Looking out of the window as the suburbs slid into the countryside, a glowing feeling of hope filled her. She might just be able to do this. She was ready – more than ready. With a little bit of luck and a lot of determination, she could change her life and do a job she was passionate about. And, if she was working from home, maybe she could finally have that much-longed-for Labrador.
The train began to slow for the next station and Helen held her phone up to take her daily photo of the oak tree that she thought of as hers. Today it was silhouetted in front of the setting sun, strong and solid in the landscape around it. Helen smiled as she captured its beauty, looking at the screen, happy with the image.
It would be the last photograph she’d ever take.
The April evening air cooled quickly once the sun had set and it was long after dark when the police car pulled up outside the house. The occupants waited a moment, seeing the light on and the figure of a man walking around inside. The husband. He was at home.
They got out of the car and walked towards the house.
Chapter 2
Bill Wilson collected up his tools and went to the old shed in the corner of the walled garden. He’d been working at Lorford Castle since he was a little boy, helping his father keep the modest grounds under control. Now aged seventy-three, he couldn’t imagine any other life for himself but gardening. It had been a quiet life, but he hadn’t wanted it any other way. A wife, two daughters and a bit of gardening in Suffolk. He was a happy man. Which was more than could be said of his employer, the mysterious Miss Kendrick.
Bill glanced up at the castle, wondering if she was watching from behind one of the windows. He still hadn’t met her. Two years he’d been working for her and she hadn’t even bothered to say hello. Well, some people liked to keep to themselves, didn’t they? He could understand that. He wasn’t the most sociable man himself. Why, only last week he’d turned down an invitation to dinner at a neighbour’s house for no reason other than he preferred to spend the evening in his own home. But Miss Kendrick wasn’t just antisocial. She was on a whole other spectrum.
There were rumours, of course – so many rumours. Some had heard she was a widow, some that she’d recently been released from prison. One person believed she was a deaf mute and others thought she was just some kind of artist. After all, didn’t those airy-fairy sorts always lock themselves up in towers in pursuit of their muse? Bill didn’t really know what to make of it all and didn’t spend much time thinking about what the truth might be. But he would have liked to have met her at least. Call him old-fashioned, but he couldn’t help feeling odd about working for a person he hadn’t even met. The one who paid the wages got to make the rules, however, and his wages were paid electronically once a month. All neat and impersonal.
Returning his tools to the shed, he tidied up for the day. It might be a very odd arrangement, but he wasn’t going to complain. He needed the work and the job was relatively easy and within walking distance of his home.
Once everything had been put away, he left the shed, locking it behind him. He kept the key. That had been arranged ahead of his employment. He was in charge of all gardening equipment and, if anything ever needed mending or replacing, he was to post a note through the back door letter box informing Miss Kendrick.
He straightened his faithful woollen cap, the one he’d been wearing for the past two decades and the one his Jack Russell favoured sleeping with when he could get away with it. Then he turned to look at the castle, as he always did, hoping – just once – that today she might be there at a window, ready with that long overdue nod of recognition.
Standing in the shadows by one of the second-floor windows, Orla Kendrick watched as Bill Wilson left and breathed a sigh of relief. The place was hers again. Oh, how she hated intruders, even those whose help she needed. She just couldn’t feel at ease with somebody else around.
When Orla had been looking for a home, she had chosen Lorford very carefully. The small Suffolk village on the peninsula, which stuck out into the great grey North Sea like a dainty little finger, appealed to both her sense of the aesthetic and also her practicality, because Lorford was a dead end rather than a thoroughfare. People didn’t just happen upon it or pass through it on the way to somewhere else. One really had to want to go there because it was miles from anywhere else and, while it was quaint, it wasn’t overly pretty. It wasn’t the sort of place which attracted coachloads of tourists.
Then there was the beach. Like the village itself, the beach wasn’t particularly attractive to holidaymakers. Part sand, part shingle, there was no parking nearby and, with sandier, more attractive beaches further up the coast, it was only of real interest to those who lived on its doorstep. But how it had spoken to Orla when she’d first seen it – that tang of salt spray and the freedom to be found in all that wild ozone. She loved that she was frequently the only one walking there with her dog or that the other few dog walkers allowed her the space and privacy that she so craved.
Winters in Lorford were especially quiet. The little village seemed to lock itself away from the rest of the world and hunker down. Orla liked that, appreciating the special peace which
