Midnight is a Lonely Place

XIX

‘You shouldn’t have come.’ Nion took her hands. ‘You take too many risks. What if you were seen?’

She broke free and ran a few steps in front of him to the edge of the water, skipping like a child. ‘Who is there to see? He’s out all day. The slaves are too busy to care. The child and his nurse think I am visiting my sister.’ She pirouetted, laughing. ‘I’ve never been so happy. I can’t believe this is happening. Me, a staid Roman matron, and you -’ she stood in front of him, staring into his face and rested her hands for a moment on the folds of his cloak, ‘- you, a prince of the Trinovantes.’

Nion laughed, throwing back his head, his strong teeth white in his tanned face, the laugh lines at eyes and mouth carving deep into the square features.

Around them the dunes stretched for miles; sand, spun and blown by the wind into hollows and ridges, the shingle thick and clean as the tide drew back. Nearby, her mule waited patiently beside the horse, which stood between the shafts of his chariot, grazing listlessly on the salt sand flowers and grasses. They were alone. Quite alone. He caught her against him, burying his face in her hair.

‘I want you to come away with me. One of my brothers is in the west. We could go to him there. Your husband would never find you.’

She tensed, raising her face slowly to his and he read the conflicting emotions in her eyes. Desire. Hope. Excitement. All three blazed in their sea-grey depths, but there was doubt there too. Doubt and fear. ‘I can’t leave the boy.’

‘Then we’ll take him with us.’

‘No.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘No. He would never allow his son to go. Me -’ she hesitated. ‘I don’t know if he would come after me, but he would search the whole earth for his son.’ Her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘And I could not ask you to leave this – your home.’ His land, his woods, his pastures, his fields, his water, the salt pans which made him rich, all worked by the men of his people.

She shivered as she looked up again and raised her lips towards his. His gods were powerful, cruel, demanding. Sometimes she wondered if they had given their blessing to their servant’s union with a daughter of Rome, or if they were jealous, biding their time, waiting to punish her for her presumption.

Behind them the sun glittered on the sea, turning it the colour of jade. As his hands moved down to release her girdle she forgot her fear; she forgot everything, drowning in the pleasure of his touch.

‘We’ll have to give you a season ticket at this rate!’ The man in the ticket office at the museum greeted Kate with a cheery smile.

She smiled back. ‘I think you might. Or a job!’ She was still wondering why she was here. Was it the thought of the next book, bubbling uncontrollably in her subconscious, or was it just the fascination of that strange, half-excavated pit on the beach beside her cottage? She refused to admit that she felt a slight reluctance to stay in the cottage alone. She could not allow that. But perhaps it was a little of all three. She was feeling guilty. She shouldn’t be here. She should be working with George Byron and his irritating, hysterical mother.

Retracing her steps upstairs she went to stand once more in front of the statue of Marcus Severus, gazing into his face as if somewhere there in the cold, dead eyes she would find the answer to her riddle. For he had something to do with that grave on the shore, she was sure of it. Marcus Severus Secundus and Augusta, his wife. Thoughtfully, she turned to the display case where his bones lay exposed to view. There was no answer there. Nothing but the gentle hum of the lights and in the distance, the muffled and unreal shouts and screams of the video replay of Boudicca’s massacre.

As she parked the car in the barn later she glanced at Redall Farmhouse with a certain amount of longing. They were there this time; she could see smoke coming from the chimney and there were lights on in the kitchen. They were expecting her to supper; supposing she knocked and went in now? Perhaps she could help prepare it, or sit out of the way by the fire sipping tea or better still whisky, until the appropriate time. But she couldn’t, of course she couldn’t. She glanced at her watch. It was barely three o’clock. She had another five hours to wait before she could knock on their door.

Shouldering her bag she turned up the track into the woods. The early sunshine had gone. The sky was growing increasingly wintry and as the wind rose a quick light shower of sleet raced through the trees. She shivered. At least the fire was ready to light at home.

Home. She hadn’t thought of the cottage as home before, but for now that’s what it was. She could draw the curtains against the coming darkness, have tea and a hot bath and do a couple of hours work before setting out on the walk back through the dark.

Opening the door she dumped her bag on the floor and glanced round, unconsciously bracing herself against signs that anyone had been inside. There were none. The cottage was as she had left it. The kitchen was spotless, the doors and windows closed and the air smelt faintly of burned apple wood. Relieved, she unpacked her shopping and went to light the woodburner, then slowly she went upstairs.

Pulling open her cupboard she looked through the clothes she had brought with her. Since she had arrived in north Essex she had worn trousers and thick sweaters, but she wanted to change into something a little more formal tonight. More formal, but still practical, bearing in mind that she had a long walk through the muddy woods. She pulled out a woollen skirt and a full sleeved blouse and threw them on the bed.

It was then that she remembered her promise to Alison to photograph the grave. She glanced at the window. It would soon be getting dark and the sky was already heavy with cloud. Perhaps she could leave it until tomorrow. But she wanted to keep her promise. She needed to win the girl’s trust, for the sake of what was left of the site. She hesitated for a moment longer, then reluctantly she went to find her camera. She loaded a new roll of film and with a wistful glance at the fire she grabbed her anorak and set out into the cold.

The beach was very bleak. Turning up her collar, she put her head down into the wind and walked as swiftly as she could back towards Alison’s dig, firmly resisting the urge to glance over her shoulder at the coming darkness. The wind had blown the sand into soft ridges, rounding the sharp corners, drying the surface of the soil so the different strata were harder to see. Squinting against her hair which whipped free of its clip into her eyes she raised the camera and peered through the viewfinder. She doubted if anything would come out even with the flash, but at least she would have tried. She took the entire roll, shooting the dig from every angle, and trying, rather vainly, to get a few close-ups of the sand face itself. She did not see the dark, withered stumps which had been a man’s fingers; nor the black protrusion which was his femur, broken and splintered and already crumbling back into the sand.

Safely back inside the cottage she locked the door with a sigh of relief and, taking the film out of the camera, put it into its plastic case and tucked it into her shoulder bag. She was damp and thoroughly chilled. Slotting a tape of Vaughan Williams’ Fifth Symphony into her cassette player and turning it up loudly, she climbed the stairs and went back into her bedroom, pulling off her scarf and shaking out her wet hair as she began slowly to undress. Putting on her dressing gown she paused, listening, as the music downstairs grew quiet. She could hear a strange buzzing from the spare room. She frowned. For a moment she hesitated, biting her lip. What was it about this damn house which made her so jumpy? It was a fly, that was all, awoken by the morning sunshine. Taking a deep breath she flung open the door and switched on the light. The room was deserted. A quick glance showed that her cases and boxes were undisturbed; Greg’s pictures stood where she had left them, face to the wall behind the door, and she was right, a couple of bluebottles were crawling across the window. As the light flicked on they buzzed angrily against the glass. Shaking her head she backed out and closed the door. Tomorrow she would deal with them.

The bathroom was very cold. With a shiver she pulled the cord to switch on the wall heater and, putting the plug in the bath, she turned on the hot tap. As the windows steamed over she closed the curtains then she tipped some foaming bath oil into the steaming jet of water and stood back, twisting her hair into a knot on the top of her head as she watched the bath fill with fragrant froth. Lying back in the warmth was ecstasy. With a groan of pleasure she submerged all but her head and closed her eyes.

She hadn’t noticed the bluebottle in the corner of the window frame. As the light and warmth woke it up it crawled from beneath the curtain and buzzed angrily towards the strip light over the basin. She opened her eyes and watched it, irritated. The discordant buzzing spoiled her mood. After dashing itself several times against the mirror it took off and made a low swift circuit of the bathroom. Involuntarily she ducked as it swooped over her head. ‘Damn and blast!’ She flicked foam at it. She would not let it spoil her bath.

As the water began to cool she turned on the hot tap hopefully, knowing before she did it that the tank would not yet have heated up again. As she expected it was cold. Heaving herself to her feet she stepped out onto the bath mat and wrapped a towel around herself. Wiping the steam from the mirror she peered at her face. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the bluebottle on the frame of the mirror. She flipped at it with her hand and it took off, swooping up to the light. It was then the phone rang. Wrapped in the towel she picked it up in the kitchen.

‘Kate, I was worried. Are you OK?’

‘Jon?’ Her heart leaped as she sat down, shivering. ‘God, I wish you were here.’

‘I thought so. Something is wrong isn’t it? I could hear it in your voice yesterday.’

She could have bitten out her tongue. Why had she said it? It was over between them. Anyway, what was the use of worrying him when he was so far away? ‘Nothing is wrong,’ she said hastily. ‘I just meant you’d like it here. The big skies, the sea, the silence. They would appeal to you.’

‘Perhaps I’ll come and see you when I get back.’ There was an echo on the line this time – a pause between each sentence; it made them both sound awkward and they didn’t talk for long. After she put the phone down she sat looking at it thoughtfully for several seconds. If it was all over between them, why did he keep ringing?

At a quarter to eight she switched off her computer and the desk lamp and standing up, she stretched. As she worked she had been conscious of the wind rising outside the cottage. It rattled the windows and from time to time she heard the spatter of rain against the glass.

Carefully she built up the fire and shut the doors as tightly as she could, closing the dampers right down so the stove would be snug and still alight when she came home later, then reluctantly she began to pull on her jacket and boots. With one glance behind her into the living room where she had left the single lamp on the side table burning to welcome her home, she stepped out into the night and pulling the front door shut behind her, she turned the key in the lock. For the last hour, she realised, she had been hoping that the phone would ring and Roger would suggest he came to fetch her. It would only take him ten minutes in the Land Rover. She sighed. Clutching her torch firmly she switched it on and directed the beam up the muddy track into the trees.

It took her half an hour to walk the half mile through the wood. The track was muddy and slippery and the wind had scattered the springy resinous branches of the pine trees on the ground, making the path treacherous in the unsteady torchlight. Several times she stopped and glanced around, shining the torch into the trees. The narrow beam showed only wet, black trunks, deep shadows and a tangle of matted undergrowth.

Diana opened the door with an exclamation of surprise. ‘Kate, my dear, you haven’t walked! Greg said he was going over to pick you up half an hour ago.’

Greg, she thought. I might have guessed. She smiled, realising suddenly that her face was so cold it was hard to make her muscles work. ‘I wish I’d known, I would have waited for him,’ she said. She followed Diana inside, shed her wet outer garments and found herself ushered towards the dreamed of inglenook. Within minutes she had been settled into the warmest corner of the sofa with a whisky in her hand and a cat on her knee.

The room smelled gloriously of burning apple logs, and cooking; she sniffed in anticipation; garlic, oregano, tomatoes – something Italian then. Lying back with her head against the cushions she smiled at Roger who had seated himself opposite her. ‘This is heaven. It’s not worth cooking for myself. I’ve been living on baked beans and tinned soup for the last few days.’

‘So, how is your book going?’ Roger smiled. At the Aga Diana had lifted the lid off a pan and was stirring gently.

Kate took a sip of her whisky, feeling the warmth flowing through her veins. ‘Quite well. From the work point of view coming here was a good move. It’s given me the time to concentrate.’

‘Not much else to do over there, eh?’ Roger smiled. He cocked an eye at the door as it opened and Greg appeared. ‘I thought you were supposed to be fetching our guest,’ he said sharply.

Greg grimaced. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise the time. I was on my way out now to get you.’

Kate eyed him cryptically. She did not believe it. He had meant to leave it so late that she had to walk. She said nothing, however. She did not want to spoil the mood of the evening. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said easily. ‘No harm done. I enjoyed the walk.’

‘Well, you can be sure he will drive you back after supper,’ Roger put in quietly, and hearing the note of steel in his voice Kate realised that Greg’s father was as aware as she was that his omission was deliberate. She relaxed back in the cushions further with a sigh of pleasure, her hand gently stroking Serendipity Smith into a state of ecstasy, surprised to acknowledge how relieved she felt that she would not have to face the cold wet trees alone again that night.

It was when Alison and Patrick appeared that Greg, who had been morosely drinking beer in the corner chair, looked up. ‘Did you remember to bring the dagger you found in Alison’s dig?’ he asked. Though his voice was quiet there was a hostile edge to it that Kate picked up immediately.

She frowned. ‘I did indeed.’ Carefully, so as not to disturb the cat she leaned down to the soft leather shoulder bag which lay at her feet and rummaged inside it. The iron dagger was wrapped in a piece of newspaper. Lifting it out she held it up to Alison. ‘I found it lying on the sand,’ she said. ‘I only moved it because the tide was coming in. It would have been lost.’

For a moment Alison hesitated. She took the newspaper packet with obvious reluctance. ‘Thanks.’ She put it down without opening it. ‘I had put it in my haversack. It must have fallen out.’

Kate raised an eyebrow. ‘Aren’t you going to look at it?’

‘Later.’

‘What’s wrong, Allie? Lost interest already?’ Greg’s challenge brought a flush of angry pink to Alison’s face.

‘Of course not.’

‘You weren’t there today.’

‘I was.’ The retort was flashed at him furiously. ‘That just shows all you know. She saw me. Didn’t you?’

‘I did,’ Kate acknowledged.

‘So, what do you think of Allie’s dig?’ Roger interposed quietly, long used to stepping into the quarrels of his children.

‘Remarkable.’ Kate sat forward. ‘I hope Alison is going to get some experts up here soon. The tide is taking away the sand very fast. If she’s not careful the whole thing will have disappeared before it’s properly recorded.’

‘Did you remember to photograph it?’ Alison’s question stemmed not so much from interest, Kate sensed, as the desire to catch her out. It was with some satisfaction that she nodded. She reached again into her bag and produced the roll of film.

‘I’m afraid the light wasn’t as good as I’d hoped. It may not have come out, but it’s better than nothing.’

Alison took the film and threw it down on the table near her. ‘Thanks,’ she said again.

‘It was very good of you to take them for her,’ Roger put in. He had been watching his daughter with a frown. ‘Alison, have you told anyone yet about your finds? Kate is right. Someone expert on these matters needs to come and see it soon.’

‘She’ll do it when she’s ready,’ Diana put in from the kitchen. ‘Don’t pester the child. Give her a chance to write up her project on her own first, if that’s what she wants.’

Kate turned in her seat, resting her arm along the back of the sofa so she could see Diana who was grating parmesan at the kitchen table. ‘It really is getting quite urgent,’ she said almost apologetically. ‘A few more high tides and the tumulus will have gone.’

‘So that’s what it is. A tumulus,’ Greg put in. ‘It seems to me we have our own expert here on the premises.’

‘I’m not an expert,’ Kate turned back, conscious that the cat on her knee was becoming increasingly irritated by her apparent inability to sit still. ‘Far from it. But I do think it could be important.’

MARCUS!

The voice seemed to echo round the room.

Digging its claws into her knee the cat leaped off her lap and streaked out of sight up the stairs.

The others looked at it in astonishment.

‘Sorry. I hope he didn’t scratch you,’ Roger said with a puzzled smile. ‘I can’t think why he did that. He seemed to like you.’

‘It’s probably the smell of mum’s cooking,’ Patrick put in his first comment of the evening.

Had none of them heard it then, apart from the cat? The pain of the voice which seemed to ring round the room had rung so loudly in her ears. The anguish. The fear.

Completely disorientated, Kate realised that Greg was watching her closely. ‘Perhaps you don’t really like cats,’ he put in softly. ‘They often go and sit on people who don’t like them out of sheer perversity.’

‘Of course I like them,’ she snapped. Her hands were clenched tightly around her empty glass. Noticing, Roger levered himself to his feet. ‘Here, let me get you another one, Kate. Forget the moggy. He’s a damn nuisance.’ His voice was soothing. ‘So, tell me, how do you like Redall Cottage?’

‘Did you see the ghost again last night?’

Greg’s question floated into the conversation before she had time to answer Roger’s.

‘What ghost?’ Diana asked. ‘There’s no ghost there, Kate. Take no notice of my son. He’s trying to wind you up.’

‘Would I?’ Greg smiled. ‘Of course there’s a ghost there. Kate and I were discussing the unpleasant atmosphere at the cottage when I was up there last night. Weren’t we? And she told me she’d seen it.’ He appealed to her to substantiate his claim. ‘We both believe it has something to do with that grave on the beach.’

Alison had gone white. ‘Shut up Greg.’

Her brother looked at her. As their eyes met, he raised an eyebrow very slightly. Guiltily Alison looked away. He had explained it all to her an hour ago, when she had challenged him on the subject, how he was going to drive Lady Muck out of the cottage; how she was already nervous of being on her own out there; how it would take only one or two small things – noises perhaps, or strange happenings in the cottage – to send her screaming into the night. But he hadn’t mentioned the grave.

Kate was watching Greg closely. He was a handsome man, with, at first glance anyway, an honest face and guileless eyes. She had noticed how he could hold her gaze with his own, steadily, the humour and challenge trembling just behind the mask. But it was a mask. He was playing with her.

‘If it is a ghost it is a nice one.’ She smiled at him. ‘And it wore a beautiful scent.’

Alison bit her lip. ‘Stop joking about it. It’s silly.’ Her voice had risen in something like panic. ‘When’s supper going to be ready? I’m starving.’

From the far end of the room where she was laying the kitchen table Diana looked up and smiled. She had been listening to the exchange and had half guessed what Greg was up to. ‘It’s ready now. Come and finish this for me, Allie. Then we can eat. Greg, come and pour the wine. And Roger and Patrick, sit where you are till I call you. I know you both. The moment you think I’m about to announce the meal you will disappear on some urgent errand and I shan’t see you for hours.’ She turned to drain the pasta.

The room was busy, bustling, warm. Kate took another sip of her whisky. She was beginning to feel lightheaded. Had none of them heard it? Or had the voice, somehow, come from Greg?

Suddenly she realised that he was standing in front of her. He put out his hand for her glass. ‘Come. Let me take you in to dinner,’ he said, extending his arm.

She scrambled to her feet. ‘Thank you.’ He was about her height, broadly built and solid; she could smell his aftershave. With a sudden feeling of shock she realised he was really a very attractive man. Strangely conscious of the firm touch of his hand beneath her elbow she let him escort her to the table, where she found herself seated between him and his father.

‘If there are ghosts, then there are two of them.’ Kate was enjoying herself. ‘And they are Roman,’ she added as Diana laid a dish of paté on the table in front of her. ‘One would be your Marcus Severus Secundus, and the other, the one I think I saw, might have been – perhaps – his wife, Augusta.’

Roger laughed. He dug his knife into the butter and carved himself off an unfashionably large corner. ‘Good lord! How on earth have you come to that conclusion?’

Kate turned to Greg. ‘You said Marcus haunted Redall Cottage,’ she said. ‘I went to the museum and saw the exhibits about him and his wife. That is how I know her name.’

Greg grinned. He reached for the butter himself. ‘I think there must have been a beautiful villa here in their day. It’s strange. You make him sound almost approachable. I can’t say I’ve ever been on first name terms with him. I don’t think he was at all a pleasant character.’

‘Why do you say that?’ Kate hadn’t taken her eyes off Greg’s face, trying to read his expression.

‘Greg.’ Diana reproved her son from the end of the table.

‘I’m sorry, Ma, but I think Kate should be warned. She is, in a way, Marcus’s guest, after all. And if he and his wife have introduced themselves, it would seem that they are going to seek a closer acquaintance with her.’

There was a moment’s silence.

‘The dagger belonged to him,’ Alison put in softly. ‘He used it to kill people.’

Kate glanced at her, in spite of herself giving a little shiver of apprehension. Alison was staring down at her plate. Her headache had come back.

‘I’m glad to be rid of it then,’ Kate said. She forced herself to sound cheerful. ‘It will be safer here out of his reach with you looking after it. I was talking to a friend in the States on the phone this evening and telling him about it,’ she went on, determined to show that she was in no way upset by the sudden atmosphere in the room. ‘They don’t have Roman ghosts in America. He was quite jealous.’ Were they in it together, Greg and Alison? Were they all having a good laugh at her expense? ‘In what way is he unpleasant?’ she pressed Greg. She watched him closely. If he told her at least she would know what to expect.

He shrugged. ‘They say that on certain nights, when the tide is high and the moon is full, you can hear the screams of his victims – ’

‘Greg, that is enough!’ his father put in abruptly. ‘You are frightening your sister.’

‘Rubbish. Allie’s as tough as old boots. It would take more than that to frighten her,’ Greg retorted. He turned to Kate. ‘And I’m sure our lady historian is not frightened by ghosts. They are, after all, her stock in trade. She should be very pleased to be able to rent a couple so reasonably.’

So there you had it. The barb which had betrayed him. Kate smiled. Suddenly she felt more cheerful. She could handle Greg Lindsey. Taking another mouthful of Diana’s delectable home made paté she turned back to him. ‘Why should they haunt the grave on the beach? They weren’t buried there, and I’m fairly certain that it’s not a Roman burial.’

‘How do you know it’s a burial at all?’ Patrick put in another of his rare remarks. ‘Allie hasn’t found a body has she?’

‘No, I haven’t!’ Again the panic. Unexplained. Sudden. Overwhelming. Alison clenched her fists against the sudden pounding behind her eyes.

‘And she probably won’t. The sand dissolves bodies,’ Kate put in. She hadn’t looked at Alison. ‘Like at Sutton Hoo. Although that is a Saxon burial and therefore probably much later, it must be the same principle. The salts in the sand dissolve everything except the shadow. And archaeologists can only find that if the site has been undisturbed.’ She caught site of Alison’s strained look and hastened to add: ‘The trouble with Redall beach is that now it is right on the edge of the sea. The tide and the wind have already damaged the site beyond any hope of finding that kind of evidence.’

The peat. The peat strata in the dune. The words floated into her mind as she stared down at the paté on her plate. The peat was newly exposed, only the edge was crumbling, smelling of sweet garden earth…

She dropped her fork. The others were looking at her. ‘I’m sorry.’ She smiled, scrabbling for it. ‘It’s all this talk of ghosts. I think you are at last making me nervous.’

‘And that is unforgivable,’ Diana put in firmly. ‘I’ll have no more of this nonsense. I have known that cottage for most of my life. It is not haunted. It has never been haunted and we will not discuss it any more.’

Kate stole a glance at Greg. He had meekly turned his attention to his plate.

At the end of the meal as the others made their way back to the fire Diana put a hand on Kate’s arm. ‘Stay and help me make the coffee. I haven’t had the chance to talk to you properly yet.’ She smiled as she lifted the kettle from the hob and carried it to the sink. Neither woman spoke as the water ran into the kettle, then with a glance over her shoulder Diana beckoned Kate nearer to the stove. There was a hiss of steam as she put the dripping kettle onto the hot plate. ‘I think you have gathered that Greg is trying to scare you away from Redall Cottage, she said quietly. ‘I am so sorry he has decided to be childish like this. He can’t forgive me for making him move out. It’s got nothing to do with you. It is me he is angry with.’

Kate turned to the table and began to stack the plates. She glanced at the far end of the room where Roger was choosing a CD from the pile on the stereo. Greg was bending over the fire, coaxing some fresh logs into a blaze.

‘I had guessed that was what was going on,’ she said after a moment. ‘He and Alison are both in it, I think. Don’t worry, I can handle it.’

‘You’re sure?’ Diana frowned. ‘It seems so feeble to say I can’t do anything about it, but whatever I say to them, they will go on if they think it’s working.’ She banged two of her dishes together crossly and carried them over to the sink. ‘I hate to think of you out there on your own. It’s so far from anywhere.’

‘You don’t think they would harm me?’ Kate looked at her in astonishment.

‘No. No. Of course I don’t think that. Neither of them would hurt a fly. But they might think it amusing to frighten you.’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, my dear, I am so sorry. I feel dreadful about this. Greg is not an easy person…’ Her voice trailed away helplessly.

Kate felt a surge of anger. Impulsively she put her hand on Diana’s arm. ‘Please, don’t upset yourself. I told you, I can cope.’ She grinned. ‘It was real ghosts I wasn’t sure about. I can deal with imposters. I expect I can play them at their own game.’ Diana looked at her gratefully and Kate smiled again. ‘Just so long as I know it’s them. And just so long as I know you and Roger are there – a touch of sanity at the end of the phone.’

‘You can be sure of that.’

‘Then there’s no problem.’ She picked up the coffee jug and carrying it to the sink ran some hot water into it to warm it. Greg and his father were sitting down now, one of either side of the inglenook. The two younger Lindseys had vanished. Quietly, the sound of music floated through the long, low-ceilinged room.

It was nearly midnight when reluctantly Kate climbed to her feet and announced that she ought to go home. Roger had been asleep in his chair for the last twenty minutes and Diana, for all her animated conversation, looked exhausted.

Greg stood up immediately. ‘I’ll drive you back. You don’t want to walk up through those woods on your own at this time of night.’ He grinned.

Kate glanced at Diana and she smiled. The implication was clear. More ghosts. ‘Thanks. I wouldn’t say no to a lift. It’s surprising how long that path can be when you’re tired.’

The sky had cleared. It blazed with stars and there was a fine layer of frost on the windscreen. Greg opened the door for her then he fumbled about under the driver’s seat for a scraper. ‘It won’t take a moment. Did you leave the stove banked up?’

She smiled. ‘I think I’m getting the hang of that beast at last. It’s voracious in its appetite for attention, isn’t it?’

‘It is indeed.’ A small circle cleared in the frost – apparently all he required to see the narrow track – he climbed in beside her and slammed the door. The engine started reluctantly, revving deafeningly in the silent darkness. Shoving the gearstick forward Greg turned the vehicle around and headed for the trees. A sheen of frost lay on the damp ground and the spinning wheels shattered crazy patterns into the thin veneer of ice on the puddles between the ruts.

Kate hung on grimly as the Land Rover slithered around.

‘The friend you mentioned in the States,’ Greg said suddenly, out of the silence. ‘Your boyfriend?’

‘He was.’

‘What happened?’ He hauled at the gear lever as the tyres spun.

‘People grow apart.’

‘But you keep in touch.’

She looked sideways at the handsome profile, trying to interpret the cryptic tone and she felt a small shiver of excitement. ‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘We keep in touch.’

To her surprise he did not speak again until they arrived. Jumping down from the high seat she leaned in to thank him, but he was already climbing out.

‘You’d better let me check everything is all right,’ he said. ‘The least I can do.’

‘There’s no need. I’m sure the ghosts have gone.’ She smiled at him, but she gave him her key. Buoyed up with the knowledge that Diana and Roger were on her side she was curious to know what he would do next.

The lamp in the living room was still alight as they went in, and so, to Kate’s relief, was the woodburner. Greg glanced at it almost approvingly and she saw him take note of the huge pile of logs next to it. If he was amused by her foresight he gave no sign. ‘It all looks OK to me. Do you want me to check upstairs?’

‘No need. Thanks, but I’ll be fine. I’m not afraid.’ She hadn’t taken off her coat, waiting pointedly by the door. He gave a final glance around. ‘OK then. I’ll see you around.’

‘Thanks for bringing me home. And thank your parents again for me, for a lovely evening. I really enjoyed it.’

‘Good.’ For a moment he paused, looking at her. It was there again, the humour, just behind the sober, almost stern exterior and for a moment she thought he was going to stoop and kiss her cheek as his father had done. If he was, he changed his mind. He gave a curt half-bow – the Englishman’s salute – and turned away.

For a moment she stood watching as he climbed back into his vehicle and, flooding the darkness again with the arcing headlights, turned it and headed back into the trees. Closing the door she gave a sigh of relief. The cottage was warm and safe. The fire was lit, the water hot – she had left the immersion heater on to be sure – the door was locked, and she had allies. Marcus was a trick. A figment of someone else’s imagination.