The rain was getting heavier, fat raindrops splatting my sketched map, so I headed back to the house.
The front door of the cottage behind the main house was open and music was coming from within. Curious, I headed over and found Karen inside, working at a little desk in a cosy side room that was named after Bertrand Russell, the radio on. She snapped her laptop shut when she noticed me.
‘Lucas! Why aren’t you working? Naughty boy.’
I closed the door behind me. ‘Have you seen Suzi this morning? Any idea if Max tried to get into her room again last night?’
She turned the radio down. ‘No. I saw him, though, on the phone to his wife. Arguing. Again. He told her he’s going to stay here for another couple of weeks.’ She paused. ‘You’re a horror writer.’
‘I am.’
‘Well, I think you’ll like this. I had a spooky experience last night.’
‘Really?’ I pulled up a chair. ‘Tell me more.’
‘It was about midnight and I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d sneak down and make myself a snack.’ She smiled. ‘Don’t judge me.’
‘I’m not. Sounds like a good idea.’
‘It’s the country air. It makes me hungry. Anyway, I made myself a cheese sandwich – and yes, I know cheese at bedtime is a bad idea but there was this delicious-smelling cheddar in the fridge which I couldn’t resist – and then I heard something. A bang from the hallway. It made me jump out of my skin.’
I pictured it. Karen, about to bite into her sandwich, frozen with her mouth open.
‘I went out to investigate.’ She shook her head. ‘I was carrying the knife I’d used to cut the cheese, trying to kid myself I’m awfully brave. And it was that blasted cat.’
‘Oh, good. He came back.’
‘Good? The bloody thing nearly gave me a heart attack. Anyway, he shot into the sitting room and I went after him, here kitty kitty, all that. Thinking I’d give him a piece of my mind, not that I’ve got much to spare. Eventually I gave up and went back to the kitchen. And that’s when the weird thing happened. My sandwich was gone.’
I laughed. ‘Really?’
‘Yes! The plate was there, with crumbs on it. But no sandwich.’
‘Had you been drinking?’ I asked.
‘I might have had one or two nips of gin. And a few puffs on a spliff.’
‘You were stoned?’
‘Don’t sound so shocked. I smoke it for medicinal purposes.’
I must have looked doubtful because she said, ‘No, seriously. I suffer with terrible arthritis, especially in my fingers when I’ve been writing all day. My knees too. It’s awful, but weed helps a lot.’
‘Oh, sorry.’
She shook off my apology. ‘Anyway, I was slightly stoned. But not enough to hallucinate that sandwich. And I hadn’t eaten it and forgotten, if that’s what you’re thinking. My tummy was still rumbling.’
‘Hmm.’ I tried not to sound too sceptical. ‘So what did you do?’
‘I made another sandwich.’
I laughed, but Karen wasn’t smiling.
‘What do you think?’ she asked. ‘Could it have been a ghost?’
‘I’ve never heard of a ghost stealing someone’s supper.’
‘Yeah. I guess.’
‘Perhaps the cat took it,’ I said. ‘He might have dragged it off your plate and under a cupboard.’
Or maybe, I thought, you got stoned, ate it yourself, then forgot.
‘That bloody cat,’ she said, then laughed.
I left Karen staring at her laptop and explored the cottage. There was a tiny kitchen, with nothing but a kettle and basic tea-making facilities, a small living room and a toilet. Stairs led up to the second floor, but a chain had been strung across the staircase, barring entry.
There wasn’t much else to see, and I really needed to get on with some work, so I left the cottage. I waved goodbye to Karen but she didn’t see. She was frowning with concentration. Probably thinking about her missing sandwich.
‘How’s everything going so far?’ Julia asked later that afternoon when I popped down to the kitchen to make a coffee. She was leaning against the Aga for warmth, Chesney the cat on the worktop beside her. I was about to repeat Karen’s story about the cat and the sandwich when I realised Julia might not appreciate her guests smoking weed in their rooms. If she wouldn’t allow alcohol, drugs were almost certainly a no-no, medicinal purposes or not.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I thought it was going well yesterday but now I’m not so certain. I’m trying not to think about the sand running out of the hourglass.’
‘I’m sure you’ll get there.’
She tucked a long strand of her chestnut hair behind her ear. Since finding out about Lily, I had been struggling not to look at her with obvious sympathy. She gave off a strong vibe of wanting to be left alone, but I wasn’t in a hurry to return to the silence of my room – and, well, I liked Julia. I barely knew anything about her – save what I’d learned from the Internet – but I wanted to know more.
‘I was going to make myself a coffee,’ I said. ‘Would you like one?’
‘I don’t drink coffee. I’m one of those boring people who only drinks herbal tea.’ She nodded at a long line of boxes on the side, chamomile and rooibos and lemon verbena. In fact, she had a mug on the go now.
No alcohol or caffeine. Had she always been clean-living, or was it a recent change?
‘What do you think of the retreat so far?’ she asked.
‘I like it. Though it feels strange being back here. I’m wondering if my Welsh accent will return.’
She smiled. ‘Like I said before, I’m going to start organising talks, getting in a resident writer, having discussion groups, when things get going properly,’ she said.
‘Good idea. Not that I’m into being critiqued by other writers. It’s bad enough reading my reviews on Amazon.’ The kettle whistled and I lifted it from the hotplate. ‘I’ve been wondering, what made you open a writers’ retreat?’
‘Money.’
‘Always a good reason.’
‘The best. I just . . . well, I thought about setting up a bed and breakfast, but then a friend who works in publishing suggested doing this. She said there was a lot of demand for it and I’d meet lots of interesting people.’
‘You have friends in publishing?’
‘I used to be an illustrator. Children’s books. Have you heard of Jackdaw Books? I did a lot of stuff for them.’
I stood with my back to her, stirring milk into my coffee. ‘Used to be? What made you stop?’
I was hoping she would mention her husband and daughter but she didn’t reply. When I turned around she met my eye and said, ‘I looked you up.’
‘Oh. Really?’
‘Yeah. You didn’t tell me you were a bestseller. I read it’s being made into a movie.’
I adopted my modest face. ‘Hopefully. It’s stuck in development hell.’
I paused. It would be easy to carry on the charade and pretend I didn’t know about her history. I knew that bringing it up might cause her pain. But I also wanted to be honest. I wasn’t going to get a better chance than this.