Greyfriars House
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Emma Fraser emigrated to Africa with her Gaelic-speaking parents when she was nine years old and remembers lying in bed and listening to the sound of her father playing the bagpipes drifting across the veld. She returned to the Western Isles of Scotland years later and went on to qualify as a nurse and worked in Edinburgh and Glasgow before going on to study English Literature at Aberdeen University. Emma began writing when her daughters started school and she has published three historical novels, two of which were shortlisted for the Romantic Novel of the Year Award. Her third book, The Shipbuilder’s Daughter, was inspired by, as always, true events – this time by the Glasgow shipyards where her grandfather once worked. Greyfriars House is her fourth novel.
Keep up to date with Emma by following her on Twitter (@EmmaFraserBooks) or becoming her friend on Facebook (www.facebook.com/emmafraserauthor).
Also by Emma Fraser
When the Dawn Breaks
We Shall Remember
The Shipbuilder’s Daughter
COPYRIGHT
Published by Sphere
978-0-7515-6612-3
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Emma Fraser 2018
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
SPHERE
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DZ
www.littlebrown.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
Greyfriars House
Table of Contents
About the Author
Also by Emma Fraser
COPYRIGHT
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Acknowledgements
Dedicated to the nurses who served during WW2.
Your bravery humbles me.
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awake in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft star-shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there; I did not die.
MARY ELIZABETH FRYE, 1932, BALTIMORE, USA
Prologue
Charlotte
October 1984
The house looms behind me, grey and forbidding in the moonlight. From the turret window a light flickers so briefly I can’t be sure I saw it. Ever since I arrived on the island I have had the sensation I am being watched, that someone wants me gone. But I no longer trust my senses. There is so much that is strange about Greyfriars.
It is very still. As if the island is holding its breath. I move towards the shore. What my great-aunt has told me so far has shaken me. And there is more to come. More secrets to be revealed. I am not sure I can bear to hear them.
As I pick my way along the rough path I think regretfully of the torch left behind in the porch. But I persevere, wanting to put distance between me and the house. The moon and stars provide just enough light although every now and again scudding clouds obscure them and I am momentarily plunged into darkness.
I continue through the trees, innocuous in the daytime, but in the shifting darkness as sinister as watching sentinels. Then at last I am in the open again, the sea, glittering in the moonlight, stretching in front of me. I suck in lungfuls of salty air and my pulse slows.
A rustle comes from the copse behind me and my heart kicks as I whirl around. Something has moved within the shadows. I think of the ghostly presences my mother told me about, then immediately dismiss the thought with an impatient click of my tongue. The only ghosts are the ones in my head. Some placed there by Georgina, others of my own making.
Tiger has run off and I can hear the cracking of branches as she sniffs amongst the piles of rotting leaves. A shape swoops over my head and I smother a cry. A flutter and a flash. It is just the owl that roosts in the eaves, returning with a mouse trapped in its beak.
It isn’t just the house that unsettles me, or the two women within, it is me, the way I feel inside. Untethered and adrift. A boat without an anchor at the mercy of the wind and tide.
I’d told myself I’d come here to find answers although I knew, deep down, I was fleeing from the world, my grief, my guilt, from having to make a decision about the rest of my life.
Tiger growls. She has emerged from the bushes and is standing in front of the copse of trees, her ears up, her tail rigid behind her. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I know she is there before I see her. The figure emerges from the shadows, her face hidden. I have seen her before. Edith sleepwalking, I’ve been told. I no longer believe it.
Chapter One
Charlotte
Eight weeks earlier
I stood on the narrow pavement in front of the Old Bailey as cameras pointed in my direction, their flashes almost blinding me. The questions came thick and fast.
‘Miss Friel, how does it feel to have won your first murder trial?’
‘Look this way, Miss Friel, and smile!’
‘Did you know you’d be creating a precedent when you agreed to take on this case?’
‘I didn’t win on my own, gentlemen,’ I said with a nod in the direction of Giles who was standing next to me, his hand on my back, uncomfortably close to my backside. I shifted slightly, not enough so anyone would notice, but e
nough to ensure Giles had to remove his hand.
But the win was truly all mine. Even if I was only junior counsel, it was me who’d established Mrs Curtis had called 999 no fewer than thirty-four times, not one call of which resulted in any action by the police. Not even so much as a caution. It was me who harassed the hospitals, ferreting out each report of Susan Curtis’s repeated attendances. It was me who presented the jury with enough evidence to bring in a not-guilty verdict.
Giles hadn’t wanted to take the case. Not just because he didn’t care about the Mrs Curtises of this world and it was pro bono, but also because he was sure we would lose and he didn’t like to lose.
Neither did I.
But the moment I’d met Susan Curtis, and seen how downtrodden and defeated she was, I’d cared. And when I’d heard her story, I’d seen a chink – a possible line of defence – and I had known I could get Susan off.
‘Miss Friel, how does it feel to know that someone is guilty but yet do everything in your power to have them released back into society? Do you not think people should pay for their crimes?’
All eyes turned towards the speaker of the last question; a journalist from the News of the World whom I loathed. As soon as the trial was over we’d hustled Susan into a taxi – understandably she’d no desire to face the journalists – and now thwarted of their prey they were determined to get their tuppence worth from me.
‘Happily the jury agreed with me that if Mrs Curtis hadn’t defended herself with the only means available to her, her husband would have almost certainly killed her and quite possibly their son.’
But the journalist wasn’t finished. ‘Don’t you think you might have just given any woman unhappy with her marital situation carte blanche to do away with her husband, knowing that she has every chance of walking away scot-free?’
I held his gaze, trying not to reveal my contempt. ‘I hardly think Mrs Curtis has walked away scot-free, as you put it. She’s spent over a year in prison, separated from her son. And I doubt the events of that night – or the months and years before, when she was beaten on a regular basis, terrified every time she wouldn’t survive – will ever leave her.’
‘Now, gentlemen,’ Giles said, stepping forward before I could say any more, and he knew me well enough to know I had a great deal more to say. Furthermore, he had let me have the limelight long enough. ‘This, as you know, was an unusual case…’
As the reporters turned their attention to the great Giles Hardy, I slipped back inside and went to the robing room where I removed my robe and wig. Despite eyes gritty from lack of sleep after weeks of poring over evidence and witness statements into the early hours, I was still buzzing. When I was confident that the reporters had gone I left the Old Bailey and headed back to Chambers.
I hurried along Fleet Street passing the offices of the major newspapers, weaving my way through the tourists irritatingly blocking the pavement as they stopped to take photographs of the Old Cock Tavern, before turning right into Chancery Lane.
Even after ten years I still got a thrill walking through the Inns of Court. Off the main tourist route it was a rarefied, separate part of London – almost a little village in itself. I loved the sense of history in each stone, knowing I was walking in the footsteps of the Knights Templar, Oliver Cromwell and Thomas More. I had worked hard to earn the right to be part of it, and now, with the success of the Curtis trial, everything I had ever wanted was within my grasp.
I was smiling to myself as I crossed the quad in front of the offices of Lambert and Lambert. A man stepped in front of me, blocking my path. There was only time for the briefest moment of recognition, the tiniest shiver of fear, before he pulled back his fist and slammed it into my face. My spine jolted as I hit the pavement.
My head spinning, I scrambled to my feet. All I could think of was that no one must see me. But it was too late. A crowd had already gathered, a barrister I knew restraining the man who’d hit me. A woman clutched my arm.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘Shall I call an ambulance?’
I raised my hand to my cheek and winced. To my relief it didn’t seem to be bleeding. ‘No. I’ll be okay.’
‘How can you do what you do and still live with yourself?’ My attacker was struggling to release himself from the grip in which he was held. I recognised him now. It was Alfred Corrigle. He’d been in court all through Simon’s trial. Simon had been accused of raping Alfred Corrigle’s daughter, Lucy, and against my better judgement I had defended him. Successfully.
‘Do you know my daughter tried to kill herself?’ Alfred’s face was contorted, droplets of spittle flying from his mouth. He looked a far cry from the neatly dressed man who’d been in court. He lunged towards me. Instinctively I stepped back.
‘Is she okay?’
‘No thanks to you, you bitch! How would you like it if it had been your sister or your daughter on the stand?’
‘I was only doing my job.’ Even to my own ears, my words sounded feeble.
‘Your job! Letting people go free so that they can rape again. I don’t know who is worse – the monster who raped my daughter or you for what you did to her on the stand. He did it to someone else, you know. She told Lucy. She was trying to decide whether to take it to court but there isn’t a chance in hell of that now. Not after what you did to my Lucy.’ His voice caught and he began to sob, awful wrenching heaves that shook his shoulders. It was one of the most terrible sounds I’d ever heard.
‘I think I should call the police,’ someone said from the crowd that had gathered.
‘No. Please. Let him go.’ All I wanted to do was get away. Besides, I could see he was no longer a threat. He was a broken man. Moreover, he had a point. I’d gone after Lucy with a ruthlessness that had surprised even me.
As Alfred Corrigle stumbled away I lifted my briefcase from the ground, gave the crowd a weak smile and with as much dignity as I could muster, headed towards Bloomsbury.
I had never been so glad to close the door of my small flat behind me. I was still shaking so badly it had taken me several attempts to fit my key into the lock. Not bothering for once to remove my shoes so they wouldn’t spoil the cream carpet, I collapsed into an armchair.
I sat for a while thinking about what Lucy’s father had said. Had Simon really raped before? There had been no mention of it in the evidence the Crown had passed to me before the trial. But then if the woman had withdrawn her complaint, it could easily have slipped them by. Or the woman had been lying. Although I couldn’t think of a reason why.
I stood to get myself a glass of water and noticed the red light on the answerphone was blinking, telling me I had a message. It was probably Giles or John checking I was all right. No doubt they’d heard. News travelled fast around the Inns of Court. Although I had no wish to speak to anyone I pressed play. But it was Mum who’d left a message.
‘Charlotte. It’s me, Mum. You were on the television. Well done, darling! I’m so glad you managed to get Mrs Curtis off.’ There was a long pause and I thought she’d rung off but just as I was about to put the phone down, she spoke again. Her voice more hesitant now. ‘Charlotte, could you come home? As soon as you can? There is something I need to tell you.’
There was nothing more. I stared stupidly at the receiver in my hand. Mum had never asked me to come home – let alone as soon as I could. Something was clearly badly wrong. But what? I took a deep breath to slow my pounding heart. There was no point in speculating. I glanced at my watch. If I hurried I could make the last flight from Heathrow to Scotland.
It was after eight when, with a fist-sized bruise on my cheek and a tightness in my chest, the taxi dropped me outside Mum’s house in Edinburgh. I hadn’t phoned Mum to let her know I was coming. There had only been time to pack a suitcase, take a shower and change, before the taxi tooted to let me know it was waiting. As it was I’d only just made the flight to Edinburgh by the skin of my teeth.