Amy, who enjoyed being fussed over by Patrick Reardon, the landlord. ‘Can I?’
‘May I?’ Fliss corrected automatically, as her father said.
‘Is that wise? Taking the child down to the pub? Do you want her to get into bad habits?’
‘Like yours, you mean,’ retorted Fliss tartly, but her heart wasn’t really in it. What had her father meant? That Matthew Quinn had mental problems? Or was he simply using some gossip he’d heard to spoil Fliss’s enthusiasm for her new job?
Whatever, Fliss decided that now was not the time to tackle him on it. Besides, on the whole, Matthew Quinn had struck her as a perfectly normal human being. OK, maybe he had problems interacting with people, but you didn’t have to have been a political prisoner to feel that.
When she was younger, she’d had a similar problem. An only child, she’d been painfully shy with boys, envying girls like Diane who found it so easy to flirt with the opposite sex. No wonder Terry Matheson had taken advantage of her. She’d been ripe for the taking.
It wasn’t until she’d gone to university that she’d learned to have faith in herself again. Which was why she felt such a debt of gratitude to her parents. It was also why she hated to disappoint her father now. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps Matthew Quinn did have psychological problems. But, despite his dangerous appearance, she’d liked him. And she couldn’t believe Diane would be involved with someone she couldn’t trust.
Nevertheless, as she cut through the churchyard on Monday morning on her way to the Old Coaching House, Fliss couldn’t deny a frisson of apprehension. Working for Matthew Quinn was not going to be like working for Colonel Phillips. For one thing, Colonel Phillips had spent most of his days in a wheelchair. He’d spent his mornings doing the daily crossword in his newspaper, and his afternoons dozing in the conservatory that adjoined the morning room. He’d been sweet and amenable, and always willing to adapt his needs to hers.
No one would make the mistake of describing Matthew Quinn as ‘sweet.’ And, although he’d seemed amenable enough when he was asking her to work for him, only time would tell.
Still, if she didn’t like working for him, if he proved an impossible employer, she’d be out of there. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have another option. Lady Darcy beckoned, and working for her might not be as bad as she anticipated.
A gate opened from the churchyard into the grounds of the house. Colonel Phillips had used it in the days when he’d attended church, but latterly Reverend Jeffreys had called at the house himself to give the old man the sacrament.
Beyond the gate, a flagged path wound around an overgrown vegetable garden before climbing steadily towards the terrace. Tall trees, ash and poplar mostly, bordered lawns badly in need of mowing. Flowering shrubs flanked the path, but they were gradually choking the life out of the perennials that grew between them.
The place needed a gardener, thought Fliss, but since Colonel Phillips went into hospital six months ago there’d been no money to pay Ray Jackson, who used to do the work. She wondered if Matthew Quinn would employ him. He didn’t seem the type to do all the work himself.
Deciding he wouldn’t expect her to use the front door, Fliss knocked at the back door instead. A fleeting glance through the window revealed that her employer wasn’t in the kitchen. She hoped he was up. She wanted to get started.
And finished, she admitted ruefully as another shiver of apprehension rippled down her spine.
When no one answered her knock, she tried again, using a piece of wood she found beside the step instead of bruising her knuckles. A piece of Buttons’s hutch, no doubt, she mused, dropping the stick again. Which reminded her she really would have to get some netting. The rabbit was still waiting for his run.
There seemed to be no movement in the house and, sighing, Fliss glanced about her. Foolishly, she’d expected Matthew Quinn to be waiting for her, ready to tell her what he wanted her to do. Instead, the place seemed deserted. Surely he hadn’t forgotten she was coming?
Biting her lip, she laid her hand on the door handle, and then nearly jumped out of her skin when it opened to her touch. Just like the haunted house in that movie she’d watched with Amy, she thought, glancing behind her once again. Matthew Quinn must be up, she told herself fiercely. The door would have been locked otherwise.
Pushing it open, she stepped into the kitchen. At least this was familiar territory, and she looked around, expecting to see breakfast dishes littering the sink. But, although at some time someone had made coffee and left the dregs in the pot, it was stone cold. Clearly, he hadn’t had breakfast. So where on earth was he?
‘Mr Quinn!’
Moving across the tiled floor, Fliss was acutely aware of her shoes squeaking against the terrazzo tiles. Colonel Phillips had had the kitchen updated about fifteen years ago, long before she had come to work for him, and he’d chosen the décor. She supposed it was old-fashioned by today’s standards, but she liked it.
‘Mr Quinn!’
She called his name again as she emerged into the short corridor that led to the entrance hall. Now that she had time to look about her properly, she could see how dusty the place had become. There was even paper peeling from the wall halfway up the staircase, probably torn when the colonel’s furniture had been moved out. It was a shame, but flocked wallpaper was definitely not a fashion statement these days. The whole hall and staircase needed stripping and redecorating. It would look wonderful with a fresh coat of paint and some light, cheerful wallpaper.
The hall divided the house into two parts. On one side was the drawing room and what used to be a formal dining room before Colonel Phillips had moved his bed downstairs. The old man had found the stairs difficult in recent years and Fliss had suggested the alternative arrangement.
The room was empty now, of course, as was Colonel Phillips’s library at the other side of the hall and the morning room at the back of the house. She felt a little wistful when she saw the empty shelves in the library. Evidently the colonel’s nephew had sold his uncle’s books as well.
She didn’t want to admit it, but Fliss was getting a little worried now. Where on earth was Matthew Quinn? Unwillingly, what her father had said came back to haunt her. His comments, that the man was rumoured to be unstable, were a constant drain on her confidence.
Which was silly, she told herself severely. Matthew Quinn had to be here somewhere. Perhaps he was ill. Perhaps the reason the door was unlocked was because he’d called a doctor. It wasn’t so unreasonable. He had had a pretty stressful couple of years.
She paused at the foot of the stairs and called his name again. Again there was no answer, and she placed one trainer-clad foot on the bottom step. Dared she go up? Did she want to? Did she have a choice?
Of course she did, but she ignored the alternative. Taking a deep breath, she started up the stairs, assuring herself that it was what anyone else would have done in her place. After all, when Colonel Phillips had been taken ill, it was she who had called an ambulance to take him to hospital. If she hadn’t had a key to the house, he would have died alone and uncared-for.
The fact that she didn’t have a key now was hardly relevant. She’d surrendered her key to the solicitor when the old man died. But the door had been unlocked, she reminded herself. All she’d done was let herself in. And she was expected. She glanced at her watch. It was already a quarter past nine.
Reaching
