regular reminders of the dangers. I understand that Lake District FM will itself be broadcasting explicit warnings
after every hourly news bulletin until conditions in the lakes are judged to have returned to normal. However, with long-range weather forecasts predicting no let-up in the heatwave conditions,
that’s unlikely to be any time soon.’
‘Seb Richmond in Windermere, thank you.’
CHAPTER TEN
Meriel loathed her marriage, but she loved her house.
It was built as a rectory in the late 1880s by a Church of England priest, who lived comfortably on a substantial private income from his family trust.
The building was beautifully placed. It nestled like a bird beneath its mother’s wing, tucked as it was under a giant shoulder of ivy-clad rock, one of a series of ascending outcrops that
stacked their way upwards like a towering natural cathedral. Indeed, the mountain had been known locally as Cathedral Fell long before the clergyman chose to build his home there, naming it
Cathedral Crag.
The Reverend Thomas Bolton had sired a large family. Three sons and five daughters grew up in the rambling rectory. There were ten bedrooms – twelve, if you counted the servants’
quarters at the back of the house – and three enormous reception rooms. The largest of these looked directly east across Derwent Water and towards the distant rooftops and spires of Keswick,
which lay to the north.
When Cameron Bruton had bought the house it was in an extremely run-down condition. He planned to convert it into a hotel, but had never quite got around to it. Soon after he married Meriel he
brought her to Cathedral Crag to show her the place. She fell in love with it on the spot.
‘Oh darling, can we live here?’
So for six months builders and decorators had swarmed over the rectory, transforming it into a luxury home. Windows were subtly heightened and widened to make the most of the stunning views over
mountains and lake; ceilings were raised and their ornate plaster cornices and mouldings restored to past glories. The woodwormed oak banisters running up both sides of the wide stairway that
climbed all the way to the top of the house were ripped out and replaced with expensive teak. The decaying cellar was transformed into a gymnasium and swimming pool and, outside, the mossed and
lichened brickwork was sandblasted so that the front of the house glowed rosy red in the rays of the rising sun, just as it had nearly a century earlier when the rector and his family had lived
there.
Meriel adored it.
She’d been sunbathing on the elevated terrace to the southern side of the house when she realised it was approaching five o’clock in the afternoon, and the breaking story that had
robbed her of lunch with Seb Richmond was about to air.
Meriel was curious. She went inside, switching on the expensive sound system as she passed through the kitchen. Immediately, discreetly hidden wall speakers popped and crackled into life, and
she heard the voice of the man she’d been talking to – no, come on now, Meriel, be honest with yourself,
flirting with –
just a few hours earlier.
He communicated an unfolding sense of tragedy and she found herself genuinely moved. Mother and daughter. Dear God. How awful.
When Seb’s report was finished she poured herself a gin and tonic from the drinks tray on the sideboard, added ice from the huge crimson American fridge-freezer in the kitchen, and went
back outside to enjoy the last of the sun. Cameron would disapprove of her drinking so early, but he was up in Edinburgh negotiating a property deal so she could do as she pleased.
As she sank back in the recliner, her thoughts flickered around a triangle formed by three men – David Weir, Cameron, and Seb Richmond.
She mentally replayed her agent’s acid analysis of the consequences if people discovered she’d been lying through her teeth about her marriage. David had been absolutely right, of
course, but he’d merely confirmed
after every hourly news bulletin until conditions in the lakes are judged to have returned to normal. However, with long-range weather forecasts predicting no let-up in the heatwave conditions,
that’s unlikely to be any time soon.’
‘Seb Richmond in Windermere, thank you.’
CHAPTER TEN
Meriel loathed her marriage, but she loved her house.
It was built as a rectory in the late 1880s by a Church of England priest, who lived comfortably on a substantial private income from his family trust.
The building was beautifully placed. It nestled like a bird beneath its mother’s wing, tucked as it was under a giant shoulder of ivy-clad rock, one of a series of ascending outcrops that
stacked their way upwards like a towering natural cathedral. Indeed, the mountain had been known locally as Cathedral Fell long before the clergyman chose to build his home there, naming it
Cathedral Crag.
The Reverend Thomas Bolton had sired a large family. Three sons and five daughters grew up in the rambling rectory. There were ten bedrooms – twelve, if you counted the servants’
quarters at the back of the house – and three enormous reception rooms. The largest of these looked directly east across Derwent Water and towards the distant rooftops and spires of Keswick,
which lay to the north.
When Cameron Bruton had bought the house it was in an extremely run-down condition. He planned to convert it into a hotel, but had never quite got around to it. Soon after he married Meriel he
brought her to Cathedral Crag to show her the place. She fell in love with it on the spot.
‘Oh darling, can we live here?’
So for six months builders and decorators had swarmed over the rectory, transforming it into a luxury home. Windows were subtly heightened and widened to make the most of the stunning views over
mountains and lake; ceilings were raised and their ornate plaster cornices and mouldings restored to past glories. The woodwormed oak banisters running up both sides of the wide stairway that
climbed all the way to the top of the house were ripped out and replaced with expensive teak. The decaying cellar was transformed into a gymnasium and swimming pool and, outside, the mossed and
lichened brickwork was sandblasted so that the front of the house glowed rosy red in the rays of the rising sun, just as it had nearly a century earlier when the rector and his family had lived
there.
Meriel adored it.
She’d been sunbathing on the elevated terrace to the southern side of the house when she realised it was approaching five o’clock in the afternoon, and the breaking story that had
robbed her of lunch with Seb Richmond was about to air.
Meriel was curious. She went inside, switching on the expensive sound system as she passed through the kitchen. Immediately, discreetly hidden wall speakers popped and crackled into life, and
she heard the voice of the man she’d been talking to – no, come on now, Meriel, be honest with yourself,
flirting with –
just a few hours earlier.
He communicated an unfolding sense of tragedy and she found herself genuinely moved. Mother and daughter. Dear God. How awful.
When Seb’s report was finished she poured herself a gin and tonic from the drinks tray on the sideboard, added ice from the huge crimson American fridge-freezer in the kitchen, and went
back outside to enjoy the last of the sun. Cameron would disapprove of her drinking so early, but he was up in Edinburgh negotiating a property deal so she could do as she pleased.
As she sank back in the recliner, her thoughts flickered around a triangle formed by three men – David Weir, Cameron, and Seb Richmond.
She mentally replayed her agent’s acid analysis of the consequences if people discovered she’d been lying through her teeth about her marriage. David had been absolutely right, of
course, but he’d merely confirmed
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