“Look, there’s not much left on the grounds from that time, save for the House itself, and a few private properties in the northwest of the estate. A few old houses that are falling to pieces, a strip of land with a caravan on it—they are mostly still occupied.” She made a couple more marks and then handed the map over, her mouth pursed. “I only know about it because I was here when they were building the new roads—they had to get agreements from the residents still living on the larger properties.”
“Thank you.” Heather took the pamphlet and tucked it away in her pocket. “Who owns it, anyway? This spa?”
“Can’t you bloody google that?” The receptionist shook her head slightly, visibly retrieving her customer service skills. “It’s part of a chain of spas, which are partly owned by a private individual and partly by an environmental charity.”
“Oak Leaf,” Heather remembered the acorn logo on the welcome sign.
Nikki frowned. “A green charity? Why would they own a spa?”
“It’s a good way to keep the land from being built on,” said Heather, stepping back from the counter. “Otherwise I imagine it would all get sold up in bits and pieces and made into several shopping centers.” She smiled warmly at the receptionist. “Thank you, we’ll go and have our breakfast now, I promise.”
“Can you believe,” said Heather, around half an hour later, “that they didn’t even have any sausages?”
“They did,” said Nikki, mildly. “They had vegan sausages.”
“That is not a sausage, it is a tube of sadness and regret.”
They were making their way down the hill, having left Nikki’s car in the car park. According to the newly scribbled-on map, some of the private properties were only accessible by foot, or if you had the sort of four-wheel drive vehicle that positively embraces mud.
“What do you want to do?” asked Nikki as they continued to trudge down the hill. It was still a bright morning, but the wind was picking up.
“I just want to have a look around. Get a feel for the place. And it would be interesting to see if we can find some of the places our white witch painted.” Inside her bag were copies of most of Pamela Whittakers’ paintings and photos—the photo that featured her mother, she had hidden deep in her bag. “Or even find the locations of her photographs. It would be interesting to know exactly where this commune was set up.”
“Well if we encounter any “get off my land” types, I will let you deal with them. You were fairly mean to that receptionist, you know.”
Heather gave Nikki a look. “Fair enough.”
They walked on, both lapsing into silence. The quiet was oppressive, so full of the whistle of the wind and the quiet music of birdsong it felt like a physical weight. Heather found herself reluctant to speak, as though to do so would be to expose herself; although to what, she did not know. Eventually they passed over the neatly kept grasses and roads and came to a strip of trees, a single rough path leading through them. Despite the bright morning, the trees were a solid clump of darkness, seeming to hold their own shadows close around their trunks and branches. On the edge of it, Nikki hesitated.
“Are you sure this is the right way?”
“I am,” Heather indicated the map. “See? And this bit doesn’t last for long, there’s a clearing beyond, and the first of the old houses. This is just a small branch of the larger Fiddler’s Wood.”
Nikki turned and looked back up the hill, where the House was now a squat gray box. More people were arriving in the car park.
“Let’s get it over with.”
Under the trees, winter felt oddly close, with a dampness in the air that spoke of frosts and late-night mists. The dirt track they followed was riddled with muddy puddles, and Heather found herself concentrating so hard on walking on the drier areas that it was a surprise when they emerged out under the sky again. The grass was thick and overgrown, quickly turning the cuffs of Heather’s jeans dark with moisture. As they approached the trees on the far side, they saw that the woods were much thicker and darker, the path a little more overgrown. All of which made it something of a surprise, ten minutes later, to emerge onto a neatly manicured lawn with a well-maintained house sitting at the heart of it. More trees curled around the back of the house, which was built with dark stone similar to that of Fiddler’s Mill House itself, and on the gravel drive out front stood a sturdy looking green Landrover, mud on its wheels. Next to it was a smaller, more modern car, and as they watched, the front door of the house opened and an older woman emerged dressed in a dark green raincoat, a large carry-all clutched in both hands. She looked straight at them, clearly startled, and then leaned back in the door. They heard her speak, but did not catch what she said, and then the woman climbed into the smaller yellow car and drove away—there was a proper paved road on the far side of the grounds, disappearing into more trees.
“We’ve been spotted,” said Heather, unnecessarily.
As they walked toward the house, a shadow appeared at the door, not quite emerging into the light. When they were on the gravel drive, Heather could see it was a hunched old man, much older than the woman who had disappeared in the yellow car. He was watching them come, while leaning on a walking stick. There was a linoleum floor in the hallway; a green vine pattern against a sickly yellow background.
“Good morning!” She lifted her hand in greeting, but the man’s only response was to tip his head slightly to one side. Next to her, Nikki leaned in close and murmured in her ear.
“Let’s just
