the house, which was why I was suddenly homeless. Sue saved my sanity by offering me Sleeper’s Castle.’
‘That’s awful, Andy,’ Ella said softly. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘But you do like it here?’ Roy’s voice was full of doubt. ‘I didn’t realise you’d been parachuted into the area.’
Andy laughed. ‘I love it here. Graham and I had been to stay with Sue in the past, so I knew what it was like.’
Did she though? Seeing it now through their eyes, she thought of the empty house, the endless sound of the water thundering over the rocks, the void where Graham ought to be. The silence lengthened and she realised that the others were all looking at her again.
Sian broke the silence. ‘Help me collect the plates, Andy,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘I’ve made an apple-and-blackberry crumble for pudding. Roy, can you find another bottle of wine? You know where they are.’ As they stacked the plates in the sink, she glanced at Andy. ‘I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to touch on a nerve. Are you all right?’
Andy sighed. ‘A moment of tristesse. They come and go. But I am enjoying myself, Sian. Thank you so much for asking me tonight.’
‘Good.’ Sian glanced over her shoulder at the table. ‘They’re a nice couple.’
‘Right, a change of subject is in order, I think,’ Roy said as they sat down again. ‘So, Andy, is everything peaceful at Sleeper’s Castle? Have you seen any ghosts up there? It’s a spooky old place.’
‘Roy, that’s hardly tactful,’ Ella put in. ‘The poor woman is living there all on her own.’
Andy laughed. ‘I don’t mind. I loved the idea of ghosts when I was a child – the whole concept of who and what they were, or might be. My father was interested and I suppose I followed his lead. But it was all theory. I never saw one, as far as I know. I went on studying them and reading about them even when I grew up, but Graham was very anti. He didn’t like the idea at all, so I dropped the subject.’
‘That’s men for you!’ Ella put in. ‘Why is it we always have to subsume our interests and passions in the face of their sensibilities? Does it ever work the other way round? Never. Women get dragged off to watch sport and play trains and God knows what and never query it.’
There was a short silence. ‘Was that tirade directed at me, sweetie?’ Roy said meekly.
Ella laughed. ‘No. Luckily you are the perfect husband.’ There wasn’t a hint of irony in her voice. ‘But it is true as a general rule, I think.’
‘It certainly was for me,’ Andy confirmed. ‘And I’m only slowly beginning to realise how much of myself did get subsumed by our relationship. But that doesn’t mean I’m hoping to go back to Sleeper’s Castle and find it populated with ghosts. As Ella says, I’m there alone and I don’t want to scare myself!’
‘Well, if you do,’ Roy put in, ‘Meryn is your man. He’s the local ghostbuster as well as a Druid. Fascinating chap. As Ella said, you’d like him.’
The memory of that conversation came back as Andy let herself into the house later. It was well after midnight and a bright moon was high in the sky, throwing shadows across the garden. She paused on the threshold and waited, trying to sense the atmosphere inside the house. As before it seemed benign.
She had left the light on in the kitchen and she went in, looking round. There was no sign of Culpepper, but every self-respecting cat in the world would be outside on a beautiful moonlit night like this.
She found herself surveying the kitchen with new eyes. Now it had been pointed out she could see that half the room was much older than the other half; the stone walls, the shape of the window, the beamed ceiling. The modern fitments had distracted her. Even the flags, though skilfully matched, were obviously from different eras.
Upstairs, she opened the window in her bedroom and leaned with her elbows on the sill, looking out into the garden. It was an ancient window, she now recognised, obviously medieval, with stone mullions. The small leaded panes of glass were Victorian, she guessed. The window can’t have opened originally, but now it had a slightly bent metal frame with latch and handle, and swung open behind the mullions as a casement. Outside she could hear the brook. The water seemed quieter, gentler than on the previous night. Moonlight threw the garden into silver relief with deep shadows beneath the trees and bushes and for a while she stood, staring out contentedly, aware of an owl hooting in the distance and another answering it with quick short calls that echoed against the house walls.
It was a long time before she pulled the window shut and crept into bed, shivering. She lay there, all desire for sleep gone. The company and happiness of the evening had left her with a feeling of anticlimax and loneliness. In spite of herself she found her mind travelling back to Kew, and this time she didn’t fight it.
Throwing the last of the letters and cards into a cardboard box Rhona looked round the room one last time. She didn’t want there to be one single sign of Miranda Dysart left. She had to accept that the whole house reflected Miranda’s choices, her taste; she could see her hand in every room but, much as she would like to, she could hardly burn every stick of furniture. The sale people would come soon enough and take it away. In the meantime there was all this … she hesitated as she tried to think of a word … all this stuff imposing Miranda’s personality on everything. She added a couple of notebooks full of delicate watercolour sketches, which she had found on top of a bookshelf, to the box and lifted it with a groan, heaving it over towards the French doors and out onto the terrace. In the far corner of the garden a wisp of pale smoke drifted up from the earlier pile of stuff she had thrown into the incinerator. The sketchbooks went on the fire first and she gave a grim smile. She hadn’t expected to feel such malicious joy at destroying things that Miranda and Graham would have treasured. The books were followed by a pile of postcards from friends who appeared to have travelled all over the world. She glanced at one: Andy and G – truly truly wish you were here. Andy, you could paint this place for a thousand years and not grow tired of its beauty, love Sal and Sam. It came from Hawaii. Rhona sneered as she tossed it after the sketchbooks. ‘Goodbye, Sal and Sam,’ she whispered. It wasn’t just Miranda she was trying to hurt, she realised as she stared down into the flaming bin, it was Graham as well. Graham had deserted her; Graham had dared to be happy with this woman; Graham had enjoyed his life while she, she had been miserable and abandoned. She stood back, watching the conflagration. She had long ago forgotten or buried the truth, that she had left Graham for another man, a relationship that had foundered as had all the others that had followed it. Everything was Graham’s fault. And Miranda’s.
She tensed and turned to look behind her, half expecting to see the woman in the garden, watching. There was no one there, but she could feel her skin prickling. It was as if Miranda knew what she was doing. She stepped forward into the intense heat, dropped the rest of the contents of the box into the incinerator and turned away, dusting off her hands.
Miranda was standing on the step outside the kitchen, staring down at her.
Rhona stood transfixed, unable to move; the next moment the woman had vanished and she was alone in the garden with the bitter pall of smoke engulfing her.
In bed, Andy groaned and turned over, unable to endure the cruel drift of the dream. In her sleep she had pushed away the duvet and her hand brushed the wall, coming to rest against the cold stone.
With the touch of the stone came older, more powerful memories.
Rhona was
