Kissing the Demons by Kate Ellis Page B

who hadn’t survived were buried in St Aiden’s churchyard, their little graves marked by the most costly headstones their parents could afford.
    Then one day – an apparently normal day in April 1896 – Obediah had come home from work and proceeded to slaughter his wife, his two young children, the nursemaid and the cook. He had taken an axe from the garden store – probably like the crumbling brick outbuilding that stood near their back door – and hacked his victims to pieces. Newspapers at the time had called it a scene of butchery and carnage. This was probably an understatement.
    Obediah had denied any involvement, claiming that he’d returned home and been greeted by a scene of unimaginable horror. A postman who had been delivering the evening post investigated the open front door and discovered the gruesome tableau of dismembered bodies and Shrowton sobbing on the hall floor with a bloody axe in his hand. Later Shrowton had claimed he’d been too shocked to report the deaths immediately to the authorities and this went against him at his trial. The jury hadn’t believed his story and he was hanged for his alleged crime at Eborby jail in October 1896.
    Matt picked up his mobile phone and tried Pet’s number again. Somehow he felt a little better now that the police were aware that she might be in danger – almost as if the burden was now shared – although he hadn’t felt that the pair they sent had taken her disappearance seriously enough. They’d seemed more interested in someone called Jasmine who’d lived in the house many years ago. Still, they had both been senior detectives. At least they hadn’t sent a brace of probationers.
    He knew he had work to do for university but he found it hard to concentrate. He typed Torland Place into the search engine. A number of sites came up and his eyes scanned the results. Then one in particular caught his eye and he clicked on it.
    Valediction Street, it said, was renamed Torland Place after the gruesome murders of five people at number thirteen.
    â€˜Shit,’ he whispered, his heart beating so fast that he could almost hear it in the heavy silence.

FIVE
    T he landlord, Andy Cassidy, lived near the centre of Eborby in an elegantly proportioned Georgian house just off Boothgate. The original Georgian sash windows were freshly painted and the swagged drapes at the windows were the sort that cost a fortune. The front door, flanked by a pair of healthy bay trees, was painted sage green. All in the best possible taste. Joe wondered how much he charged the students for the privilege of living in the relative squalor of Torland Place – probably too much.
    After Joe had raised the lion head knocker and let it fall twice, they both waited, ID in hand, to interrupt Andy Cassidy’s Sunday. After half a minute the door opened slowly. The man in the doorway wore a black T-shirt, jeans and an impatient expression as he folded his tattooed arms defensively. ‘I’m in the middle of something. What is it?’
    But when he glanced down at the warrant cards and realized they weren’t there to convert him or sell him something, his manner changed and a worried frown appeared on his face. Joe had seen the transformation hundreds of times before and it almost made him pity Jehovah’s Witnesses and door to door salesmen. ‘Sorry. I thought you were . . . Is something the matter?’
    â€˜Nothing to worry about, Mr Cassidy,’ said Emily. ‘May we come in?’
    â€˜Yeah, sure. Come in.’ Cassidy sounded a little distracted, as though he was going through all the possible reasons they could be calling in his mind.
    He led them through to an elegant drawing room. A tempting smell of Sunday roast hung in the air and it made Joe feel hungry. He made himself comfortable on a soft leather sofa and Emily sat opposite him. She caught his eye – she wanted to do the