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struggled to stand. Willing strength into his legs, pushing his shoulders into the bricks to lever himself up. He put his hand out and felt the cool dome of glass. His brief moment of courage died. Now he remembered.
    Burning the letter in a panic, then staggering back downstairs. Taking the key off the hook and coming here. Hidden amongst the bell jars and treasures of his past. And the one newer glass case. The one piece of evidence he had of that night.
    Gifford felt a moment of hope, then the spark died, to be replaced by terror. Remembering how he had stumbled on the steps and fallen down, down in the dark, hitting his head at the bottom.
    In the depths of his deadened, drink-ruined mind, he realised he’d left Connie alone. No one was there to protect her if they came. When they came.
    With a howl, he again tried to struggle upright, but he couldn’t find the strength. He started to crawl towards where he thought the steps were. Slowly, closer to the door. To the light.
    Pushing against it, except it wouldn’t open.
    Why wouldn’t it open? He hadn’t locked it after him, had he?
    The door was a close fit to keep the exhibits at a steady temperature. No light or warmth from outside got in. Gifford pushed with his shoulder, using what little strength he had, and this time heard the padlock rattle over the latch.
    Still, it refused to give. He was trapped.
    Gifford shook his head, setting the world spinning. If they’d wanted rid of him, they’d have done it by now. They had no scruples. There were plenty of names carved in stone in the graveyard of those who’d been claimed by the treacherous mudflats. Easy to add one more to their number. No one any the wiser.
    ‘But I told no one,’ he muttered into the darkness. ‘I kept my word . . .’

 
     
    Chapter 9
     
     
     
    ‘Miss Gifford?’
    A man’s voice calling, not one she recognised. Connie leapt up from the bed, for a moment forgetting where she was. Then she looked down at the half-burnt piece of paper in her hand and realised it had happened again. She had slipped out of time. How long had she been sitting here?
    ‘Miss Gifford?’
    She ran to the window and looked down. Mary was standing in the garden, her hands clutching at her apron. Beside her was a young man in his mid twenties. In the slightest of moments between one breath and the next, she took in his appearance: medium height and build, brown moustache, starched collar, and a waistcoat, suit and tie each a different shade of blue. Turn-ups on his trousers and a pair of polished Oxfords. Connie was certain she had never met him before.
    ‘Are you there, miss?’ Mary called.
    ‘Here,’ she replied.
    The stranger looked up and started to talk. Connie could see his lips were moving, but somehow she couldn’t distinguish a word he was saying. ‘I’ll come down,’ she called, ‘if you wouldn’t mind waiting.’
    Why had Mary disregarded her instructions? Where was Dr Evershed? There was no doctor’s surgery in the village, so although he was retired – a well-respected amateur artist these days – he would know the correct procedures to follow. Who was this stranger Mary had brought instead?
    Connie took a last look around and hurried out of her father’s room, locking it behind her.
     
    *
     
    The back garden was now entirely in shadow. Connie recognised that she must have been upstairs for quite a bit longer than she’d thought.
    Mary darted forward. ‘I’m sorry, miss, I—’
    ‘That will do, Mary,’ she said, cutting off the girl’s apology. She tried to behave as if everything was normal.
    ‘I’m Constantia Gifford.’ She met the man’s gaze. ‘And you are?’
    ‘Harold Woolston.’ He raised his hat, then removed his gloves and held out his hand.
    After a moment’s hesitation, Connie took his hand and shook.
    ‘I did what you said, miss,’ Mary gabbled. ‘The doctor wasn’t there, but—’
    ‘I was,’ Woolston said. ‘Your girl came flying out of