least you have a son!’ Uneasily Joss turned to Luke and snuggled against his back. The moonlight disturbed her. It was relentless, hard, accentuating the cold. Shivering she pulled the covers higher, burying her head in the pillow beside that of her husband, feeling his warmth, his solidity, reassuring beside her. Frozen with horror he stared down at the woman on the bed. ‘Katherine.’ This time the word was a sob; a prayer. Throwing himself across the body he took her in his arms and wept. With a sigh Joss slept at last, uneasily, her dreams uncomfortable and unremembered, unaware of the shadow which drifted across the moon throwing a dark swathe across the bed. She did not feel the chill in the room deepen, nor the brush of cold fingers across her hair. Katherine, Katherine, Katherine! The name rose into the darkest corners of the room and was lost inthe shadows of the roof beyond the beams, weaving, writhing with pain,sinking into the fabric of the house. His face wet with tears he looked up. ‘Leave me,’ he cried. ‘Leave mewith her.’ He turned to the servant, and his mouth was twisted with hate. ‘Takethat child away. He killed her.He killed my love, God curse him. Hekilled the sweetest, gentlest woman in the world!’ When she woke it was with a splitting headache, and only seconds later the realisation that she was going to be sick. Not pausing to grab her dressing gown she threw herself out of bed and ran for the bathroom, falling on her knees in front of the lavatory. It was Luke, gently stroking her head while she vomited, who wrapped something round her shoulders and later brought her a cup of tea. 13 (#ulink_43268be4-ec9a-5f46-85c9-c23fcdb44e70) Dr Robert Simms was rector of the church at Belheddon from 1914 until 1926. Standing in front of the stained-glass window which had been erected to his memory in the church Joss wondered just how much he had been able to comfort Lydia in her last months. Had he sprinkled Holy Water around the house? Had he buried her son? Presumably he had buried her. The grave out in the churchyard was overgrown now with nettles and covered in ivy but, scraping away the moss she had found the inscription: Samuel Manners, born 1882, died 1926also his wifeLydia Sarah Manners, born 1902, died 1925also their childrenSamuel, born 1920, died 1921John, born 1921, died 1925Robert, born 1922, died 1936 What happened to the sons of this house that they died so young? Walking back slowly up the path from the church towards the gate into the garden Joss stopped for a minute beside her brothers’ graves. Luke had cut the nettles now, and she had scraped away some of the moss and planted bulbs in the cold earth between them. She shivered. Edgar Gower’s words kept returning to her: ‘Don’t embroil yourself in the affairs of the Duncans; Belheddon Hall is an unhappy house, my dear. The past is the past; it should be allowed to rest.’ Was there something terribly wrong at Belheddon? And if there was, why did she feel so happy here? Why did Luke love it so much? Why had they not felt the evil which had so terrified Lydia and Laura? Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/pages/biblio_book/?art=39790561&lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.