The Girl in the Picture Page 4

  Since her father’s death, and since Edwin took over the family law firm started by Frances’s grandfather – the one he’d always had his eye on and the one, Frances thought, that had sealed her fate as his bride before he’d even met her – he’d felt no need to keep his true nature hidden any longer.

  When they’d moved and she realized her nausea each morning was because she was pregnant again, she’d started working out a proper plan. As much as she wanted this baby fiercely, she felt the same passionate determination that Edwin would never know his son or daughter. She needed to get away – and that was what was driving her now. She thought she’d stay as long as she could, loosening her corset as much as she was able before her condition was obvious, and then she’d act. It was good to have everything in place before she went, because she couldn’t afford for anything to go wrong.

  After talking to some of the people in the village, she’d decided what to do; though it seemed drastic she wanted to be sure Edwin couldn’t – or wouldn’t – try to find her. So, she planned to take some clothes to the beach and leave them by the rocks. Maybe throw a hat into the waves and hope it washed up in the right place, or snag a piece of a gown onto a sharp stone. There was a nasty current in the sea, which had claimed the lives of many people over the years – she could easily be washed into the water as others had before. If she were lucky, she’d just become one more sad story of an unfortunate walker.

  She planned to hide her suitcase behind the rocks in advance, and after setting the scene carefully, she’d change into simple clothes, the clothes of a maid or a governess, tuck her hair into a hat, and walk to the station. She was unremarkable in looks; she knew that. Plain, her grandmother had always said. Years ago, that made her think she was worthless, but now she thought the fact that no one glanced at her twice could save her life.

  Once she was on the train, she’d change again, in case anyone remembered her cloak or hat, simple as they were. And she’d travel as far as she could afford. North, of course – you couldn’t go south from Sussex and stay in England, and she couldn’t speak French. She hadn’t thought much further than that yet. All she cared about was getting away from here.

  She went out on to the landing and looked down at the beach once more. Edwin was sitting closer to the girl now, and as she watched, he put his hand over hers. Frances allowed herself a brief fantasy where Edwin ran away with this girl and let her, Frances, be. But she knew that would never happen.

  A shaft of sunlight lit up the girl’s face and Frances realized she was even younger than she’d thought. Eighteen perhaps. No older. The same age Frances had been when Edwin had pursued her. Perhaps it was the baby in her belly making her feel this way, but she suddenly felt a wave of fierce maternal protectiveness towards this girl with her loose skirts and messy red hair. She couldn’t – wouldn’t – let Edwin hurt her as well.

  Chapter 7

  Present day

  Ella

  As it turned out, the mere whiff of a mystery was all it took to help me start feeling at home in Sussex. Even a whole twenty-four hours without furniture (‘satnav,’ said the removal men vaguely when Ben quizzed them about where they’d been) didn’t bother me too much, unless you counted the crick in my neck from sleeping on the floor.

  While the removal guys unpacked everything, I played in the garden with the boys, mentally checking for hidden dangers. It didn’t take me long to find one. At the bottom of our garden was a gate, which led on to a sandy path. The path snaked along the top of the cliff a short way, then plunged steeply down to the beach. I stood and looked with an appraising eye. The fence at the end of our garden was sturdy enough but the wooden gate was shut with only a latch. A latch that could easily be opened by a small, curious boy.

  ‘Padlock,’ I said, clapping my hands. ‘Come on, boys. Let’s go and explore the village.’

  Heron Green wasn’t a large village, but it was well equipped. We passed one pub and I knew there was another, at the far end near the boys’ school. There was a small Tesco, a little bakery with a café area, a newsagent and – thankfully – a hardware shop. Outside there was a selection of brushes and brooms hanging up, and lots of different-sized dustbins.

  ‘Let’s try here,’ I said to the boys, taking Stan’s hand.

  Inside it was bright and cheery with well-ordered shelves and several customers browsing. I looked round and decided I’d be much better off going straight to the counter, where an older man stood chatting to a slightly younger man who was buying a huge bag of nails. The older man had greying hair, and he wore a checked shirt with a pair of glasses in the top pocket – even though he had another pair perched on the end of his nose. He reminded me so much of my dad that my heart ached for a moment.

  ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ he asked Oscar, leaning over the counter.

  I flashed him a smile and watched as my son put on his most serious face.

  ‘We need a padlock for the gate at the bottom of the garden,’ he said. ‘To stop me and Stan being monkeys and going to the beach without Mummy.’

  The man nodded. ‘Very sensible,’ he said. He reached behind him and took a lock from the shelf. ‘This is what you need, young man. It’s £9.99.’

  He held out his hand and Oscar looked alarmed. ‘Mummy does the paying,’ he said.

  I laughed. ‘I certainly do.’

  The man rang the purchase into the till, and the younger man, who was still choosing between bags of nails, looked at me.

  ‘Just moved into the cliff house?’ he asked.

  I nodded, handing the shopkeeper a ten-pound note.

  ‘Think so,’ I said. ‘It’s the house on the cliff, anyway. We just call it number 10.’

  He smiled. ‘How do you find it?’

  ‘It’s great,’ I said. ‘Perfect.’

  The shopkeeper handed me my receipt and gave Oscar the penny change.

  ‘Me too,’ said Stan.

  The man grinned, opened the till again, and gave him a penny too.

  ‘Fanks,’ said Stan in his best North London accent.

  ‘But?’ said the younger man, exchanging a look with the shopkeeper.

  I turned my attention back to him, blinking in surprise. ‘But?’

  ‘It sounded like there was a but coming,’ he said. ‘Perfect, but …’

  I wondered how long these men had lived in the village and if they knew anything about the history of our house.

  Leaning in slightly, I said: ‘It’s a funny house. Odd.’

  The younger man, who had a shock of messy dark hair and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once, nodded. ‘You’ve heard the stories?’

  Again I felt that flutter of interest and excitement. ‘No,’ I said. ‘What stories?’

  The shopkeeper tutted. ‘Don’t listen to him,’ he said. ‘Hal’s always been one for a spooky tale.’

  ‘Spooky?’ I said in glee. ‘Is it haunted? By someone who died tragically?’

  Hal looked grave. ‘It’s not the dead you need to worry about. It’s the living.’

  I chuckled. ‘Got that right.’

  ‘I heard there was a murder,’ Hal said. ‘You’ve heard those tales, right, Ken?’

  The shopkeeper – Ken – nodded. ‘It’s not true, though,’ he said. ‘I’ve lived here since the Seventies and no one’s ever been killed since I was here.’

  Hal looked thoughtful. ‘Could have been before then,’ he said. ‘Sixties, perhaps? Or in the war?’

  ‘Or it could all be codswallop,’ Ken said.

  The word made me smile, but I was interested and I wasn’t going to let him change the subject.

  ‘Maybe it wasn’t a murder,’ I said. ‘Maybe it was another crime.’

  ‘Robbery,’ said Hal with relish. ‘Or kidnapping.’

  ‘Pirates,’ added Oscar, who was listening intently.

  Hal ruffled his hair. ‘Definitely pirates,’ he said. ‘And smuggling.’

  ‘Ooh yes,’ I said, thinkin
g of the Daphne du Maurier novels I’d read over and over when I was a teenager. ‘Wreckers.’

  Ken chuckled, eyeing me with interest. ‘I remember now,’ he said, nodding. ‘My wife says you’re a writer.’ He looked at Hal. ‘She writes books,’ he said. ‘Crime.’

  Astonished at this first-hand experience of village life after years in anonymous London, I could only mutter, ‘Well, more like thrillers, really.’

  ‘Good ones?’ Hal asked. ‘Have I read them?’

  ‘I hope they’re good,’ I said, embarrassed like I always was when people asked about my writing. ‘They sell a bit. Not sure if you’ll have read them. I’ll bring you a copy and leave it here for you if you like?’

  Hal grinned. ‘I’ll read it, and then I’ll tell you if it’s good,’ he said.

  I grinned back. ‘Or,’ I said, ‘you could just say it’s good even if you hate it.’

  Gathering up the boys and the padlock, I said our goodbyes and headed out of the shop.

  ‘How about we see if that bakery sells cakes?’ I said. Oscar clapped his hands.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I turned at the voice. A woman – who I’d seen in the hardware shop when we went in – was behind us, waving. She was tall and athletic-looking with inky dark hair pulled back into a ponytail and she was – I guessed – about seven months pregnant.

  ‘Oh thank goodness you stopped,’ she said waddling over. ‘I’m not sure I’d have caught you if you hadn’t.’

  She had a Manchester accent and a broad smile.

  ‘I’m Priya,’ she said, sticking her hand out.

  ‘Ella,’ I said, cautiously. I may have moved to Sussex but I was still a Londoner at heart.

  ‘I heard what you said in the shop,’ she said, slightly breathless. ‘About you writing crime novels?’

  ‘Thrillers,’ I said. Polite in case she was a reader, but still cautious. I took Stan’s hand.

  ‘Oh God, you probably think I’m a weirdo. I’m not,’ she said, laughing. ‘I promise.’ She took a breath. ‘I’m a police officer who’s stuck on light duties because of this …’ She pointed to her bump. ‘And I’m bored out of my mind. I thought maybe I could help you with research or something.’

  I stared at her, not sure what to think.

  ‘And we’ve not lived here very long either,’ she said. ‘And I thought you seemed like someone I should be friends with, so I knew I had to catch you before I lost my nerve and didn’t say hello.’

  She laughed again, more nervously this time.

  ‘I’m going to start again,’ she said. ‘Hello, I’m DI Priya Sansom from Sussex Police.’

  She stuck her hand out again and I shook it again, smiling properly now.

  ‘Ella Daniels,’ I said. ‘Writer, mother, former tax accountant. And new to rural friendliness.’

  We smiled at each other. I thought Priya was right – she did seem like someone I could be friends with. I was glad she’d approached me.

  ‘Cake, Mummy.’ Stan tugged my arm.

  ‘We were going to check out the café,’ I said to Priya. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’

  Chapter 8

  Priya was not as far along in her pregnancy as I’d thought.

  ‘Five months,’ she said, through a mouthful of coffee cake. ‘Twins. Bit of a shock.’

  ‘Got any more?’

  She nodded glumly. ‘Two,’ she said. ‘And two stepkids. All girls.’

  ‘Whoa,’ I said. ‘But congratulations.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m excited really, but my husband’s terrified these ones will be girls too. He’s headmaster at Sussex Lodge School – which is all boys. So we can’t even use the discount he gets on school fees.’

  I giggled. I liked Priya already.

  ‘Tell me about your books,’ she said. ‘What are you working on now?’

  I made a face. ‘I’m supposed to be writing my third novel featuring Tessa Gilroy, a maverick private investigator who inadvertently gets caught up in domestic mysteries.’

  ‘Not going well?’

  ‘Not going at all,’ I admitted. ‘I’m hoping moving down here will help unblock me.’

  ‘Let me help you,’ Priya begged. ‘I’m so bored.’

  ‘Bored?’ I said. ‘With four kids and two more on the way?’

  She waved her hand as though six children was nothing more than an inconvenience.

  ‘Jas is at university,’ she said. ‘Millie’s in sixth form, but she’s at her mum’s most of the time anyway, so they’re no trouble. Layla is eight and desperate to be like her big sisters, and Amber is five. She’s quite the little princess and I think not being the baby any more will do her good.’

  ‘I’m five,’ said Oscar.

  Priya looked at him. ‘Then you will be in Amber’s class at school. I’ll bring her along next time we meet up and you can play together.’

  I was pleased she thought there would be a next time.

  ‘I love my job,’ Priya went on. ‘And I’ve got nothing to do. I’m shuffling bits of paper around, because my pregnancy is considered high risk and they won’t let me do anything. Please let me help.’

  I picked up my cup of tea.

  ‘Back in London,’ I said, ‘I had a tame retired police officer – his name is Reg and he’s an old friend of my dad’s. We used to just drink coffee and he’d tell me stories about cases he’d worked on.’

  ‘And it gave you ideas for stories?’ Priya said, her face lighting up. ‘I can do that. And if you need me to check procedural stuff I can help with that too.’

  ‘That would be brilliant,’ I said. ‘I was worried about making new contacts down here – and I’ve been thinking about bringing Tessa to the seaside, so I’d need to get to know the police in Brighton.’

  ‘Where does Tessa normally work?’

  ‘Camden,’ I drawled, Laaaaahndahn-style. Priya giggled.

  ‘I’ve got loads of stories from my time in Manchester,’ she said. ‘And Brighton’s got a dark side too.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’ That made me think about what Hal had said. ‘Did you hear what else those guys mentioned?’ I asked Priya. ‘In the shop?’

  ‘About your books?’

  ‘No, before that – about our house?’

  She looked blank. ‘Must have missed that bit,’ she said. ‘I was engrossed in the doorbell selection.’

  ‘Hal said there were stories that there had been a murder in our house,’ I said, lowering my voice so the boys didn’t hear. ‘But Ken said he’d lived here since the Seventies and he’d not heard anything.’

  There was a flash of interest in Priya’s eyes, which I recognized because I’d seen it in my own face many times.

  ‘I just thought it might be a good place to start,’ I carried on. ‘For Tessa, I mean.’

  Priya gave me an appraising glance. ‘For Tessa?’

  I grinned.

  ‘And for me.’

  Priya picked up her teacup and chinked it against mine. ‘I’m on it,’ she said. ‘Watch this space.’

  Chapter 9

  1855

  Violet

  I didn’t see Mr Forrest again for nearly a week though I thought about him a lot. In my memories of our meeting on the beach, with his blond hair and the sun behind him, he’d become almost like an angel. A guardian angel who was going to nurture my talent and look after me and help me escape.

  Then when I walked into church on Sunday on Father’s arm, there he was. Much more real than in my dreams, but just as handsome. I felt giddy with relief that I hadn’t dreamt our whole encounter on the beach, because I’d started to fear it had all been in my imagination.

  Our pew was closer to the front than Mr Forrest’s, and he didn’t acknowledge me as we walked past. I stared straight ahead, but throughout the service, all I could think of was him. I felt the warmth of his gaze on the back of my neck and barely heard a word the vicar said.

  After the sermon, I noticed Mr Forrest – who was with a woman – stop and talk to the vicar. So
I seized my chance.

  ‘Father,’ I said, tugging his arm. ‘There are the people who have moved into Willow Cottage. We should introduce ourselves.’

  I felt a thrill in my solar plexus that could have been nerves or could have been something entirely new, as I led Father over to where Mr Forrest stood.

  ‘Ah,’ said Reverend Mapplethorpe. ‘These are your new neighbours. Marcus Hargreaves and his daughter, Violet.’

  Father shook Mr Forrest’s hand vigorously. I bowed my head slightly as I’d done on the beach.

  ‘Edwin Forrest,’ said Edwin. ‘And my wife, Frances.’

  ‘A pleasure,’ said the woman, in a deep, pleasant voice. I looked at her in surprise. I was confused. His wife? I had assumed she was his sister. I’d felt a connection between him and me when we’d met on the beach – a connection that surely wouldn’t have been there if he were married. Would it? I felt myself blushing as I worried I had misread the situation.

  Mr Forrest was talking. ‘Frances has been ill, you see, so we’ve not had a chance to meet anyone,’ he told Father.

  I looked at Mrs Forrest. She didn’t look ill. She was neatly dressed, with a large skirt and a tidy waist. Her dark hair was tightly pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck.

  ‘Much better, thank you,’ she was saying to Father. She didn’t smile. I felt a rush of sympathy for vibrant Mr Forrest. To be married to such a dull woman must be difficult.

  ‘Have you been to the beach?’ I asked Mr Forrest’s wife boldly.

  Mrs Forrest looked at me, sharp eyes piercing my face, but Mr Forrest smiled.

  ‘It’s very beautiful,’ I went on, not sure what I was hoping for her to say. ‘A walk on the beach is very good for the constitution, Mrs Forrest.’ I stared at Mrs Forrest in defiance, as though daring her to admit she wasn’t ill.

  ‘You are very kind,’ Mrs Forrest said, lowering her eyes from my gaze. ‘I will take a turn as soon as I am able.’

  ‘But not today,’ Mr Forrest said, his firm tone suggesting there would be no argument. ‘Today you must rest.’