They were halfway through the study week now, which meant only a few more days of relative freedom. She was determined to make the most of it. Though they weren’t supposed to leave Chidlow House, no one was monitoring their movements now, except the programme director, Graham Doyle, who felt it was beneath him to interact with students anyway. The other teachers went home at seven. They were supposed to be supervised overnight by two adults – Doyle and a young teacher called Alison King. But Miss King had fallen from the roof.
Natasha shivered. That had been awful. The police had been called and everyone was talking about it. Some of the students had treated the whole affair as an opportunity to gossip and spread rumours. Had she jumped or had the Drowned Lady of Chidlow House pushed her off the edge? It was childish. Only kids were scared of ghosts.
It was a shame; Natasha had liked Miss King. She had to admit her death meant . . . but no, she wouldn’t think about that now. Tonight she was supposed to be having fun.
The ghost rumours were daft, but inevitable really. According to some of the other students, Miss King had told Graham Doyle she’d heard dripping water and whispering in the hallways at night.
Of course, that set all the boys off. They made up more stories about the Drowned Lady, trying to frighten anyone who’d listen. Natasha and Cressida were far too mature to fall for that nonsense, but there was something about this old, creepy house that made her almost believe the stories could be true. She’d never admit that though. Cressida would think she was a baby.
She heard a noise outside the door and assumed it was Cressida. With a wide smile she flung it open, but there was nobody there.
She frowned and looked up and down the hall. Empty. Then she noticed the note. Her name was scrawled in blue biro on the piece of lined A4 paper, which was folded into quarters.
Someone must have shoved it under the door and run off. No doubt one of the immature boys on the course.
Natasha leaned down, snatched it up and skimmed the jerky writing. When she’d finished reading, she scrunched the paper up into a ball and then chucked it into the wastepaper bin under her desk.
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ she muttered, and then realised she sounded exactly like her mother.
There was a knock at the door. This time it really was Cressida.
Her friend’s eyes were bright. Her long, shimmering blonde hair fell almost to her waist. She smiled, showing off dimples. ‘Well, are you ready?’
‘Of course. Can’t wait to get out of here.’ Natasha tossed her hair, wishing it shone as prettily as her friend’s.
After locking her door, she linked her arm through Cressida’s and they set off along the corridor.
When they reached the main staircase, they saw Ethan. He was a police officer’s son, and Natasha found him creepy. His eyes were close-set and he was . . . watchful. Every time she glanced his way, he was looking at her. And even when she didn’t look at him, she could feel his eyes on her.
‘Where are you off to?’ he asked.
‘None of your business,’ Cressida said, and shared a smirk with Natasha.
‘If you’re going to the pub, I could come,’ Ethan said. He constantly tried to tag along. Yesterday he’d sat, uninvited, at their table for lunch. Today he’d lingered behind them in the library, burying his head in a copy of The History of Chidlow House when they’d noticed him.
Cressida said he was sad and desperate. That didn’t stop her using him though. She’d copied his answers from the algebra assignment, made him run errands and given him little tasks. Cressida was right. He was desperate. Desperate to impress.
‘I really don’t think so,’ Cressida said, and pulled Natasha along.
Before they passed him, Natasha saw Ethan’s cheeks flush a deep red. For a split second Natasha felt bad but then pushed the guilt away. She shouldn’t care so much about other people. Cressida was always saying it was about time she put herself first. Natasha worried too much about what other people thought of her, especially her mother.
Cressida often told her to stop being such a boring goody-goody.
A secret smile played on Natasha’s lips as she hugged her arms to her chest. She turned away so Cressida wouldn’t see. She didn’t want her friend to suspect anything, and there were some things she couldn’t talk about. Especially with Cressida.
Cressida unlocked the French windows, then pushed them open before stepping out on to the patio. Natasha followed, trying not to look at the stone slabs beneath her feet. Miss King had landed on the patio. The area had been cleaned, but Natasha still didn’t want to look down.
The moon was huge in the sky, and in the distance, the surface of the lake – home to the Drowned Lady – shimmered through the trees. The grounds were beautiful and looked after by the gardener, Mike. He was a bit odd, but all the girls on the course had a crush on him. He was the dark and brooding type. An interesting man, not a silly little boy like Ethan.
Mike used a stick to get around and rumours swirled about how he’d injured his leg. Ethan said he’d heard the gardener had been wounded when he’d been in the army, but Cressida reckoned he’d been born with a twisted, deformed leg. Ella said she was positive he’d hurt his leg in a car accident. But none of them knew for sure. And he wasn’t the type of man you could just ask about that sort of thing. He wasn’t friendly. A shouted hello and a wave might get you a nod if you were lucky. He was secretive and silent, and the air of mystery around him only made him more interesting.
Even Cressida was fascinated by him, though she wouldn’t admit it. Natasha suspected it was because he’d ignored her when she’d tried to flirt with him. She hadn’t liked that at all.
The air was cold, making Natasha’s eyes water and her nose run. She sniffed as they headed across the lawns.
‘Are we still going to the pub?’ she asked, surprised at the route they were taking.
‘We’re going to meet someone first,’ Cressida said with a grin. Her face fell into shadow as a cloud drifted over the moon.
Natasha blinked in surprise. ‘Who?’
But Cressida just laughed and said, ‘It’s a surprise.’
They were heading in the general direction of the gardener’s cottage. Natasha’s mouth was dry. She felt a flutter in her stomach – a mixture of anticipation and fear. It was one thing to watch Mike roam the grounds during the day. Then he seemed fascinating, like an angry, misunderstood hero from a romance novel. But now, in the dark, as the shadows shifted around them, the gardener was less appealing. What was thrilling and exciting during daylight now felt dangerous and threatening.
Once they reached the cover of the trees to the right of the lawn, Cressida said, ‘Did you know Lord Chidlow’s staying at home this week?’
‘The owner?’ Natasha had seen a portrait of him somewhere in the house. She couldn’t remember where. Perhaps the dining hall. He looked intimidating, with piercing eyes and a long sharp nose, greying hair and jowly cheeks.
‘Yes. And he’s super rich. I thought I might try to seek him out tomorrow. Maybe accidentally stumble into his private quarters.’ She winked.
Natasha pulled a face. ‘But why? He’s ancient.’
Cressida shrugged. ‘I’m into older men.’
There was older and then there was older. Natasha stared after her friend, but Cressida was moving quickly along the tree line towards the lake. Natasha hurried after her. She was pretty sure Cressida was just trying to sound mature and impressive. But with Cressida, you never really knew.