next, all along the back of the house.
There was something purposeful about the way the light moved, as if the person holding it was conducting a search.
But a search for what?
Evidence that she was back in London? Had been to the house?
Whoever held the lamp stood in the library now, the light shining across the lawn. It took her a moment to understand that the person had drawn back the curtains to look out into the garden, and she shrank back, catching the briefest glimpse of a man.
The light went out.
Could he have seen her?
She reasoned with herself that he could not. She was crouched low and in complete darkness, and the light hadn’t been strong enough to reach across to the back wall. And yet, could she take the chance?
He could simply be done with the back rooms and have moved on to search the front of the house. But her imagination conjured the shadow man, his lantern extinguished, slipping out of the house and circling around to wait for her in the alley below.
A spike of fear lanced through her. She peered carefully into the alley—though it would be impossible for him to already be there, even if she were right—before she started climbing down. She took it too fast, scraping her hands and fumbling her footing, until she dropped and landed hard on the cobbles, hands stinging, knees jolted.
She started back for Aldridge House, hobbling a little untilher legs stopped aching. She wanted to run, but it would slow her down even more if she fell on the grime-slick cobbles, so she forced herself to a quick, careful walk. She looked over her shoulder, but there was nothing but darkness and silence behind her.
It didn’t comfort her in the least.
At last she reached the little alleyway that led to the kitchen door, breathing hard, with perspiration beading on her forehead and between her shoulder blades.
A sheet of newspaper skittered down the alley on a sudden gust of wind, and she thought her heart would stop. Gasping, her imagination conjuring shadow men behind her, she rattled the handle for a few panicked seconds until she remembered she had the key.
She had to steel herself to extract it from her hidden pocket without dropping it, and with shaking fingers she unlocked the door and threw herself inside, slamming it shut behind her.
She needed two tries to get the key into the lock, and only relaxed when she heard the comforting clunk of the bolt engaging. Then she leaned forward, resting her forehead on the door. When she turned slowly around, she let out a soft scream.
Edgars was staring at her from the middle of the kitchen, his body tense as if ready for danger, the candle in his hand throwing leaping shadows about the room.
“All right?” he asked eventually, when they had stared at each other for almost a minute.
She let out a long breath and briefly closed her eyes. Careful now. Very careful. “ Oui . I couldn’t sleep. It is always so, in a strange, new place. So I take the walk, and I think there is someone following me. But it is nothing. Just nerves. I am overtired.” She let the French accent clog her speech like thick cream and walked down the stairs, giving Edgars a wide berth as she went to her door.
He had turned to follow her and was still staring at her. She gave him a nod. “Good night, Mr. Edgars.”
He nodded back, but as she closed her door, she saw what was in his eyes.
Suspicion.
8
J onathan walked home deep in thought. Mention of the Barringtons had dredged up memories for him—memories of the last time he and his brother and father had been together, while he was on leave from the army. His father, already extremely ill, had died a few months after he’d gone back to his unit.
He recalled the day his father had invited Adèle Barrington for tea. Had she brought her daughter with her that day? He couldn’t recall; all he could remember was vying with his brother and his father for Mrs. Barrington’s smiles and laughter. She had brought sunlight into the
There was something purposeful about the way the light moved, as if the person holding it was conducting a search.
But a search for what?
Evidence that she was back in London? Had been to the house?
Whoever held the lamp stood in the library now, the light shining across the lawn. It took her a moment to understand that the person had drawn back the curtains to look out into the garden, and she shrank back, catching the briefest glimpse of a man.
The light went out.
Could he have seen her?
She reasoned with herself that he could not. She was crouched low and in complete darkness, and the light hadn’t been strong enough to reach across to the back wall. And yet, could she take the chance?
He could simply be done with the back rooms and have moved on to search the front of the house. But her imagination conjured the shadow man, his lantern extinguished, slipping out of the house and circling around to wait for her in the alley below.
A spike of fear lanced through her. She peered carefully into the alley—though it would be impossible for him to already be there, even if she were right—before she started climbing down. She took it too fast, scraping her hands and fumbling her footing, until she dropped and landed hard on the cobbles, hands stinging, knees jolted.
She started back for Aldridge House, hobbling a little untilher legs stopped aching. She wanted to run, but it would slow her down even more if she fell on the grime-slick cobbles, so she forced herself to a quick, careful walk. She looked over her shoulder, but there was nothing but darkness and silence behind her.
It didn’t comfort her in the least.
At last she reached the little alleyway that led to the kitchen door, breathing hard, with perspiration beading on her forehead and between her shoulder blades.
A sheet of newspaper skittered down the alley on a sudden gust of wind, and she thought her heart would stop. Gasping, her imagination conjuring shadow men behind her, she rattled the handle for a few panicked seconds until she remembered she had the key.
She had to steel herself to extract it from her hidden pocket without dropping it, and with shaking fingers she unlocked the door and threw herself inside, slamming it shut behind her.
She needed two tries to get the key into the lock, and only relaxed when she heard the comforting clunk of the bolt engaging. Then she leaned forward, resting her forehead on the door. When she turned slowly around, she let out a soft scream.
Edgars was staring at her from the middle of the kitchen, his body tense as if ready for danger, the candle in his hand throwing leaping shadows about the room.
“All right?” he asked eventually, when they had stared at each other for almost a minute.
She let out a long breath and briefly closed her eyes. Careful now. Very careful. “ Oui . I couldn’t sleep. It is always so, in a strange, new place. So I take the walk, and I think there is someone following me. But it is nothing. Just nerves. I am overtired.” She let the French accent clog her speech like thick cream and walked down the stairs, giving Edgars a wide berth as she went to her door.
He had turned to follow her and was still staring at her. She gave him a nod. “Good night, Mr. Edgars.”
He nodded back, but as she closed her door, she saw what was in his eyes.
Suspicion.
8
J onathan walked home deep in thought. Mention of the Barringtons had dredged up memories for him—memories of the last time he and his brother and father had been together, while he was on leave from the army. His father, already extremely ill, had died a few months after he’d gone back to his unit.
He recalled the day his father had invited Adèle Barrington for tea. Had she brought her daughter with her that day? He couldn’t recall; all he could remember was vying with his brother and his father for Mrs. Barrington’s smiles and laughter. She had brought sunlight into the
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