CHAPTER 1: The Empty House
The house is silent now, the sort of silence that presses itself against your skin and seeps into your lungs. I can hear the wind outside, restless as ever, pushing at the old sash windows and rattling the loose pane in the upstairs landing. It’s an old sound—one I’ve come to know intimately these past weeks. It rises and falls like breath, like a question that never expects an answer.
I woke late this morning. There was no reason to hurry; there hasn’t been for days. The bed felt too large without him beside me—a ridiculous thing to notice after all these years together, but it’s true. Even his absence seems to leave weight behind, as if he might have only just stepped out of the room for a moment.
Downstairs, the kitchen smelled faintly of yesterday’s tea and damp stone. I put on water for another pot anyway—habit more than desire—and watched the kettle steam until it shrieked. The mug trembled in my hand when I poured, though whether from cold or exhaustion or something else entirely I couldn’t say.
The sea was hidden behind a veil of fog this morning; even from the window above the sink, there was nothing beyond a wall of pale grey. Sometimes on days like this it feels as if we’re adrift at the very edge of things—the last speck before everything vanishes into mist.
I wandered through rooms that felt both familiar and strange without him: dining table set with three chairs (one always left empty for show), grandfather clock ticking in its corner like a metronome for grief, faded rugs worn thin where footsteps used to fall heavy on their way to supper or bed or out onto the clifftop paths.
Dust has begun to settle on everything despite Mrs. Chubb’s best efforts—she comes twice weekly now but refuses to stay longer than necessary since “the trouble with Mr. Harper.” She leaves notes folded neatly by my bread bin: “Milk low,” or “Bin men Tuesday,” her handwriting pinched and slanted as if hurrying off the page.
Yesterday she brought me a casserole wrapped in tea towels (“You’ll catch your death not eating proper”) but today there is only quiet and cold toast curling at its edges atop my plate.
I tried reading after breakfast but found myself staring at words that dissolved into meaningless shapes—each sentence slipping away before I could hold it steady in my mind. Later I dusted picture frames in his study: our wedding photograph (him tall and unsmiling; me looking sideways out of frame), his daughters clustered stiffly beside us in taffeta dresses they’d hated even then.
Clara would say dusting is beneath me now—that someone else ought to do it—but Clara isn’t here yet, though she will be soon enough with her lists and her sharp tongue sharpened further by grief dressed up as duty.
In the drawing room I found one of his pipes resting atop an old newspaper crossword half-finished in blue ink—a small constellation of ash scattered across yesterday’s headlines about foot-and-mouth disease upcountry. The pipe still smelled faintly sweet when I held it close: cherry tobacco and something darker underneath, something almost medicinal.
His slippers are under my chair by habit more than purpose; sometimes I catch myself speaking aloud when passing through doorways—little questions left hanging (“Did you see that weather?” or “Shall we light a fire tonight?”)—and only realize afterward how absurd it must look from outside.
But who is watching? No one except perhaps Mrs. Chubb peering through net curtains when she arrives Mondays with her basket swinging against her hip; no one except gulls wheeling over empty fields between here and Lizard Point; no one except myself reflected back from window glass smudged with salt spray and fingerprints.
It was just past eleven when Reverend Llewellyn knocked at the side door—not quite formal enough for front steps but too well-mannered for anything less than politeness. He stood shifting his hat between hands while apologizing for intruding (“Just thought you might like some company”), eyes darting toward my unmade hair then away again as if ashamed by what he’d seen.
He sat awkwardly on edge of sofa while I fetched tea neither of us wanted; conversation fluttered around church flowers (“Geraniums don’t take kindly to this sea air”) and parish business until finally he said softly: “There’s talk among some… about changes coming.” And then he let silence fill up all those spaces between words—the ones that meant Clara and Harriet were planning their return sooner rather than later.
“I expect you’ll want time alone,” he murmured before leaving—a kindness maybe, though part of me wished he’d stayed longer so that noise could fill these rooms again even just briefly.
After lunch (bread thick with butter scraped from its paper wrap), I climbed upstairs intending to change linens but instead found myself standing inside our bedroom doorway unable—or unwilling—to cross any further inside. His dressing gown hangs still on its hook behind wardrobe door; his watch rests atop chest-of-drawers wound down now, stopped forever at 2:47 AM two nights ago when someone (Harriet? Mrs Chubb?) forgot themselves during preparations for calling hours.
A seagull thudded against glass trying desperately to reach crumbs left forgotten on windowsill—a brief fluttering panic followed by retreat into sky so thick with mist it seemed impossible anything could fly at all today.
By mid-afternoon fatigue had settled deep into my bones—I lay curled beneath eiderdown listening first for footsteps (none came) then rain beginning gentle against slate roof overhead until each drop sounded louder than memory itself: soft percussion marking out minutes lost between mourning what was gone already versus fearing what might come next through doors left unlocked in daylight hours simply because habit demands they remain so until nightfall returns them safely closed again.
Later still—when light had faded enough that lamp glow seemed golden rather than harsh—I found myself sitting at his desk idly tracing initials carved into wood long ago (E.H., R.H., C.T., H.T.), fingertips catching along grooves worn smooth by decades’ use before pausing suddenly over unfamiliar scratchings half-hidden near drawer handle:
A keyhole—small enough not to notice unless searching purposefully—with tarnish darkened around edges where fingers must have fumbled recently searching either entry or escape depending which direction memory chooses tonight.
I ran thumb along brass edge once then twice more feeling heartbeat thrum faster until pulse echoed hollow within throat—a sensation equal parts dread and hope warring quietly beneath surface calmness carefully maintained since first bell tolled last week proclaiming end-of-things across churchyard green below cliff road winding homeward toward dusk yet again without him waiting inside kitchen lamp-lit warm against gathering chill outside walls grown colder every day since funeral procession passed slow beneath leaden sky heavy above headstones older even than this house built high upon rock meant always—as everyone says—to withstand storms far rougher than mine alone now rising fast beyond locked doors guarding secrets neither daughter nor wife ever truly understood until too late perhaps—
But tomorrow they come again—the daughters—and tonight there is only silence broken occasionally by wind’s lament or distant clangor from harbor bells tolling unseen somewhere below fog line reminding me sharply how easy it would be simply never to open certain drawers—or letters—or hearts ever again—
Except curiosity has teeth sharper than sorrow sometimes.
And somewhere nearby,
a key waits exactly where he knew
I would look
eventually.
CHAPTER 2: Chapter 2: The Story Continues
The kettle’s whistle lingers in my ears long after I’ve taken it off the stove. Steam curls from the spout, drifting across the kitchen window where condensation has blurred the sea beyond to a smear of pewter and slate. My hands are shaking, but only a little—enough to rattle the cup against its saucer as I carry tea through the echoing hall.
Outside, gulls wheel and scream above black rocks slick with tide. In here, everything is muted: thick carpets swallowing sound, heavy drapes stifling what little light makes it through the glass. The house smells of old wood polish and something musty underneath—salt air trapped in velvet curtains for years.
I’m halfway across the drawing room before I realise Clara is already there, sitting straight-backed by the cold hearth. She’s reading yesterday’s Times with her lips pressed together like she means to bite through them. Harriet hovers at the French doors, tracing her finger along a pane fogged white by her breath.
“Tea?” My voice cracks on that single word; it sounds too loud in this mausoleum of ticking clocks and distant wind.
Clara lowers her paper an inch. “You’ve made Darjeeling,” she says flatly, not quite a question.
“It was all I found.” I set the tray down on a side table scarred with heat rings—evidence of careless cups long before my time here. “Would you prefer something else?”
She ignores me and pours herself half a cup, black and steaming. Her nails are bitten short; I remember her hands trembling at the graveside yesterday as she gripped mine for show.
Harriet glances over but doesn’t move from her post by the window. Her face is pale above her dark jumper, hair pulled into its usual severe knot. She looks younger than thirty-two today—a child waiting for permission to speak.
Clara folds her newspaper with surgical precision and sets it aside. “We need to discuss practicalities,” she says without preamble. “The will hasn’t been read yet, but we should be clear about expectations.”
I sit opposite them on one of those horsehair sofas that never quite lose their chill no matter how many logs burn in the grate. My skirt rides up above my knees when I cross my legs; I tug it down beneath my palm.
“What do you mean?” My voice is steadier now that I’m hidden behind teacup and steam.
She leans forward, elbows resting on tweed-clad knees—the same suit she wore to university interviews decades ago, perhaps dusted off for funerals since then—and fixes me with eyes so sharp they could slice fruit.
“We’re not children,” Clara says quietly but fiercely enough that Harriet flinches behind her shoulder. “Father told us things you might not know about this house… about his affairs.”
A log shifts in last night’s ashes with a hollow pop; somewhere deep inside these walls another door settles or sighs shut against rising wind.
“He left instructions,” Harriet murmurs—not quite looking at either of us—”that certain possessions were not to be touched until probate finishes.”
“Yes,” Clara snaps before turning back to me with renewed focus: “And Mother’s jewellery—”
“I haven’t touched anything.” The lie tastes chalky on my tongue; if they only knew how carefully I’ve catalogued every drawer since dawn just trying to feel useful again.
Clara taps one nail against porcelain: click-click-click in steady rhythm like Morse code meant only for me. “We’ll want an inventory drawn up immediately,” she says finally.
“All right.” The world narrows to this exchange—the rain streaking down leaded panes outside becomes irrelevant next to Clara’s hawkish stare and Harriet’s nervous shifting beside her sister’s shadow.
“There are other matters too.” Clara sips tea without looking away from me—as if she expects poison—or maybe hopes for it? Her mouth twists into something almost like pity before smoothing out again into practiced disapproval.
I wait because silence often unsettles people more than argument ever can; Mrs Beattie taught me that within weeks of arriving here—let trouble come find you rather than chasing after it yourself.
Clara fills quiet space anyway: “You may stay while arrangements are made… provided nothing is disturbed.” She glances at Harriet who nods dutifully though there’s doubt pinched between her brows—a faint crease inherited from their father or perhaps carved by years spent doubting him instead?
It takes effort not to laugh—not out loud but somewhere deep in my chest where grief sits sour and fizzing—I have lived here eight years yet still they treat me as interloper; even now when he lies cold beneath granite slab marked TREMBLAYNE FAMILY PLOT 1872-…
“I don’t want any trouble,” I say softly, folding hands tight so knuckles blanch white against navy wool skirt bought for occasions just like this one: sad gatherings where everyone pretends kindness until knives appear beneath napkins or inside folded letters stamped official red wax seal Tremayne & Sons Solicitors Truro Branch—
“We appreciate your cooperation.” Clara stands abruptly as if ending an interview rather than conversation among kin—such as we are—and moves toward dining room archway trailing perfume both expensive and oddly acrid (her mother’s bottle resurrected from some bureau upstairs?).
Harriet lingers by fireplace watching sparks gutter out among ash fragments left behind from last night when neither daughter could meet my eye over supper plates gone cold between untouched bites of shepherd’s pie Mrs Beattie reheated twice before giving up entirely—
“You all right?” Harriet whispers so low even wallpaper seems embarrassed by intimacy implied—but already footsteps echo away down flagstone corridor lined with dead flowers in vases nobody refills anymore except maybe Mrs Beattie who claims lilies keep ghosts docile—
I nod but hold myself perfectly still until they’re both gone—one storming ahead full sail unfurled into coming squall; one drifting uncertainly behind like flotsam caught on barnacled rock—
My heart hammers as if expecting someone else will burst through door demanding keys or answers or apologies owed since wedding day when village church bells tolled warning disguised as welcome—
Instead only clock ticks louder than blood rushing past eardrums—only rain tapping Morse code against glass far older than any promise made beneath its gaze—
Later—I don’t know how much later—I find myself alone upstairs folding shirts he’ll never wear again into neat stacks atop cedar chest carved initials A.T., faded smooth by decades’ worth of restless fingers seeking comfort in repetition:
There beneath his favourite woollen jumper—a scrap of paper slips free:
Not handwriting meant for daughters or clerks or vicar’s condolence file—but hurried lines scrawled sideways along margin:
*If anything happens… look under Sissinghurst.*
No signature but none needed—not after twenty-three years learning how he hid things best—in plain sight behind words spoken sideways over breakfast toast or buried deep inside crossword clues no one else solved first try except him—
Sissinghurst? Why would he write that? Not here—not Cornwall—but Kent… gardens he loved enough to haunt library shelves searching for Vita Sackville-West all summer long…
A gust rattles windowpanes hard enough that frame shudders around warped old glass—I slip note back between jumpers heart thrumming wild rabbit rhythm beneath breastbone—
Downstairs somewhere a floorboard creaks under weight not mine nor theirs—I freeze listening harder than ever before…
What did he leave under Sissinghurst? What did he mean?
Outside fog closes tighter round house perched brittle atop cliff edge—and inside shadows gather thick along skirting boards hungry for secrets neither daughters nor widow dare name aloud yet—
Tomorrow…I’ll start looking.
CHAPTER 3: Fog at the Threshold
The fog pressed against the windows like a living thing tonight, thick and pale and relentless. I watched it eddy in the garden, swallowing up the old yew hedge and dissolving the world beyond into nothing but shifting grey. Somewhere out there was the sea, but even its voice seemed muffled—only a low, constant thrum beneath everything else. I stood at the parlour window with my cup of tea gone cold between my hands, tracing patterns in the condensation while Mrs. Chubb’s footsteps echoed distantly down the corridor.
I hadn’t slept. Not properly—not since Clara’s visit yesterday when she’d left her perfume clinging to every room and her accusations floating just behind every word. Her voice still scratched at me: “You can’t keep this place going on your own, Evelyn.” No matter how I tried to shake it off, it had burrowed somewhere deep.
Instead of sleep, there was his journal: battered leather binding scuffed soft by years of use, corners curled like old leaves. The first night after they took him away—after he died—I’d found it tucked behind a row of gardening books in his study. A trick lock on the cover; not that anyone would look twice at an old diary if they didn’t know what to search for.
Tonight I sat cross-legged on my side of our bed—the left side still faintly indented from his weight—and pored over pages by lamplight. My dressing gown bunched around my knees; half-read letters scattered across the counterpane among biscuit crumbs and an empty glass of water grown cloudy overnight.
His handwriting was so familiar: looping capitals when he was hurried or angry; careful slanting script when he wrote for himself alone. He never meant for them to find this—not Clara or Harriet certainly—but perhaps not even me? There were dates crossed out and passages obliterated with lines so heavy they tore tiny wounds through paper.
13th March 1997
Fog rolled in again today—couldn’t see past the orchard gate by noon. Hid everything as always; sometimes I think we could disappear entirely and no one would know until spring…
Then a list:
– Spare key (see ledger)
– “Black Dog” (behind painting?)
– Not safe—wait for E.
I ran my finger over those words until my skin tingled from friction: wait for E.
My name—or just coincidence? He called me “E” only once that I remembered, years ago, late at night with rain beating against these same windows.
There were more entries beneath—some cryptic scraps about ledgers and “the box,” others barely legible notes on bills paid or people met at church functions—but always threaded through was that sense of unease blooming into something sharper as weeks passed before his death.
A floorboard creaked somewhere outside the bedroom door; I froze, heart leaping stupidly despite knowing Mrs. Chubb made her rounds each evening checking windows and locks with military precision born from decades here before me. Still—the sound didn’t repeat itself right away.
My eyes burned from reading too long by weak light but I couldn’t stop tracing clues over again: Black Dog… behind painting… which painting? There were dozens hung all through this house: stormy seascapes in gilt frames above fireplaces; stiff Victorian portraits glaring down narrow halls; watercolours fading in guest bedrooms untouched since childhood holidays long before mine began here.
And then—spare key (see ledger). Which ledger? His office held ledgers stacked two deep along shelves above his desk—a magpie hoard of records stretching back to God knows when—yellowed receipts for apple harvests beside lists of tithes given at Christmas or Easter baskets sent out to neighbours after storms knocked fences loose.
He’d always said nothing ever really vanished here except time itself—that things lost simply drifted sideways until someone wanted them badly enough to look properly.
I thumbed ahead several pages:
21st March 1997
Clara sniffing around again after supper—asked about insurance papers but wouldn’t meet my eye… told H not to trust her if anything happens…
Harriet’s initial standing quiet as a ghost below that line—a shaky H penned darker than anything else on the page as if she’d signed it herself under protest.
Downstairs something rattled—the dumbwaiter settling maybe or wind tugging loose latchwork in servants’ corridors nobody used anymore except Mrs. Chubb hunting draughts come autumn evenings like this one. The fog licked against stone now so thick it blurred any memory of colour from moonlight outside; only lamplight remained certain inside these walls—and even that felt uncertain tonight.
I stood abruptly, legs prickling pins-and-needles awake again after hours folded close together reading secrets meant for someone braver than myself perhaps—a woman who hadn’t spent half her marriage learning how silence could be armor or exile depending which Tremayne daughter happened by next week seeking evidence Evelyn Harper wasn’t worthy after all.
In slippers barely holding together at their seams I padded downstairs past darkened landings where ancestral faces peered accusingly from shadowy oil paint above wainscoting smeared with dust no matter how often Mrs. Chubb polished it clean come Sunday mornings before church bells tolled invisible across fields buried now beneath silver mist pouring up from sea cliffs below us all.
The study door stuck slightly as always—a warped panel catching along swollen frame so you had to lean hard into wood then step quickly aside lest it swung too fast on release—but inside nothing moved except late dust motes swirling slow through lamp glow atop worn Persian rug faded almost colourless beneath piles of forgotten correspondence tied up neat with blue ribbon marked “1979-1984.” The smell here was sharp: ink and old tobacco ghosts lingering since last winter’s fires burnt themselves out when we still believed there would be another spring together coming soon enough to plan repairs instead of funerals no one wanted to speak aloud yet over breakfast tea gone bitter cooling between us both trying not to meet each other’s eyes across cracked porcelain cups chipped long before either daughter cared who inherited what once silence finally won out for good—
“Mrs Harper?” A voice behind me snapped everything brittle inside tight—I turned too quickly knocking loose stack of envelopes onto floor where they fanned open like bird wings caught mid-flight—
It was only Mrs Chubb wrapped tight in tartan shawl smelling faintly of lavender polish and mothballs waiting patiently halfway into doorway holding tray she must have fetched straight from kitchen without asking permission first—her face unreadable behind steel spectacles glinting lamplight back toward me—
“You’ll catch your death wandering about unshod at this hour,” she said quietly setting tray down atop bureau littered already with biscuit crumbs I hadn’t swept away earlier—
“I couldn’t sleep.”
She nodded solemn as though this explained everything worth knowing about grief or insomnia—or secrets locked away inside journals neither daughter quite trusted nor understood belonged rightfully elsewhere now their father lay cold below sodden earth outside chapel walls where sea winds keened most nights louder than any mourner dared admit hearing aloud afterward—
Her gaze lingered too long upon open journal splayed wide beside lamp base where ink shone wet black even though every word written there had dried weeks ago—
“Not every answer’s meant for finding,” she murmured eventually smoothing stray hair back beneath cap pulled low over ears red raw from drafty corridors upstairs—
“Did you ever see him hide something?” The question slipped out before caution could rein itself back in—I sounded small even to myself desperate for confirmation some part wasn’t imaginary—
A pause stretched thin between us full enough with things unsaid you could almost hear boards settling deeper under weight neither widow nor housekeeper wished carried much longer alone—
“There are places best left undisturbed,” she replied finally brushing dust from tray edge with thumb pressed white-knuckled against wood grain worn smooth by generations passing secrets hand-to-hand without ever naming price required later on—
Her footsteps receded slowly down passageway trailing scent of lavender behind leaving me stranded half-lit amid shadows thrown wild across paneling by restless flames dancing hearthside nearby—alone save company offered up nightly now by ghosts crowding margins between each written line refusing rest so long as someone insisted reading further than wisdom suggested safe anymore—
Above fireplace hung storm-tossed canvas painted sometime last century—all slate greys whipped bright white round headland curve familiar even blindfolded after years spent listening tide grind rocks smooth below bedroom window each morning before dawn broke fog apart inch by stubborn inch returning colour briefly until night fell once more claiming everything left unresolved inside these walls built high enough some believed even sorrow might drown given time enough washing salt clean away eventually if only one waited patient as stone itself underneath us all—
The Black Dog… behind painting?
I crossed room barefoot feeling chill seep bone-deep despite fire snapping loud defiance nearby—the frame heavier than expected lifting free awkwardly revealing dark void cut rough square set deep within crumbling plasterwork hidden years unseen save those desperate enough searching answers nobody else thought worth wanting anymore—
Inside hollow darkness waited shape wrapped brown paper tied up neat string biting hard edges cruel against palm trembling sudden anticipation dread alike mixing sharp copper taste atop tongue refusing swallow relief just yet unwilling hope dare speak louder than heartbeat hammering wild fierce impossible quiet demanded now most urgent above all else rising tidal certainty rushing faster than fog pressing tight against every threshold both within house—and myself—that mattered most tonight.
CHAPTER 4: Chapter 2: The Story Continues
The day began with the sky pressing low over the manor, a flat grey that seemed to weigh on the roof. I woke to the wind rattling the window in its sash and a faint ache behind my eyes—a warning of another headache, or perhaps just too little sleep again. I’d lain awake past midnight, hunched at the dressing table beneath a lamp’s yellow glow, reading and rereading Laurence’s journal until his looping script blurred into nonsense. The words stuck with me even after I closed the book: “Trust is a luxury here. Dig deep, but not only in earth.” What did he mean by that? And why did his voice seem nearer now, with every page?
The house was silent as I dressed—too silent for such an old place—but downstairs, faint sounds drifted from the kitchen: Mrs. Chubb humming tunelessly while she polished brass handles with vinegar and salt. The air held that sharp tang of metal and cleaning rags.
By ten o’clock, Clara had arrived with Harriet trailing behind her like a shadow stretched thin by morning light. They brought no food or flowers—just themselves and their cold perfume—and swept straight into the drawing room as if they still owned it.
I followed at a careful distance, smoothing my skirt as I went, nerves prickling along my skin.
“Oh look,” Clara said before I’d even crossed the threshold. She was standing by the bay window where Laurence used to stand to watch storms roll in off the Channel. “Evelyn’s up before noon for once.”
Her tone carried easily through polished floorboards and faded carpets; it might have been mistaken for affection if you didn’t know better.
“I always rise early,” I replied quietly. My voice sounded brittle to my own ears.
Clara turned, lips curling upward without any warmth. “Of course you do.” She moved aside just enough to let Harriet step into view—a small mercy, though Harriet looked everywhere but at me.
Harriet fiddled with her scarf and muttered something about fog on Fore Street this morning.
Clara ignored her sister entirely and set about surveying every surface of the room—the cracked plaster above the fireplace, Laurence’s battered armchair by the hearth where dust motes caught in slants of watery sun.
“You might ask Mrs. Chubb to open these curtains properly,” she said after a moment, snapping one between two fingers as though testing cloth at market. “It’s dreary enough in here without you lurking about like Miss Havisham.”
I felt heat rising up my neck but forced myself not to react; Clara wanted me flustered. Instead I asked whether they’d like tea—my hands already moving toward cups stacked haphazardly on a side table left over from yesterday’s awkward visit from Reverend Llewellyn.
“Tea?” Clara repeated archly. “Not sherry? It is nearly half-ten.” Her gaze flicked over me—lingering on last night’s cardigan thrown hastily over my blouse—and then away again as if disappointed by what she found.
Harriet sank onto a settee beside an embroidered cushion bearing Laurence’s initials—her knees pressed together tightly enough that her ankles quivered with strain.
“Tea would be lovely,” Harriet offered softly when silence dragged out too long between us all.
“Milk?” My voice warbled slightly; I hated myself for it but couldn’t help it today.
She nodded once but didn’t meet my eye.
Clara followed me out into the corridor under pretense of helping fetch biscuits but really only to lower her voice so Mrs. Chubb wouldn’t hear through kitchen walls (though we both knew nothing escaped Mrs. Chubb).
“I’ve spoken with Mr Foyle,” she murmured as we passed beneath Laurence’s portrait—his eyes oil-dark under heavy brows—as if he could overhear secrets from inside gilded frameworks forty years old.
“The solicitor?” My hand trembled on a tin of shortbread; crumbs rattled inside like loose teeth in an old man’s mouth.
“Yes.” A pause while she inspected chipped paint around doorframes—for evidence of neglect or perhaps secret passageways; one never knew what Clara hunted for anymore—or what she feared finding.
“He says there are irregularities in Father’s will.” Her mouth twisted slightly around ‘irregularities.’ “You’ll want everything in order before probate.”
I steadied myself against cool marble worktop while kettle hissed behind us.
“It was all drawn up properly,” I said—not quite believing it myself.
Clara leaned closer until I could see powder dusting her lashes.
“We’ll see.” She picked up a china plate (Laurence’s mother’s pattern) and turned it idly between ringed fingers.
“We wouldn’t want anything…missing.”
When we returned Harriet was paging through Country Life magazine absently but looked relieved when we entered—as though hoping our absence meant escape rather than conspiracy brewing elsewhere within these walls.
Mrs Chubb appeared at that moment bearing scones fresh from oven; steam rose off them fragrant with currants and butterfat.
She caught Clara staring hard at Evelyn (at me)—and hesitated just long enough before setting down tray that message passed between them wordlessly: caution or collusion or simply habit bred from decades of service here under Tremayne roofs.
“Thank you, Mrs Chubb,” I said quickly—to break whatever spell lingered there—and poured tea so hot it scalded knuckles when spilt across saucer lip.
We sat stiffly around battered table: four women suspended between memory and accusation while waves crashed somewhere below unseen cliffs outside drawing room windows.
Harriet picked nervously at scone edges; crumbs scattered across velvet napkin patterned with faded violets.
“So how are you finding things here…alone?” Clara asked after some time had passed pretending civility—all faux concern strung tight as violin wire ready to snap.
I looked past her shoulder toward garden gone wild beyond glass—a riot of bramble twisting round statuary barely visible through misty panes—and tried not to betray how much each word cost me now that Laurence was gone and only riddles remained in his stead.
“It takes getting used to.”
“I imagine you must feel quite lost.”
A beat too long before Harriet added quietly: “It must be strange—all these rooms.”
“There are memories everywhere,” I said carefully—for their benefit more than mine—and reached for jam pot whose lid stuck fast until fingers slipped sticky-red against porcelain rim.
Clara watched every movement as if cataloguing each sign of weakness for later use: trembling hands; bitten lip; glance darting toward clock tick-ticking above mantelpiece where time itself seemed suspect lately—a thing stretching then collapsing unexpectedly under pressure none could name aloud yet all felt closing in tighter each day since funeral lilies wilted beside black-draped pews last month.
After tea ended they gathered their coats (expensive wool cut sharp enough for city winters) and made show of embracing Harriet first near front door where sea-wind whistled spitefully through keyhole gap then turned back toward me:
“If you need anything—or notice anything odd—you’ll let us know immediately?” Clara managed innocence poorly but wore mask well enough among strangers who hadn’t grown wise yet to what lies sound like when laced through silk smiles sharpened against grief gone sour inside old family homes clinging stubborn atop Cornish stone cliffs forever watching tides drag secrets out to sea below…
They left together arm-in-arm down gravel drive crunching frostbitten leaves beneath boots polished bright for occasion—while Mrs Chubb busied herself fussing over silver tray left behind unwashed on sideboard till door finally clicked shut echoing hollow down tiled hallways empty except for distant thud-thud-thud of heart beating faster now than sense could account for alone within crumbling grandeur trembling slightly round edges no matter how tightly curtains drawn nor locks turned twice upon nightfall coming sooner these days than ever before—
Later—in dusk thickening outside—I found footprints tracked through dust along study floorboards leading nowhere new except back again always back again toward desk drawer where Laurence's journal waited cold beneath weighty ledger books smelling faintly still of tobacco leaf and something darker ink-stained deeper than mere paper could confess:
Tonight I'll read once more beneath lamplight searching margins desperate for answers hidden plain among warnings written by hand no longer warm—because tomorrow may bring more questions hungry daughters sharper still than wind gnawing stone outside bedroom windows…
And tonight—I am certain—I am being watched even now
CHAPTER 5: The Cipher Within Walls
The wind battered the windowpanes all night, a kind of relentless tapping that might have been branches or just the sea, forever gnawing at the cliff below. I lay awake listening, blanket pulled high to my chin, cold despite the wool socks and two jumpers. Somewhere in the next room, the grandfather clock coughed out three chimes. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept through until morning.
I got up before dawn and padded downstairs. The house felt hollowed out—every step echoed on bare boards where rugs had been rolled away for cleaning weeks ago and never returned. Dust motes drifted in my torch beam as I crossed to my husband’s study. The door stuck halfway; swollen with damp, it resisted me like a living thing.
His journal was where I’d left it: in the locked drawer at the bottom of his desk, hidden beneath old bank statements and yellowed receipts. My hands shook as I turned pages already soft with handling—his neat, angular script running straight as fence posts across lined paper.
*January 12th: There is comfort in patterns—three steps north from hearthstone, then turn eastward toward what endures.*
I read it again and again until the words blurred into nonsense. Patterns—he always spoke about them as if they were protection spells only he understood.
The kettle shrieked from the kitchen; I jumped and nearly dropped the book. Habit tugged me there before sense could intervene. Mrs. Chubb would scold if she found me making my own tea again—”You’ll upset my schedule”—but today she wasn’t due until after ten.
I poured water over a solitary bag in a chipped mug and watched steam curl upward, dissolving into nothing. Something about that line—the steps north from hearthstone—itched under my skin.
I carried both mug and journal back into the hall where last night’s embers still smoldered faintly behind soot-smudged glass. Three steps north would take you straight toward the wall beside Father Tremayne’s portrait—a dour man with black eyes that followed you no matter how you tried to avoid him at dinner.
I set down my tea on a side table and measured out paces: one… two… three… My slippers scuffed against faded carpet so worn it showed pale threads underneath.
Eastward? Toward what endures?
There was only wall there—and yet something about its surface caught at me now: a hairline crack running vertical beneath an antique sconce. Had it always been there? My heart beat faster as I pressed fingertips along plaster chilled by winter air.
A memory surfaced unbidden: Arthur kneeling here years ago with his toolkit open beside him, tightening screws while muttering about “draughts getting in.” He’d never let anyone else touch this section of wall for repairs—not even Mrs. Chubb’s cousin who did odd jobs about the place for pocket money.
Holding breath, I nudged at loose paint near the crack until a flake gave way under fingernail pressure—a small powdery crescent drifting to join dust already gathered on skirting board below. Behind it, wood gleamed through thin plaster—a panel hardly wider than my palm.
My pulse thudded so loudly I worried someone might hear upstairs—that Clara or Harriet would burst down demanding explanations for why their father’s widow was peeling away bits of family home like dead bark from a tree.
But no footsteps came; just silence thick enough to drown in.
It took more force than grace—I fetched Arthur’s old penknife from his desk drawer—but soon enough pried loose one edge of panelling until it popped free with a muffled gasp of escaping air.
Inside was darkness deeper than shadow; I fumbled blindly till fingers brushed velvet softness—a pouch? The drawstring stuck tight but yielded after some coaxing: inside rattled coins heavy enough to bruise knuckles when spilled onto rug below.
Sovereigns! Not many—maybe half a dozen—but gold nonetheless, dated far older than even Arthur himself could have remembered firsthand: Queen Victoria’s profile glinting dully through tarnish centuries thick.
My chest tightened—not greed but terror that someone might catch me like this: crouched on floor clutching treasure meant never to be found by anyone but him—or maybe not even by me at all?
I slid pouch back inside its cubbyhole before reason could argue otherwise; replaced panel; smoothed wall over as best as trembling hands allowed till no sign remained save faint streaks where dust clung differently now than before.
Back at his desk again—the kettle whistling itself empty behind closed kitchen door—I leafed further through journal entries searching for clues less cryptic than those first lines:
*February 2nd: The weight of stone remembers everything we forget.*
*March 8th: Keys are not always metal nor doors always visible.*
A scraping noise startled me upright—the front door latch jiggling violently then slamming shut hard enough to rattle every picture frame along hallways slick with morning fog dampness seeping through letterbox slot…
Clara’s voice sliced clear above rain drumming roof tiles outside:
“Mum?” That mocking lilt on her lips though she’d never once called me anything but Evelyn unless forced by others’ presence to feign civility. “Are you up?”
She didn’t wait for answer before heels clipped sharp against flagstones leading toward study doorway—Harriet trailing after her reluctantly silent as ever except when provoked beyond endurance by sister’s barbs or mother-in-law’s perceived trespasses upon ancestral territory…
“What are you doing?” Clara demanded without greeting or preamble—eyes darting from journal open beside blotter to crumbs gathering in saucer next to half-drunk tea gone cold already between sips stolen during nervous intervals spent waiting for fate or fortune (never sure which) to show itself more clearly written between lines left behind by men long buried beneath Cornish soil or sea foam alike—
“Just reading,” I lied too easily; thumb smoothing closed cover almost apologetically though truth pulsed hot beneath skin where secrets pressed close against ribs threatening escape every time breath hitched unevenly under scrutiny—
Harriet lingered awkwardly near bookcases pretending interest in spines cracked years ago by careless hands no longer present; Clara stalked closer sniffing disdainfully at air tinged faintly metallic from coins hidden mere feet away—
“You should come into town later,” Clara said abruptly breaking tension taut as piano wire stretched past tuning point—”DS Penrose wants another word about missing items—and Reverend Llewellyn asked after you yesterday.”
Translation clear enough even wrapped in false concern: Don’t think yourself safe here alone—or trusted anywhere else besides…
“I’ll consider it,” was all I managed though mind spun frantic mapping routes between clues yet unsolved and dangers gathering just outside candlelit periphery of vision—
They retreated eventually leaving behind perfume lingering sour-sweet atop musty upholstery—door slamming echoing finality far louder than necessary—
When quiet returned (if quiet could ever truly exist here) I dared open journal once more:
*March 12th: Sometimes what cannot be seen must be heard instead—the hollow ring reveals more than solid ground ever will.*
My gaze drifted instinctively toward drawing room architrave where floorboards creaked different notes depending which corner stepped upon late evenings returning home long after others slept undisturbed—
If patterns really were protection spells perhaps he meant me not merely to find—but also listen—to these walls…
Outside gulls screamed above crashing surf invisible beyond shrouded windows while somewhere deep within manor bones another secret waited just out of reach—for now.
CHAPTER 6: Echoes in Empty Rooms
I woke before dawn, the house already restless. Wind battered the windows in slow, uneven gusts, making the old glass tremble. I lay on my back and watched pale strips of light slide across the ceiling. There’s a particular loneliness to these hours—when you’re not quite awake but nowhere near sleep, suspended between dreams and memory. For weeks now I’ve started each day like this: heart pounding, listening for footsteps that never come.
When I finally got up, my dressing gown was missing from its peg behind the door. In its place hung an old raincoat of Arthur’s—a thick canvas thing with frayed cuffs and a sharp tang of sea brine. I frowned at it for a moment, then shrugged into his coat instead. The lining scratched my arms as I padded down the corridor towards the kitchen.
The manor feels cavernous without him here. Every floorboard creaks underfoot; every echo seems to chase me from room to room. In the front hall, yesterday’s post lay scattered where Mrs. Chubb had left it—a utility bill, some fliers for jumble sales in the village hall, a letter addressed to “Mrs E. Harper” written in unfamiliar slanting capitals.
I carried it with me into the kitchen and set it beside the kettle while I rummaged through cupboards for tea bags. The tin was empty—though only yesterday there’d been enough left for another week at least. Instead there were biscuit crumbs dusting the shelf and one bent spoon lying on its side behind a jar of pickled onions.
Mrs. Chubb arrived just after seven, shuffling through her rituals: apron tied tight over her hips, hair wound in a severe grey bun that quivered when she frowned at crumbs on the counter.
“You’re up early again,” she said by way of greeting.
“Couldn’t sleep.” My voice came out hoarse; I cleared my throat.
She eyed me over her spectacles as she put bread into the toaster—too much force so it jammed halfway down—and then reached for her duster as if determined to scrub away any evidence of disorder.
“It’s this wind,” she muttered after a moment, though we both knew better than to blame weather alone.
I sat at the table watching steam curl from my cup—no sugar today either; someone had moved that too—and tried not to dwell on how tired everything looked: chipped saucers stacked beside unopened marmalade jars; Arthur’s chair pushed slightly askew as if he might walk in at any moment and set it right again.
Later, after Mrs. Chubb disappeared upstairs with her bucket and mop (complaining about “muddy prints all along t’corridor”), I found myself wandering through empty rooms searching for things that should have been exactly where I’d left them: my diary vanished from its usual drawer in Arthur’s desk; a photograph frame overturned on the windowsill; keys missing from their hook by the pantry door.
At first I thought perhaps Mrs. Chubb had tidied too well—or perhaps Harriet or Clara had taken something by mistake when they visited last week—but there was no logic to what was gone or moved or simply altered by some invisible hand overnight.
On impulse I went upstairs and checked my jewelry box beneath piles of scarves in our bedroom wardrobe: earrings jumbled together instead of separated into pairs; an old brooch turned upside-down on faded velvet lining. My hands shook as I closed it again—not out of fear exactly but something colder than nerves creeping beneath my skin.
I tried not to let panic take root but all morning little things kept going awry: matches gone from their box beside the hearth; shoes rearranged inside closets so that lefts no longer matched rights; even Arthur’s pipe resting at an odd angle atop his bedside table—as if someone had picked it up just long enough to inhale whatever traces still lingered there before setting it back again without care or sentiment.
By noon clouds pressed low against crooked chimneys outside and rain tapped steadily against panes already streaked with salt from days before—the world shrinking further until only this house remained between me and water below cliffs tumbling straight down into surf far below our garden wall.
My head throbbed with half-formed questions: Who would move these things? Why? Was Clara trying to unsettle me? Or Harriet—her eyes softer but always watching? Or someone else entirely?
In desperation—or spite—I returned downstairs intent upon restoring order one object at a time: righting picture frames along hallway walls; smoothing bedspreads rumpled by unseen visitors; replacing books exactly parallel upon shelves even though some now bore dog-eared pages folded sharply inward where none existed before.
The letter waited patiently where I’d left it all morning beside cold toast crumbs on chipped china plate—a single word scrawled across cheap envelope: “Evelyn.”
Inside was nothing more than four lines written neatly in block capitals:
YOU DON’T BELONG HERE
LEAVE WHILE YOU CAN
THE HOUSE WON’T PROTECT YOU
NOT FROM US
No signature—only smudged ink blurring final threat until words became almost shapeless beneath trembling fingers holding paper taut above empty plate.
I sat very still then while clock ticked twice overhead—each second stretching thin as wire strung tight between accusation and silence—and wondered who might have seen fit to warn me off like this: village women gossiping over fences? Reverend Llewellyn grown weary of endless condolences? Or Clara herself—in whose handwriting every syllable felt carved rather than written?
A crash sounded somewhere above—the sharp report of glass breaking followed by urgent footsteps running hard along landing boards overhead—and Mrs Chubb shouting curses muffled by distance:
“Damnation! Someone get help!”
When I reached her she stood breathless outside linen closet clutching bruised knuckles against apron stained darkly red—splinters glittering among towels spilled across wooden floorboards like dropped bones beneath bare bulb swinging wild overhead—
“It fell,” she gasped when she saw me staring wide-eyed at shattered vase beside her foot—the one Arthur kept filled with fresh-cut roses each Sunday after church—even though neither roses nor vases belonged anywhere near linen cupboard doors slammed shut since winter began—
But Mrs Chubb wouldn’t meet my eye as blood dripped silent onto flagstones below and somewhere deep within walls around us pipes rattled once more—as if warning or welcoming—I couldn’t tell which anymore—
And later still after police came (DS Penrose grim-faced beneath dripping hat) questioning us both about accidents that weren’t accidents—or so he seemed determined now to believe—I crept back alone through corridors slick with afternoon shadow thinking only:
If this is war then who draws lines first? And who decides what counts as victory when all that remains are echoes twisting endlessly through empty rooms?
Behind closed doors something waited—a secret pulsing steady beneath wallpaper seams splitting under damp—and tonight whether courage or cowardice drove me onward didn’t matter because tomorrow morning nothing would be where I'd left it ever again…
CHAPTER 7: Chapter 2: The Story Continues
The wind battered the glass in relentless gusts last night, and I barely slept. When dawn finally seeped through the cracks of heavy curtains, I found myself staring at the ceiling’s damp patches—grey islands spreading like bruises above me. The house creaked and shuddered as if protesting its own old bones.
I forced myself out of bed when I heard Mrs. Chubb moving about below. She clatters more lately, perhaps to make her presence known, or to remind me she’s still here despite everything. Her footsteps thumped over the kitchen tiles as she set about boiling water for tea; a comfort in their predictability.
After dressing, I lingered on the landing, hand trailing along the banister’s smooth wood. Dust gathered in every groove—no matter how often Mrs. Chubb polishes it, this place will always smell faintly of salt and neglect.
My husband’s study door remained shut across the hall. I’d left his journal tucked between two volumes of Tennyson last night—a childish attempt at secrecy that seemed ridiculous by morning light. The urge to fetch it gnawed at me all through breakfast, but Clara’s words from yesterday echoed: *You’re not fit to manage things here.* Her voice is sharp as vinegar; just remembering her makes my jaw clench.
Downstairs smelled of burnt toast and furniture polish; Mrs. Chubb glanced up from buttering bread with her thick wrists freckled by age and sun.
“Didn’t sleep well?” she asked without looking at me directly.
“I hardly ever do,” I said, pouring myself a cup of tea that had already gone tepid in its pot.
She made a noise—a cross between sympathy and disapproval—and pressed another slice of bread into my hand before bustling off to dust the drawing room mantelpiece for the third time this week.
I watched steam curl up from my mug until it vanished into nothingness. Somewhere outside, gulls screamed over the cliffs. In moments like these—quiet but uneasy—I feel most alone in this house.
Halfway through my toast (the crust blackened, crumbs scattering onto my lap), I heard tires crunching on gravel outside. My heart lurched—the girls never arrive unannounced twice in one week—but it was only Reverend Llewellyn’s battered blue Rover idling by the front steps.
He appeared moments later at the kitchen door, cheeks pink from wind and eyes searching mine with wary concern.
“Evelyn,” he said gently, “I hope you don’t mind an early visit.”
I shook my head and gestured for him to sit at our scarred wooden table. He brushed crumbs away before lowering himself onto a chair—always careful not to impose too much on any space he enters here.
Mrs. Chubb reappeared with another cup (“Just hot enough now,” she muttered) then disappeared again as quietly as she’d come.
Simon folded his hands around his mug and studied them for a moment before speaking softly: “I heard there was some unpleasantness yesterday.”
He didn’t have to say whose voices carried across hedgerows—news travels faster than sheepdog whistles here.
“It was nothing unexpected,” I managed after a pause longer than necessary. “Clara… has opinions about what should happen next.”
His brow furrowed sympathetically but he chose his words carefully—as though each might be weighed later against him if repeated elsewhere: “You must feel rather besieged.”
A bitter laugh escaped before I could stop it; even Simon flinched at how brittle it sounded in this kitchen full of ghosts and echoes.
He tried again: “If you need anything—anything practical—I can help arrange things.”
What could he arrange? No one can conjure warmth into rooms grown cold with suspicion or fill cupboards emptied by fear that every item might vanish next day under someone else’s claim.
Still—I nodded politely; habit more than hope keeping me upright just now.
He sipped his tea in silence while we listened to rain begin tapping against windowpanes—a soft percussion growing louder until conversation felt impossible without raising our voices above nature herself.
After Simon left (coat collar turned up against spitting rain), quiet fell so suddenly even Mrs. Chubb seemed startled by it when she passed through with her feather duster held like a sceptre.
It wasn’t long after when something odd caught my eye in the hallway: a photograph frame face down on sideboard marble—glass splintered neatly across its back.
I knelt beside it; fingers trembling as they traced jagged edges where my wedding portrait had been sliced nearly in half—a clean cut running straight through both our faces.
Mrs. Chubb rounded the corner behind me, breath catching audibly when she saw what lay scattered on floorboards.
“Wasn’t like that earlier,” she murmured.
Neither of us moved for several seconds—the silence stretched taut between us until her voice faltered again:
“You think one of them did this?”
Her eyes flickered toward stairs leading up to guest rooms—where Clara had stomped yesterday afternoon after slamming doors hard enough to rattle sconces loose.
“I don’t know,” I said truthfully.
But suspicion settled heavy on both our shoulders nonetheless.
By midday fog pressed itself close against every windowpane; even electric lamps couldn’t chase away its pallor indoors.
Restless energy drove me upstairs once more—to my husband’s study where dust motes swirled golden whenever headlights passed far below on coastal road.
My pulse quickened as I closed door behind me; slid Tennyson aside until leather-bound journal emerged from shadows within bookshelf gap.
Its cover was cracked along spine from years spent hidden—or handled too often while secrets festered inside these walls.
Page after page yielded only cryptic notes (“March 19th: ‘Kettle whistled three times’… ‘silver key beneath clock'”), lines written slantwise across margins or backwards so they could only be read reflected in desk mirror nearby—a trick he’d once taught me laughingly during some long-forgotten winter evening by firelight.
One entry stopped me cold:
*”If they find out about compartment B2 forget everything else.”*
Compartment?
I rifled frantically through drawers—their brass handles sticky with residue from hands older than memory itself—but found nothing except dried-out ink bottles and brittle receipts faded beyond use or meaning.
Then a thought struck: beneath floorboards near west-facing wall sat an odd lengthwise seam no rug ever fully concealed—a quirk noted during many nights pacing anxiously while waiting for him to return home late from meetings no one remembered calling him to attend…
On hands and knees now (splinters catching wool skirt hem), I pried loose warped wood panel until hinges gave way with sighing groan loud enough to echo down empty corridors behind me.
Inside rested an envelope yellowed by years—a photograph curling within its folds—and underneath it,
a slip of paper dense with numbers arranged like staves of music or code:
3-12-8 / 7-1-19 / 22-15-9-3-5
The image showed three men standing arm-in-arm atop windswept cliffs twenty years younger,
my husband among them—
smiling wide but eyes unreadable,
just beyond reach
even now,
even here where secrets are meant
to stay buried.
A sound crashed somewhere downstairs—a sharp metallic ring followed by muffled shouting.
My hand shook as I tucked photo and note back inside their hiding place.
Whatever game has begun is gaining speed.
And someone else
is playing too.
CHAPTER 8: Chamber of Secrets
The journal sat on my lap, its worn leather cover cool against my skin. I traced the embossed initials—A.J.T.—with a finger, feeling the faded grooves. Rain battered the window behind me, droplets racing each other down the glass. A draught curled round my ankles; the house always felt colder after sunset, as if it mourned alongside me.
I read his words again, mouth shaping them in silence: “Where we first heard the sea inside.” That line had haunted me all afternoon. I’d walked from room to room with a torch and notebook, pausing at every echoing corner of this rambling manor. The phrase made no sense at first—until I remembered the old pantry beneath the stairs.
When Arthur was alive, he used to say you could hear everything in this house if you listened hard enough—the wind through keyholes, mice behind skirting boards, even your own blood ticking in your ears. But there was something else about that pantry: late at night when storms battered the cliffs, a low thrumming would rise up from underfoot—a deep resonance like distant surf trapped inside stone.
I slipped on my slippers and padded into the corridor. My footsteps sounded loud on bare floorboards; Mrs. Chubb had stripped up all but one of the rugs for beating earlier that day. Shadows stretched long across wallpaper patterned with yellowing roses.
Halfway down the hall, I paused by a cracked mirror hanging askew beside an umbrella stand. My reflection startled me: hair mussed and wild about my face, cardigan buttoned crookedly over my nightdress. For a moment I saw myself as Clara might—a trespasser skulking through her father’s house after dark.
I pressed on before self-pity could settle deeper.
The pantry door stuck as always; I wedged it open with a shoulder and flicked my torch beam around shelves stacked haphazardly with tins—Baxters soup labels peeling—and dusty jars of pickled onions Mrs. Chubb swore were still good despite being older than her granddaughter.
At the back was a narrow alcove lined with brickwork blackened by damp and time. The air tasted faintly metallic here, tinged with brine from some ancient leak or salt blown in through broken mortar joints decades ago.
“Where we first heard…” My whisper vanished into gloom.
I crouched and ran hands along brickwork grown slick with condensation. The torch beam danced over spiderwebs—one trembling where I brushed too close—and found nothing but uneven mortar lines until I reached near floor level: here one brick jutted slightly outward compared to its neighbours.
My heart kicked against ribs as if urging caution—or urging me on—I couldn’t tell which anymore.
I pressed both thumbs to its rough face and pushed gently at first, then harder until something shifted inside with an almost imperceptible click. The brick gave way half an inch; cold air rushed out carrying scents of earth and mildew.
A small compartment yawned open behind it—not large enough for much more than a book or bundle of letters—but there was something wrapped in oilcloth tucked neatly within its hollow belly.
My hands trembled so badly it took three tries to pry it free without tearing paper or scraping knuckles raw on jagged edges inside. At last I coaxed it out into torchlight: an envelope tied round with faded blue ribbon…and underneath that, an old photograph curling at two corners like fallen petals left too long on marble gravestone.
Forgetting breath entirely now—I set envelope aside atop tins of corned beef—then turned photo over between fingers sticky with dust and nerves alike.
Arthur’s handwriting looped across back in violet ink:
*Evelyn – Remember Polruan? Listen carefully.*
On front: four figures stood arm-in-arm before windswept headland—a younger Arthur squinting into sun beside two girls (Clara impossibly small in dungarees), while another woman smiled shyly from behind them all…her hand resting lightly on Arthur’s shoulder where mine would later come to rest for so many years after hers had gone cold.
Polruan—that little fishing village across Fowey River—where he took us once just after our wedding…before Clara decided she hated boats or before Harriet started flinching whenever voices rose above laughter at supper tables…
Listen carefully?
I shook out envelope next: inside lay another slip of paper folded tight as wishbone—a single line written sharp-angled:
*Second movement follows below staircase wainscotting — keep silent — they’re listening now.*
Sudden chill prickled scalp beneath unbrushed hairline; torch beam shivered as my grip faltered momentarily—
They’re listening now
Who? His daughters? Or someone else entirely? Paranoia pressed close as mould upon these bricks—the same suffocating presence that clung since Arthur drew last breath upstairs forty-seven days ago while gulls screamed outside his window like souls adrift…
Behind me somewhere higher up creaked sharply—the timbre unmistakably human yet not quite belonging to any voice I knew well enough anymore—
My mind raced ahead even as body lagged behind awkwardly kneeling among tinned peas and vinegar fumes—second movement follows below staircase wainscotting—the grand staircase off entrance hall wound up toward bedrooms like backbone of some sleeping beast—
Torch off now lest light betray me—I pocketed photograph and note; smoothed oilcloth flat so no hint remained visible should Harriet go poking about tomorrow morning (she’d taken lately to ‘tidying’ rooms she never cared for when her father lived).
In darkness thickening by degrees I crept back toward main hall—the hush punctuated only by clock ticking somewhere unseen beyond closed parlour doors—
Somewhere above again came faint scrape—as if furniture dragged unwilling across boards—or perhaps just house settling further into grief—
But when moonlight glanced through stained glass above landing archway—it caught briefly upon something new halfway up stair railings:
An envelope pinned there by drawing pin bright against dark wood—my name scrawled upon it in unfamiliar hand
EVELYN
No address no return just those six letters slanted hard
And suddenly every muscle tautened ready for flight though nowhere safe remained within these walls anymore
Somebody wanted me frightened—or warned—or both
And somewhere below stairs secrets waited still unopened
CHAPTER 9: Cross-Examinations
The storm had blown itself out by morning, but the manor’s bones still ached with it. I woke to find the sea slate-grey and sullen, waves gnawing at the rocks below. In the corridor outside my door, footsteps thudded—unmistakably purposeful, not Beattie’s slippered shuffles nor Clara’s impatient heels.
I dressed quickly, fingers clumsy with cold and nerves. When I opened my door, I nearly collided with Mrs. Chubb carrying a tray of chipped mugs and Rich Tea biscuits balanced precariously atop. She caught herself against the wainscotting, her eyes darting to mine before sliding away.
“He’s in the drawing room,” she muttered, voice pitched low as if afraid someone might overhear. “Waiting for you.”
“Who?”
She didn’t answer, just nudged past me toward the kitchen, leaving a thin trail of biscuit crumbs in her wake.
The drawing room was colder than usual; someone had left a window open overnight and now damp salt air curled around my ankles. DS Penrose stood at the hearth examining an empty grate as though expecting secrets to tumble from it. He turned when I entered—a tall man gone thick through the middle but still carrying himself like he expected people to move aside for him.
“Mrs. Harper.” His tone was neither warm nor unfriendly—merely businesslike. He gestured for me to sit in one of Father’s armchairs: cracked brown leather that exhaled dust when I sank into it.
He sat opposite, notebook open on his knee. The pen between his fingers clicked once—twice—and stopped.
“I’d like to go over your movements last night,” he began without preamble.
I looked down at my hands: nails bitten short, skin raw where I’d worried at a hangnail during another sleepless hour.
“I didn’t sleep much,” I said. “I walked about.”
“And what time did you retire?”
I tried to remember—the hours blurred together sometimes—but forced myself back into sequence: tea after supper (Clara disapproving), Harriet reading quietly in the corner, Beattie humming tunelessly in the hall.
“Around midnight,” I managed finally.
His eyes sharpened slightly—not hostile but trained by years of catching small lies or hesitations. “And before that?”
“In here mostly.” My gaze drifted over faded bookshelves stacked double-deep; over heavy curtains drawn tight against prying eyes—or perhaps just winter chill.
He made a note with his pen, then flicked through pages already filled with cramped script—a neatness that belied something restless beneath his surface calm.
“You’ve had trouble sleeping since Mr. Harper passed?” he prompted gently enough.
“Yes.” A pause stretched between us; somewhere above our heads came muffled voices—Clara and Harriet bickering again no doubt—but Penrose ignored them utterly.
“Any reason you can think why someone might have been out on the grounds last night?” He watched me closely now—not blinking—as though daring me to look away first.
I shook my head too quickly; he noticed but let it pass for now. Instead he glanced toward a side table where yesterday’s newspaper lay half-read beside an untidy stack of condolence cards tied up with green ribbon—the kind Beattie saved from Christmas parcels each year regardless of their original purpose.
He tapped his pen against his notebook absently while surveying everything: dust motes dancing in sunbeams slicing through unwashed glass; velvet cushions sagging under their own weight; footprints tracked in from muddy boots along polished boards near the French doors Clara never remembered to lock behind her when she slipped out for clandestine cigarettes after dark—
He asked about those next: who else had keys? Who left windows open? Did anyone hear noises—the wind scraping branches across slates or something heavier moving about?
It felt like standing naked before him even though nothing truly improper had happened—not yet anyway—but guilt prickled at me all the same because there were secrets here buried deeper than any misplaced key or stray footprint could reveal.
After fifteen minutes Clara appeared unannounced—a bright slash of scarlet lipstick and contempt curling her lip as she stalked across rugs older than both daughters combined.
“Detective Sergeant.” Her voice snapped like laundry hung too taut on windy lines outside. “Are we suspects now?”
Penrose closed his notebook softly as if stalling violence with gentleness alone. “Not suspects,” he replied evenly, “but everyone must be questioned.”
She threw herself onto a settee opposite him so hard its springs groaned protest; crossed legs revealed scuffed black pumps beneath expensive slacks—her city uniform dragged unwillingly into rural exile once more by obligation rather than choice or grief.
“And what exactly are you investigating?” She shot me a glance sharp enough to draw blood if words could wound physically instead of emotionally—a skill she wielded expertly since childhood by all accounts.
“There was movement outside late last night,” Penrose said mildly—as if discussing weather forecasts rather than suspicion shadowing every face in this house—and then ticked off names on his list: Beattie (nervous but loyal); Harriet (quiet as ever); myself (“Evelyn” spoken soft enough not to startle).
Harriet arrived soon after—hair unbrushed and cardigan buttoned askew—which only made her look younger somehow despite being nearly thirty herself.
She hovered near my chair uncertain whether allegiance belonged here or elsewhere; eventually perched on an ottoman halfway between us all.
Penrose repeated questions patiently: who saw what? Where were they when lights flickered out around eleven-thirty? Why did Beattie swear she heard footsteps near Father’s study even though no one admitted being awake?
Clara smirked throughout—offering clipped answers laced with derision (“If you’re looking for burglars they’ll need better taste than ours”) while Harriet flinched whenever attention landed squarely upon her.
At last Penrose gathered up papers and tucked them neatly away.
“We may need further statements,” he warned quietly before rising—and somehow making even that feel like judgement rendered.
When he left we stayed silent awhile except for ticking radiators and wind sighing beneath old eaves overhead.
Finally Clara spoke—voice brittle but triumphant:
“Well then Evelyn—it seems your little dramas have drawn police interest again.”
She swept out without waiting for reply leaving behind perfume so sharp it seemed almost medicinal.
Harriet lingered awkwardly until Mrs Chubb shuffled through bearing fresh tea (milk cooling rapidly) and muttered apologies about draughts no one could quite fix anymore.
We sipped together silently until Harriet leaned closer—a conspirator suddenly despite herself:
“I know something happened here once…before you came.”
Her words barely more than breath on porcelain rim.
“If I help you…will you help me?”
Before I could answer footfalls sounded overhead—heavy deliberate—and dread pooled cold inside my chest because secrets never stay buried long within these walls no matter how carefully we pretend otherwise.
CHAPTER 10: Chapter 2: The Story Continues
Day 48
The kettle whistles, high and shrill, as I search for the teabags. Not the ones Clara left out—her cheap brand, pale and bitter—but the old tin with the good Assam tucked at the back of the pantry behind a stack of rusted treacle tins. My hands shake enough that I spill half the hot water onto my slippers. A burn blooms along my toes, but I hardly feel it. The house is too quiet now, after yesterday’s storm.
Their voices linger in corners: Clara’s clipped consonants echoing up the stairs; Harriet’s softer, uncertain protests trailing behind her sister like a shadow that doesn’t want to be seen. Neither of them came down for breakfast this morning. They’re holed up in their father’s study—my study now, if such things can ever belong to me—with their heads together over his papers. I hear them sometimes through the wall: pages riffling, drawers sliding open and shut.
I sip my tea at the kitchen table, tracing rings left by cups long gone cold. Mrs. Beattie Chubb clatters about somewhere upstairs—she never asks what happened when she finds broken things swept into bins or muddy footprints tracked along the hall runner. She just wipes and straightens and says nothing at all.
On mornings like this, when fog presses against every window so thick you could scrape it off with a knife, there are moments I forget Arthur isn’t coming down those stairs again. That he won’t appear in his threadbare dressing gown, grumbling about cold floors and requesting “proper coffee” instead of whatever weak brew I’ve made him by accident.
But then footsteps sound on wood above me—too light for Arthur—and reality settles again like dust.
When Harriet finally appears near noon she looks tired out of all proportion to what she’s done—a thin red line marks her cheek where she must have slept on something sharp-edged.
“Morning,” she says softly.
I nod but don’t trust myself to answer right away. We avoid each other in narrow spaces these days; we pretend we’re not in competition for something we can neither name nor relinquish.
She sits across from me anyway and toys with a spoon left on yesterday’s saucer. “Clara wants to see Father’s will again,” she mutters without looking up.
“She saw it last night.”
“She thinks there might be…addendums.” Her eyes flicker toward mine—quick as a mouse testing if it’s safe to dart into daylight.
There are no addendums. I checked myself three nights ago under torchlight while they slept upstairs; ran trembling fingers over legalese so dense it barely felt human anymore. Still—I say nothing except: “She can ask our solicitor if she likes.”
Harriet bites her lip until color drains from it completely.
I remember Arthur holding her once when she was small—her hair tangled around his fingers like wild grass blown across stones after rain—and wonder how much kindness either of us has left to give each other now that everything is being weighed and measured by someone else’s standard.
The silence stretches until Mrs. Chubb comes in balancing a tray heavy with scones gone hard overnight and jam scraped nearly clean from its jar.
“Mr. Penrose rang up,” Mrs. Chubb says suddenly as she sets down the tray between us—the words startlingly loud after so much quietness. “He’ll be calling round this afternoon.”
Harriet startles—a flinch so quick even Mrs. Chubb pretends not to see it as she wipes crumbs off her apron.
“He said he has some follow-up questions,” Mrs. Chubb adds before bustling away again—the kitchen door swinging behind her like punctuation at the end of an unwelcome sentence.
Penrose again—his polite smile concealing sharpness beneath every question he asks about locked doors or missing ornaments or why Arthur had started sleeping with his wallet under his pillow those last few weeks before he died (as if any of us could answer that).
“I suppose he’ll want us all together?” Harriet says quietly after Mrs. Chubb leaves.
“I expect so.”
We both know Clara will hate that more than anything: being forced into civility under police scrutiny, unable to control who answers first or what is remembered aloud by whom.
After lunch—a silent affair broken only by forks scraping against mismatched plates—I make my excuses and slip away upstairs while Clara berates Harriet about something petty (the towels folded wrong; socks abandoned on bathroom tiles). In our bedroom—the room Arthur shared with me but always kept half-closed off from intimacy—I pull out his journal from beneath loose floorboards under my side of the bed where no one else would dare look twice unless they knew exactly what they were searching for.
It smells faintly of pipe tobacco despite being untouched since before Christmas—a scent thick enough some days it makes my throat ache with memory rather than grief.
I read through pages already familiar—the coded sketches, odd scraps pasted beside entries (“June 12th: lighthouse lamp changed”)—and pause at a passage I hadn’t noticed before:
_”Salt hides more than stains; follow where oil pools below stone steps.”_
For one disorienting moment I think perhaps Arthur has left me a riddle simply because riddles are what remain when love runs dry—but then another line catches my eye:
_”If they press you hardest on inheritance or sanity: find your way west before dusk.”_
My heart hammers against ribs suddenly too tight for breath—as though some part of him stands behind me still urging caution even now that bone is dust and voice only ink on paper.
Westward means cliffs; means sea crashing beneath abandoned places no one visits since storms knocked lantern glass from its leaded frame years ago—the old lighthouse stranded among bramble and salt spray where children dare each other to run at midnight but grown women do not go alone unless called by ghosts or desperation or both at once.
A knock sounds low on our doorframe then—a courtesy rather than permission sought—and Harriet peers inside clutching her own battered notebook close against herself as if expecting reprisal for secrets unshared.
“I saw you take Father’s book,” she whispers quickly before courage fails her altogether.
For a moment resentment rises hot within me—but curiosity wins out.
“What do you want?”
She hesitates; glances back toward hallway shadows as though afraid Clara might catch her conspiring.
“I know about…some things,” Harriet blurts finally, voice shaking just enough that hope prickles along my spine despite everything else.
“If you help me,” she continues in a rush, “maybe we can stop Clara making trouble—for both of us.”
I close Arthur’s journal gently—not hiding it this time—and meet her gaze squarely across years neither of us chose but must endure together now.
Outside, gulls screech above fog-thick air as another car crunches along gravel below—their arrival earlier than expected—or perhaps just fate keeping time whether we’re ready or not.