Humpty's bones

any fun being made homeless.’

‘It isn’t.’ Oh no, Eden though. Here we go again. The third degree. Silly Eden Page falling for a fire-starter. ‘I still feel washed out.’

‘Surely the police checked for fingerprints and DNA evidence? They say — ’

‘Curtis,’ Heather interrupted. ‘Pour the wine. I’ll be down in a minute.’

He gave a little shrug as if to say, Suit yourself. I was only being helpful. A moment later Eden heard the sound of his footsteps heading downstairs.

‘Eden. You will tell me if you need anything, won’t you? Remember, if you want a drink at any time help yourself. Or anything to eat. Don’t feel as if you have to ask. We’re going to look after you while you’re here. You can trust us. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘There’s the television. The clock radio is on the washstand. Your bathroom is across the corridor. But for heaven’s sake remember to duck your bloody head.’ She smiled. ‘You know, this is my favourite room. It used to be mine when I was a girl. Do you remember when you stayed here? You used to sleep on the sofa in the room my mother called the snug.’

‘Things went bump in the night.’ Eden smiled, too. ‘I thought there were ghosts.’

‘Dodgy plumbing, more like. When I inherited… ooh, eighteen months ago… I had the whole lot ripped out. And those old iron baths, too, that used to freeze your backside in winter.’ Heather folded her arms as she casually walked across the room to the window. ‘All this is antique furniture. The bed’s over a hundred years old but it’s all very comfortable. Did your mother feel cheated, because she didn’t inherit a share in the house?’

‘Pardon?’

‘After all, we’re sisters. Same mother, if different father. Not that it matters of course. It doesn’t matter one little bit. But your grandmother wanted this house to come to me.’

‘Mother’s never complained.’

‘No, she wouldn’t. Daisy — your mother — is a free spirit. Just like you.’ Heather studied Eden’s face. ‘Worldly possessions were never her priority. She was happy in a tent in Glastonbury, living on farm cider and copious love.’ Heather must have expected Eden to respond to that rather judgmental statement. When Eden said nothing, however, Heather continued briskly, ‘Even though the house was left solely to me I wasn’t comfortable about being singled out for preferential treatment by our mother.’

‘All Mum did say to me was that she wouldn’t contest the will.’

‘Even so… ’ She pulled aside the curtain. Outside was perfectly black. ‘See? We don’t even have streetlights here. Maybe there should be one at the bend in the road. Now that bend is rare. The Romans never permitted themselves bends in their roads if they could help it. When they built this road eighteen hundred years ago it ran straight as a laser for ten miles across country. It turns a sharp right at the house, then it turns left to pick up the straight line. That always bothered me.’

‘Maybe there was something built here?’

‘It would have to be important — very important. Roman highway engineers swept all before them — forests, houses, whole villages if necessary. For them the straight line was divinity itself. At least when it came to roads.’

‘Then whatever was built here, on the site of the house, must have mattered to them a lot.’ Eden suspected this sudden talk of the road had been to change the subject. But her aunt must have been nagged by the notion of unfinished business.

‘The Via Britannicus was one of the most important roads in Romano Britain.’ She nodded to her left. ‘That way, York.’ Then right. ‘That way… Rome. Heart of Empire. Favoured city of the gods.’ She let the curtain slip back to keep the night at bay. ‘I don’t know if your mother told you, but when I inherited this place I sent her a cheque. I didn’t have to.’

‘That’s entirely her business.’

‘In any case, it will have bought a lot of cider and exciting times at music festivals.’

‘She won’t have wasted the money.’

‘I don’t suppose she thought she was wasting it. Daisy’s happy-go-lucky. She will be until the day she dies.’

‘Heather. I’m very tired.’

She took the hint. ‘We tend to rise early, but you get up when you want. Don’t think there are any pressures on you here. We’ll keep you safe.’

5. Monday: Midnight

It may have been the chimes of the clock downstairs, striking twelve, that first woke Eden. However, even as the echoing notes died other noises came to the fore.

‘Not again… not fire… ’

She flew from the bed to stand in the darkness, not knowing where to find the light switch in the unfamiliar room. Cold air touched her bare legs. She tried to catch the smell of smoke. The strange whooshing sound took her back to the angry roar of flames as they reduced her kitchen to ash. Don’t shout — listen. Eden held her nerve. Now she focused her attention on the sound to identify it. Fire? Unlikely: not so much as a whiff of smoke. Water gushing? No. It’s not continuous. The whooshing’s broken… a rush-rush sound followed by silence.

Breathing?

No — snorting! That is someone — no, more likely an animal — breathing hard. Trying to catch a scent. What came to mind was a horse picking up a compelling aroma on the air. But why was it so loud in the house?

She pulled back the curtain to look outside. The rain clouds had dispersed. A crescent moon, like a curving steel blade, hung poised overhead. Its brittle light turned a garden bush into a mass of silver speckles. As her eyes adjusted she could make out the relentless black band of the road slicing through fields. At the house it formed a hook shape around the garden before flying toward distant York. No traffic used it at this time of night. Then that had always been the case when Eden visited as a child. Sunset might as well have been a red stop sign for this particular highway. A local man, who was considered to be ‘a bit slow’, would immediately run back to his parents’ home in the village if he was caught out alone on the road at dusk. Eden could still remember vividly how he bellowed in fear as he ran, his arms rotating in a fantastic windmill motion. ‘Mam! Dad! I’m frit… I’m frit!’ Her grandmother explained that ‘frit’ was a local word for ‘frightened.’

Then she glimpsed a figure. It sped across the front lawn. For a moment, she thought it was the man who was scared of the road at night. She half-expected to hear the terrified yell of ‘I’m frit!’ But the shape darted to the base of the house. Then she heard the sound again.

‘My God, he’s smelling the door.’ But the force of that intake of breath? This was the peculiar thing: he must be snorting great lung-fulls of air from the building’s interior. In astonishment, she murmured, ‘He wants to know what the inside of the house smells like. Why on Earth would anyone do that?’

The figure, little more than a shadow, flitted lightly toward the hedge, so it could look up at the bedroom windows. Although Eden couldn’t see properly, because of the gloom, she formed the impression that its head turned sharply from side to side as he searched the house frontage. For what? A way in? She moved back slightly so she was peering past the curtain, suddenly concerned that this strange entity might see her. The notion sent a shiver through her stomach. He wants to get inside. There was something distinctly odd about his movements. He didn’t walk in a normal way. Shadow-man moved in a series of sudden, ultra-quick darts.

There, in the moonlight, a pair of silver lights. A split-second later Eden realised that they were a pair of eyes that stared in her direction. ‘Oh, my God, he’s seen me.’ Eden recoiled back into the bedroom and her right heel slammed into the leg of the bed. Even as she grunted with pain she heard the noises again. This time they were