and went to unlock them with a key from the set she had in her pocket. The lock was a little rusty; she struggled with the key. Denzil Black got out of the car and came to help.
‘I’ll do it.’ His hand reached for the key, touching hers. A jab of electricity went through her; Clare jumped back.
He shot her a veiled sideways look. She felt herself go red and was furious. Why on earth had she reacted like that? He’d think she was some schoolgirl, blushing because a man came too close to her!
A second later, the lock turned with a grating sound, and he pushed the gates open.
‘This lock needs oiling.’
‘Yes, I’ll see that’s done tomorrow.’ Flustered and irritated, Clare retrieved the key and went back to the car with Denzil Black walking just behind her. The wind was howling through the trees ahead of them, in the wild gardens of Dark Tarn; out of the corner of her eye she saw the man’s long black coat blowing around his legs, as if he had wings and might take off at any minute and flap away into the night.
They drove slowly up the winding gravel drive, which was rutted and overgrown with moss and grass. Wild rabbits ran for cover, their white scuts showing as they shot away.
It was hard to see much of the garden, but Clare knew it was wildly overgrown with enormous rhododendrons and laurels in towering banks on either side of the drive.
The empty house loomed above them suddenly, the windows shuttered, no sign of life. Around the high turret a dark shape fluttered; a bat, registered Clare. There was a colony of pipistrelle bats living in the roof; she wondered if Denzil Black had noticed and whether or not the presence of bats might put him off. Some people hated bats, were terrified of them. She couldn’t think why, as pipistrelle were quite tiny creatures only interested in devouring insects and no threat whatever to people. Clare would have loved to have some in her own cottage. She decided not to mention them to Denzil Black.
‘There’s no caretaker?’ he asked at that moment, and Clare shook her head.
‘The owner didn’t want to pay for one. He’s living in Australia, and has no intention of ever coming back here; he just wants to sell the house. It is still furnished, but, if you’re seriously interested, we can deal with that. The furniture will all go up for auction, and you’ll have vacant possession.’
‘We’ll see,’ he said vaguely, staring up at the sky.
Helen looked up too, gave a high-pitched scream. ‘Ughh...what’s that?’
‘A pipistrelle,’ Denzil Black said softly. ‘They’re delightful little brown bats...hardly bigger than a large moth. I wonder if there’s a colony in the roof? There must be a lot of space under the rafters. It’s exactly the habitat they love.’
He knew a lot about bats; well, it was a point in his favour. Clare smiled and in the mirror saw a brief reflection of his dark, glowing eyes.
‘Do you like bats, Miss Summer?’
‘Love them—I’d like some in my own place.’
‘You have your own house?’
‘I’m renovating an old farm labourer’s cottage not far from here; I work on it every weekend,’ she admitted. ‘But for the moment I live with my family, during the week, in town.’
‘I’m interested in interior decoration,’ Helen said with her first sign of enthusiasm. ‘Are you doing all the décor yourself, Clare?’
‘Well, at the moment I’m mending the roof,’ Clare said drily. ‘And then I have to replaster the ceilings and walls. It’ll be a long time before I get around to any décor.’
Helen looked horrified. ‘It sounds as if the place is a total wreck!’
Clare laughed. ‘It is.’
‘What on earth made you buy it?’
‘It was very cheap, and it was a challenge,’ Clare told her as they pulled up outside the house.
‘You’re braver than I am, then!’ Helen said, making a face.
Clare felt Denzil Black’s dark gaze in the driving mirror, but didn’t meet it. She sorted out the large front-door key, slid out of the car, and climbed the steps to the door. This lock turned easily enough, the door swung open with a prolonged creak, and Clare fumbled for the light switch just inside on the panelled walls of the hall.
Light blazed from a chandelier hung high above their heads. Ahead of them stretched the arched vault of the roof, and the panelled walls, hung with an extraordinary mixture of objects—paintings, sketches, prints, armour, photographs in silver frames, weapons, the heads of dead animals mounted on wooden plaques.
The wind blew through the long hallway; a door crashed shut somewhere up above; stained-glass windows further down the hall rattled.
‘It’s monstrous!’ Helen wailed, huddling into her coat, her pale face only just visible above the collar. ‘You can’t be serious about being interested in this place, Denzil! It’s a tomb, not a house.’
It was cold, Clare had to admit, and not simply because it was empty and this was autumn. The house had a deep coldness which was in the very bricks and stones of the building. She had a feeling it would never be warm, even if you lit a fire in every room.
‘Central heating will soon warm it up,’ Denzil Black said, opening the first door leading off the hall. ‘That shouldn’t be difficult to install.’
Clare could see his face now, clearly, for the first time; an austere bone-structure, a wide, passionate mouth, strong nose, those pale eyes with the glittering centres, his black hair growing from a widow’s peak on his high temples. Each feature contradicted all the others; it was not an easy face to read or assess.
‘I like big rooms,’ he said, looking around the main reception room.
‘This is certainly big,’ agreed Clare.
‘Big! It’s enormous!’ groaned Helen.
On two sides of the room windows ran from ceiling to floor, those in the turret bay having deep, cushioned window-seats. All the rooms in the house had high ceilings; from this one another chandelier hung, giving the room a party glitter. There was a wooden fireplace like the prow of a ship, the hearth dressed with Victorian Minton tiles which bore black-line medieval style pictures on their ochre background.
The furniture was old and shabby, the stuffing leaking out of Victorian chairs, the curtains threadbare, the carpets showing signs of wear and tear.
On every possible surface stood silver-framed photographs and ornaments; the walls in here were as lined with paintings and drawings as the hall had been. There were so many objects, in fact, that the effect was mind-numbing; you looked and looked until you could take in no more.
‘Wonderful,’ Denzil Black said.
‘It’s only fit for the garbage truck!’ Helen complained.
Denzil Black asked, ‘Are the entire contents for sale, did you say? If I buy, I’d want first pick of everything in the place.’
‘I’m
