a parent is hard, the hardest thing in the world. I know that only too well.”
Martine nodded and swallowed back the lump that rose in her throat. “I know you do. We all miss your mum.”
“Thanks. And we all miss Mr Davies. Right,” Emma said briskly, “I’d best get a move on. I’ll see you back here in –” she consulted her wristwatch. “An hour.”
Emma and Elton set out on their walk and headed down the road to Litchfield. Hedgerows crowded in on either side of them, leaves still glistening with water, and the ground was soggy beneath their feet. But the sun was shining and the rain had stopped, and that was enough.
Litchfield teemed with the usual mix of tourists and locals as she and Elton made their way down the high street. She paused to let the dog take a wee. Although Emma saw a couple of neighbours and lifted her hand to wave, there was thankfully no sign of Mrs Cusack or her clever, hat-designing niece.
You’re not being fair, she scolded herself. You don’t even know Isabella. You’re just – admit it! – a tiny bit jealous. Still – there was something about the girl, a vague air of secretiveness that struck her straight away.
Isabella Fairfax was keeping something back, she was sure of it.
Elton finished his wee, and they resumed their walk. The shop windows boasted ‘end-of-season SALE’ and ‘half off!’ signs as the swimsuits and beach totes, the cheap plastic sunglasses and flip-flops were cleared out to make way for the autumn inventory. It wouldn’t be long before the first chill invaded the air and leaves rimed with frost crunched beneath their feet.
But for now, the sun was warm and the sky was blue and cloudless – it was a perfect late-summer day by the sea.
Almost as if she were drawn to it, Emma found herself once again standing at the far end of Mulberry Street, gazing up at Crossley Hall. The workmen were already up there; she could hear the sound of band saws and nail guns, hammering, and the faint strains of Radio 1 coming from someone’s portable Roberts.
“What do you say we go up and have a closer look, Mr E?” Emma asked, and glanced down at the pug. He wagged his curly tail enthusiastically in answer.
She set off with the dog up the hill, until, a short time later, they arrived in front of the Hall. The gates were firmly shut. Emma peered through and gazed up at the house, curious to see more; but the tall windows looked down on her, revealing nothing of their secrets, and the shrubbery and hedges prevented her seeing anything of interest.
Her hand closed over one of the palings as she – gingerly – tried to push the gate open. But it didn’t budge.
“Oh, well, Elton,” she said, and turned away, “our curiosity will have to wait. It’s time we headed back home.”
But the dog planted his paws firmly on the pavement and refused to move. A low, menacing growl emanated from his throat and his eyes were fixed on something he saw on the other side of the gate. Every hair bristled.
Emma followed his gaze. “It’s only a squirrel, you silly boy. Come on.”
She tugged gently at the lead, but Elton didn’t budge. He wanted that squirrel.
“Come on, Mr E,” she said again, and tugged at his lead a bit more firmly. “You can’t go in there. Let’s go home.”
But he strained and barked as the squirrel darted across the drive and away through the grass, nearly yanking Emma’s arm from its socket as he lunged forward at the gate.
Suddenly, to Emma’s horror, the lead went slack. The dog got loose and, before she could stop him, wriggled his way through the gate and up the drive. In a flash he was gone.
“Elton!” she cried.
The lead’s a little wonky. Sometimes the clip comes loose.
That’s what Charli had said, Emma remembered, the day she’d brought the dog home to Litchfield Manor.
She gripped the iron palings of the gate now and shouted, “Hello? Is anyone there? My dog’s got through the gate! Can someone help me, please? Hello!”
But there was no answer. Of course there wouldn’t be, she realised with a sinking heart; the whine of saws and banging of hammers, and the drone of a tractor somewhere behind the house all served to drown her voice out.
Emma stepped back and eyed the hedgerows and ivy-choked stone wall that surrounded the property with misgivings. There was only one thing to do.
She walked along the length of the wall until she found a likely spot, ignoring the ‘NO TRESPASSING’ signs posted at regular intervals, and reached out to brush the ivy aside and gripped the rough stones for a foothold.
With a deep breath and a silent prayer that a pack of vicious guard dogs didn’t wait on the other side of the wall to tear her apart, Emma climbed up, balanced precariously on the top for a moment, then dropped down over the other side, and onto the grounds of Crossley Hall.
The minute her feet hit the ground, Emma lost her balance and fell backwards, arms cartwheeling as she landed in a patch of mud and brambles. She got to her feet and looked at her scratched, mud-smeared legs and clothing in disgust.
“Bloody dog,” she muttered. “Bloody Charli!”
Although she longed to wipe the mud away, doing so would only make matters worse, so she gritted her teeth and turned round to survey the tangle of grass and shrubbery stretching away before her.
“Elton!” she shouted. “Elton, where are you?”
There was no sign of the pug. Not a rustle, not a crackling twig, nothing gave his location away. How, she thought darkly, could such a tiny dog be such a colossal pain in the arse?
Emma blundered forward for some minutes, muttering and cursing and calling out the dog’s name, until she paused for breath. Where in God’s name was he? He couldn’t have gone far. She must be in the garden, she realised, as the house was nowhere to be seen in this thicket of greenery.
“Mr Elton!” she snapped. “You little beast! Where are you?”
She forged ahead, and found herself on a path. Gravel crunched under her feet. The shrubbery had thinned somewhat, and she could make out flowerbeds on either side of the path. Bags of mulch were stacked under a greengage tree.
With a grunt, Emma ran straight into a wall. But as the wall reached out and gripped her by the shoulders, she realised she’d run smack into a person, not a wall. She blinked.
It was a man. The man from the bakery shop…
“You!” she said, her tone vaguely accusatory.
“Yes, me.” He regarded her in bemusement. “I’m not Mr Elton, obviously. Suppose I’m rather glad; it’s less than flattering, answering to ‘little beast’, isn’t it?”
Today he wore jeans, and a white knit polo shirt that did nothing to hide his nicely defined chest.
She
