What if…Before she had really thought about the repercussions Jane stepped inside, pushed the door shut behind her and called hello again as she walked deeper into the house.
The place was fabulous, a handsome modern reinterpretation of Georgian proportions, a mix of English oak, cream walls and huge floor-to-ceiling windows with a stunning view from every one of them. The hallway opened up on the right into an airy sitting room with wooden floors and exquisite rugs, a long navy-blue sofa pulled up in front of a marble fireplace, flanked by matching chairs. French windows overlooked the park. To the left was a dining room with antique furniture and a handsome gilt-framed mirror above an open fireplace. There was a TV and music room, another sitting room and a garden room, again with floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond that was a state-of-the-art kitchen that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Homes and Gardens,-but there was one thing that was missing. There was no sense at all that this was anyone’s home. Everywhere looked and smelled brand new. Jane had no idea when Ms I. Mills had moved in but surely even after a week there ought to be a cushion or two out of place, or a jacket slung casually over the back of a kitchen chair, a mug on a table or a dirty plate in the sink. Surely there had to be something, anything, to suggest that real people lived real lives there.
Beyond the kitchen was a utility room that adjoined the garage. Inside was a black Mercedes convertible, a silver BMW and a nippy little black 4x4. Nervously, Jane peered inside the cars, half afraid she might come face to face with the other Ms J. Mills, cold and stiff and far from well. But, no—still nothing. The house was like the Marie Celeste with down-lighters and expensive furniture.
Even so, empty or not, with every passing moment Jane was getting more nervous about being discovered exploring, and anxious to find out what the hell was going on—but also aware that the longer she stayed in the house the more suspicious she looked.
In her head an imaginary police officer, with the face of the imaginary Post Office clerk, was saying, ‘So, Ms Mills, you spent ten minutes in the property. Did it never occur to you at any time that you had unlawfully entered the premises and that you were in fact trespassing?
Grimly Jane went on, ignoring her inner policeman. Through the windows she could see the garden rolling gently down towards the lake, the way marked by a gravel path edged with flowerbeds, shrubs and a trail of lights. As Jane looked again she saw that there was a little pagoda, a white wooden summerhouse affair tucked into the lee of the hedge—and the doors were open. Maybe she had finally found Ms J. Mills.
Jane pushed open the door and headed out across the lawn towards the summerhouse, and as she did she could hear someone talking.
‘This is ridiculous,’ a woman snapped. ‘Totally bloody ridiculous. I’ve had enough, Augustus—or maybe that’s it, maybe I haven’t had enough at all. I’m not sure that I can go…’
But before Jane could find out where it was the woman couldn’t go, she rounded the corner and found a handsome woman in her late forties, long hair caught up in a clip, sitting on the edge of the deck, barefoot. She was wearing white silk pyjamas and was talking to an elegant oriental cat, who watched Jane’s arrival with all the distain of an archetypal English butler. The woman looked pale and was cradling a glass of water in which something was fizzing unpleasantly.
She stared at Jane in surprise. ‘Who on earth are you? And how the hell did you get into my garden?’
‘Your front door is open,’ said Jane lamely, glancing back towards the house
‘Oh, and that’s an invitation to just stroll right in, is it?’ growled the woman, and then winced.
‘Well, no, obviously but—’
‘So did you close it?’ the woman snapped, and as she did the wince hardened up into a grimace, as she made every effort to sound angry. ‘God, my head hurts. I really didn’t ought to drink,’ she said, rubbing her temples. ‘What do you want?’
‘Well, nothing actually, I just brought your post over,’ Jane said, holding the letters out in front of her like an offering.
Gingerly the woman glanced up and then took them. ‘Thanks.’ And then: ‘But they’re all open,’ she said, turning the envelopes over.
‘Well, yes,’ Jane began. This wasn’t going very well. ‘I know. That’s what I came over to talk to you about, to explain really. You see, they were delivered to my house by accident. My name is Jane Mills, I live in Creswell Road, at number nine, and these are addressed to J. Mills, nine Creswell Close—and I hadn’t got my glasses on—and, and, well, I opened them…’
There was an odd little silence as the woman looked first at the post and then up at Jane.
‘By accident, obviously,’ Jane added in case there was any doubt.
The woman turned the letters over again.
‘But that was all,’ Jane continued hastily. ‘I mean, once I realised they were yours, I didn’t read them, or anything.’
‘Really?’ said her inner policeman. ‘Then how do you explain the fingerprints on the credit card bills and the grudging admiration you have for your victim’s choice in shoes?’
On the deck Ms J. Mills was still turning the letters over. ‘You opened all of them?’ she said.
Jane nodded. ‘Yes, by accident. We’ve got the same name,’ she pulled the badge off her shirt and showed it to her.
The older woman stared blankly at the little square of laminated plastic.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jane continued brightly. ‘It was just a mistake. I thought I’d just pop over and explain…’
‘And my front door was open so you thought you’d just pop in, did you?’
Jane shifted her weight. ‘Well, yes. When I saw that the door was open I worried. It didn’t seem right, the door being open, and I…and I thought something might have happened to you.’ It sounded lame but it was also true.
The woman looked her up and down and then nodded. ‘Oh, something happened all right. Carlo threw a hissy fit and stormed off. Again. He is so tiring, to be perfectly honest I really can’t be bothered any more.’
‘Right,’ said Jane, not quite sure what else to say. She was still trying very hard to keep the lid on her feelings about Steve Burney. ‘Well, I know how much that kind of thing hurts. I’m really sorry.’
‘Don’t be, he was thirty-four, sunbed tan, beautifully capped teeth, body to die for—vainer than any woman I’ve ever met. He used to watch himself performing in the mirrors on the wardrobe doors. I caught him once tilting the dressing-table mirror so he could see his arse in a better light.’ She paused and took a sip from the glass. ‘Nice arse, though.’
Jane looked at her. ‘OK.’ After all what else was there to say?
The other woman nodded awkwardly. ‘Thank you,’ she held out the letters, ‘for bringing these. By the way, my name is Jayne, Jayne Mills,’ she said, and extended her hand.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Jane smiled. ‘And it’s fine. About the letters, I mean. I just wanted to bring them over, you know. I couldn’t just pop them back into the post really.’
Jane looked at Jayne Mills, who sighed. Then, as if Jane hadn’t spoken, got
