The Stranger in Our Home Page 27

  And yes, there it was, an elegant spider scrawl in blue ink, an arrow marking up the entire week: McCready Builders – bathroom. Angus had been there. In that exact week, the very same week at the end of which Elizabeth had died.

  These dates – they couldn’t just be coincidence.

  First Elizabeth and now Angus McCready. Two funerals within three months of each other.

  I hung back as the funeral cortege arrived, watching the family gathered round the coffin. The police liaison officer had rung me to check if I wanted to go. After all, I had found his body.

  The family filled the front two rows of the village church, a solemn group in black and grey. The vicar took his place at the front. Virtually the whole village had turned up and we sat down to a hushed chorus of shuffling feet and discreet coughs. I looked but there was no sign of Craig. I’d refused to see or speak to him since that day I’d discovered he was married.

  But Mary Beth was there. She rustled in to the seat beside me, wearing an outlandish black taffeta blouse and tapered trousers. Her short hair was spiked up with a black fascinator perched on the top. She looked like something out of a 1980s pop video.

  ‘Thanks for saving me a seat, hun,’ she whispered.

  I nodded, unwilling to admit that the space was more due to the fact no one else had wanted to sit next to me. An expectant silence fell.

  As the service began, I looked at the plain oak coffin, the modest flowers and the grieving family. I watched as they stood in prayer. Perhaps they thought it was suicide, their beloved son suffering depression. How much had the police told them? Only the presence of that car possibly indicated otherwise; and the key, the one I’d unwittingly removed from the investigation. I felt doubly guilty. That key bothered me even more now.

  The organ began, a subdued grandeur of sound that filled the church. It jolted me, its drone like that of the pear drum. It thrummed with a sombre vibrancy, each note held a millisecond longer than necessary. We all had to stand for the first hymn.

  I twisted round to watch the organist, his arms spread wide as he plucked the stops, slowly stamping on the pedal board with black shiny-clad feet, his fingers holding the notes of each chord as he closed his eyes in concentration. I willed myself to be distracted by the architecture of the church, the brilliant blues of the stained-glass windows and the soaring height of the roof struts overhead. The music halted, leaving only the background hiss of the organ, waiting to launch into the next musical phrase.

  Someone walked up to the lectern.

  I listened to the words of the reading but they didn’t go in. I didn’t believe it was suicide. When I’d seen Angus at the Wassail, he hadn’t looked like a man suffering from depression – he’d been drinking with friends, enjoying himself. He’d struck me as a vigorous, ugly man, gloating in the pain of others, not weighed down by his own. It must have been an accident, then. Like Elizabeth. Both of them falling to their deaths …

  No, I had a sudden conviction that was wrong. Angus had been there at the house, the day Elizabeth died. She’d died some time in the morning, that’s what Briscoe had said, the coroner had confirmed it. So why hadn’t Angus told anyone? Had he been somehow involved? Had he hurt her, killed her? That didn’t make sense either, why would he do that?

  The groaning music of the organ began again. The congregation stood up. I rose to my feet, opening my hymn book but not actually singing. I surreptitiously looked at the people around me, their heads lifted in song, faces inevitably drawn towards the coffin. Mary Beth belted out the words, quite oblivious to the subdued voices of the family in front of us.

  Then it came to me, my heart racing. I felt short of air, the breath sucking from my throat. What if neither death had been an accident?

  The book in my hand fell crashing to the floor. The music of the organ rose to a crescendo, then silence fell upon the church.

  What if Angus had seen something he shouldn’t have? The sole witness to Elizabeth’s death. Would he have been threatened by the killer and kept silent in fear for his life? Until … Panic crippled my thoughts and I gave a strangled moan. I didn’t care that there were people all around me, that Mary Beth was watching me horrified. The church, the funeral, the mourners, they all faded from my consciousness. Was that why Angus had ended up dead at the bottom of Alton Heights?

  I fumbled for my coat, pushing past Mary Beth and the other people on the row. I finally escaped the tangle of their arms and feet and dived towards the back of the church. The great wooden door crashed open, as, gasping, I reached the fresh air, wind whipping through the church banners hanging down the aisle behind me.

  CHAPTER 49

  The lawyer’s offices were on Friar Gate in the city centre of Derby. It was a wide road, of once elegant Victorian residences, but student high-rise housing and a new ring road had left them marooned on an island surrounded on three sides by traffic. I could hear the cars zooming by and the windows shaking as I entered Briscoe’s office. It was an old-fashioned room with oak panelling, a solid-looking antique desk at one end and a fireplace at the other.

  ‘Welcome, Miss Crowther, it’s lovely to meet you at last.’

  Gareth Briscoe extended a firm hand. His waistcoat didn’t quite meet under his suit jacket and its broad girth matched the image I’d had of a man in his middle years who enjoyed a few too many long business lunches. I’d clocked the row of trendy wine bars and chic restaurants further down the street.

  My eyes were drawn to Steph, in a dark burgundy trouser suit and matching lipstick. She was already settled on a leather sofa beside the fireplace, her heels neatly crossed. She stood up to greet me, reaching out with one arm and planting a delicate kiss on my cheek before sitting down again. I could barely keep myself from leaping back and rubbing her touch from my face.

  ‘Lovely to see you, Caro,’ she said, all smiles and sisterly devotion.

  Briscoe took the armchair, so I was forced to sit next to Steph.

  ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea, Miss Crowther?’

  Briscoe waved at a tray set out on the coffee table between us. A pile of chocolate digestives had started to melt where they were too close to the teapot.

  ‘Thank you, but I’m okay.’

  I inched a little forward on the sofa to lean towards Briscoe.

  ‘Can I just say again how very sorry I am for your loss.’ Briscoe smiled hesitantly.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, jumping in before Steph. ‘I meant to ask before, who was it that found Elizabeth’s body?’

  I felt Steph’s weight shifting on the sofa beside me.

  ‘It was a local farmer, I believe,’ replied Briscoe. ‘Pete … I’m sorry I can’t remember his surname. He’d gone to the front door and saw her through the window.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I felt my hands clench at my side. I knew exactly who that was: the sheep farmer from over the road. Briscoe straightened his back.

  ‘Now then, I called this meeting as there are some documents you both need to sign. But I do have some news for you too.’ Briscoe was looking pleased with himself.

  ‘Oh?’ It was Steph.

  Briscoe poured a cup of tea with a surprising flourish and passed it to her.

  ‘Indeed. Probate has been granted.’

  My sister leaned back on the sofa, silently drinking her tea, her fingers elegantly curved around the cup.

  ‘Which means I’m now free to distribute the estate!’

  Steph placed her cup on the table and folded her hands on her lap.

  ‘However, the last time we spoke, Miss Crowther,’ Briscoe addressed Steph, ‘you indicated that you wished to refuse your share of the inheritance?’

  ‘I did, but I’ve changed my mind.’

  My head whipped round to face her.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

  Her eyes didn’t quite meet mine. ‘My circumstances have changed.’ She picked up her tea again and the cup rattled on its saucer.

  What the …?

>   Briscoe sat forward in his seat, looking a little flustered. He carried on.

  ‘Well, that’s absolutely your prerogative and as your advisor I wouldn’t have recommended that you sacrifice your share, anyway.’

  He looked from me to Steph and me again.

  ‘It was, after all, what your father intended. That the two of you should benefit jointly from the estate. The house and cottage will have to go up for sale, I’m afraid. Unless one of you buys the other out, or the two of you choose to live there together?’

  He looked at each of us once more, but both Steph and I refused to respond.

  ‘In the meantime, after you’ve both signed these forms, I can arrange for the funds in your father’s investments to be liquidated. They are very considerable, as you know, and it’s a complicated process. I’d like to get it started.’

  It was then that I noticed the thick file on the coffee table between us.

  ‘Very considerable? I don’t understand.’ I looked back at Steph.

  I knew there had been some investments, but neither Briscoe nor Steph had given me to believe they were ‘very considerable’.

  Steph’s face was deadpan. I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. Another lie? Albeit one by omission. Presumably it hadn’t occurred to Briscoe I didn’t know, that Steph hadn’t shared that bit of information with me. He looked uncertain, turning to face me.

  ‘My apologies, Miss Crowther, I thought we had spoken about it. Your father was a wealthy man and a careful investor, he left several capital investment funds which have done extremely well over the years, the income of which was taken by your stepmother whilst she was alive. But now the capital passes to the estate. That, together with the value of the house, land and Lavender Cottage, all comes to a very large sum.’

  ‘How much?’ asked Steph.

  The two of us looked at Briscoe. He lifted up the file with a calculator tucked inside, pushing a pair of glasses onto his nose.

  ‘Let me see, after all debts, fees and expenses …’

  His fingers tapped on the calculator. He rifled through the papers before giving a sigh and reading out the number.

  ‘Two million, six hundred and seventy-six thousand and ninety-eight pounds and thirty-two pence.’

  He peered over his glasses.

  ‘Each.’

  We drove in silence through the countryside. Steph was looking out of the car window and my hands gripped the steering wheel with an intensity that hurt. I tried hard to focus on the road, but all I could think of was that number.

  £2,676,098. And thirty-two pence.

  I shook my head, still unable to process that we were talking about that amount of money each.

  No wonder Steph had decided not to give it up after all. Had she known already? Before the meeting? If she’d been in Derbyshire all this time, had she also been in the house, before I’d arrived, at the same time as she’d been to see Craig? Had she gone through the papers and taken away anything about investments? I hadn’t found anything about any investments. When Briscoe mentioned them to me in his first call after I’d arrived at the house, I hadn’t thought to ask much more about them.

  I felt the same stab of betrayal I’d felt at Briscoe’s offices as she’d announced her change of heart. What else had she kept from me? A part of me, I realised, had hoped that all my suspicions were wrong, even knowing what I now knew about Steph.

  My circumstances have changed, she’d said. I threw her another glance, but she was still looking out of the window.

  We approached Ashbourne along the dual carriageway to a large roundabout where the road veered off to wind through the town.

  ‘Did you know?’ I said.

  ‘Not exactly, but I had an idea.’

  She sounded empty, emotionless. Perhaps the exact number had shocked her too. I braked at a set of traffic lights and we waited for them to change.

  ‘But you knew it was a large sum?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you say you were going to give it up? What did you mean by that?’

  ‘You can have the house if you want. You can buy me out with your share of the cash from the investments.’

  She tossed me a glance, almost a sneer, as if recalling Briscoe’s brief suggestion that we live together. Then she seemed to remember herself and turned to look out of the window once more.

  ‘I’m looking forward to our lunch,’ she said. ‘And seeing the old house.’ Her voice was once more all sweetness and light.

  My head was bursting with questions, accusations, fury, but as I drove, hands gripping the wheel, trying to control my feelings, I didn’t dare start that conversation – not yet. It needed a private space, and not when I was driving.

  The car was moving again. I negotiated the narrow roads through the centre of Ashbourne, along the cobbled section and past the market square where I was able to speed up. I accelerated up the hill out into the countryside and onto the road to Larkstone.

  The fields were green and damp, the sky bright with sunlight reflecting on the road, making it difficult to see. I had to raise my hand, holding it against my eyes as the sun blinded me. The car swerved, then I had it back under control and I fell silent as I concentrated on the road. Briscoe’s answer to my question as to who found Elizabeth’s body also rumbled in my head. Not Angus. What did that mean?

  We drove through the village of Larkstone, slowing down as we passed along the High Street, with the Co-op on one side and the butcher’s and the pub on the other. It was quiet inside the butcher’s. A fresh brace of pheasant hung in the window, their beaks dully open, their wings partly extended, sad pathetic things despite their glorious feathers.

  I had to stop at the corner by the church, where someone had started to cross the road. Steph and I were ignoring each other. It was a few seconds before I realised the pedestrian was Mary Beth, in her favourite long coat and another of her exotic hats. She wasn’t a fast walker, and I saw Steph grit her teeth as we waited.

  Mary Beth had followed me from the church, after I’d run out at the funeral. We’d sat on a bench and she’d held me gently, one arm across my shoulder.

  ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ She’d said, her voice quiet, but earnest.

  For a moment I’d thought she’d known, about everything. It was as if I hoped she knew, for then it would all be so much easier. My guilt, the truth – whatever it was – out there for all to see. Everything resolved, forgiven. My tongue had cleaved to the roof of my mouth and I looked at her almost begging her to understand, then shook my head. She’d patted my hand.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she’d said. ‘I’m there if you need me, Caro, just remember that.’

  The words repeated in my head as I watched her cross the road. As she reached the other side, she turned around, suddenly recognising me in the car. She smiled and waved at me cheerfully. I didn’t respond. She looked surprised. Offended maybe? I didn’t care, I was too preoccupied. She frowned as I accelerated off and away down the street. I pulled my eyes from the rear-view mirror and quashed another pang of guilt.

  I parked outside the house in my usual spot, swinging my body out of the car to open the front door. A car door slammed shut and I felt Steph walking behind me. I’d moved into the hall, Steph beside me, when I heard footsteps on the gravel outside.

  ‘Hi, Steph.’

  It was Craig. His frame filled the entrance.

  I looked at him in surprise. We hadn’t spoken since that day of the police visit and I hadn’t been expecting him. Seeing him here with Steph was a shock. I felt a stab of latent jealousy. Had they talked? Had he known she would be here? I looked for Patsy behind him but she wasn’t there.

  Steph ran up to Craig, flinging her arms about his neck.

  ‘It’s over five million!’

  She was grinning. My stomach gave a sickening lurch. She was embracing him as if she had the right. And Craig was letting her.

  Five million was the total for both
of us. Why would she be telling Craig that? I looked at them, a sweep of hatred for Steph engulfing me. Craig reached up to peel her hands from his neck, the pair of them turning to face me. Steph was still beaming; Craig’s own face was like stone.

  ‘Dear Caro,’ Steph said. ‘Did you really believe him? Did you really think he was yours, even after he told you about our marriage?’

  I looked from Steph to Craig again.

  ‘I don’t understand. I thought …’

  ‘You thought we had separated?’ There was a laugh in Steph’s voice.

  I stared at Craig. At the new coldness in his eyes.

  I stared again at Steph. Her skin was shining in the dim light of the hall, her eyes like narrow slits, her tongue running briefly across her lips.

  She laughed at me then, that same nasty, foul kind of laugh I knew from before, a look of triumph spreading on her face.

  The old Steph. The true Steph.

  Who had never really been my sister.

  CHAPTER 50

  The blood must have drained from my face. I felt faint, a fist of nausea welling in my stomach.

  ‘I … I don’t understand. What’s going on?’

  Dawning washed over me, like a freezing blade of steel had slipped into my chest to lodge between my ribs, its glacial fragments splintering throughout my body.

  Steph stood in front of me in her designer trouser suit, dark red lips flashing.

  ‘Did you open it, Caro? Did you open the pear drum?’

  My hands felt for the car keys in my pocket and I turned to leave. But Craig reached out, grasping my arm and holding me firm.

  ‘Where are you going, Caro?’ His voice was hard, his eyes warning me.

  I tried to pull away but his fingers tightened and he moved to block the door. I jerked my arm upward, trying to break free from Craig, but his other hand reached out, holding me fast so that I was facing Steph.

  ‘Do you really think I’ve been to all this trouble just to let you walk out?’ Steph’s eyes narrowed, she seemed taller than I remembered.

  I struggled to free my arms but Craig was too strong. I tipped back to gaze at him, desperation and uncertainty clouding my eyes.