She replies straight away: If K found it and took it, where else could she have hidden it?
I sit on the edge of the bed, my mobile in my hand. Think. Think. And then it comes to me. The art gallery, I reply.
The house is quiet as I pad down the stairs to the first floor. Elspeth’s bedroom door is ajar, just as she likes it. I peer through the crack. She’s lying on her back with her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling, her duvet pulled up to her chin. She sleeps with her hair still in its updo. It must be uncomfortable.
I creep past her door and continue down the winding staircase to the hallway. I know this house is fancy, but it leaves me cold. There’s nothing about it that’s warm and inviting. No photographs on the walls, just a bunch of ugly paintings that probably cost the earth. There are no little trinkets or ornaments. I’ve come to understand that the house is the perfect depiction of the people who inhabit it, myself not included, of course.
Elspeth never mentions Una or Jemima. Not even Matilde. Considering Una died less than two months ago it’s like – from Elspeth and Kathryn’s point of view anyway – she didn’t exist. They’ve wiped her from their memories just like they did with the daughter, Viola, who supposedly ran away all those years ago. If Courtney hadn’t told me, I’d never have known Una, Jemima, Matilde and Viola had ever existed, let alone lived in this very house. It gives me the creeps when I think about it.
Kathryn’s cold, sneering face appears in my mind’s eye and disappears again, like a fading photograph. It sounds like Courtney and Peter are sure she had something to do with Una and Jemima’s deaths. And the bag Una found in the cellar is definitely suspicious – I can’t get away from that. Yet something doesn’t add up. Why would Elspeth employ a companion just for Kathryn to dispose of them? Is that what they do? Like the Moors murderers? One to lure and the other to kill? Kathryn doesn’t like us being here, that much is obvious, but … murder? Then I think of some of the true-life crime documentaries I’ve seen. Ordinary people kill for all sorts of reasons and sometimes no reason at all. Maybe Kathryn is a psychopath who is compelled to do it. And, if so, when did she start? With Matilde … or before that? With Viola? I shudder at the thought that maybe Viola didn’t run away after all.
The creak of a floorboard makes me jump. I spin around but nobody’s there. Oh, for goodness’ sake, Willow, I tell myself. Stop scaring yourself with these ridiculous thoughts.
I continue down the stairs. It’s dark, the only light coming from the moon filtering through the pane of glass in the front door, bouncing off the Victorian tiles. They are cold beneath my bare feet as I tiptoe across them. The cupboard on the left nearest the front door has a row of keys inside, dangling enticingly on a rack, like jewellery in a shop. They glint in the moonlight. There are about eight keys, plus a small bunch containing two and a diamanté key-ring in the shape of a dog, which I know are Elspeth’s because I’ve had to get them for her often enough. They open the front and back doors. The other keys are singles, each with their own little plastic-labelled fob. How very organized. The gallery keys must be here somewhere. I know Elspeth has a set. I cast my eye along them, but it’s too dark to make out the writing and I’ve left my phone upstairs. I unhook one and take it to the front door to catch the light. Study is written on it in Elspeth’s slanted hand. I return it and try another. Attic. I frown. I’m in the attic. I was given a key when I arrived, not that I ever use it. So this is a spare? What’s the point of giving me a key if they can gain access to my room any time they want? I replace it and go through the other keys until I reach the last one. This has to be it. I’m just about to hold it up to the light to read the tag to make sure, when I hear someone clear their throat.
I jump, almost dropping the key, and spin around, my heart thumping.
Elspeth is standing in the middle of the hallway, her chignon all awry and dressed in her favourite ankle-length thermal nightdress. ‘What on earth are you doing?’
I fold the key into my palm and close the cupboard. ‘I … I was checking the front door. I hadn’t double-bolted it.’
Even in the half-light I can see the doubt in her expression. ‘I thought I’d double-bolted it.’
‘Yes. Yes, you had.’
‘Right.’ She comes towards me. She looks like she’s floating in her long nightdress and I kick the cupboard closed with my foot before she asks why I’m looking in it. ‘So why did you check?’