‘Helen,’ he said. ‘H-H-Helen.’
‘Who’s Helen?’ Bill asked Orla.
‘His wife.’
‘Then you do know him?’
‘No. He only told me his wife’s name.’
‘I need to speak to Helen,’ Luke said, glancing at Orla and Bill, but only seeming to half see them.
Bill turned to Orla. ‘Can we find his wife’s number and call her?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because she’s dead.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘It’s what he told me.’
Bill looked even more confused now and Luke was struggling to his feet.
‘He’s not in good shape,’ Bill pointed out. ‘His head’s bleeding. I think we should get him indoors and out of this sun.’
Bill stood up and linked his arm under Luke’s as Orla did the same on the other side.
‘Nice and slowly now,’ Bill said.
‘I need to t-talk to Helen. Sort this out,’ Luke was saying, tears rolling down his face.
‘It’s okay,’ Orla said. ‘You’re all right.’
‘He’s limping too,’ Bill said. ‘You’re from the castle, right? I recognise your dog.’
Orla nodded.
‘Well, it won’t be easy, but I think we should try and get him back there.’
‘What?’ Orla panicked.
‘We need to get him back to yours.’
Orla felt the colour draining from her face. ‘I don’t think that’s a good—’
‘It’s the closest property, isn’t it?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘And we need to get him inside and get that cut looked at.’
‘But I . . .’ Orla’s voice petered out as Luke stumbled and groaned.
‘Come on,’ Bill said, and Orla found it hard to protest further.
It was a struggle to get Luke back to the castle. Orla really wasn’t sure how they did it. The steps up to the front door proved especially tricky but, finally, they made it inside and laid Luke down on the Knole sofa, his face still deathly pale.
‘Shall we call a doctor?’ Bill asked.
‘I’m not sure. Let’s just see if he’s okay first.’
‘Do you want me to stay with you?’
Orla shook her head, turning to Bill now.
‘Well, here are my numbers,’ Bill said, scribbling them down on a piece of paper and handing it to her. ‘Me and Margy are just down the road if you need us. Oyster Cottage. On the way to the quay.’
‘Thank you.’
Bill took another look at Luke. ‘His wife died, you say?’
‘That’s what he told me.’
‘Poor chap.’ Bill tutted and sighed. ‘What did he do to deserve that fate?’
When Luke came round, he discovered he was lying on a sofa. A rather hard, lumpy one. His vision was blurry for a moment, but he could see large stone walls surrounding him. They were white and looked rough to his builder’s eye and there was a lofty ceiling crisscrossed with impressive beams the size of felled oak trees. Light poured in from three enormous arched windows set with deep, thick windowsills. He rubbed his eyes and blinked hard and that was when he became aware of the smell of the place. It was unmistakable – like the smell you get when you walk into a church – the smell of centuries-old stone. A medieval smell.
Either he was dreaming or he was inside Lorford Castle. He struggled to sit up and, once upright, his suspicions were confirmed. What an incredible place to live, he thought, marvelling at what must surely be the great hall of the castle. There were some large pieces of furniture around the room in some kind of dark wood, but even they looked dwarfed by the dimensions of the castle. He admired a Persian carpet in rich reds, blues and golds and noticed that there were china jugs of flowers everywhere, bringing the outside in. There was also an enormous, hairy dog, who was looking at him from the middle of the room. The dog was sitting on the floor but was still at eye level with Luke on the sofa.
‘Wow, you’re a big boy,’ Luke whispered, noticing that the dog was missing an ear. Something clicked in Luke’s memory. ‘One Ear!’
At the sound of his name, the dog was immediately on his feet, trotting towards the sofa.
‘Hey, boy!’ Luke said, sitting up properly now and giving the dog’s hairy head a rub. ‘Where’s your mistress, then? And what on earth happened to me?’ Luke looked around and felt himself sway as he tried to stand up, grabbing at his head in sudden pain, as he saw a woman entering the room.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked from the doorway.
‘Not sure, actually. I feel a bit dizzy and . . .’ – he winced again – ‘my head hurts.’
‘Don’t try and get up yet.’
‘I’m in the castle?’
‘That’s right.’
The woman’s right profile slowly came into focus as she moved forward and Luke noted how beautiful she was. Her skin was pale and almost luminous against her long dark hair. She reminded him of a heroine out of one of the Pre-Raphaelite paintings Helen had once shown him. Isabella, was it? He didn’t have a memory for such things.
As she turned her face towards him, Luke saw her fully for the first time and had to stop himself from gasping.
Something terrible had happened to this woman. Some kind of accident had robbed her of half of her face. Her dark hair obscured a lot of it, but she couldn’t hide the red soreness of the skin on the left side nor the eyelid drooping over her left eye. A fire, perhaps, or scalding water, Luke wasn’t sure, but it was shocking to behold. Maybe it explained why she lived as she did – on her own in a castle – and why she gave so little of herself away on her Galleria profile. And why she’d been so reluctant to open the door to a stranger, Luke thought, feeling horribly guilty at having scared her so much both in her own home and on the beach when he’d tried to talk to her.
His mouth dropped open as he took it in, but he caught himself in time
