Sir Henry conceded defeat, patted her shoulder once again, and returned his attention to her mother. “That’s agreed then, Maggie? Things can carry on, to the same arrangement as before. Whatever you may have heard from Cla - er, to the contrary, the Lodge is yours for as long as you want it.”
He paused, as though expecting Magda to make some comment, or at least thank him. When neither was forthcoming, he took his coat from the back of the chair, winked at Natalie and left through the back door. Before the door closed, a blast of cold air sent a swarm of dead leaves swirling into the kitchen.
Natalie took his place at the kitchen table, and tried not to think about how the seat was still warm. “Does that mean we’re staying, Mum? Rent free?”
Magda said nothing, although her cold blue gaze remained fixed upon her daughter, almost as though seeing her for the first time. Her beautiful face could have been sculptured from stone. Although she cradled a coffee mug in her hands, she did not appear to have drunk from it; the milk was puckering into skin on top. She was wearing one of Sarah’s tight pink sweaters, with bootcut jeans and high heels; clothes that were far too young for her, even though her figure was still a perfect size 8.
Thoroughly creeped out by the way her mother was still staring at her, Natalie tried again. “Will Sir Henry keep Dad’s job open?”
She knew this to be a stupid question as soon as she asked it. Her father was lying in a hospital, barely breathing unaided. How the hell could he continue to work as a gardener? Even if he did regain consciousness, the doctor said he would remain in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. He would need constant care; and if they were not going to do it, they would have to pay someone else. This, when her mother failed to answer, led her to ask her second question - with more urgency.
“Mum, what are we going to do about money?”
Magda said nothing. Was she even listening?
“Mum!”
As though in slow-motion, the mug slid from Magda’s fingers. Before Natalie could react, it had crashed onto the table, splashing coffee everywhere. She hardly had time to grab a tea towel from the draining board to soak up the mess when Magda forced her chair back from the table and slammed both hands onto the table.
“Who gives a fuck about money?”
It was the violence in her mother’s voice which shocked Natalie most. Instinctively she cringed away, clutching the dripping tea towel to her chest, expecting Magda to follow up these words with a blow, as John would have done. Instead Magda looked her up and down, almost as though she was seeing a stranger. Then she yanked open the kitchen door and was gone.
Natalie ran to the window, hoping to see which way her mother had taken. Rain lashed the glass but she caught a glimpse of her mother running up the garden path before she faded to an indistinct blur. There was an orchard at the end of the garden, the branches of the ancient trees swaying in the storm like skeletal fingers. Beyond the orchard was a little-used path that led directly to Hurst Castle. Was that where Magda was headed? Was she running after Sir Henry?
Natalie was too anxious to calculate possible scenarios. To distract herself, she set about cleaning up the mess and cooking dinner. Concentrating on completing each small task seemed to be the only way to keep herself together. There was also the hope this would win her favour with her mother.
It had been a perfectly reasonable question to ask. What were they going to do about money? Her mother was a housewife and had no job, no income of her own. With her father incapacitated, and presumably uninsured, where was the money going to come from? Sarah was dead and her father as good as.
It was all very well to daydream about her mother marrying Sir Henry, but he was already married to Clare. Would he get a divorce, or would he expect Magda to just be his mistress? Where did that leave John - apart from flat on his back in a hospital bed, completely oblivious that some other man was making a move on his wife?
Natalie sighed. Perhaps Magda didn’t care for Sir Henry as much as he cared for her - although she’d never appeared to care much for John either. But if Sir Henry was offering marriage, or even just money, Magda should grab it with both hands. How else were they going to survive without a regular income? Someone had to be practical about these things. Why couldn’t her mother see that?
If her mother returned that evening, Natalie didn’t hear her. The following morning Magda was back in the kitchen, as immaculately and unsuitably dressed as ever, in a red floral dress and high heels, sweeping the floor, filling the washing machine and doing the rest of the chores as though the past week had never happened. Natalie made no comment, deciding it was easier to go with the flow.
This was how they got through the next three years.
Sarah was never mentioned. All her belongings were packed neatly into boxes, along with the many photographs that had been scattered around the house. For a few months the boxes remained heaped in her old bedroom, gathering a grey film of dust. Then one day they simply vanished. It was as though Sarah had never existed.
Magda got a job at the local beauty salon, and then another at a local wine bar. Regardless of her frosty demeanour, she seemed to have no trouble attracting new admirers, which was perhaps why Sir Henry, despite agreeing to let them live at the Lodge rent-free, never visited again.
Nor did Sir Henry ever employ another head gardener. He closed the castle and grounds to the public and took up blasting the local wildlife to death instead. Shortly before Natalie left to go to college, he was dead too. Natalie liked to think it was divine retribution for all those poor rabbits and birds he’d shot, but the mundane reality had been an accident while re-loading his gun. The title passed to a cousin; the castle, grounds and the little that remained of his personal fortune went to his wife, to be held in trust for his only child, Alicia.
9
Present
Alicia Vyne Fitzpatrick always bought yellow roses for Sarah’s grave. Had they been her favourite? Alicia had no idea. They were a bright, cheery colour and it was the right thing to do.
The roses looked so beautiful against the white headstone it was a shame no one ever saw them. Natalie never visited her sister’s grave and, as far as Alicia was aware, neither did anyone else. Perhaps no one knew the grave was here, hidden away behind this little church, the headstone engraved with only one word.
Sarah
Alicia had often wondered what Sarah would have been like if she’d lived. Would they have gone to university together, and been bridesmaids at each other’s weddings? Would they have even remained friends? Sarah had always been the kind of girl who would have gone places and done amazing things. Alicia had the idea that both she and Calahurst were likely to have been left trailing in Sarah’s wake years ago.
Dispirited, Alicia took this week’s yellow roses out of their wrapping and tried to arrange them in the little stone vase on Sarah’s grave. Whatever she did, the roses looked as though they’d been plonked in. So in the end she gave up and settled for checking that the marble chippings covering the grave were free of weeds, and picked up a stray cigarette butt that had fallen amongst them.
St Daniel’s Church was a Victorian addition to the Hurst Castle estate, built to replace the ruined chapel in the gardens. Of the same grey limestone, it was almost hidden by the surrounding woodland. The church was always kept open for the tourists, although there were considerably less of those now the castle was no longer open to the public. The grander family tombs were inside the church, or outside on either side of the main path - all the better to be admired.
Sir Henry had suggested Sarah should be laid to rest here, right at the back to discourage the ghouls from seeking her out. She was well hidden. The graves here were over a hundred years old and mostly belonged to the castle servants. Some didn’t even have proper headstones, and those which did exist were so worn the inscriptions were impossible to read. It broke Alicia’s heart every time she saw them. She would have loved to have had these little headstones repaired but James wou
ld not hear of it.
“Why waste money on the dead?” he’d told her (even though it was her money). “Your mother should flatten the lot, before one of those old headstones falls over and breaks someone’s foot. And they sue her skinny arse.”
So today, as always, Alicia placed the roses on Sarah’s grave, stepped back to say a prayer for the friend she’d lost forever, and tried not to cry.
She could feel the fading sunlight warm her back. The summer was clinging on, despite the leaves of the surrounding trees already glinting gold. Her children had been back at school for a few weeks now, and the evenings were drawing in and becoming cooler. It was depressing to think the only thing she had to look forward to now was Christmas.
As Alicia stood there with her eyes closed, an unexpected rustling sound broke into her thoughts - as though someone was forcing a path through the long grass. At first she ignored it, assuming the noise was caused by a dog, or local children playing, but as the sound drew closer she became unable to concentrate. Her eyes flicked open to glare at the intruder - only to find she was surveying an empty churchyard.
Alicia turned slowly to ensure she was still alone. The boundary of the churchyard was marked by a low stone wall and completely enclosed on three sides by trees. Behind her were the little wooden lych-gate and the road that led into the village. To the right were the woods where the locals liked to walk their dogs. Directly ahead was another gate, which led through the trees and up the hill towards the castle. On the left, separated from the churchyard by a straggly hedge, was the Old Rectory - a beautiful Georgian manor house, where Alicia now lived with James and their children.
Although the sun was setting behind her, the churchyard was still bright with its golden light and it was hard to see past the shade of the ancient woodland. The Civil War had been fought in these parts, almost four hundred years ago, and there were some in the village who believed that the ghosts of the soldiers still lingered.
But Alicia was a practical sort of person, who didn’t believe in ghosts.
Did she?
Alicia moved away from Sarah’s grave and back onto the path. She could hear nothing but the crunch of her own footsteps on the gravel. No sound of wildlife, or traffic from the road. The gate was hanging open but, as there was no wind, it remained motionless.
The path led back between the grander headstones to the road, but Alicia didn’t want to go that way. Instead she headed towards the woods. Away from the path the grass grew tall and yellow. Every few months her mother would arrange for one of the castle gardeners to cut back the grass with a strimmer. But not quite often enough, Alicia realised, as she felt the hems of her jeans grow damp.
“Hello?” she called, as she stepped into the shade of the oak trees. “Is somebody there?”
She let her hands rest against the stone wall, feeling its chill against her palms. “Hello?” she said again.
She thought she heard a slight rustle of leaves, but that could have been her imagination. It certainly didn’t sound as though anyone was walking between the trees. There was a lingering scent of smoke. A cigarette? Or had the castle gardeners lit a bonfire?
She leaned forward. “Are you lost?” she said, and now felt even more of an idiot. Because who else would be in the woods at twilight but a local dog walker? So she turned away.
There was a blur of grey as a wood pigeon shot out from beneath the canopy of trees, almost brushing against her head before it landed on one of the graves behind her.
Alicia shrieked. Was that all it had been? A pigeon?
The bird preened itself, supremely unconcerned.
Grumbling beneath her breath, Alicia picked her way back through the long grass to the path. She didn’t have the time to stand around spooking herself. She was already late collecting her children from drama club.
It took a matter of minutes to reach the lych-gate, but before she left, she gave the churchyard one last look, as though to reassure herself that there really was no one else there, before stepping out onto the pavement and ensuring the gate was firmly closed behind her.
It was only after she had walked the short distance to the Old Rectory that she remembered.
She had not been the one to leave the gate open.
10
Natalie drove away from her apartment at a speed that was excessive, even for her. As the quayside diminished in her rear view mirror, she caught sight of her own reflection, white-faced and angry. The BMW shot around the war memorial at the top of the hill, scarcely on two wheels. She hit the straight and accelerated. The stone gateway of Hurst Castle was ahead of her, closer with every second. As the car bumped over a pothole, she finally appreciated her fury was likely to get her killed and slammed on the brakes. The BMW went into a short skid and ended up on the grass verge, perfectly parallel to the castle wall. She abandoned the car and walked through the huge stone gateway.
In the fading light the Lodge resembled something imagined by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, and was exactly as she remembered - but then a building of this age and history was not going to be allowed to rot. The only mystery was why it had taken Clare Vyne so long to save it from neglect.
The fence had been replaced by new wood, creosoted dark-brown and stretching along the length of the garden. The grass had been cut, although it still had the shaggy appearance of a meadow rather than a lawn. The slabs of stone that led to the front door had been jet-sprayed to remove the decades of grime. She’d never seen them that pale colour before and, for the first time, she made the connection with the ruined medieval chapel beside the castle. It was clear where the slabs had originated from.
She nudged open the gate with her foot and walked up the path. The two little windows tucked beneath the thatch followed her progress like malevolent eyes. As a child this had always given her the creeps. As an adult it was hard to shake off the sensation that she was being watched.
The scent of fresh paint and brick dust still lingered in the air. Up close, the diamond paned windows gleamed and the brass letterbox shone. She traced its outline with her finger. When she had been small she had thought it a mouth, ready to bite off an unwary finger.
The flat-roofed porch, built by her father, had been demolished but his trellis still framed the door. The climbing rose was long gone but another could always be planted in its place. Natalie glanced up at the window to her old bedroom. Had it really been twelve years since she’d left to go to college? She began to feel overwhelmed with memories. The night she’d climbed out of her window to go to the fair. The night she’d met Geraint Llewellyn. The night her sister had died. The whole chain of events had started here.
She was still holding her keys in her hand. Her car key, her apartment keys and three much older keys she could never bring herself to throw away. She slotted one of these into the lock - and was disconcerted to find it still fitted.
After a few moments she pulled the key out and dropped the bunch back into her pocket. What the hell was she doing? Hoping to lay old ghosts? It wasn’t going to happen. Nothing had changed. The place radiated evil; she could almost touch it. She took a step back. What had she been thinking?
Yet framed by the golden glow of the autumn forest, it became an ordinary cottage again - picture-book pretty, nothing sinister at all.
Apparently appearances could be deceptive.
“I’m not coming back,” she said out loud. Then, with more force, “I’m not coming back, do you hear me?” Feeling the confidence surge through her, instead of returning to her car she let her feet take her across the castle drive and into the woods, following a familiar path through the trees.
She was not wearing the best footwear for an outdoor hike but the weather had been dry today. The earth was soft but not too muddy, and gave way to rough-hewn cobblestones, then red bricks arranged in a herringbone pattern. At this point she stopped watching her feet and looked up. Directly before her was a wrought-iron gate, set between two neatly clipped yew hedges. It was padlocked.
The walled garden.
How long had it been since she’d stood here?
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the twilight. There was an expanse of lawn and several large trees, which cast long, dark shadows. In the distance was the glimmer of moonlight on water. Or was that only her imagination? After years of neglect, surely the ponds would have to be drained, cleaned and repaired before they could be restocked and filled with water?
She felt disappointed, and then angry. It was only a garden, what had she expected? That it would be frozen in time? That there would be people standing in huddles, some in uniforms, some in regular clothes, all talking in whispers? That the garden would be illuminated by the flashes of cameras? Did she think she would see a young girl floating in the water, eyes staring sightlessly at the sky? Did she really believe she was going to see Sarah?
Her lashes felt damp. She rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes and felt a cold breeze stroke the back of her neck. She shivered, stepping back from the gate. The heel of her boot caught on a loose brick and wobbled. Instinctively she reached out to steady herself and caught a handful of yew. The sharp pain brought her back to the real world. Objectively she examined her palm. One of the twigs had nicked her skin and now it was bleeding. When she licked away the little ball of blood another oozed into its place. She sighed. It was time to go.
Natalie took a different route back to her car. Trying to stumble along an overgrown woodland trail in the dark would not be smart. So she continued along the path as it led uphill towards the castle. From here she would be able to walk through the gardens and back to the drive. If she kept to the shadows she wouldn’t be seen. She really didn’t want to get into any kind of conversation about what she was doing skulking about the place where her sister had been murdered.
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