‘Can’t or won’t? Did you already know that Henry Winter was dead?’
‘I think you need to calm down. I didn’t know anything. I still don’t. Except that…’
‘What?’ I ask her.
‘You said Henry delivered a new book in September, but now we know he died the year before.’
‘So?’
‘So, what if someone else wrote it?’ She shouts the question and I realise that I have been shouting too.
It’s a ridiculous suggestion. The book has since been published all around the world. Does she seriously think that nobody – including his agent, his publishers, and army of fans – would have noticed if someone else had written a Henry Winter novel? But then I do the maths and she’s right, it doesn’t add up.
‘That isn’t possible,’ I reply. The answer in my head is less decisive but I don’t share that one with my wife.
Writers are a strange and unpredictable species. To be one requires patience, determination, sufficient self-motivation to work alone in the dark, and the self-belief to keep going when the shadows try to consume them. And they do try – I should know. The other thing all writers have in common is that they’re kooky at best, crazy at worst. Would Henry fake his own death for some reason?
‘We both saw someone let themselves into the chapel earlier. Remember? That’s who we need to blame for all this. Not each other,’ Amelia says.
‘What about the woman in the cottage?’
‘The witch with the candles and the white rabbit? You said she was old…’
‘I said she had grey hair. It isn’t as though we’ve seen anyone else since we arrived.’
‘So, let’s go back. Knock on her door again. Worst-case scenario, she casts a spell and turns us into white rabbits too,’ Amelia replies, sounding calmer than she should.
Maybe because she already knows what is going on here and this is all an act.
I’ll always feel guilty about cheating on my wife, but Saint Amelia slept with someone she shouldn’t have too. It’s as if she conveniently forgets that part of the story. But I can’t. ‘Call me Pamela’ the counsellor said we needed to move on, learn to put it behind us, but I’m still shocked by how easily my wife lies.
I wish I could see her face now, the way other people can. I wonder if she looks scared? Or does she look as composed as she sounds? And if so – given that we appear to be trapped and quite possibly in danger – why isn’t she as afraid as I am? She seems to have forgotten all about her beloved dog. She’s lying about something, and not knowing what scares me. A haunted marriage is just as terrifying as a haunted house.
‘Come with me,’ I say, taking her hand – she’s always complaining I don’t hold it often enough.
Her face and voice might not give her away, but Amelia can’t control her breathing. If she’s genuinely stressed or scared, it’s always the first thing to go.
We reach the old wooden spiral staircase leading to the first floor, and I point up at the gallery of black and white photos on the wall. It’s been bothering me since we got here.
‘Who are the people in these pictures, do you recognise any of their faces?’ I ask.
I can tell that the portraits at the bottom of the stairs are of people dressed in Victorian clothes. The ones nearer the top look more recent. I can see that some of the subjects are adults, others are children, but – as usual – I can’t see any of their faces.
Amelia shakes her head, so I start to pull her up the stairs.
‘How about now? Anyone here look familiar?’
‘You’re scaring me, Adam,’ she says, and I can hear from her breathing that she’s telling the truth. I’m about to apologise when she speaks again.
‘Hang on, I think this photo is of Henry as a teenager… and the one below looks a bit like him too, but younger, with a man and woman. Parents, perhaps.’
‘Some kind of family tree maybe? Keep going,’ I say, not letting her go.
‘I’m fairly sure most of these pictures are of Henry. I didn’t notice until now, but then I didn’t know what to look for. He’s a lot younger than the face I see on book jackets and in the newspapers – all of which are so out of date.’
Now I drop her hand.
I stare at the photos myself, trying to see what she sees, but it’s pointless.
‘Anyone else look familiar?’ I ask, when Amelia stops abruptly at the top of the stairs. I notice her twisting the sapphire engagement ring round and round her finger.