The Girl in the Picture

The Girl in the Picture Kerry Barrett Two women. One house. Centuries of secrets.East Sussex Coast, 1855Violet Hargreaves is the lonely daughter of a widowed industrialist, and an aspiring Pre-Raphaelite painter. One day, the na?ve eighteen-year-old meets the mysterious and handsome Edwin on the beach. He promises her a world beyond the small coastal village she’s trapped in. But after she ignores warnings about Edwin, a chain of terrible events begins to unfold for Violet…East Sussex Coast, 2016For thriller-writer Ella Daniels, the house on the cliff, where she’s moved with her young family, is the perfect place to overcome writer’s block. But there’s a strange atmosphere that settles once they move in – and Ella’s intrigued when she hears stories of brutal murders in the house next door more than 150 years ago. When Ella uncovers a portrait of a beautiful young girl named Violet Hargreaves, who went missing at the same time as the horrific crimes, she becomes determined to find out what happened. And in trying to lay Violet’s ghost to rest, Ella must face ghosts of her own…This haunting timeslip tale is perfect for fans of Kate Riordan, Tracy Rees, Kate Morton and Lucinda Riley.Praise for Kerry Barrett‘A fantastic and engaging read. Kerry Barrett truly is a very talented author. It’s absolutely perfect for summer holidays or wintry days snuggled on the sofa.’ – Bab’s Bookshelf‘This was a really enjoyable read. I highly recommend this book.’ – Fiona’s Book Reviews‘There aren't enough stars for this fun, deep and relaxing read. Highly recommended.’ – Michelle, Goodreads Reviewer Two women. One house. Centuries of secrets. East Sussex Coast, 1855 Violet Hargreaves is the lonely daughter of a widowed industrialist, and an aspiring Pre-Raphaelite painter. One day, the na?ve eighteen-year-old meets Edwin; a mysterious and handsome man on the beach, who promises her a world beyond the small costal village she’s trapped in. But after ignoring warning about Edwin, a chain of terrible events begins to unfold for Violet… East Sussex Coast, 2016 For thriller-writer Ella Daniels, the house on the cliff is the perfect place to overcome writer’s block, where she decides to move with her small family. But there’s a strange atmosphere that settles once they move in – and rumours of historical murders next door begin to emerge. One night, Ella uncovers a portrait of a beautiful young girl named Violet Hargreaves, who went missing at the same time as the horrific crimes, and Ella becomes determined to find out what happened there 160 years ago. And in trying to lay Violet’s ghost to rest, Ella must face ghosts of her own… This haunting timeslip tale is perfect for fans of Kate Riordan, Tracy Rees, Kate Morton and Lucinda Riley. The Girl in the Picture Kerry Barrett ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES Copyright (#ulink_a7c2af0a-cfbc-5b09-9805-ee91bcd485c5) An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2017 Copyright © Kerry Barrett 2017 Kerry Barrett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for 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. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. eBook Edition © September 2017 ISBN: 9780008221577 Version: 2018-01-23 Contents Cover (#uc86808e3-c92e-5745-a938-538eb0c89ed1) Blurb (#uf9c35366-09f5-5602-af2d-58fcdcfde632) Title Page (#u31d1bb8a-2ef2-5ae4-b6c8-656df5e9f50c) Author Bio (#u9340c955-7934-5058-bb29-b6bf5cd18bfc) Acknowledgements (#u04c5d01d-8dba-55cf-99bf-5968e35bb47c) Chapter 1 (#ulink_96088451-ae03-560a-aa61-78c103e23205) Chapter 2 (#ulink_4b76f763-c256-5499-b2e6-435327b5c1d7) Chapter 3 (#ulink_4d2ac436-cb4f-5b7e-8639-c050ff1d4bf4) Chapter 4 (#ulink_68313440-c81e-5c3e-9428-db5f6fcfcb50) Chapter 5 (#ulink_6656f6e9-c8f6-585a-8107-65eadce84b9d) Chapter 6 (#ulink_cd30184c-3b3d-54c0-87eb-0e675d70a484) Chapter 7 (#ulink_473c97e7-75bc-5a6c-8954-8765907652cf) Chapter 8 (#ulink_db94d1cd-5b25-5f59-a934-8360f6815cf6) Chapter 9 (#ulink_de4b675f-dde9-5ca5-84e6-a1fed783aac8) Chapter 10 (#ulink_ca7e8cbb-7c99-564f-b76d-598517d38fb4) Chapter 11 (#ulink_2281e072-53f4-5313-b220-d0189e6b40cf) Chapter 12 (#ulink_946d89ca-ba61-5ffd-9013-8887e8c6a6c2) Chapter 13 (#ulink_25b9cc76-45e1-5856-a215-8f7c20359039) Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 50 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 51 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 52 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 53 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 54 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 55 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 56 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 57 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 58 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 59 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 60 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 61 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 62 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 63 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 64 (#litres_trial_promo) Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo) Endpages (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#ulink_a43e0e8e-448e-58e3-b14f-ca64b3bfb2eb) KERRY BARRETT was a bookworm from a very early age and did a degree in English Literature, then trained as a journalist, writing about everything from pub grub to EastEnders. Her first novel, Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered, took six years to finish and was mostly written in longhand on her commute to work, giving her a very good reason to buy beautiful notebooks. Kerry lives in London with her husband and two sons, and Noel Streatfeild’s Ballet Shoes is still her favourite novel. I owe one big thank you to my lovely friend Becky Knowles. One day, as we strolled round an exhibition of Pre-Raphaelite paintings, she wondered aloud what it would have been like to have been a female artist at the time, and inadvertently gave birth to Violet Hargreaves. I’d also like to thank my editor Victoria Oundjian for her help and support, and wish her lots of luck in her new role. And, as always, thanks to the team at HQ Digital, my family, friends and all my readers. Chapter 1 (#ulink_c1045101-1d3a-5518-9ecd-0a411dc2ee80) Present day Ella ‘It’s perfect,’ Ben said. ‘It’s the perfect house for us.’ I smiled at the excitement in his voice. ‘What’s it like?’ I asked. I was in bed because I was getting over a sickness bug but suddenly I felt much better. I sat up against the headboard and looked out of the window into the grey London street. It was threatening to rain and the sky was dark even though it was still the afternoon. ‘I’ll send you some pictures,’ Ben said. ‘You’ll love it. Sea view, of course, quiet but not isolated …’ He paused. ‘And …’ He made an odd noise that I thought was supposed to be a trumpet fanfare. ‘What?’ I said, giggling. ‘What else does it have?’ Ben was triumphant. ‘Only a room in the attic.’ ‘No,’ I said in delight. ‘No way. So it could be a study?’ ‘Yes way,’ said Ben. ‘See? It’s made for us.’ I glanced over at my laptop, balanced on the edge of my dressing table that doubled as a desk, which in turn was squeezed into the corner of our bedroom. We’d been happy here in this poky terraced house. Our boys had been born here. It was safe here. But this was a new adventure for us, no matter how terrifying I found the thought. And just imagine the luxury of having space to write. I looked at my notes for my next book, which were scattered over the floor, and smiled to myself. ‘What do the boys think?’ I asked. ‘They’re asleep,’ Ben said. ‘It’s pissing down with rain and we’re all in the car. I rang the estate agent and he’s on his way, so I’ll wake the boys up in a minute.’ ‘Ring me back when he arrives,’ I said. ‘FaceTime me, in fact. I want to see the house when you do.’ ‘Okay,’ Ben said. ‘Shouldn’t be long.’ I ended the call and leaned back against my pillow. I was definitely beginning to feel much better now and I’d not thrown up for a few hours, but I was glad I’d not gone down to Sussex with Ben because I was still a bit queasy. I picked up my glass of water from the bedside table and held it against my hot forehead while I thought about the house. It had been back in the spring when we’d spotted it, on a spontaneous weekend away. Ben had a job interview at a football club in Brighton. Not just any job interview. THE job interview. His dream role as chief physio for a professional sports team – the job he’d been working towards since he qualified. Great money, amazing opportunities. The boys and I had gone along with him at the last minute and while Ben was at the interview, I’d wandered the narrow lanes of Brighton with Stanley in his buggy and Oscar scooting along beside me. I had marvelled at the happy families I saw around me and how my mood had lifted when I saw the sea, twinkling in the sunshine at the end of each road I passed. That day I felt like anything was possible, like I should grab every chance of happiness because I knew so well how fleeting it could be. The next day – after Ben had been offered the job – we’d driven to a secluded beach, a little way along the coast, and sat on the shingle as the boys ran backwards and forwards to the surf. ‘I love it here,’ I said, shifting so I could lie down with my head resting on Ben’s thigh and looking up at the low cliffs that edged the beach. I could see the tops of the village houses that overlooked the sea and, on the cliff top, a slightly skew-whiff To Let sign. ‘I wish we could live here,’ I said, pointing at the sign. ‘Up there. Let’s rent that house.’ Ben squinted at me through the spring sunshine. ‘Yeah, right,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that a bit spontaneous for you?’ I smiled. He was right. I’d never been one for taking risks. I was a planner. A checker. A researcher. I’d never done anything on a whim in my entire life. But suddenly I realized I was serious. ‘I nearly died when Stanley was born,’ I said, sitting up and looking at him. ‘And so did Stanley.’ Ben looked like he was going to be sick. ‘I know, Ella,’ he said gently. ‘I know. But you didn’t – and Stan is here and he’s perfect.’ We both looked at the edge of the sea where Stanley, who was now a sturdy almost-three-year-old, was digging a hole and watching it fill with water. ‘He’s perfect,’ Ben said again. I took his hand, desperate to get him to understand what I was trying to say. ‘I know you know this,’ I said. ‘But because of what happened to my mum I’ve always been frightened to do anything too risky – I’ve always just gone for the safe option.’ Ben was beginning to look worried. ‘Ella,’ he said. ‘What is this? Where’s it come from?’ ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Just listen. We’ve lived in the same house for ten years. I don’t go on the tube in rush hour. I wouldn’t hire jet skis on our honeymoon. I’m a tax accountant for heaven’s sake. I don’t take any risks. Ever. And suddenly I see that it’s crazy to live that way. Because if life has taught me anything it’s that even when you’re trying to stay safe, bad things happen. I did everything right, when I was pregnant. No booze, no soft cheese – I even stopped having my highlights done although that’s clearly ridiculous. And despite all that, I almost died. Oscar almost lost his mum, just like I lost mine. And you almost lost your wife. And our little Stanley.’ ‘So what? Three years later, you’re suddenly a risk taker?’ Ben said. I grimaced. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Still no jet skis. But I can see that some risks are worth taking.’ I pointed up at the house on the cliff. ‘Like this one.’ ‘Really?’ Ben said. I could see he was excited and trying not to show it in case I changed my mind. ‘Wouldn’t you miss London?’ I thought about it. ‘No,’ I said, slowly. ‘I don’t think I would. Brighton’s buzzy enough for when we need a bit of city life, and the rest of the time I’d be happy somewhere where the pace of life is more relaxed.’ I paused. ‘Can we afford for me to give up work?’ ‘I reckon so,’ Ben said. ‘My new job pays well, and …’ ‘I’ve got my writing,’ I finished for him. Alongside my deathly dull career in tax accountancy, I wrote novels. They were about a private investigator called Tessa Gilroy who did all the exciting, dangerous things I was too frightened to do in my own life. My first one had been a small hit – enough to create a bit of a buzz. My second sold fairly well. And that was it. Since I’d had Stan, I’d barely written anything at all. My deadlines had passed and my editor was getting tetchy. ‘Maybe a change of scenery would help,’ I said, suddenly feeling less desperate when it came to my writing. ‘Maybe leaving work, and leaving London, is just what I need to unblock this writer.’ That was the beginning. Ben started his job at the football club, commuting down to Sussex every day until we moved, and I handed in my notice at work. Well, it was less a formal handing in of my notice and more a walking out of a meeting, but the result was the same. I was swapping the dull world of tax accountancy for writing. I hoped. My phone rang again, jolting me out of my memories. ‘Ready?’ Ben said, smiling at me from the screen. ‘I’m nervous,’ I said. ‘What if we hate it?’ ‘Then we’ll find something else,’ said Ben. ‘No biggie.’ I heard him talking to another man, I guessed the estate agent, and I chuckled as the boys’ tousled heads darted by. It wasn’t the best view, of course, on my phone’s tiny screen, but as Ben walked round the house I could see enough to know it was, indeed, perfect. The rooms were big; there was a huge kitchen, a nice garden that led down to the beach where we’d sat all those months before, and a lounge with a stunning view of the sea. ‘Show me upstairs,’ I said, eager to see the attic room. But the signal was patchy and though I could hear Ben as he climbed the stairs I couldn’t see him any more. ‘Three big bedrooms and a smaller one,’ Ben told me. ‘A slightly old-fashioned bathroom with a very fetching peach suite …’ I made a face, but we were renting – I wasn’t prepared to risk selling our London place until we knew we were settled in Sussex – so I knew I couldn’t be too fussy about the d?cor. ‘… and upstairs the attic is a bare, white-painted room with built-in cupboards, huge windows overlooking the sea, and stripped floorboards,’ Ben said. ‘It’s perfect for your study.’ I couldn’t speak for a minute – couldn’t believe everything was working out so beautifully. ‘Really?’ I said. ‘My attic study?’ ‘Really,’ said Ben. ‘Do the boys like it?’ ‘They want to get a dog,’ Ben said. I laughed with delight. ‘Of course we’ll get a dog,’ I said. ‘They’ve already chosen their bedrooms and they’ve both run round the garden so many times that they’re bound to be asleep as soon as we’re back in the car.’ ‘Then do it,’ I said. ‘Sign whatever you have to sign. Let’s do it.’ ‘Don’t you want to see the house yourself?’ Ben said carefully. ‘Check out schools. Make sure things are the way you want them?’ Once I would have, but not now. Now I just wanted to move on with our new life. ‘Do you want to talk to your dad?’ ‘No.’ I was adamant that wasn’t a good idea because I knew he’d definitely try to talk us out of it. I’d not told him anything about our move yet. He didn’t even know I’d handed in my notice at work – as far as he was aware, Ben was going to stick with commuting and I’d carry on exactly as I’d been doing up until now. I got my cautious approach to life from my dad and I spent my whole time trying very hard not to do anything he wouldn’t approve of. I’d never had a teenage rebellion, sneaked into a pub under age, or stayed out five minutes past my curfew. I’d chosen my law degree according to his advice – he was a solicitor – and then followed his recommendations for my career. This move was the nearest I’d ever got to rebelling and I knew Dad would be horrified about me giving up my safe job, about Oscar changing schools, and us renting out our house. And even though moving to Sussex would mean we lived much nearer him, I thought that the less he knew of our plans, the better. ‘We could come down again next weekend,’ Ben was saying. ‘When you’re feeling well?’ ‘No,’ I said, making my mind up on the spot. ‘I don’t want to risk losing the house. We were lucky enough that it’s been empty this long, let’s not tempt fate. Sign.’ ‘Sure?’ Ben said. ‘I’m sure.’ ‘Brilliant,’ he said, and I heard the excitement in his voice again, along with something else – relief perhaps. He would be pleased to leave London. ‘Ella?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘I’ve been really happy,’ he said softly. ‘Really happy. In London, with you, and the boys. But this is going to be even better. I promise. It’s a leap of faith, and I know it’s scary and I know it’s all a bit spontaneous, but if we’re all together it’ll be fine.’ I felt the sudden threat of tears. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We’re strong, you and me,’ Ben said. ‘And Oscar and Stan. This is the right thing for us to do.’ ‘I know,’ I said. ‘We’re going to be very happy there.’ Chapter 2 (#ulink_7c270bff-10da-5ad8-ac7e-25581428dc5f) From then I barely had time to draw breath, which was lucky really. If I’d had time to think about what we were doing I’d have changed my mind, because the truth was I was absolutely terrified about the move. On paper, the house was perfect and I trusted Ben’s judgement. And it wasn’t as if I hadn’t been involved, I told myself, when all my worries about how I’d not even seen our new home surfaced. I’d spotted it first. I’d seen it on FaceTime and on the estate agent’s website. I’d been part of the decision-making from the start. So, I concentrated on the fact that we’d found a tenant for our London house with almost indecent haste. I worked out whether our battered sofa would fit in the new lounge, and if the boys would need new beds, and I dreamed of having my own study, a haven, tucked away in the attic room. The one fly in the ointment was Dad. I had to tell him we were moving of course. So one day, a week or so before we finally went and just before I finished work, I took a half-day and drove down to Kent to see him and my step-mum, Barb. ‘I thought we could go for a late lunch at the pub,’ I said when I arrived, thinking that if I told Dad the news in public, it might go better. I breathed a sigh of relief when Barb and Dad agreed, so we all strolled along the road towards their local. Truth be told, I had no idea how Dad would react because I’d never done anything he didn’t agree with before. ‘He might be fine,’ Ben had said. ‘I think you’re overthinking this. He just wants you to be happy.’ But I wasn’t sure. I was scared my whole relationship with my dad was conditional on me doing what he wanted me to do. I knew he would be nervous about the risk we were taking, and he’d expect me to listen to his concerns, and then announce he was right and change my mind. But I wasn’t going to do that this time – and that’s why I was so worried. I’d grown up, with Dad, in Tunbridge Wells. Dad didn’t live in the same house any more because he and Barb – who I loved to bits – had moved when they got married, soon after I started university. It wasn’t far from where we’d lived when I was a kid, but far enough, if you see what I mean. ‘So how’s Ben’s job going?’ Dad asked, as we settled down at our table. ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Really good.’ ‘Dreadful commute,’ Dad said. ‘Awful,’ I agreed. ‘And that’s why we’ve made a decision.’ Dad and Barb looked at me as I took a breath and explained what we were doing. ‘It’s a lovely house,’ I said. ‘And we’re just renting, though Ben says the landlord mentioned he’d be willing to sell if we like it.’ Barb smiled at me. ‘It sounds wonderful,’ she said. ‘But won’t it mean you commuting instead?’ There was a pause. ‘Well,’ I said. ‘Actually.’ Dad took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose and I felt my confidence beginning to desert me. ‘Actually?’ he prompted. ‘Actually, I’ve handed in my notice,’ I said. I picked up my sparkling water and swigged it, wishing it was gin. Barb and Dad looked at each other. ‘That’s a big decision,’ Barb said carefully. ‘It is,’ I said. ‘But we’re confident it’s the right thing to do. Ben’s salary is good enough for us to live on, and I’ve got my writing.’ Dad nodded as though he’d reached a decision. ‘You’d be best taking a sabbatical,’ he said. ‘What did they say when you asked about that? If they said no, you’ve probably got cause to get them to reconsider. I can speak to Pete at my old firm, if you like? He’s the expert on employment law …’ ‘Dad,’ I said. ‘I didn’t ask about a sabbatical, because I don’t want to take a sabbatical. I’m leaving my job and I’m going to write full-time. It’s all planned.’ Dad looked at me for a moment. ‘No, Ella,’ he said. ‘It’s too risky. What if Ben’s job doesn’t work out? Or the boys don’t settle? Have you checked out the school for Oscar? He’s a bright little lad and he needs proper stimulation. And don’t even think about selling your house in London. Once you leave London you can never go back, you know. Not with house prices the way they are.’ ‘Dad,’ I said again. ‘It’s fine. We know what we’re doing.’ ‘I’ll phone Pete, now,’ Dad said. ‘Now where did I put that blasted mobile phone?’ ‘Dad,’ I said, sharply this time. ‘Stop it.’ Dad winced. ‘Keep your voice down, Ella,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’ I shook my head. ‘I knew this is how you’d act,’ I said. ‘I knew you wouldn’t want me to give up work, or for us to move house.’ ‘I just worry,’ Dad said. I felt a glimmer of sympathy for him. Of course he worried. But I wasn’t his little girl any more and we didn’t have to cling to each other like we were drowning, like we’d done when I was growing up. ‘Don’t,’ I said, more harshly than I’d intended. ‘Don’t worry. I’m fine. Ben’s fine. The boys are fine.’ Barb put her hand over Dad’s as though urging him to leave things there, but Dad being Dad didn’t get the message. ‘I think I should phone Pete,’ he said. ‘Just in case.’ I pushed my chair back from the table and stood up. ‘Do not pick up your phone,’ I said. ‘Don’t you dare.’ Dad and Barb both looked stunned, which wasn’t surprising. I’d never raised my voice to Dad before. I’d never even disagreed with his choice of takeaway on movie night. ‘Ella,’ Dad said. ‘I think you’re over-reacting a bit.’ But that made me even more determined to put my point across. ‘I’m not over-reacting,’ I said. ‘I want you to understand what’s happening here. I’m leaving my job, and we are moving to Sussex. Which, by the way, means we will be nearer to you than we are now. I thought you’d be pleased about that.’ My voice was getting shriller and I felt close to tears, but as Dad stared at me, shocked into silence, I continued. ‘I know it’s risky, but we have decided it’s a risk worth taking. Because, Dad, you know better than anyone that things can go wrong in the blink of an eye. You know that.’ Dad nodded, still saying nothing. ‘So it’s happening. And I knew you wouldn’t approve. And I’m sorry if this makes me difficult. Or if me doing something that you don’t like means you don’t want me in your life any more. But it’s happening.’ ‘Ella …’ Dad began. ‘Ella, I don’t understand.’ ‘Oh you understand,’ I said, all my worries about the move and about telling him spilling over. My voice was laden with venom as I leaned over the table towards him. ‘You understand. I’ve always been a good girl and done what you wanted me to do, haven’t I?’ Dad still looked bewildered and later – when I went over and over the conversation (if you could call it a conversation when it was really only me talking) in my head – I saw the genuine confusion in his face, the hurt in his eyes, and it broke my heart. But at the time, all I thought of was that I’d been proved right. ‘For the first time in my whole life, I’m doing what I want to do,’ I said. ‘And it’s not what you want me to do but I’m going to do it anyway.’ I picked up my bag. ‘And you can’t send me away this time – because I’m going.’ Ignoring Dad’s shocked expression and Barb’s comforting hand on his arm, I threw my coat over my shoulder and marched out of the pub, and down the road to my car, where I sat for a while, sobbing quietly into my hands. I wasn’t sure what had just happened and I had a horrible feeling that I’d got everything wrong. Chapter 3 (#ulink_6ea38424-8dad-5d95-8d37-2e5fcf35c7a9) I drove home from Kent in a bit of a daze, ignoring my phone as it lit up with missed calls from Dad. And I carried on screening our landline and my mobile – avoiding any calls from him and Barb – for the next few days while we packed up our house and said goodbye to our friends in London. ‘Phone him,’ Ben said as I was getting dressed ready for my last day in the office. I ignored him. ‘I won’t be late,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to stay for drinks or anything like that.’ I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Hair neatly twisted up and out of the way, smart suit, sensible shoes. ‘I’m going to throw this outfit away,’ I said. ‘And I’m going to cut my hair.’ ‘Good for you,’ Ben said. He was still in bed because he’d got the day off to finish packing, sitting up drinking a cup of tea and reading a biography of a footballer I’d never heard of. ‘Phone your dad from the hairdresser’s.’ I scowled at him. ‘I’ll phone him when we’re settled,’ I said. ‘Invite him down for a weekend. It will be fine.’ But I wasn’t sure it would be. As we pulled up outside the house on moving day, I felt my nerves bubbling away in my stomach. I knew what the house looked like, of course, but seeing it in real life, up close instead of peering at its roof from down on the beach, made it all seem – suddenly – like a very big decision for Ben to have made on my behalf. All of Dad’s warnings about the risk we were taking, and having no safety net were weighing heavily on my mind. It wasn’t a pretty house, I thought, as I pulled the car on to our new drive. It squatted at the end of the lane, at right angles to the other houses, with its back to the sea. It was the back view we’d seen all those months ago from the beach – and the back view was a lot prettier than the front, I now realized. It was built from reddish brick, and it had three storeys and white-painted gables. It had a higgledy-piggledy extension on the side and mismatched windows. It was about as far away as it was possible to be from the chocolate-box cottage everyone imagined when we said we were moving to Sussex. But Ben was adamant that it was completely right – even the fact that it had stayed empty from the time we’d spotted the to-let board from the beach until the time we’d been ready to move was a sign, he claimed. I heard him telling friends that it was exactly the house we’d have designed for ourselves if we’d had the chance. I hoped he was right and that Dad was wrong. My spontaneity seemed to have abandoned me now we were actually starting our new lives. I pulled up the handbrake and Ben grinned at me. I smiled back. His enthusiasm was infectious and despite my worries, deep down I did feel like this was a new start for us. I peered out of the car window at our new home. The house had probably been quite grand once, but now it looked slightly forgotten and in need of TLC. Maybe we’d give the house a new lease of life, I thought. I’d even wondered whether, if we bought it, we could add a conservatory on the back where we could sit and look at the sea. Ben grabbed my hand as I went to undo my seatbelt. ‘It’s not too late to change your mind,’ he said in a murmur so the boys wouldn’t hear. ‘We can turn round now and go back to London if you want.’ I felt a wave of nerves again. Now I’d given up work, Ben was going to be shouldering the financial burdens of the family. So far it had been fine, but there was a lot of pressure on him at the football club. They had a lot of very valuable players and the legs Ben was looking after were worth millions – or so he kept telling me. This was his big break and he had to make it work. Meanwhile, after months and months of not writing anything, I’d told my editor, Lila, I was going to start. But I was regretting that a bit now because I had no ideas, even less motivation, and Lila was breathing down my neck desperate for words. I was worried Ben was putting too much pressure on himself and putting too much faith in the house. What if I couldn’t write any more? What if Ben’s job didn’t work out? Was it all a terrible mistake, just like Dad had warned me it could be? I took a breath. ‘Of course I don’t want to go back to London,’ I said, as much to myself as to him, squeezing his hand. ‘This is absolutely the right thing for us to do.’ Ben looked at me for a second, then he squeezed my hand back. ‘So let’s move in,’ he said. I leaned over to unstrap Stan’s car seat. ‘Everything’s going to work out perfectly,’ I said firmly. ‘In this perfect house, with this perfect family?’ Ben said, chuckling with what I thought was relief. Or maybe he was just as nervous as I was? ‘How could it not?’ He helped Stan clamber out of the car and then grabbed him for a cuddle. ‘What do you think, little man?’ he said. ‘What do you think of your new home?’ Stan whacked him on the head with a wooden Thomas the Tank Engine. ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘This is a nice house.’ Oscar yanked my hand. ‘Come. ON. Come on, Mummy.’ He dragged me out of the car and up the path. ‘Hurryuphurryuphurryup,’ he breathed as he pulled me along. I laughed in delight and threw the car key to Ben so he could lock up. Stan wriggled out of Ben’s hug and raced to join his brother and me. I felt Ben’s eyes on us as he beeped the car doors and followed. We had to make this work, I thought. But he was right. How could it not? ‘The door should be open,’ Ben called. Oscar grabbed the handle and it opened. ‘Mummy, Mummy,’ he gasped as we all fell through the front door. ‘Look at the staircase.’ ‘Staircase, Mummy,’ Stan echoed. ‘Mummy, can we get a dog? Daddy said we could get a dog. So can we?’ I let myself be dragged around the house, laughing, as the boys and Ben fell over themselves to be the first to show me things. ‘Look, Mummy, there’s a fridge,’ said Oscar proudly as I admired the large, if slightly dated, kitchen. Sunlight streamed through the windows, which were gleaming. The whole house was sparkling clean, actually. Ben said the estate agent – Mike – had arranged for it to be done as it had been empty for a while. It all shone in the sunshine and the house was filled with light but strangely all I felt was dark. Ben was so proud as he showed me round; I could see he really loved the house. And me? Well, I felt a bit funny. Like it wasn’t really ours. Probably I just had to get used to it; that was all. Get all our belongings in there. Settle down. It just all seemed a bit temporary and that made me nervous. ‘It’s wonderful,’ I said, squeezing his arm. Suddenly desperate to get out of there, I muttered something about seeing the garden, and walked out of the French doors on to the lawn. Listening to the boys’ excited voices as they tore round the house, I wandered down to the end of the garden, breathing deeply, glad to be out of the house. There was a line of trees at the end of the lawn, and behind them a rocky path led down to the narrow, stony beach where the waves crashed on to the shingle. ‘Amazing,’ I said out loud. It was incredible. I thought of our London house, with its tiny garden where the boys roamed like caged tigers. Here they could run. Burn off their energy in safety. Swim in the sea. Collect shells. It would be idyllic, I told myself. A perfect childhood in the perfect house. Thinking of the house again made me shudder. I turned away from the sea and walked back across the grass towards the back door, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to go inside. Instead I dropped down on to the lawn and sat, cross-legged, looking back at the house. From the back it wasn’t so ugly. It was all painted white – in stark contrast to the red brick front – so it dazzled in the bright sunshine and looked less thrown together. I was being silly, I thought sternly. It would be lovely living close to the sea and the light was beautiful. Maybe it would inspire me to write. The sun went behind a cloud and I gazed up at the top of the house, trying to work out which windows belonged to the room that would be my new study. There were two large windows on the top floor on this side, which I knew would bring light flooding into the room, and one smaller window. I suddenly felt excited about things again, so I decided to go upstairs and check out the room – Ben had been so enthusiastic and I wondered – hoped – if some of his glee would rub off on me and perhaps kick my writer’s block into touch. But as I got to my feet, a movement at the top of the house caught my eye. I glanced up and blinked. It looked like there was someone up there, framed in the attic window. I couldn’t see them clearly but it certainly looked like a figure. My mouth went dry. ‘Ben,’ I squawked, hoping it was him up there. ‘Ben.’ Ben appeared at the French windows from the lounge. I looked at him then looked back up at the window. There was nothing there. I’d been imagining it. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’ I forced a smile. ‘I thought I saw someone upstairs,’ I said. ‘I’m seeing things now – I must be tired. Where are the boys?’ Ben stepped into the garden, blinking in the bright sunlight. ‘They’re in the kitchen,’ he said. ‘Where did you see someone?’ I pointed to the window, and as I did, the sun came out from behind the cloud and reflected off the glass, dazzling me. ‘Must have been a trick of the light,’ I said, squinting. ‘Must have been because there’s no one there.’ Ben nudged me gently. ‘Come inside and have a cup of tea – I’ve unpacked the kettle. We’re all tired and you could do with a break.’ Chapter 4 (#ulink_d5be293a-e614-5e2f-bb42-7b6463bca6b1) I let Ben guide me back to the house, telling myself it had been a trick of the light. There was that thing, wasn’t there, where your mind makes people out of abstract shapes? It must have been that. While Ben made tea I chatted mindlessly with the boys, reminding them about the beach, and wondering if they’d like to go for a paddle in the sea tomorrow. The house seemed too big and echoey without our furniture – where were those removal men? I looked round. Rationally I knew this house was as ideal for our family as the garden was. It was just so different from our old place, and suddenly the leap we’d taken seemed way too big for us to cope with. ‘Shall we explore some more?’ I said, desperately trying to muster up some enthusiasm. The boys jumped at the chance and raced off upstairs. Ben and I followed more sedately. I was keen to get into the studio, but also nervous about what I might find; I was still unsure whether I’d seen someone at the window. As the boys and Ben discussed which room Oscar wanted and which room would be best for Stan, I took a deep breath and climbed the stairs to the attic. It was empty – obviously – and it was also perfect. I grimaced a little unfairly at Ben being right about that, too. It was a big room, sloping with the eaves of the house to the front and with two huge windows to the back – the window where I thought I’d seen the figure standing was on the left. It had bare floorboards, painted white. The walls were also white, emulsion over brick, or over the old wallpaper in parts. It was cool and airy. I wrapped my hands round my mug of tea and wandered to the window. The view was breathtaking and the light was incredible. It seemed to me like an artist’s studio and I wondered if a former resident had painted up here. Surely someone had? I could think of no other use for the room. It wasn’t a bedroom, or a guest room. The staircase to get up to the room was narrow and the door was small. I doubted you’d get a bed up there unless you took it up in pieces and built it in the room. I looked down at the lawn where I’d sat earlier and glanced round to see if anything in the empty room could have given the appearance of a person. There was nothing. Perching on the window ledge, as I always did back in London, I examined the studio with a critical eye. It wasn’t threatening or scary. It was just a big, empty room. A big, empty, absolutely lovely room. What I’d said had been right: the figure must have just been a trick of the light. The sunshine was so bright in the garden, it could have reflected off the old glass in the window … My thoughts trailed off as I realized something. From downstairs, I’d seen two large windows and one small. Up here, there were only two large windows. That was weird. Putting my empty mug on the windowsill, I went out into the hall. As far as I could tell there was nothing at the far end. No extra room, or door. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. This was a strange place. Tingling with curiosity – and feeling a little bit unsettled – I went back downstairs to the bedrooms. Ben and the boys were in the biggest room, which also looked out over the garden. Stan’s face was flushed and Oscar looked cross. ‘Mummy,’ he said as I walked in. ‘I am meant to have this room because I am the biggest but Stan says he has to have it because he wants to watch for pirates on the sea.’ His face crumpled. ‘But I want to look for pirates too.’ ‘Bunk beds,’ I said. ‘We’ll get you bunk beds and we can make them look like a ship. Then you can sail off at bedtime and look for pirates together.’ Ben shot me a grateful glance and I smiled at him. ‘I’ve found something funny,’ I said, casually. ‘Can you come and see?’ Ben and the boys followed me up the narrow, rickety stairs to the attic room. We all stood in a line in the middle of the floor, staring out at the sea. ‘Look,’ I said. ‘When I was in the garden, I could see three windows in this room. There were the two big ones, and a little one – remember?’ Ben nodded, realization showing on his face. ‘But up here you can only see two windows,’ he said. ‘That’s mental.’ He went over to one of the windows and pushed up the sash, but it was fixed so it couldn’t open too far. ‘I thought I could lean out and see the other window,’ he said. ‘But I won’t fit my head through that gap.’ ‘My head will fit,’ said Oscar. ‘No,’ Ben and I said together. Oscar looked put out. ‘Maybe the little window is on next door’s house,’ he said. Ben ruffled his hair. ‘Good idea, pal. But next door isn’t attached to our house. It’s not like in London.’ I was standing still, staring at the windows, feeling a tiny flutter of something in my stomach. Was that excitement? ‘You’re loving this,’ Ben said, looking at my face. ‘One sniff of a mystery and you’re in your element.’ He had a point. ‘Oh come on,’ I said. ‘A missing window? Don’t pretend you’re not interested.’ He smiled at me, not bothering to deny it. ‘Maybe there’s a hidden room,’ I said. ‘Maybe it’s a portal to Narnia.’ ‘Or maybe there’s a ventilation brick in these old, thick walls.’ I snorted. ‘Don’t ruin it.’ Ben grinned. ‘I think we’d notice if the house was bigger on the outside than the inside,’ he said. ‘Like the Tardis,’ Oscar shouted in glee. Then he frowned. ‘But the other way round.’ I started to laugh. ‘I don’t think you guys are taking this seriously enough,’ I said, mock stern. ‘This could be something very exciting.’ Ben nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ve got this.’ He went over to the wall at the far end of the room and tapped it. Then he tapped it again in a different place, and again and again. I sat down on the floor, with Stan on my lap, and watched. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked eventually. Ben looked at me in pity. ‘I’m checking to see if the wall sounds hollow,’ he explained. ‘If it sounds hollow then perhaps there’s another room behind here.’ ‘Does it sound hollow?’ There was a pause. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. I laughed. ‘Well then we need to compare it to the other walls,’ I said. And then there was chaos. Stan and Oscar raced around, banging the walls, as Ben and I listened and said, ‘hmm’. We had no idea what we were listening for, but it was fun. The boys shouted, and we laughed, and I thought that maybe everything was going to be okay. Chapter 5 (#ulink_52d856e5-4094-5701-af43-ce49cf22cc69) 1855 Violet I almost slipped on the rocks as I struggled down to the beach, even though I’d been that way hundreds of times before. My easel wasn’t heavy, but it was cumbersome, and the bag of paints and brushes I was carrying banged against my legs. Eventually, though, I found my perfect spot. It was warm, but the sun wasn’t too dazzling and I breathed in the sea air deeply. Working quickly, I set up my easel and pinned my paper down securely. I arranged my paints on the rock behind me, as I’d planned, pushed a stray lock of hair behind my ear, and picked up my brush. I paused for a second, appreciating the moment; I was completely content. This was how I’d dreamed of working for – oh months, years perhaps. I finally felt like a real painter. My room in the attic was wonderful, of course, and I would always be grateful to Philips, the lad from the village who did all the odd jobs around the house and garden and who’d helped me secretly create my own studio. I frowned, thinking of Father, who didn’t like me to draw. He said it was vulgar. He wanted me to marry and lead a normal life. A normal, boring life, I thought. A mundane life. A life with no purpose. But out here, breathing in the sea air, I felt like I had a purpose. I was telling a story with my work and it seemed it was what I’d been waiting for. For years all I’d drawn was myself – and various kitchen cats. Endless self-portraits that helped my technique, undoubtedly, but – if I was honest – bored me stupid. Then, one day, I’d picked up Father’s Times, and read about a new group of artists known as the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. They painted stories – Bible stories, tales from Shakespeare, all sorts – and they used real-life models to do it. It had been like a light turned on in my mind. Suddenly I knew what I wanted to do – I wanted to be like those artists. Paint like those artists. Live life like those artists. After that, I devoured any articles on the Pre-Raphaelites in Father’s newspaper, and I read the Illustrated London News, and even Punch, when I could get it, though Father wasn’t keen on that one. I saved the issues that mentioned art and kept them hidden away with my drawing equipment. The Times – and sometimes the other papers, too – were often critical of my heroes, who were determined to shake up the art world. But the more criticism they received, the more I adored them. They were so thrilling and forward-thinking – everything I wanted my life to be like. I dreamed of living in London and imagined myself debating what makes good art with Dante Gabriel Rossetti – who was impossibly handsome in the pictures I’d seen – or John Millais – who had a kind, friendly face. I had to admit, I was hazy on the details of where these debates would take place – I had an uneasy feeling the painters I so admired spent a lot of time in taverns – but I knew just spending time with those men would make me feel alive. ‘Why, Miss Hargreaves,’ I imagined Dante or John saying. ‘You are truly a force to be reckoned with.’ It wasn’t just the men I admired. I had read that Elizabeth Siddal, who modelled for the painters and who was rumoured to be in love with Rossetti, had taken up painting herself. Oh, how I longed to be like her. Sometimes when I was feeling particularly vain, I thought I looked a bit like her, because I had long red hair, like hers. Some people thought red hair was unlucky, but Lizzie made it look beautiful. She didn’t hide it or twist it under her hat like I always had, so I had started wearing my hair loose now, too, when I could. When I was away from Father’s disapproving eye. It got in my way and often irritated me but I thought it was all part of my plan – like venturing out to paint on the beach. After all, if Lizzie Siddal could be a painter, then why couldn’t I, Violet Hargreaves, do the same? Lost in my dreams of success, I painted swiftly, my brush flying over the paper. I was just painting the background today. I’d already sketched Philips, draped in a sheet that was strategically pinned to create royal robes and wearing a crown I’d found in my old dressing-up box. He was ankle-deep in a tin tray of water. He had been very willing to pose for me. He was so good to me, and though I was happy he was so amiable I did occasionally wonder if he was harbouring feelings for me that were, perhaps, inappropriate. Father would be furious. Mind you, Father would be furious if he knew what I was doing now, I thought. He grudgingly allowed me to indulge my love of art as long as I was in the house and out of sight. I’d never have dared go out to the beach if he hadn’t gone up to London for the week. I daubed white paint on the top of the waves I had painted, and stood for a second, gazing at the sea beyond the easel. ‘King Canute turning back the tide?’ a voice said behind me. I jumped, feeling a scarlet blush rise up my neck to my cheeks. I hadn’t expected to be interrupted, and I was horrified I had attracted anyone’s attention. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ It was a man, older than me, and handsome with a kind, intelligent face and bright blue eyes. I looked at my feet, not sure what to say. Father’s disapproval of my painting stung, so I had never talked of it outside the house. ‘It’s very good,’ the stranger said. ‘Is this your own work?’ I nodded. I felt the man’s eyes roam over me and I shifted on the sand uncomfortably. ‘It’s interesting that you’re telling a classical story within a real landscape,’ he said. ‘I’m influenced by the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.’ The man gazed at my painting and nodded slowly. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I can see that.’ I gasped. He could tell? Maybe I was doing something right. ‘I adore them,’ I said, my words falling over each other as I spoke. ‘They’re wonderful. I want to paint detail like they do. The colours, and the form, of nature …’ I stopped, very aware that I was babbling and barely making sense. But the man tipped his hat to me and smiled. ‘I’m Edwin Forrest,’ he said. Recovering my composure, I bowed my head slightly. ‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,’ I lied, wishing he would leave. ‘Forgive me,’ said Mr Forrest. ‘It is very hot and I’ve been walking a while. Would you mind if I rested here?’ He didn’t wait for my answer, but took his hat off and sat on a large rock a little way from me. I looked at him in horror. I didn’t want an audience while I painted. And I certainly didn’t want a man – a handsome man – at my shoulder. I was shy and uncomfortable around strangers at the best of times, and unknown men made me very uneasy. ‘Please carry on,’ Mr Forrest said. ‘I’d love to see how you compose your work.’ Feeling self-conscious, but not wanting to argue, I picked up my brush again. I tried to carry on painting the waves, but I couldn’t concentrate knowing Mr Forrest was watching. I felt his eyes on me, hot as sunlight, and my hand shook as I dabbed the paint on the paper. I took a breath. ‘I don’t wish to be rude, sir,’ I said. ‘But would you mind continuing on your walk?’ I couldn’t believe I’d spoken my mind so bluntly. But I was horribly aware that the time was ticking on and before I knew it, Father would be home and my chance to paint outdoors would be over. ‘I’m so sorry, Miss …’ I managed a half-smile. ‘Hargreaves. Violet Hargreaves.’ ‘Miss Hargreaves, please accept my most humble apologies for interrupting you.’ Mr Forrest patted the rock next to him. ‘I know your time is precious, but I wonder if we could talk a while. I’m very interested in the arts and I think we may be useful to one another.’ He flashed me a dazzling smile and I found myself thinking again how handsome he was. Despite my longing to be painting, I sat down next to him and arranged my skirt around my ankles. It was warm on the beach and I suddenly had an urge to pull off my petticoat and run into the cool sea. I shot a shy glance at my companion, wondering what he would do if I did. ‘I have many friends in London who are interested in art,’ he was saying. ‘Yes?’ I said, politely. Mr Forrest looked out across the sea, as though he were trying to remember something. ‘There is John Everett …’ He paused and I couldn’t resist jumping in. ‘Millais,’ I said. ‘Do you mean John Everett Millais?’ Mr Forrest gave me another dazzling smile. I felt a bit dizzy and wondered if it was the effect of too much sun. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘Are you familiar with his work?’ I was sure my heart stopped, just for a moment. I almost couldn’t speak. He knew Millais? My hero? ‘Millais?’ I gasped. ‘Of course I know his work.’ ‘I know he is always keen to nurture young talent. So, I was wondering, do you have more?’ Mr Forrest asked. ‘More paintings like this?’ I nodded. I had three that were finished and many more sketches. My head was whirling. ‘Could I take them to show John?’ ‘Show him my paintings?’ I stammered. ‘I think he’d be very interested,’ Mr Forrest said. ‘He and the rest of the Brotherhood are always searching for interesting painters.’ ‘I know it’s hard for women,’ I said, feeling like I should be honest from the start. Despite my daydreams, I was painfully aware my options were limited. ‘There aren’t many female artists.’ ‘No,’ Mr Forrest said, thoughtfully. ‘But I believe there are a couple. I read just the other day about one Elizabeth …’ Once more, I thought I might faint. ‘Elizabeth?’ I said. ‘Lizzie Siddal?’ ‘Yes, she was a model but I read she’s painting now,’ said Mr Forrest, telling me nothing I didn’t already know, but somehow it had more authority when it came from this man. ‘Apparently, she’s even got that critic, Ruskin, interested in her work.’ He glanced at me. ‘John says she’s rather good,’ he said, in an offhand manner. Oh how I longed for someone to discuss my work in such a matter-of-fact way. I couldn’t believe that this man, this handsome, charming man, was talking about my art in the same breath as he discussed my heroine Lizzie Siddal. I felt like all my dreams were finally coming true, as though all the hours painting alone in my studio, listening with dread for Father’s tread on the stairs, were not for nothing. I was not going to let convention stop me telling Mr Forrest exactly how I felt. With my heart in my mouth, I explained how much I wanted to go to London and become part of the art world. If I could just find a patron, I said, someone who believed in me, and who would take care of the bills while I could paint, then I could go. Mr Forrest smiled. ‘Dear girl,’ he said. ‘You certainly have the talent. I’m due in London later this month. Perhaps I could take one of your paintings with me then?’ I agreed at once, though I had no idea what Father would think if he found out. Could I possibly do this behind his back? ‘Should I speak to your parents?’ Mr Forrest said. ‘No,’ I almost shouted, before I collected myself. ‘My mother is dead,’ I explained. ‘Father is, well, he doesn’t think I should paint.’ Mr Forrest nodded in understanding. ‘Some older people still think women shouldn’t have a voice.’ He put his hand close to mine where it lay on the rock. ‘I disagree. I think you’ve got something very special, Miss Hargreaves. Let me mould that.’ I was giddy with joy. I looked out at the sea and allowed myself a little shiver of pleasure. This was it. Finally my life was beginning. Chapter 6 (#ulink_b60f6b35-dff3-541f-9458-31498e429ed2) 1855 Frances Frances was climbing the stairs when she saw him out of the staircase window. He was sitting on a rock with a girl, who couldn’t be more than twenty, and who was gazing at him with adoring eyes. She sighed. They’d only lived here a few weeks. Was it really starting again so soon? Slowly, she carried on up the stairs into her dressing room. She couldn’t see the beach from this window so she couldn’t torment herself by watching him. Instead she sat down at her dressing table and examined herself in the mirror. Tilting her head, she looked at the bruising on her neck. It was definitely fading, finally. She pulled her dress down and leaned closer to the mirror. The marks on her collarbone and chest were fading too. She felt a wave of relief that she’d got away with it again. She let her hand drift down on to her stomach, still flat, and thought of the tiny life flickering inside her. This time would be different. This time she would be careful. She shuddered as she remembered Edwin’s face when she told him she was pregnant last time. He’d said nothing then, simply stared at her with no expression in his cold, blue eyes. But later, when he came home from his club, brandy on his breath and fire in his belly, she knew she’d made a mistake. The first punch – to the back of her head as she went to leave the room – sent her sprawling across the couch. And when she begged, ‘Please, Edwin, the baby …’ rage flared in his eyes. He hit her again and as she fell on the floor, he kicked her hard in the stomach. Sobbing, she crawled into the corner of the room and curled into a ball, while Edwin read the paper by the fire and ignored her quiet whimpers. But when she felt a gush of blood between her legs and, despite her efforts, cried out, he was contrite. Back to his charming self, he carried her upstairs and tucked her into bed, smoothing her forehead and covering her with kisses. ‘I’m sorry, my darling,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll try again. I’m sorry, my darling.’ When the doctor came, Edwin was every inch the caring husband. But the doctor wasn’t fooled. Edwin left the room, and the doctor looked grim-faced. He lifted her nightgown to feel her tender stomach and saw the livid bruise to her side. ‘Does he have a temper, your husband?’ he asked, pushing gently on her lower belly. Frances winced but said nothing. Shame flooded her. ‘You must be more careful,’ the doctor said. ‘He’s a busy man. An important man. Don’t anger him.’ And with that, Frances knew she was alone. Which was why she’d come up with her plan. As soon as she’d realized she was expecting again she knew she had to get away. Edwin had gone from regarding her with a kind of benign disinterest when they were first married to vicious contempt and she knew if he realized she was pregnant – and desperate to be a mother – he’d punish her. As far as she knew he had no strong feelings either way about becoming a father but if he realized motherhood would make Frances happy, he’d take it away from her. Just to be cruel. She was keeping money aside, squirrelling it away from the housekeeping and hiding it under a loose floorboard she’d found in her dressing room when they moved in. She’d been saving for years, if truth be told. She’d started putting some coins away almost as soon as she and Edwin had married. She knew from the start what sort of man he was, but her father was determined to see them wed and Frances couldn’t disagree. Since her father’s death, and since Edwin took over the family law firm started by Frances’s grandfather – the one he’d always had his eye on and the one, Frances thought, that had sealed her fate as his bride before he’d even met her – he’d felt no need to keep his true nature hidden any longer. When they’d moved and she realized her nausea each morning was because she was pregnant again, she’d started working out a proper plan. As much as she wanted this baby fiercely, she felt the same passionate determination that Edwin would never know his son or daughter. She needed to get away – and that was what was driving her now. She thought she’d stay as long as she could, loosening her corset as much as she was able before her condition was obvious, and then she’d act. It was good to have everything in place before she went, because she couldn’t afford for anything to go wrong. After talking to some of the people in the village, she’d decided what to do; though it seemed drastic she wanted to be sure Edwin couldn’t – or wouldn’t – try to find her. So, she planned to take some clothes to the beach and leave them by the rocks. Maybe throw a hat into the waves and hope it washed up in the right place, or snag a piece of a gown onto a sharp stone. There was a nasty current in the sea, which had claimed the lives of many people over the years – she could easily be washed into the water as others had before. If she were lucky, she’d just become one more sad story of an unfortunate walker. She planned to hide her suitcase behind the rocks in advance, and after setting the scene carefully, she’d change into simple clothes, the clothes of a maid or a governess, tuck her hair into a hat, and walk to the station. She was unremarkable in looks; she knew that. Plain, her grandmother had always said. Years ago, that made her think she was worthless, but now she thought the fact that no one glanced at her twice could save her life. Once she was on the train, she’d change again, in case anyone remembered her cloak or hat, simple as they were. And she’d travel as far as she could afford. North, of course – you couldn’t go south from Sussex and stay in England, and she couldn’t speak French. She hadn’t thought much further than that yet. All she cared about was getting away from here. She went out on to the landing and looked down at the beach once more. Edwin was sitting closer to the girl now, and as she watched, he put his hand over hers. Frances allowed herself a brief fantasy where Edwin ran away with this girl and let her, Frances, be. But she knew that would never happen. A shaft of sunlight lit up the girl’s face and Frances realized she was even younger than she’d thought. Eighteen perhaps. No older. The same age Frances had been when Edwin had pursued her. Perhaps it was the baby in her belly making her feel this way, but she suddenly felt a wave of fierce maternal protectiveness towards this girl with her loose skirts and messy red hair. She couldn’t – wouldn’t – let Edwin hurt her as well. Chapter 7 (#ulink_8d153105-7c12-546e-90bc-f55564a3c069) Present day Ella As it turned out, the mere whiff of a mystery was all it took to help me start feeling at home in Sussex. Even a whole twenty-four hours without furniture (‘satnav,’ said the removal men vaguely when Ben quizzed them about where they’d been) didn’t bother me too much, unless you counted the crick in my neck from sleeping on the floor. While the removal guys unpacked everything, I played in the garden with the boys, mentally checking for hidden dangers. It didn’t take me long to find one. At the bottom of our garden was a gate, which led on to a sandy path. The path snaked along the top of the cliff a short way, then plunged steeply down to the beach. I stood and looked with an appraising eye. The fence at the end of our garden was sturdy enough but the wooden gate was shut with only a latch. A latch that could easily be opened by a small, curious boy. ‘Padlock,’ I said, clapping my hands. ‘Come on, boys. Let’s go and explore the village.’ Heron Green wasn’t a large village, but it was well equipped. We passed one pub and I knew there was another, at the far end near the boys’ school. There was a small Tesco, a little bakery with a caf? area, a newsagent and – thankfully – a hardware shop. Outside there was a selection of brushes and brooms hanging up, and lots of different-sized dustbins. ‘Let’s try here,’ I said to the boys, taking Stan’s hand. Inside it was bright and cheery with well-ordered shelves and several customers browsing. I looked round and decided I’d be much better off going straight to the counter, where an older man stood chatting to a slightly younger man who was buying a huge bag of nails. The older man had greying hair, and he wore a checked shirt with a pair of glasses in the top pocket – even though he had another pair perched on the end of his nose. He reminded me so much of my dad that my heart ached for a moment. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ he asked Oscar, leaning over the counter. I flashed him a smile and watched as my son put on his most serious face. ‘We need a padlock for the gate at the bottom of the garden,’ he said. ‘To stop me and Stan being monkeys and going to the beach without Mummy.’ The man nodded. ‘Very sensible,’ he said. He reached behind him and took a lock from the shelf. ‘This is what you need, young man. It’s ?9.99.’ He held out his hand and Oscar looked alarmed. ‘Mummy does the paying,’ he said. I laughed. ‘I certainly do.’ The man rang the purchase into the till, and the younger man, who was still choosing between bags of nails, looked at me. ‘Just moved into the cliff house?’ he asked. I nodded, handing the shopkeeper a ten-pound note. ‘Think so,’ I said. ‘It’s the house on the cliff, anyway. We just call it number 10.’ He smiled. ‘How do you find it?’ ‘It’s great,’ I said. ‘Perfect.’ The shopkeeper handed me my receipt and gave Oscar the penny change. ‘Me too,’ said Stan. The man grinned, opened the till again, and gave him a penny too. ‘Fanks,’ said Stan in his best North London accent. ‘But?’ said the younger man, exchanging a look with the shopkeeper. I turned my attention back to him, blinking in surprise. ‘But?’ ‘It sounded like there was a but coming,’ he said. ‘Perfect, but …’ I wondered how long these men had lived in the village and if they knew anything about the history of our house. Leaning in slightly, I said: ‘It’s a funny house. Odd.’ The younger man, who had a shock of messy dark hair and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once, nodded. ‘You’ve heard the stories?’ Again I felt that flutter of interest and excitement. ‘No,’ I said. ‘What stories?’ The shopkeeper tutted. ‘Don’t listen to him,’ he said. ‘Hal’s always been one for a spooky tale.’ ‘Spooky?’ I said in glee. ‘Is it haunted? By someone who died tragically?’ Hal looked grave. ‘It’s not the dead you need to worry about. It’s the living.’ I chuckled. ‘Got that right.’ ‘I heard there was a murder,’ Hal said. ‘You’ve heard those tales, right, Ken?’ The shopkeeper – Ken – nodded. ‘It’s not true, though,’ he said. ‘I’ve lived here since the Seventies and no one’s ever been killed since I was here.’ Hal looked thoughtful. ‘Could have been before then,’ he said. ‘Sixties, perhaps? Or in the war?’ ‘Or it could all be codswallop,’ Ken said. The word made me smile, but I was interested and I wasn’t going to let him change the subject. ‘Maybe it wasn’t a murder,’ I said. ‘Maybe it was another crime.’ ‘Robbery,’ said Hal with relish. ‘Or kidnapping.’ ‘Pirates,’ added Oscar, who was listening intently. Hal ruffled his hair. ‘Definitely pirates,’ he said. ‘And smuggling.’ ‘Ooh yes,’ I said, thinking of the Daphne du Maurier novels I’d read over and over when I was a teenager. ‘Wreckers.’ Ken chuckled, eyeing me with interest. ‘I remember now,’ he said, nodding. ‘My wife says you’re a writer.’ He looked at Hal. ‘She writes books,’ he said. ‘Crime.’ Astonished at this first-hand experience of village life after years in anonymous London, I could only mutter, ‘Well, more like thrillers, really.’ ‘Good ones?’ Hal asked. ‘Have I read them?’ ‘I hope they’re good,’ I said, embarrassed like I always was when people asked about my writing. ‘They sell a bit. Not sure if you’ll have read them. I’ll bring you a copy and leave it here for you if you like?’ Hal grinned. ‘I’ll read it, and then I’ll tell you if it’s good,’ he said. I grinned back. ‘Or,’ I said, ‘you could just say it’s good even if you hate it.’ Gathering up the boys and the padlock, I said our goodbyes and headed out of the shop. ‘How about we see if that bakery sells cakes?’ I said. Oscar clapped his hands. ‘Excuse me?’ I turned at the voice. A woman – who I’d seen in the hardware shop when we went in – was behind us, waving. She was tall and athletic-looking with inky dark hair pulled back into a ponytail and she was – I guessed – about seven months pregnant. ‘Oh thank goodness you stopped,’ she said waddling over. ‘I’m not sure I’d have caught you if you hadn’t.’ She had a Manchester accent and a broad smile. ‘I’m Priya,’ she said, sticking her hand out. ‘Ella,’ I said, cautiously. I may have moved to Sussex but I was still a Londoner at heart. ‘I heard what you said in the shop,’ she said, slightly breathless. ‘About you writing crime novels?’ ‘Thrillers,’ I said. Polite in case she was a reader, but still cautious. I took Stan’s hand. ‘Oh God, you probably think I’m a weirdo. I’m not,’ she said, laughing. ‘I promise.’ She took a breath. ‘I’m a police officer who’s stuck on light duties because of this …’ She pointed to her bump. ‘And I’m bored out of my mind. I thought maybe I could help you with research or something.’ I stared at her, not sure what to think. ‘And we’ve not lived here very long either,’ she said. ‘And I thought you seemed like someone I should be friends with, so I knew I had to catch you before I lost my nerve and didn’t say hello.’ She laughed again, more nervously this time. ‘I’m going to start again,’ she said. ‘Hello, I’m DI Priya Sansom from Sussex Police.’ She stuck her hand out again and I shook it again, smiling properly now. ‘Ella Daniels,’ I said. ‘Writer, mother, former tax accountant. And new to rural friendliness.’ We smiled at each other. I thought Priya was right – she did seem like someone I could be friends with. I was glad she’d approached me. ‘Cake, Mummy.’ Stan tugged my arm. ‘We were going to check out the caf?,’ I said to Priya. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’ Chapter 8 (#ulink_603e4dd8-2e22-5efd-b697-5e13269455e3) Priya was not as far along in her pregnancy as I’d thought. ‘Five months,’ she said, through a mouthful of coffee cake. ‘Twins. Bit of a shock.’ ‘Got any more?’ She nodded glumly. ‘Two,’ she said. ‘And two stepkids. All girls.’ ‘Whoa,’ I said. ‘But congratulations.’ She smiled. ‘I’m excited really, but my husband’s terrified these ones will be girls too. He’s headmaster at Sussex Lodge School – which is all boys. So we can’t even use the discount he gets on school fees.’ I giggled. I liked Priya already. ‘Tell me about your books,’ she said. ‘What are you working on now?’ I made a face. ‘I’m supposed to be writing my third novel featuring Tessa Gilroy, a maverick private investigator who inadvertently gets caught up in domestic mysteries.’ ‘Not going well?’ ‘Not going at all,’ I admitted. ‘I’m hoping moving down here will help unblock me.’ ‘Let me help you,’ Priya begged. ‘I’m so bored.’ ‘Bored?’ I said. ‘With four kids and two more on the way?’ She waved her hand as though six children was nothing more than an inconvenience. ‘Jas is at university,’ she said. ‘Millie’s in sixth form, but she’s at her mum’s most of the time anyway, so they’re no trouble. Layla is eight and desperate to be like her big sisters, and Amber is five. She’s quite the little princess and I think not being the baby any more will do her good.’ ‘I’m five,’ said Oscar. Priya looked at him. ‘Then you will be in Amber’s class at school. I’ll bring her along next time we meet up and you can play together.’ I was pleased she thought there would be a next time. ‘I love my job,’ Priya went on. ‘And I’ve got nothing to do. I’m shuffling bits of paper around, because my pregnancy is considered high risk and they won’t let me do anything. Please let me help.’ I picked up my cup of tea. ‘Back in London,’ I said, ‘I had a tame retired police officer – his name is Reg and he’s an old friend of my dad’s. We used to just drink coffee and he’d tell me stories about cases he’d worked on.’ ‘And it gave you ideas for stories?’ Priya said, her face lighting up. ‘I can do that. And if you need me to check procedural stuff I can help with that too.’ ‘That would be brilliant,’ I said. ‘I was worried about making new contacts down here – and I’ve been thinking about bringing Tessa to the seaside, so I’d need to get to know the police in Brighton.’ ‘Where does Tessa normally work?’ ‘Camden,’ I drawled, Laaaaahndahn-style. Priya giggled. ‘I’ve got loads of stories from my time in Manchester,’ she said. ‘And Brighton’s got a dark side too.’ ‘I don’t doubt it.’ That made me think about what Hal had said. ‘Did you hear what else those guys mentioned?’ I asked Priya. ‘In the shop?’ ‘About your books?’ ‘No, before that – about our house?’ She looked blank. ‘Must have missed that bit,’ she said. ‘I was engrossed in the doorbell selection.’ ‘Hal said there were stories that there had been a murder in our house,’ I said, lowering my voice so the boys didn’t hear. ‘But Ken said he’d lived here since the Seventies and he’d not heard anything.’ There was a flash of interest in Priya’s eyes, which I recognized because I’d seen it in my own face many times. ‘I just thought it might be a good place to start,’ I carried on. ‘For Tessa, I mean.’ Priya gave me an appraising glance. ‘For Tessa?’ I grinned. ‘And for me.’ Priya picked up her teacup and chinked it against mine. ‘I’m on it,’ she said. ‘Watch this space.’ Chapter 9 (#ulink_660965f9-cd2a-5187-82f5-83de70c4ef23) 1855 Violet I didn’t see Mr Forrest again for nearly a week though I thought about him a lot. In my memories of our meeting on the beach, with his blond hair and the sun behind him, he’d become almost like an angel. A guardian angel who was going to nurture my talent and look after me and help me escape. Then when I walked into church on Sunday on Father’s arm, there he was. Much more real than in my dreams, but just as handsome. I felt giddy with relief that I hadn’t dreamt our whole encounter on the beach, because I’d started to fear it had all been in my imagination. Our pew was closer to the front than Mr Forrest’s, and he didn’t acknowledge me as we walked past. I stared straight ahead, but throughout the service, all I could think of was him. I felt the warmth of his gaze on the back of my neck and barely heard a word the vicar said. After the sermon, I noticed Mr Forrest – who was with a woman – stop and talk to the vicar. So I seized my chance. ‘Father,’ I said, tugging his arm. ‘There are the people who have moved into Willow Cottage. We should introduce ourselves.’ I felt a thrill in my solar plexus that could have been nerves or could have been something entirely new, as I led Father over to where Mr Forrest stood. ‘Ah,’ said Reverend Mapplethorpe. ‘These are your new neighbours. Marcus Hargreaves and his daughter, Violet.’ Father shook Mr Forrest’s hand vigorously. I bowed my head slightly as I’d done on the beach. ‘Edwin Forrest,’ said Edwin. ‘And my wife, Frances.’ ‘A pleasure,’ said the woman, in a deep, pleasant voice. I looked at her in surprise. I was confused. His wife? I had assumed she was his sister. I’d felt a connection between him and me when we’d met on the beach – a connection that surely wouldn’t have been there if he were married. Would it? I felt myself blushing as I worried I had misread the situation. Mr Forrest was talking. ‘Frances has been ill, you see, so we’ve not had a chance to meet anyone,’ he told Father. I looked at Mrs Forrest. She didn’t look ill. She was neatly dressed, with a large skirt and a tidy waist. Her dark hair was tightly pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck. ‘Much better, thank you,’ she was saying to Father. She didn’t smile. I felt a rush of sympathy for vibrant Mr Forrest. To be married to such a dull woman must be difficult. ‘Have you been to the beach?’ I asked Mr Forrest’s wife boldly. Mrs Forrest looked at me, sharp eyes piercing my face, but Mr Forrest smiled. ‘It’s very beautiful,’ I went on, not sure what I was hoping for her to say. ‘A walk on the beach is very good for the constitution, Mrs Forrest.’ I stared at Mrs Forrest in defiance, as though daring her to admit she wasn’t ill. ‘You are very kind,’ Mrs Forrest said, lowering her eyes from my gaze. ‘I will take a turn as soon as I am able.’ ‘But not today,’ Mr Forrest said, his firm tone suggesting there would be no argument. ‘Today you must rest.’ Mrs Forrest simply nodded and Mr Forrest turned to Father. ‘I am very fond of the outdoors,’ he said as we began to walk out of the churchyard and bade farewell to Reverend Mapplethorpe. Mr Forrest leaned towards Father, as though he were telling him a secret. ‘I fancy myself as an artist. Wildlife sketches, mostly. I will enjoy drawing the seabirds here.’ They continued – Father asking surprisingly knowledgeable questions about Mr Forrest’s hobby, while I fumed quietly. Father had never shown such interest in my art, or at least not for years, and not without a patronizing pat on my head to accompany his questions. Mrs Forrest and I walked behind my father and Mr Forrest, not speaking, and as they approached the Forrests’ house, the men paused to let us catch up. ‘I was just saying to your father that I think I will take your advice and go for a walk on the beach later,’ Mr Forrest said. He looked up at the sky. ‘Though it’s hot now. I feel later would be better – perhaps around five o’clock.’ He looked intently at me and I dropped my gaze. Was it an invitation? I looked up at him through my eyelashes and he gave a tiny, barely noticeable nod. I felt myself begin to blush again and turned away so he wouldn’t see. Father said our goodbyes, then he led the way to the house, and Mr Forrest walked up the path to his cottage. But as I turned to go, Mrs Forrest glanced at her husband’s back, then caught my hand. I gasped in surprise but Mrs Forrest didn’t let go. ‘Miss Hargreaves,’ Mrs Forrest said in a low, urgent voice. ‘Please, be careful.’ Then she turned and walked quickly to the cottage. I was bewildered. I wondered if the ailment that had afflicted Mrs Forrest was in her head, instead of her body. Perhaps she was hysterical. I’d read of that in Father’s Times. How difficult things must be for poor Mr Forrest. I followed Father home, barely listening as he told me how I should wear my skirts fuller like Mrs Forrest, and wear my hair neatly like Mrs Forrest, and speak softly like Mrs Forrest. I could only think about how I would sneak away later to meet Mr Forrest on the beach. After an unseasonably heavy lunch of roast mutton and treacle tart, Father and I retired to the drawing room. Father read the paper, while I picked out a tune on the piano. I was not a natural musician and I could feel Father’s irritation growing as I hit the wrong keys. Eventually, I sat opposite him and read his newspaper out loud until I saw his head droop and his eyes close. Quietly, I folded the paper and rested it on the arm of his chair, then I crept out of the room and closed the door behind me. ‘Mabel,’ I called to our housekeeper, as I tried in vain to tease my unruly hair into a roll. ‘I left my gloves at church. It’s such a beautiful day, I’m going to walk up and retrieve them.’ I was surprised at how easily the lie fell from my lips, but not ashamed. So keen to begin my art career was I, that I felt almost anything was justified. I pulled my hat on, then calmly strolled down the path, shutting the gate behind me. Then I walked towards the church, but as soon as I was out of sight of our house, I ducked down the side of a cottage, hitched up my skirts, and ran along the path to the beach. I saw him before he saw me. He was sitting on the rocks, a little way from where we’d met before. Out of sight from Father, I noted with relief. ‘And his wife,’ a disloyal voice in my head added. I pushed the thought away and concentrated on scrambling down the steep path to the sand. As I reached the beach I paused and smoothed my hair where it poked out from under my hat – in vain, I feared – and caught my breath. Mr Forrest had his back to me, watching the waves, and I studied him for a second, admiring his broad shoulders and the way his hair curled under his hat. As if he sensed me behind him, Mr Forrest turned, and my heart lifted at his smile. ‘Dear Miss Hargreaves,’ he said. ‘I feared you wouldn’t get away.’ I flushed at his informal greeting. ‘Father went to sleep,’ I admitted. Mr Forrest smiled again, the corners of his eyes crinkling. ‘Then let’s make the most of the time we have,’ he said. He offered his arm and I took it. I felt very grown up and very young at the same time. We strolled across the sand, by unspoken consent hugging the low cliffs that flanked the beach and ensured we were unseen from above. Mr Forrest asked questions about my painting and, heady with the joy of talking about it, I explained – or at least I tried to explain – why I loved it so much. ‘It’s as though I haven’t chosen it,’ I said, struggling to find the right words. ‘It’s like breathing; it’s part of me.’ Mr Forrest studied me, and I turned away feeling self-conscious. ‘I only wish I had your talent,’ he said. ‘But what I lack in ability I make up for in passion. I am certain you have a great future ahead of you.’ ‘In London?’ I breathed. ‘If you wish,’ Mr Forrest said. ‘I flatter myself, but I have been told I have a good eye and I know if your work excites me, then it will undoubtedly excite my friends in the PRB.’ He took my hand. His touch was hot like the sun. The only man who’d ever touched me before was Father. ‘This is a way out for you, Violet,’ he said, gripping my fingers. It was as though he could see into my soul and I suddenly felt raw. Stripped bare. How did he know what I was thinking? Confusion flooded me. ‘I must go,’ I stammered. ‘Father …’ I pulled my hand away abruptly. Mr Forrest didn’t object. Instead he tipped his hat. ‘Miss Hargreaves,’ he said politely. Then he turned and walked away up the beach. I watched him go, my hand still burning from his touch. I felt an enormous sense of loss. Chapter 10 (#ulink_e28ef3df-e2fa-5d45-8ae8-4e3a86d56675) Present day Ella Those early days in Sussex were chaos. It was a blur of boxes and rearranging furniture, and hanging pictures. The weather was glorious, so the boys spent all their time in the garden, kicking balls, bouncing on their trampoline, and generally running wild. I watched them, amazed at how much energy they had, and relieved that I’d bought the lock for the gate. It was very different from London. More different than I’d expected it to be, considering how close we were. Because our house was at the end of the lane, there were no cars driving by, and it was so quiet. The first few nights, Ben and I had even struggled to sleep, because we were used to the white noise of passing traffic, not the complete silence of the Sussex countryside. I was determined to make this work but it was hard going those first days. Ben had been thrown straight into work so I spent a lot of time on my own with the kids, which didn’t help. Deep down I was worried we’d made the most awful mistake. What if giving up life in London – giving up my safe, if dull, job – was a massive, enormous, unfixable error? I kept thinking about Dad saying I would have been better off taking a sabbatical so I still had a job to go back to and I fought the urge to phone him and wail down the phone that he’d been right all along. I knew as soon as I expressed any doubts at all, he’d say it wasn’t too late. That I could go back to accountancy in a heartbeat, that he knew someone who knew someone who could ask about opportunities in his firm and before I knew it, I’d be back behind a desk in the city, on hold to HMRC. And actually, when I thought about it, that wasn’t what I wanted at all. I was just finding it hard to come to terms with such a big change. I’d settle down. And I’d stop missing my dad so much eventually. Wouldn’t I? Ben, on the other hand, was embracing our new life. He was really busy at the football club – the new season hadn’t started but he was meeting new players and helping with pre-season training and medicals and fitness tests. I knew he was absolutely loving it so I didn’t want to rain on his parade. I was both itching to get started on writing and terrified that once I began I’d realize I didn’t have anything to say. I felt like there was a lot riding on this book – it would be the first one I’d had proper time to write. If it bombed, I couldn’t blame my lack of focus or the fact that I was an accountant really. It would be all down to me. For the first time in my life I was a writer. But I didn’t want to write. What if I couldn’t do it any more? The idea made me shudder. The removal men had taken all my writing stuff up to the study, but I hadn’t sorted it out yet. I told myself it was because I was busy looking after the boys. And I said the same to Ben when he gently suggested that I switched on my laptop. ‘The boys,’ I said, vaguely, waving my arm in the direction of the garden. ‘We should probably think about getting some childcare.’ Ben grinned. ‘I’ve thought,’ he said. ‘You have?’ ‘Margaret,’ he said. ‘She’s Mike’s wife.’ ‘Who’s Mike?’ ‘The estate agent guy who rented this house to us,’ Ben reminded me. ‘His wife was a teaching assistant at the village school for years, but she’s retired now and he said she was looking for some part-time work.’ I was thrilled. ‘She sounds perfect,’ I said. ‘Ring her.’ So Ben did, and Margaret was just as keen as he thought she’d be. ‘She’s coming round to meet you now,’ Ben said, hunting for his car keys – he was off to do another medical on another player. ‘She said she’d love to look after the boys.’ ‘She hasn’t met them yet,’ I said with a grin as Ben waved goodbye. But as soon as Margaret arrived, I knew we had to have her. She was just so capable. She sat at the kitchen table and made Stan laugh as I made tea. She’d brought little packets of Lego figures for Oscar, and a whoopee cushion for Stan, and the boys were already smitten with her. I liked her too. ‘It’s just afternoons, really,’ I explained. ‘I can take the boys to school and nursery and I’ll pick Stan up at lunchtime and feed him. If you could just come after lunch to watch him, pick Oscar up at 3p.m. and then give them tea, that would be great. I’ll be here – in the study – and Ben works funny hours at the football club so he might be around too. So if you need us, you can shout. Would that suit you?’ ‘That would suit me very well,’ said Margaret. She was in her late fifties, perhaps, with neat blonde hair and a tidy figure in very clean jeans. I gave her a mug of tea and offered her a biscuit. ‘How are you settling in?’ Margaret asked, her eyes roaming my face. I tried to resist the urge to screw my nose up but I failed. ‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Wonderful. Ben loves it. And the boys.’ ‘And you?’ ‘Not so much,’ I admitted. I rubbed the palm of my hand over my hair. ‘I’m restless and nervous that we’ve swapped our life in London – that we loved by the way – for this great unknown.’ ‘Sometimes it’s good to take a leap,’ Margaret said. I nodded. ‘It’s definitely the right move for Ben. He’s got his dream job. As long as I’ve known him he’s wanted to run the physio department in a football club. He’s in his element.’ ‘So you don’t want to tell him you don’t like it here?’ ‘I don’t dislike it,’ I said. ‘Honestly, I don’t. It’s just different, that’s all. I’ve always been really nervous about taking risks or doing anything spontaneous – this move was risky and spontaneous so it’s no wonder I’m feeling a bit out of my depth. I don’t want to leave. At least, I don’t think I do …’ Margaret patted my hand. ‘It will get better,’ she said. ‘Once the boys start school and you’re in a routine. And you’ll make some friends in the village.’ I nodded, comforted. ‘I met a nice woman,’ I said. ‘Priya.’ ‘Oh yes,’ Margaret said. ‘Pregnant?’ I grinned. ‘Very pregnant. And I chatted to Ken in the hardware shop.’ ‘He’s our next-door neighbour,’ Margaret said. ‘Ever so handy when something goes wrong in the house.’ Again I marvelled at how everyone knew everyone else down here. ‘His friend Hal was there too,’ I went on. ‘And he said he’d heard stories about our house.’ Margaret looked at me. ‘Stories?’ she said. ‘What kind of stories?’ ‘Just about some things that happened here,’ I said vaguely, wanting to see what she knew before I told her what I’d heard. She nodded. ‘I’ve always thought it was a sad house.’ ‘Sad,’ I said. ‘Why do you think it’s sad?’ Margaret looked embarrassed. ‘It’s just silly gossip,’ she said. I offered her another biscuit and she shook her head. ‘My granddad told me something terrible happened here. I can’t remember exactly but I think someone died. Maybe more than one person.’ ‘A murder?’ I said, possibly with a bit too much excitement. Margaret gave me a sharp look. ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Or some sort of tragic accident.’ ‘Your granddad,’ I said more to myself than Margaret. ‘So it must have been a long time before the Seventies, then. I could ask at the police station …’ I realized Margaret was staring at me in horror and looking like she was about to leave – obviously she thought I was some sort of murder-obsessed criminal. ‘I’m a writer,’ I said in a rush. ‘I write crime novels.’ ‘I’ve never really been one for books,’ Margaret said. She looked quite pleased about it. Or perhaps she was just pleased that the village newcomer wasn’t about to kill her in cold blood. I beamed at her. ‘Hal and Ken said they’d heard there had been a murder, but we all assumed it was recent. If your granddad knew about it, though, it could have been much earlier. I’d like to find out more about the history of the house. See if there is a mystery here.’ Margaret screwed her forehead up in concentration. ‘I wish I could remember more,’ she said. ‘I think my granddad said no one ever knew what had happened. It must have been a really long time ago, though. Before he was born I think.’ ‘I’ll do some digging,’ I said. ‘It’ll keep me busy.’ ‘Do you have a lot of work to do?’ Margaret said suddenly. ‘I do, actually.’ I didn’t want to think about how I still had a whole novel to write. And maybe I could google the house, or find out who lived here years ago, and see if there was any record of this crime … ‘And is your husband here?’ Margaret looked round. I shook my head. ‘Pre-season fitness tests or something,’ I said. ‘So why don’t I take the boys out into the garden and you can have an hour or so getting yourself sorted out,’ Margaret said. ‘Give you a break, and give me and the boys time to get to know each other.’ Considering I’d spent days avoiding work, I was surprised how pleased I was with the offer. I looked at Margaret in gratitude. ‘That would be brilliant,’ I said. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ ‘Go,’ said Margaret. ‘Sort.’ Chapter 11 (#ulink_2d7eab86-1a82-50f6-8b97-4948fd4538ee) I bounded upstairs. The attic was the huge – the whole top floor of the house, so there was lots of space. It was a million miles away from my desk/dressing table combo in our old house. I stood at the door and surveyed the room. I would put my desk in between the two large windows. It was an astonishing view and I hoped it would inspire me. The bookshelves were on the opposite wall, either side of the small windows that looked down the lane. On my right was the wall that Ben had knocked on to see if it was hollow – the one with the ventilation window on the outside. I could put some pictures up there, perhaps. And on my left was a built-in cupboard with a door that had been painted shut. I narrowed my eyes as I looked at it. That wouldn’t stay shut for long, if I had anything to do with it. The removal men had left everything in a pile by the door, so I cleared the boxes that were stacked on top of the desk and dragged it to the wall. I plugged in my computer and the printer, then printed out some photos of the boys, and stuck them to the right-hand wall. As I pinned them up, I knocked the wall once or twice, just to see if it was hollow. But I still couldn’t tell. Knowing I should be thinking about a plot for my next Tessa book, I instead opened the internet and found the census records for England. I thought about Margaret and how old she was and scribbling some dates down on my notepad, I worked out that her grandfather would probably have been born around the turn of the twentieth century. ‘Hmm,’ I said out loud. ‘Did Margaret say it happened before he was even born?’ I typed our address into the search box and was pleased to see there were records going back to 1841. ‘Let’s start at the very beginning,’ I sang under my breath, Julie Andrews style, clicking on the first entry. At first I was confused as the village was simply listed as one entry without individual addresses. But thanks to the pubs, which had obviously been in the same place for all that time, I worked out the census recorders had started at the opposite end of the village and just worked their way along towards the sea. Our house, therefore, had to be the very final entry. I scrolled down and found it. Marcus Hargreaves, I read. Male. 34 years old. Industrialist. Below Marcus was a wife, Harriet, listed as thirty years old, and a little girl, Violet. She was just four years old. ‘Aww, a little family,’ I said. ‘Did you have more children, Marcus? This house is built for lots of kids.’ I clicked on the next entry, for 1851. Marcus Hargreaves, I read again. Male. 44 years old. Industrialist. But beneath Marcus was no mention of Harriet. Instead just Violet – who was now fourteen – was listed. Beneath her was a woman called Elizabeth Pringle, who was listed as a governess, a housekeeper called Betsy Bolton, and a maid – who was just sixteen – called Mabel Jonas. ‘Where’s Harriet?’ I said, feeling unaccountably sad, but intrigued nevertheless. ‘Was she the murder victim?’ I went back to the search results and chose 1861 this time. But now our house was listed as unoccupied. And the same in 1871. ‘No one at all,’ I said. ‘Where are you all?’ I clicked off the census website and found another that showed birth, marriage, and death certificates. But there was nothing online this time. Instead the website suggested checking parish records for the time. Disappointed, I sat still at my desk for a minute. Then I gave up all pretence of working on my book and instead I picked up my notebook and a pen, and headed downstairs. Margaret was throwing a ball to the boys in the garden. I went outside and she looked round. ‘All done already?’ she said. ‘That was quick.’ ‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘I just need to pop out – I can take the boys with me but if you don’t mind staying, I would get it done quicker …’ ‘Go,’ she said, without hesitating. ‘We’re having a great time.’ Pleased to have something to think about other than Dad and the stress of our move, I bounded down the lane towards the village church. I’d not been inside before, but we’d admired it on our walks to the shops. It was a gorgeous Norman church with old graves in the churchyard and a square bell tower. The heavy wooden door was open, so I ducked inside. Luckily for me, the vicar was there, pinning a notice to the board in the porch. He smiled at me as I walked in. ‘Hello there,’ he said. I introduced myself and explained what I was after. And the vicar – who was much younger than I expected vicars to be and who told me to call him Rich – showed me into a side office where the parish records were kept. ‘They’re all fascinating,’ he said. ‘I sometimes look up people at random and trace their family back to see how far they go. Lots of folk have lived here for generations.’ He pulled out the books for me and I settled myself down at the desk. It wasn’t as easy as searching online, but it didn’t take me long to find the christening record of little Violet in 1837, and then, in 1842, I found the record of Violet’s mother’s death. Harriet had died of childbirth fever, the record said. Not a murder then, I thought. I was disappointed that the mystery wasn’t a mystery after all. ‘Found what you were looking for?’ said Rich, peering over my shoulder. ‘I did,’ I said. ‘But she wasn’t murdered. She died in childbirth.’ ‘The baby died, too,’ Rich pointed out. He showed me the line below Harriet’s entry. ‘A little boy – look.’ ‘Frederick Hargreaves,’ I read out loud. ‘Aged two days.’ My voice caught in my throat on the last words. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Violet was five.’ ‘Violet?’ Rich asked. ‘Harriet’s daughter,’ I said. ‘She was five when Harriet died. My mum died when I was five.’ I paused. ‘And I lost my baby brother too.’ The vicar put his hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said. ‘You said you were a writer?’ I nodded, still looking at the entry in the records. ‘Maybe writing this story can help you make sense of your own,’ he said. ‘Maybe it can,’ I said. ‘Maybe it can.’ I thanked him and promised to come back another day to do more research. Then, with my head full of this unknown Violet who lost her mum as I’d done, and poor Harriet, I wandered home. I’d only been back about two minutes, and I was saying hello to the boys and Margaret, when I heard the front door open. Ben walked out into the garden, a bundle cradled in his arms. A little bubble of excitement popped in my tummy as he placed the bundle gently on the grass in front of the boys. ‘Careful,’ he said to Oscar who was bouncing up and down. ‘He’s just a baby.’ ‘Mummy!’ shouted Oscar, almost roaring with excitement. ‘Mummy! It’s a puppy! Come and see!’ I exchanged a look with Margaret. ‘Looks like you’re staying put then,’ she said with a smile. I nodded. ‘Looks like it,’ I said. Chapter 12 (#ulink_ecbea258-4290-50b6-95ad-a5fe20afa4de) 1855 Violet After I’d run away from Mr Forrest on the beach, I went into the house through the kitchen – I didn’t want to see Father asleep or awake – and went straight up to the attic. I slumped in the chair and took my hat off. I could hardly bear to look down at the bottom of the cliff, where I’d been so rude to Mr Forrest. Cutting him off, rejecting his kindness. I flushed again, thinking of how he’d seen right into my soul. How had he known how trapped I felt? How I was looking at him to help me escape? I knew I’d been lucky so far, that Father hadn’t married me off to the first man to show an interest. But recently he’d started talking about a man called John Wallace, who worked with him on one of his projects. He mentioned how clever he was and how good with money, and how he ran a tight ship. And I knew – I just knew – that these were qualities Father admired. Qualities he thought would make a good husband. So far I’d resisted all his efforts for me to meet Mr Wallace, but it wouldn’t be long, I thought in misery, before Father invited him down to Sussex, and that would be it. I knew I ought to speak to my father. I should tell him how I felt, that I wanted to paint and that Mr Forrest seemed to be taking my painting seriously, because for all his talk of taking my work to London, I knew that in reality I could do nothing without Father’s approval. But what would he say if I told him? I shuddered at the thought. On the whole, Father had been supportive of my love of art to begin with. Lots of girls like me took drawing lessons and I had been taught by a mousey-haired woman from the village who’d been very keen on technique. She’d sent me down to the beach to collect things – shells, feathers, a stick – and then made me sketch them over and over using only charcoal. Never any colour. Despite the repetitive nature of the task, I had loved it. Loved it more than the lessons I got from my succession of elderly governesses who droned on about kings and queens and made me recite poetry. Urgh, just remembering old Mrs Pringle who had a passion for the Reformation and who liked to share it with me, made me want to curl up into a ball and go to sleep. But when I was drawing I felt like I had become who I was supposed to be. When my lessons were over, I would shut myself in my bedroom and draw some more. First I sketched parts of myself – a foot or a hand. Then I would gaze at myself in the mirror and draw my face again and again, struggling to get my hair right. I sketched Father then too and he exclaimed in delight that I’d got his expression ‘just so’ and patted me on the head proudly. He even took me to the Royal Academy most years, laughing as I gazed in speechless wonder at the paintings there. But as I got older, Father’s indulgence of my art waned. ‘No more talk of painting, Violet,’ he would say if I tried to talk to him. ‘It’s not becoming for a young woman to be so focused on one thing. You need to extend your skills. Your arithmetic could do with half the attention you give to drawing.’ He would tut if he saw me with paper or pencil and refuse to answer if I asked for another visit to the Royal Academy. So I took to drawing upstairs in my bedroom, moving into the lounge – which had much better light – only when Father was on one of his frequent trips away. The only people who knew about my work – until Edwin found me on the beach that day – were Mabel, our housekeeper, and Philips, who did everything else around the house and garden. Mabel regarded my drawings with a sense of wonder – briefly. ‘Oh look, you’ve got your father’s eyes perfect there,’ she said when I showed her a sketch. ‘Aren’t you clever? Now move out the way while I clean this floor.’ Philips was more interested. He asked me questions about my work and pointed out where things weren’t quite right – and when I’d improved. I complained to him about the lack of light in my bedroom and wished aloud that I had a place of my own in which to paint. Then one day, when Father was in Manchester, he’d taken me up the rickety stairs to the attic room, which had once been a home for old furniture, trunks, and linen. ‘Look,’ he’d declared, standing back to let me enter the room. I’d gasped in pleasure. He’d moved all the junk out – into the outhouse in the garden he told me later – cleaned the wooden floor, and distempered the walls. A battered old chaise stood in one corner (‘Who knew that was up here?’ Philips had said with a good-natured grin.’) and there was a bowl with a jug next to it. ‘I thought this would be a good spot,’ he’d said. ‘It catches the sun, see?’ I had been overcome with gratitude and excitement. Now I could really work. That had been nearly two years ago. The attic room remained hidden from Father. I hadn’t lied exactly but I’d never told him about it and he’d never asked, obviously just assuming it was still a storage space. Philips continued to help me. He mended the stairs and made them safer for me to run up and down. He even bought paints and brushes for me in Brighton when I asked him to, and proved to be a useful sounding board for my musings about art. As time went on, Father seemed relieved that I had – as far as he knew – abandoned art. He began to talk about my potential as a wife and I ignored him most of the time. I knew nothing of men. In fact, I knew little of women. I had no friends, only a cousin who I’d lived with for a few years when I was younger. But he’d mostly ignored me, and anyway the family had moved away and I hadn’t seen them for years. With Father away so much we rarely had visitors and when we did, it was normally another man just like Father. I would dine with them in silence while they discussed business and then escape to my room when we’d finished eating. The idea of marriage was so odd to me that I disregarded it entirely. But now – now the vague talk of becoming a good wife had changed to specific mentions of Mr Wallace – I knew I was at a crossroads. I knew that unless I asserted myself, I would be Mrs Wallace within a year, and I wasn’t sure I could live that way. But the alternative – the very idea of telling Father how I really felt – was horrifying. Father and I had always rubbed along quite nicely. I knew I was loved, even if Father was strict. I missed him when he was away, which was often, but I didn’t miss my mother any more. Not really. She had died when I was so young that I could barely remember her. Only once recently had I wished my mother was there. I’d been looking out at the sea from the attic window, when I’d heard laughter from the front of the house, so I’d gone to the opposite side of the room and looked out of the smaller windows there. Outside Mabel was talking to an older woman who looked just like her, only a bit shorter and more squat, and who had to be her mother. There were two little girls playing in the lane, running up and down with their hair flying behind them – it was their laughter I had heard. A slightly older boy with fair hair like Mabel’s leaned against a tree and watched the girls – his sisters, I assumed – with an expression of disdain. Mabel, who was the oldest of her siblings, I knew, was talking to her mother in what seemed to be an urgent way, waving her hands about as she told her story. The older woman listened, and she took Mabel’s hands and held them still as she replied. Then she brushed a stray hair from Mabel’s forehead and tucked it up under her cap, talking all the time. Mabel nodded and threw her arms round her mother as I watched. Her mother extracted herself from Mabel’s embrace, kissed her on the cheek then walked off in the direction of the village. The little girls ran after her waving goodbye to Mabel gaily and, after a few seconds, the boy followed, giving Mabel a salute that she returned. Mabel watched them go, then she adjusted her cap and walked back into the house, smiling. I had stood at the window wondering what it would be like to have a mother who listened to your woes, who gave advice, and who made sure your hair was neat. Imagining having little sisters who played with you, or a younger brother to torment. I pictured our echoey house full of noise and laughter with children in all the rooms and my mother looking after them all, and I felt a pain in my heart so acute that I had to sit down on the floor for a moment to recover. ‘I miss my mother,’ I whispered to myself. I stayed on the floor for a little while, feeling lost and alone. Then I got up, brushed the dust from my skirt, and carried on with my painting. Chapter 13 (#ulink_5441509b-6490-5921-b57f-26cacb88a456) Present day Ella The puppy was called Dumbledore. Stan had pushed hard for his name to be Batman but when Oscar suggested Dumbledore, the puppy bounced around the lawn and we all agreed he’d chosen his own name. He was sitting on my lap in the kitchen a few days later when Priya came round. Mike was mending the back door, which was sticking, and we were chatting about not much as he worked. When the doorbell rang, Dumbledore stirred slightly in my lap. Gently I picked him up – he was still just a little bundle of fluff and too-long ears – and put him in his basket where he burrowed into the blanket and went back to sleep. Then I ran to the front door. For as long as I’d been writing my thrillers, I’d wanted a massive whiteboard so I could scrawl ideas for my twisty-turny plots and check everything made sense. I pictured it like the incident boards I’d seen in CID offices, only with fictional incidents recorded instead of real-life crimes. So I was absolutely delighted to see Priya in our drive wrestling the very thing I’d imagined out of the boot of her mud-splattered car. ‘We’re moving offices so we’re having a clear-out,’ she said. ‘Thought you could probably make use of this.’ I was speechless with delight. ‘God it’s brilliant,’ I said. ‘Can I give you something for it?’ Priya shook her head. ‘Honestly, it was heading for a skip.’ ‘Cup of tea at least?’ She shook her head again. ‘Midwife,’ she said, pointing to her bump, which seemed to have got bigger in the few days since I’d last seen her. ‘Later?’ I asked. ‘Definitely,’ she said. ‘Or, come and see me at work one day this week? I want to know more about this mystery of yours so I can do some digging.’ ‘Deal,’ I said. Mike helped me carry the board up to the attic, and lent me his drill so I could fix it to the wall. I put it on the far side of the room – on the wall with the extra window, or air vent. I half expected – or hoped perhaps – the drill to go right through and prove the wall was just plywood but it didn’t. The wall was definitely brick – the dust drifting down onto the floor proved that. Slightly disappointed that our mysterious window was simply for ventilation after all, I shoved rawl plugs into the holes I’d drilled, and with Mike’s help, screwed the board to the wall. ‘Not bad,’ I said, standing back to admire my work. ‘Dead straight,’ Mike agreed. ‘What are you going to use it for?’ ‘Plotting,’ I said with a grin. After Mike had gone, I checked on the puppy, then I took a cup of tea, some biscuits, and feeling faintly ridiculous, Stan’s old baby monitor so I could hear if Dumbledore woke up, upstairs. My heroine, Tessa Gilroy, was a private investigator. She mostly worked on divorces but occasionally – and usually reluctantly and inadvertently – got involved in something more dangerous. I was well aware my sort of writing was enjoying its moment in the sun right now, and I knew my next book had to be good enough to appeal to readers on its own merits, rather than being just another thriller. I’d been collecting cuttings about crimes and mysteries, and jotting notes about stories Reg had told me for months, and started sketching out an idea involving a woman being set up for something. Probably a murder, I thought, but the alleged victim would still be alive. I thought the ‘murderer’ would contact Tessa from prison and ask for her help in proving the victim was still breathing … I pulled out the whiteboard pens Priya had brought with her and wrote a few ideas on the board, feeling the rusty cogs in my mind beginning to whir. But all the time I was writing, at the back of my mind, was the stuff I’d heard about our house, and the story of the Hargreaves family and poor motherless Violet. ‘How’s it going?’ Ben said as he peeked round the door of the study an hour or so later. I was hunched over my laptop trying to write a synopsis. I jumped, not expecting Ben to be home. ‘I’m going back to the training ground in a minute,’ he said. ‘I just had to go and pick up some equipment in Brighton, so I thought I’d pop in and say hello. You look engrossed. Is it going well?’ ‘Not bad,’ I said, reluctant as always to discuss a book while I was still thrashing out the plot. ‘I thought you’d like a cup of tea,’ Ben said. He came over to my desk, put a mug down next to my coaster, and peered at the screen of my laptop. Pointedly I moved the mug on to the coaster and shut my screen. ‘Don’t look,’ I said. ‘I’m not ready for you to read it yet.’ Ben chuckled. ‘What’s it about?’ I looked up at him. ‘Tessa’s working in Sussex,’ I said. ‘That’s all you need to know for now.’ Ben grinned at me. ‘So you’re writing?’ I nodded then made a face. ‘It’s words,’ I said. ‘But I’m not convinced they’re quite right yet.’ ‘It looks better in here,’ Ben said. ‘Like you’ve settled in.’ ‘I have,’ I said in satisfaction, looking round at the room. ‘But I want to open that cupboard. It would be good to stash some books and stuff in there.’ I pointed at the cupboard nestled under the eaves in the corner of the room. The one with the door painted shut. ‘Mike’s still downstairs,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll get him to have a look at it if you like?’ ‘Brilliant,’ I said. ‘It probably just needs a good yank.’ It took a bit more than that, but Mike got the cupboard open in the end. He gouged out paint from the edge of the door, and wiped the edges with paint stripper and eventually, it opened. I was downstairs by then, trying to put on some laundry without Dumbledore jumping into the washing machine. Mike yelled over the bannister, ‘Ella! Cupboard’s open.’ ‘Fab,’ I said. Scooping up the puppy, I bounded up the stairs. All these steps would definitely help me keep fit. In the attic, Mike was standing at the open cupboard door, shaking his head. ‘Think I’ve just made a whole lot more work for you,’ he said. I looked inside. The cupboard wasn’t empty, as I’d expected. Instead its wooden shelves were full of books and papers. ‘I can get someone from the office to come and clear all this out if you like,’ Mike said. ‘Absolutely not,’ I said. ‘No way. Look at all this stuff. It could belong to someone.’ ‘Someone who didn’t want it,’ Mike pointed out. ‘Still,’ I said. ‘We can’t just dump it. I’ll go through it and see what’s here.’ The hairs on the back of my neck were standing up. ‘I’ve heard stories about this house,’ I told Mike. ‘Stories about a mystery. Maybe this is linked. Perhaps the cupboard was painted shut for a reason.’ Mike gave me a sympathetic look. ‘Or perhaps some lazy so-and-so couldn’t be bothered to paint it properly,’ he said. But I was undeterred. I reached into the cupboard and took out a stiff cardboard folder, full of paper and tied with cord. ‘I’m going to start with this,’ I said. It was a while before I got to go through the folder, but much later, when the boys were bathed and in bed, and Ben had come home again, wolfed down some dinner, then gone out to an evening training session back over in Worthing, I settled down on the sofa, and opened the file. It was actually something of a disappointment at first. Lots of crumbling, yellowing newspaper pages, mostly. I took one from the top and read it. 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