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Authors: Sarah Rayne
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way.
Once outside he locked the French windows behind him and pocketed the key. Then he went warily down the twisting path that he had once known as well as he knew his own reflection. Here was the little rockery where the lavender bush had been, and here were the four mossy steps to the lower level. Once down the steps, a big old apple tree screened the boathouse, and Theo could no longer see the light. Supposing he reached the boathouse to find someone waiting for him? Charmery’s murderer? Or Charmery herself? ‘Let’s run away to the boathouse,’ she had said that afternoon, giving him the shining smile that had always melted his bones. She’s dead, said Theo silently. She’s been dead these four months and the dead don’t return.
But supposing they did? Supposing they came back to a house they had loved and set its heart beating again . . .?
There was no longer a light, and Theo paused, his heart pounding. I’ll have to go inside, he thought, and taking a deep breath, walked up to it and peered into the dank interior.
It was very dark inside. The far end of the small structure was open for the boats to come and go and a faint misty radiance came in from the river itself. Waterlight rippled on the walls and on the staging where a small rowing boat used to be tied up. The memories rose up like a solid wall but Theo pushed them away and scanned the shadows.
There was nothing here. He could see traces of the police investigations – some polythene sheeting rolled up and presumably forgotten, and tattered remnants of tape that had probably once said crime scene and been wound round the entire structure. But there was nothing else. If I saw anything it was simply a shaft of moonlight, he thought with relief, and turned to go back up to the house. The dining room light shone like a beacon, and Theo unlocked the French windows and stepped thankfully inside. The warmth of the room closed round him, and he locked the windows again and drew the curtains against the night. Safe.
He was crossing the room to the hall, thinking he would make some supper, when he saw that the portrait of Charmery was no longer in its place. He looked round, wondering if it had fallen off its hook.
It had not fallen off its hook. It was on the table, near his laptop, set upright against the desk lamp. This was surely not possible, because he had absolutely no memory of putting it there. Had Innes done so? No, they had not even taken it off the wall when he was here. Walking a bit unsteadily Theo went over to the table. The desk lamp was still on; it shed a golden glow over Charmery’s enigmatic stare. But something had changed about the sketch. Was it just the light? Was the frame damaged? But even as the questions formed, Theo saw what was different and his mind tumbled in disbelief.
In front of the sketch, half propped against it as if it had been placed there very carefully, was a dried flower. Its colour was faded and cobwebby, and although Theo knew very little about flowers, he recognized this one. Several times in those long-ago summers he had cut one and laid it on Charmery’s pillow for her to find when she went to bed.
It was a Charmian rose.
Theo had no idea how long he stood staring at the fragile, sinister outline of the flower against Charmery’s portrait. He had managed to convince himself that the chiming clock in the bedroom was due to some quirk of the weather or the house itself, but there could only be two explanations for what he was seeing now. One was that someone really was managing to get into the house and that someone had waited outside and crept in while he was investigating the boathouse light. But this was so elaborate and pointless, Theo could not bring himself to believe it.
But outlandish as it was, the other explanation was so bizarre Theo did not intend considering it, even for a second. It was that Charmery herself had returned.
CHAPTER SIX
Theo had been almost twenty-one, at the end of his
Once outside he locked the French windows behind him and pocketed the key. Then he went warily down the twisting path that he had once known as well as he knew his own reflection. Here was the little rockery where the lavender bush had been, and here were the four mossy steps to the lower level. Once down the steps, a big old apple tree screened the boathouse, and Theo could no longer see the light. Supposing he reached the boathouse to find someone waiting for him? Charmery’s murderer? Or Charmery herself? ‘Let’s run away to the boathouse,’ she had said that afternoon, giving him the shining smile that had always melted his bones. She’s dead, said Theo silently. She’s been dead these four months and the dead don’t return.
But supposing they did? Supposing they came back to a house they had loved and set its heart beating again . . .?
There was no longer a light, and Theo paused, his heart pounding. I’ll have to go inside, he thought, and taking a deep breath, walked up to it and peered into the dank interior.
It was very dark inside. The far end of the small structure was open for the boats to come and go and a faint misty radiance came in from the river itself. Waterlight rippled on the walls and on the staging where a small rowing boat used to be tied up. The memories rose up like a solid wall but Theo pushed them away and scanned the shadows.
There was nothing here. He could see traces of the police investigations – some polythene sheeting rolled up and presumably forgotten, and tattered remnants of tape that had probably once said crime scene and been wound round the entire structure. But there was nothing else. If I saw anything it was simply a shaft of moonlight, he thought with relief, and turned to go back up to the house. The dining room light shone like a beacon, and Theo unlocked the French windows and stepped thankfully inside. The warmth of the room closed round him, and he locked the windows again and drew the curtains against the night. Safe.
He was crossing the room to the hall, thinking he would make some supper, when he saw that the portrait of Charmery was no longer in its place. He looked round, wondering if it had fallen off its hook.
It had not fallen off its hook. It was on the table, near his laptop, set upright against the desk lamp. This was surely not possible, because he had absolutely no memory of putting it there. Had Innes done so? No, they had not even taken it off the wall when he was here. Walking a bit unsteadily Theo went over to the table. The desk lamp was still on; it shed a golden glow over Charmery’s enigmatic stare. But something had changed about the sketch. Was it just the light? Was the frame damaged? But even as the questions formed, Theo saw what was different and his mind tumbled in disbelief.
In front of the sketch, half propped against it as if it had been placed there very carefully, was a dried flower. Its colour was faded and cobwebby, and although Theo knew very little about flowers, he recognized this one. Several times in those long-ago summers he had cut one and laid it on Charmery’s pillow for her to find when she went to bed.
It was a Charmian rose.
Theo had no idea how long he stood staring at the fragile, sinister outline of the flower against Charmery’s portrait. He had managed to convince himself that the chiming clock in the bedroom was due to some quirk of the weather or the house itself, but there could only be two explanations for what he was seeing now. One was that someone really was managing to get into the house and that someone had waited outside and crept in while he was investigating the boathouse light. But this was so elaborate and pointless, Theo could not bring himself to believe it.
But outlandish as it was, the other explanation was so bizarre Theo did not intend considering it, even for a second. It was that Charmery herself had returned.
CHAPTER SIX
Theo had been almost twenty-one, at the end of his
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