The Girl in the Picture Read online

  Mrs Forrest simply nodded and Mr Forrest turned to Father.

  ‘I am very fond of the outdoors,’ he said as we began to walk out of the churchyard and bade farewell to Reverend Mapplethorpe. Mr Forrest leaned towards Father, as though he were telling him a secret. ‘I fancy myself as an artist. Wildlife sketches, mostly. I will enjoy drawing the seabirds here.’

  They continued – Father asking surprisingly knowledgeable questions about Mr Forrest’s hobby, while I fumed quietly. Father had never shown such interest in my art, or at least not for years, and not without a patronizing pat on my head to accompany his questions.

  Mrs Forrest and I walked behind my father and Mr Forrest, not speaking, and as they approached the Forrests’ house, the men paused to let us catch up.

  ‘I was just saying to your father that I think I will take your advice and go for a walk on the beach later,’ Mr Forrest said. He looked up at the sky. ‘Though it’s hot now. I feel later would be better – perhaps around five o’clock.’

  He looked intently at me and I dropped my gaze. Was it an invitation? I looked up at him through my eyelashes and he gave a tiny, barely noticeable nod. I felt myself begin to blush again and turned away so he wouldn’t see.

  Father said our goodbyes, then he led the way to the house, and Mr Forrest walked up the path to his cottage. But as I turned to go, Mrs Forrest glanced at her husband’s back, then caught my hand. I gasped in surprise but Mrs Forrest didn’t let go.

  ‘Miss Hargreaves,’ Mrs Forrest said in a low, urgent voice. ‘Please, be careful.’ Then she turned and walked quickly to the cottage.

  I was bewildered. I wondered if the ailment that had afflicted Mrs Forrest was in her head, instead of her body. Perhaps she was hysterical. I’d read of that in Father’s Times. How difficult things must be for poor Mr Forrest.

  I followed Father home, barely listening as he told me how I should wear my skirts fuller like Mrs Forrest, and wear my hair neatly like Mrs Forrest, and speak softly like Mrs Forrest. I could only think about how I would sneak away later to meet Mr Forrest on the beach.

  After an unseasonably heavy lunch of roast mutton and treacle tart, Father and I retired to the drawing room. Father read the paper, while I picked out a tune on the piano. I was not a natural musician and I could feel Father’s irritation growing as I hit the wrong keys. Eventually, I sat opposite him and read his newspaper out loud until I saw his head droop and his eyes close.

  Quietly, I folded the paper and rested it on the arm of his chair, then I crept out of the room and closed the door behind me.

  ‘Mabel,’ I called to our housekeeper, as I tried in vain to tease my unruly hair into a roll. ‘I left my gloves at church. It’s such a beautiful day, I’m going to walk up and retrieve them.’ I was surprised at how easily the lie fell from my lips, but not ashamed. So keen to begin my art career was I, that I felt almost anything was justified.

  I pulled my hat on, then calmly strolled down the path, shutting the gate behind me. Then I walked towards the church, but as soon as I was out of sight of our house, I ducked down the side of a cottage, hitched up my skirts, and ran along the path to the beach.

  I saw him before he saw me. He was sitting on the rocks, a little way from where we’d met before. Out of sight from Father, I noted with relief.

  ‘And his wife,’ a disloyal voice in my head added. I pushed the thought away and concentrated on scrambling down the steep path to the sand.

  As I reached the beach I paused and smoothed my hair where it poked out from under my hat – in vain, I feared – and caught my breath. Mr Forrest had his back to me, watching the waves, and I studied him for a second, admiring his broad shoulders and the way his hair curled under his hat.

  As if he sensed me behind him, Mr Forrest turned, and my heart lifted at his smile.

  ‘Dear Miss Hargreaves,’ he said. ‘I feared you wouldn’t get away.’

  I flushed at his informal greeting. ‘Father went to sleep,’ I admitted.

  Mr Forrest smiled again, the corners of his eyes crinkling. ‘Then let’s make the most of the time we have,’ he said. He offered his arm and I took it. I felt very grown up and very young at the same time. We strolled across the sand, by unspoken consent hugging the low cliffs that flanked the beach and ensured we were unseen from above.

  Mr Forrest asked questions about my painting and, heady with the joy of talking about it, I explained – or at least I tried to explain – why I loved it so much.

  ‘It’s as though I haven’t chosen it,’ I said, struggling to find the right words. ‘It’s like breathing; it’s part of me.’

  Mr Forrest studied me, and I turned away feeling self-conscious.

  ‘I only wish I had your talent,’ he said. ‘But what I lack in ability I make up for in passion. I am certain you have a great future ahead of you.’

  ‘In London?’ I breathed.

  ‘If you wish,’ Mr Forrest said. ‘I flatter myself, but I have been told I have a good eye and I know if your work excites me, then it will undoubtedly excite my friends in the PRB.’

  He took my hand. His touch was hot like the sun. The only man who’d ever touched me before was Father.

  ‘This is a way out for you, Violet,’ he said, gripping my fingers. It was as though he could see into my soul and I suddenly felt raw. Stripped bare. How did he know what I was thinking? Confusion flooded me.

  ‘I must go,’ I stammered. ‘Father …’

  I pulled my hand away abruptly. Mr Forrest didn’t object. Instead he tipped his hat.

  ‘Miss Hargreaves,’ he said politely. Then he turned and walked away up the beach.

  I watched him go, my hand still burning from his touch. I felt an enormous sense of loss.

  Chapter 10

  Present day

  Ella

  Those early days in Sussex were chaos. It was a blur of boxes and rearranging furniture, and hanging pictures. The weather was glorious, so the boys spent all their time in the garden, kicking balls, bouncing on their trampoline, and generally running wild. I watched them, amazed at how much energy they had, and relieved that I’d bought the lock for the gate.

  It was very different from London. More different than I’d expected it to be, considering how close we were. Because our house was at the end of the lane, there were no cars driving by, and it was so quiet. The first few nights, Ben and I had even struggled to sleep, because we were used to the white noise of passing traffic, not the complete silence of the Sussex countryside.

  I was determined to make this work but it was hard going those first days. Ben had been thrown straight into work so I spent a lot of time on my own with the kids, which didn’t help. Deep down I was worried we’d made the most awful mistake. What if giving up life in London – giving up my safe, if dull, job – was a massive, enormous, unfixable error?

  I kept thinking about Dad saying I would have been better off taking a sabbatical so I still had a job to go back to and I fought the urge to phone him and wail down the phone that he’d been right all along. I knew as soon as I expressed any doubts at all, he’d say it wasn’t too late. That I could go back to accountancy in a heartbeat, that he knew someone who knew someone who could ask about opportunities in his firm and before I knew it, I’d be back behind a desk in the city, on hold to HMRC.

  And actually, when I thought about it, that wasn’t what I wanted at all. I was just finding it hard to come to terms with such a big change. I’d settle down. And I’d stop missing my dad so much eventually. Wouldn’t I?

  Ben, on the other hand, was embracing our new life. He was really busy at the football club – the new season hadn’t started but he was meeting new players and helping with pre-season training and medicals and fitness tests. I knew he was absolutely loving it so I didn’t want to rain on his parade.

  I was both itching to get started on writing and terrified that once I began I’d realize I didn’t have anything to say. I felt like there was a lot riding on this book – it
would be the first one I’d had proper time to write. If it bombed, I couldn’t blame my lack of focus or the fact that I was an accountant really. It would be all down to me. For the first time in my life I was a writer. But I didn’t want to write. What if I couldn’t do it any more? The idea made me shudder.

  The removal men had taken all my writing stuff up to the study, but I hadn’t sorted it out yet. I told myself it was because I was busy looking after the boys. And I said the same to Ben when he gently suggested that I switched on my laptop.

  ‘The boys,’ I said, vaguely, waving my arm in the direction of the garden. ‘We should probably think about getting some childcare.’

  Ben grinned. ‘I’ve thought,’ he said.

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Margaret,’ he said. ‘She’s Mike’s wife.’

  ‘Who’s Mike?’

  ‘The estate agent guy who rented this house to us,’ Ben reminded me. ‘His wife was a teaching assistant at the village school for years, but she’s retired now and he said she was looking for some part-time work.’

  I was thrilled. ‘She sounds perfect,’ I said. ‘Ring her.’

  So Ben did, and Margaret was just as keen as he thought she’d be.

  ‘She’s coming round to meet you now,’ Ben said, hunting for his car keys – he was off to do another medical on another player. ‘She said she’d love to look after the boys.’

  ‘She hasn’t met them yet,’ I said with a grin as Ben waved goodbye.

  But as soon as Margaret arrived, I knew we had to have her. She was just so capable. She sat at the kitchen table and made Stan laugh as I made tea.

  She’d brought little packets of Lego figures for Oscar, and a whoopee cushion for Stan, and the boys were already smitten with her. I liked her too.

  ‘It’s just afternoons, really,’ I explained. ‘I can take the boys to school and nursery and I’ll pick Stan up at lunchtime and feed him. If you could just come after lunch to watch him, pick Oscar up at 3p.m. and then give them tea, that would be great. I’ll be here – in the study – and Ben works funny hours at the football club so he might be around too. So if you need us, you can shout. Would that suit you?’

  ‘That would suit me very well,’ said Margaret. She was in her late fifties, perhaps, with neat blonde hair and a tidy figure in very clean jeans. I gave her a mug of tea and offered her a biscuit.

  ‘How are you settling in?’ Margaret asked, her eyes roaming my face. I tried to resist the urge to screw my nose up but I failed.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Wonderful. Ben loves it. And the boys.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Not so much,’ I admitted. I rubbed the palm of my hand over my hair. ‘I’m restless and nervous that we’ve swapped our life in London – that we loved by the way – for this great unknown.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s good to take a leap,’ Margaret said.

  I nodded. ‘It’s definitely the right move for Ben. He’s got his dream job. As long as I’ve known him he’s wanted to run the physio department in a football club. He’s in his element.’

  ‘So you don’t want to tell him you don’t like it here?’

  ‘I don’t dislike it,’ I said. ‘Honestly, I don’t. It’s just different, that’s all. I’ve always been really nervous about taking risks or doing anything spontaneous – this move was risky and spontaneous so it’s no wonder I’m feeling a bit out of my depth. I don’t want to leave. At least, I don’t think I do …’

  Margaret patted my hand. ‘It will get better,’ she said. ‘Once the boys start school and you’re in a routine. And you’ll make some friends in the village.’

  I nodded, comforted. ‘I met a nice woman,’ I said. ‘Priya.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Margaret said. ‘Pregnant?’

  I grinned. ‘Very pregnant. And I chatted to Ken in the hardware shop.’

  ‘He’s our next-door neighbour,’ Margaret said. ‘Ever so handy when something goes wrong in the house.’

  Again I marvelled at how everyone knew everyone else down here. ‘His friend Hal was there too,’ I went on. ‘And he said he’d heard stories about our house.’

  Margaret looked at me. ‘Stories?’ she said. ‘What kind of stories?’

  ‘Just about some things that happened here,’ I said vaguely, wanting to see what she knew before I told her what I’d heard.

  She nodded. ‘I’ve always thought it was a sad house.’

  ‘Sad,’ I said. ‘Why do you think it’s sad?’

  Margaret looked embarrassed. ‘It’s just silly gossip,’ she said.

  I offered her another biscuit and she shook her head.

  ‘My granddad told me something terrible happened here. I can’t remember exactly but I think someone died. Maybe more than one person.’

  ‘A murder?’ I said, possibly with a bit too much excitement.

  Margaret gave me a sharp look. ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Or some sort of tragic accident.’

  ‘Your granddad,’ I said more to myself than Margaret. ‘So it must have been a long time before the Seventies, then. I could ask at the police station …’

  I realized Margaret was staring at me in horror and looking like she was about to leave – obviously she thought I was some sort of murder-obsessed criminal.

  ‘I’m a writer,’ I said in a rush. ‘I write crime novels.’

  ‘I’ve never really been one for books,’ Margaret said. She looked quite pleased about it. Or perhaps she was just pleased that the village newcomer wasn’t about to kill her in cold blood.

  I beamed at her. ‘Hal and Ken said they’d heard there had been a murder, but we all assumed it was recent. If your granddad knew about it, though, it could have been much earlier. I’d like to find out more about the history of the house. See if there is a mystery here.’

  Margaret screwed her forehead up in concentration. ‘I wish I could remember more,’ she said. ‘I think my granddad said no one ever knew what had happened. It must have been a really long time ago, though. Before he was born I think.’

  ‘I’ll do some digging,’ I said. ‘It’ll keep me busy.’

  ‘Do you have a lot of work to do?’ Margaret said suddenly.

  ‘I do, actually.’ I didn’t want to think about how I still had a whole novel to write. And maybe I could google the house, or find out who lived here years ago, and see if there was any record of this crime …

  ‘And is your husband here?’ Margaret looked round.

  I shook my head. ‘Pre-season fitness tests or something,’ I said.

  ‘So why don’t I take the boys out into the garden and you can have an hour or so getting yourself sorted out,’ Margaret said. ‘Give you a break, and give me and the boys time to get to know each other.’

  Considering I’d spent days avoiding work, I was surprised how pleased I was with the offer. I looked at Margaret in gratitude.

  ‘That would be brilliant,’ I said. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘Go,’ said Margaret. ‘Sort.’

  Chapter 11

  I bounded upstairs. The attic was the huge – the whole top floor of the house, so there was lots of space. It was a million miles away from my desk/dressing table combo in our old house.

  I stood at the door and surveyed the room. I would put my desk in between the two large windows. It was an astonishing view and I hoped it would inspire me. The bookshelves were on the opposite wall, either side of the small windows that looked down the lane. On my right was the wall that Ben had knocked on to see if it was hollow – the one with the ventilation window on the outside. I could put some pictures up there, perhaps. And on my left was a built-in cupboard with a door that had been painted shut. I narrowed my eyes as I looked at it. That wouldn’t stay shut for long, if I had anything to do with it.

  The removal men had left everything in a pile by the door, so I cleared the boxes that were stacked on top of the desk and dragged it to the wall.

  I plugged in my computer and the printer, the
n printed out some photos of the boys, and stuck them to the right-hand wall. As I pinned them up, I knocked the wall once or twice, just to see if it was hollow. But I still couldn’t tell.

  Knowing I should be thinking about a plot for my next Tessa book, I instead opened the internet and found the census records for England. I thought about Margaret and how old she was and scribbling some dates down on my notepad, I worked out that her grandfather would probably have been born around the turn of the twentieth century.

  ‘Hmm,’ I said out loud. ‘Did Margaret say it happened before he was even born?’

  I typed our address into the search box and was pleased to see there were records going back to 1841.

  ‘Let’s start at the very beginning,’ I sang under my breath, Julie Andrews style, clicking on the first entry.

  At first I was confused as the village was simply listed as one entry without individual addresses. But thanks to the pubs, which had obviously been in the same place for all that time, I worked out the census recorders had started at the opposite end of the village and just worked their way along towards the sea. Our house, therefore, had to be the very final entry. I scrolled down and found it.

  Marcus Hargreaves, I read. Male. 34 years old. Industrialist.

  Below Marcus was a wife, Harriet, listed as thirty years old, and a little girl, Violet. She was just four years old.

  ‘Aww, a little family,’ I said. ‘Did you have more children, Marcus? This house is built for lots of kids.’

  I clicked on the next entry, for 1851.

  Marcus Hargreaves, I read again. Male. 44 years old. Industrialist.

  But beneath Marcus was no mention of Harriet. Instead just Violet – who was now fourteen – was listed. Beneath her was a woman called Elizabeth Pringle, who was listed as a governess, a housekeeper called Betsy Bolton, and a maid – who was just sixteen – called Mabel Jonas.

  ‘Where’s Harriet?’ I said, feeling unaccountably sad, but intrigued nevertheless. ‘Was she the murder victim?’