Aggie gets up from her chair and takes her empty mug to the dishwasher. ‘Right,’ she says, gathering her coat from the peg by the back door. ‘I’m off. Kathryn’s taken Elspeth to Frome to look at a painting, so they won’t be back until teatime. The cleaner will be here at four and I’ll be back around five.’
‘I’ll be going out soon,’ I say, necking the remains of my tea.
She winks at me. ‘Don’t get up to any mischief.’
I laugh and pull a ‘What – me?’ expression.
‘See you later, ducky,’ she calls, as she bustles past me and up the stairs. I hear the front door bang shut and everything falls silent. I’ve got the whole house to myself for several hours before I’m due to meet Courtney at the salon. I know I shouldn’t do it. My mum and Courtney would never approve. But I can’t resist having a snoop around.
I don’t know what I’m looking for, really – evidence of a breakin last night maybe, even though, deep down, I know that can’t have been the case. In reality, the only person who could have unlocked my door is Elspeth. Unless Kathryn came over in the dead of night, but why would she?
I’ve been in the sitting room and the library, but they are all meticulously tidy. There are no papers that belong to Elspeth. My mum always had a stash of bills, documents, insurance papers and birth certificates in a suitcase under her bed. But there is nothing like that in Elspeth’s room. Kathryn’s is also very tidy, but that’s because she’s only using it now and again when she stays over. Considering Elspeth has lived here for nearly forty years, the house is surprisingly clutter-free. Sometimes it feels as though I’m in a National Trust property, not in someone’s home at all. The most lived-in part of the house is the kitchen, but that might be because Aggie occupies it. Then I remember the study, the small room that Elspeth never goes into on the lower ground floor at the front of the house, next to the kitchen. I run back down the stairs and stand in the square lobby, poking my head around the kitchen door just to double-check that I really am alone and Aggie hasn’t come back. But when I can see it’s empty I go to the only other door off the lobby, dismayed when I discover it’s locked. I stand staring at the door in disappointment. And then I mentally shake myself. What am I doing? Am I really expecting to find evidence of foul play or criminal activity, or am I just looking for excitement in a job I’m finding a bit dull? Matilde’s death was an accident and Jemima killed herself. But they both looked like you, a little voice in my head says. Isn’t that a bit odd?
Urgh. I’m driving myself mad with these thoughts. I’m going to kill Courtney when I see her. This is all her fault with her talk of the Craigslist murders.
But why did Elspeth come into your room last night?
I put my hands over my ears to stop my relentless thoughts. Elspeth wouldn’t hurt me. She’s not capable of it. And it’s not like the other girls were found stabbed in their beds. I’m letting my imagination run away with me.
I move away from the door and return upstairs. I need to get out of this house and clear my head. I’m just about to run up to my room when the front doorbell rings. The sound reverberates through the hallway. I stand still for a few seconds, wondering if I should answer it, until I pull myself together. It’s probably the postman, for goodness’ sake.
I open the heavy door and a gust of cold air hits me in the face. Standing on the threshold is a man in his twenties, with bright blond hair and eyes the colour of icicles. He’s wearing a puffy yellow jacket.
‘Oh, hi. Can I help you?’ I have to peer up at him because he’s so much taller than me.
‘I’m looking for Elspeth McKenzie,’ he says, with a London accent. He has a checked scarf pulled up around his throat, and a large beauty spot on his left cheek.
‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid she’s not in.’
His whole body deflates with disappointment. ‘Do you know when she’ll be back? I’ve come a long way.’
‘Not until around teatime. Can I help at all? Or pass on a message?’
‘And you are?’ He doesn’t smile. He has a very square jaw and a muscle twitches just under his ear.
‘I work for Mrs McKenzie.’
Why does he look so annoyed? ‘I’m Peter Freeman. Jemima was my sister. She worked here before you.’
‘Oh … of course. I’m so sorry to hear about –’
‘She would never have taken her own life.’ His voice cuts through my words like a guillotine through paper.