9781405974615

Page 1


Praise for Iris Costello

‘Beautifully written with a story that draws you in’

Jane Corry, author of Coming to Find You

‘An intriguing story which skilfully entwines the past and present’

Heidi Swain, author of The Holiday Escape

‘Richly atmospheric, evocative and moving’

Abbie Greaves, author of The Ends of the Earth

‘A beautiful story that illuminates the past and the present and brings every moment to vivid life’

Christi Daugherty, author of The Echo Killing

‘A rollercoaster ride of a novel . . . shows how ripples from the past can be felt right up to the present day’

Sinéad Crowley, author of The Belladonna Maze

‘A warm, comforting read infused with love of family, love of history and love of home’

Kit Whitfield, author of In the Heart of Hidden Things

‘Intricately woven and beautifully told, I can’t recommend it more highly’

Simon Lelic, author of The Search Party

‘A moving tale of love and loss’

Sophia Tobin, author of The Silversmith’s Wife

‘A mesmerizing tale about the enduring nature of female courage’

Michelle Adams, author of Little Wishes

Readers adore Iris Costello’s historical mysteries . . .

‘Another thoroughly enjoyable read from Iris Costello’

‘Better than any history lesson, that’s for sure’

‘Iris Costello’s writing makes you feel like you really know the characters’

‘An enjoyable and thought-provoking novel’ *****

‘If you enjoy a historical mystery that involves a lot of heart, this one is for you’

‘A well-written and beautifully crafted story’

‘The perfect book for book clubs’

‘It will make you shiver, smile, cheer and cry’

‘I would 100% reread this book over and over again’

‘Once you start you will find it very hard to put down’

‘This book has everything I want . . . the writing is utter perfection’

about the author

Iris Costello is the pseudonym of bestselling author Nuala Ellwood. She has a BA Hons degree in Sociology from Durham University and a Master’s in Creative Writing from York St John University, where she is a visiting lecturer. She is the author of eight highly acclaimed novels, the most recent of which was The Story Collector. The Paris Bookshop Secret is her ninth book.

THE PARIS BOOKSHOP SECRET

iris costello

PENGUIN BOOK S

UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia India | New Zealand | South Africa

Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com

Penguin Random House UK, One Embassy Gardens, 8 Viaduct Gardens, London SW11 7BW

penguin.co.uk

First published 2025 001

Copyright © Iris Costello, 2025

The moral right of the author has been asserted

Penguin Random House values and supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes freedom of expression and supports a vibrant culture. Thank you for purchasing an authorized edition of this book and for respecting intellectual property laws by not reproducing, scanning or distributing any part of it by any means without permission. You are supporting authors and enabling Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for everyone. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. In accordance with Article 4(3) of the DSM Directive 2019/790, Penguin Random House expressly reserves this work from the text and data mining exception

Set in 12 5/14.75pt Garamond MT

Typeset by Falcon Oast Graphic Art Ltd

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.

The authorized representative in the EEA is Penguin Random House Ireland, Morrison Chambers, 32 Nassau Street, Dublin D02 YH68

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library isbn: 978–1–405–97461–5

Penguin Random House is committed to a sustainable future for our business, our readers and our planet. This book is made from Forest Stewardship Council® certified paper.

For Nerina

‘I love her, and that’s the beginning and end of everything.’
F. Scott Fitzgerald

Prologue

Latin Quarter, Paris

July 1960

The night air was ripe with the scent of blooming jasmine and the smoke of Gitanes cigarettes as William Kenneally made his way down rue de la Bûcherie towards the bookshop. Beside him, his friend’s hand fell perilously close to his, so close he could feel the heat seeping from it. Sam was chancing his luck as always, but this time William didn’t feel the need to bat him away. In a matter of hours, he would be with her, the girl of his dreams, the love he had spent a lifetime searching for, and they would be setting out on a great adventure, perhaps the greatest either of them had ever known. Just thinking of her brought about an incredible sense of goodwill. The way she looked at him with those deep blue eyes, making him feel as though she could see inside his soul, the softness of her arms, the place where William felt safest, the soothing lilt of her voice speaking of distant shores. Perhaps one day he would be able to find the words to write of their great love story. He hoped so. But that was all for the future. Right now he was happy in the knowledge that they would soon be together. Knowing that, he felt little need to remonstrate with Sam and his advances. It didn’t matter any more. None of it did.

‘Shall I stay over at the bookshop tonight, William?’ said Sam with a wink as they reached the corner of the street, the hulking shadow of Notre-Dame looming from across the water.

William smiled and took out a Gitanes from his top pocket.

‘I wouldn’t recommend it,’ he said, placing the cigarette between his lips. ‘It’s a full house. Looks like I’ll be hunkering down on the sofa in Old Smoky alongside that new fella, Allen, the poet, who’s taken residence in the big old armchair. And if Paula’s to be believed he’s a frightful snorer.’

‘Don’t tell me George has given away your bed again,’ laughed Sam. ‘I thought you were set for the summer.’

‘You know how it is,’ said William, patting down his pockets in search of a lighter. ‘He always says I can stay but then a pretty little Italian student arrives with a sob story about having to write a thesis on Edith Wharton and no place to stay and it’s “sofa for Mr Kenneally”. At least until Miss Age of Innocence moves on.’

He looked up at Sam, hoping that the story was convincing enough. He had promised Blythe that he wouldn’t tell a soul what they had planned. They were just to disappear. No tearful goodbyes, no awkward explanations. They couldn’t leave a trace, even with his dearest friends. William felt wretched for lying to Sam, for leaving without saying goodbye, but there was no other choice, it had to be this way.

‘Ah, that’s too bad,’ said Sam, striking a match and leaning in to light William’s cigarette. ‘Say, we could always go to my place. I’ve a bottle of bourbon that needs drinking

and a new chapbook that could benefit from your expert appraisal. But remember, if old Ma Tournier is still awake, you’re my brother, got it?’

‘Ah, that sounds grand,’ said William, his heart pulsating at the thought of the morning to come, the moment when he would take Blythe’s hand and board that train. This was it, the future he had dreamed of. It was so close he could taste it. ‘But I’ve had a week of double shifts at the bar and I’m dog-tired. The sofa is calling my name.’

‘Another time then,’ said Sam, looking at him in that intense fashion that always made William feel uncomfortable. Did he sense what was going on? thought William, averting his eyes from Sam’s gaze. Did he know he was being lied to?

‘Another time,’ William replied, guilt churning his stomach as he threw his cigarette to the ground and stubbed it with his foot.

What happened next felt like an absinthe dream.

He had bid farewell in the European fashion, a peck on each cheek, but as he went to pull away Sam grabbed his shoulders. Next thing Sam was kissing him passionately on the mouth; the scent of beer and cigarettes almost made William gag, but he was frozen, trapped in his friend’s forceful embrace.

Then, suddenly, there was a flash of light. Stunned, Sam staggered backwards, releasing William from his grip. The flash came again, accompanied by a distinctive clicking sound.

William, temporarily blinded by the light, heard Sam mutter an expletive. He blinked but all he could see were white dots dancing before his eyes, all he could hear

was the sound of Sam’s footsteps clattering across the cobblestones.

‘Sam,’ he cried, staggering into the middle of the deserted street. ‘Don’t run away. Come back, will you?’

It was then that he saw the figure, standing on the pavement behind a row of Vespa scooters, holding a camera. Click, click, click. Each one accompanied by a flash of light.

‘Hey, stop that,’ cried William, charging towards the person. ‘You’ve no right to be taking my picture. Quit it, you hear me?’

The figure lowered the camera and looked directly into William’s eyes, and in that moment the young man’s blood froze as he realized who it was.

‘What . . . what are you doing here?’ he stammered. The light from the street lamp illuminated the photographer’s face, the haughty expression, the thin-pursed mouth, the ice-cold eyes. ‘Why did you take those pictures and . . .’

He let the sentence hang as the perilousness of his situation began to dawn. There was nothing else for it, he would have to run.

‘It’s too late, William,’ the photographer cried after him, menacingly. The voice was one of power and privilege, of money and corruption. ‘You can’t undo this. You’re dead, now, you hear me? Dead.’

1 ALEXIS

Kent

March 2025

‘Another false lead,’ I sigh as I walk away from the gates. Climbing reluctantly back into my camper van, I cross Lustrum Manor off my list. Fifteen months after embarking on my quest, I am still no closer to solving the mystery of my mother’s whereabouts or uncovering the secret of why she left us.

It has been over thirty-six years since that fateful Christmas Day when she climbed into her sunshine-yellow VW camper van and drove away from me and Dad, and yet it is only now – after leaving my own seemingly happy life and setting out on the road in an ancient but dependable camper van that is a near replica of my mother’s – that I am finally trying to confront the past. I’d found her diary when clearing out my dad’s house after his death. It was in a pile of her keepsakes and had been written during the year she disappeared. Since its discovery, I have become consumed with thoughts of my mother, my sole surviving parent and my only living blood relative. Dad’s parents died before I was born. Mum’s, in their late forties when

they had her, passed away when I was a toddler. A blessing, I suppose, that, unlike me and Dad, they never lived to experience the pain of losing their daughter, the not knowing what became of her. If she’s still alive, she’ll be turning sixty-four this spring, and yet, in my head, she is still the young woman who left that day. And though I’ve lived more years without my mother than with her, the diary has helped me connect to her again. I’ve spent hours poring over its pages, hearing her voice in my head as I desperately search for clues and prep for the next destination. I thought Lustrum Manor had been it but now, as I tuck my dog-eared list of dead ends back into the diary, I resign myself to the fact that I am back at square one.

It was a TV programme that had given me the idea. Two nights ago, parked up in the van, I had curled up to watch one of those family history shows on my iPad. The ones where celebrities investigate their ancestry. I was half watching, my mind drifting to earlier that day and yet another fruitless search. I’d spent the morning tracking down and then meeting a reiki teacher named Kimberly Harper in Andover who I’d found on Instagram and who, with her tie-dyed skirts and posts extolling the virtues of holistic living, appeared to tick every box until I turned up to meet her and found that she had been born and raised in Hampshire and had never left her small village in fifty years. Another dead end, another blow. As the programme played out, I asked myself how long I could carry on with this quest, how many disappointments I could take. But then my attention was caught by something on the screen: the celebrity, a soap star I didn’t recognize, was reading through an online census. ‘If anything can help me find where my

great-grandad was in 1911,’ he grinned at the camera, ‘it’s this.’ I spent the rest of the evening signing up to an ancestry site and paying for premium access that would allow me to search my mother’s name on the census records. It took me until the early hours of the morning, squinting at the screen with tired eyes, but as the sun rose, I had a date, 21 March 2021, and an address, Lustrum Manor, Kent.

This was it, I told myself, as I hurtled down the motorway the following afternoon. I was finally going to find my mother. Then, after catching up on some sleep in the back of the van on the Sussex/Kent border, I set off early this morning for Lustrum Manor.

When I first arrived, I thought I’d read Google Maps wrong. The location it had directed me to looked like deserted farmland. Only as I drove closer did I see a set of heavy metal gates, a rusted sign hanging from the hinges. Parking the van at the side of the road, I made my way to the gates and saw, to my relief, the name Lustrum Manor engraved on the sign in copperplate lettering. To the right of this was an intercom with a buzzer. I pressed it and waited, my stomach fizzing with nerves and anticipation.

‘How can I help you?’

The voice, male and rather abrupt, crackled out into the chill air.

‘Oh, hi,’ I said, my voice catching in my throat, nerves getting the better of me. ‘I was wondering if you might be able to help. I’m looking for my mother and I’ve been informed that she was living here in 2021. Her name is Kimberly. Kimberly Harper?’

There was a long pause on the other side and for a moment I feared the intercom connection had cut out.

‘Hello?’ I said loudly. ‘Are you still there?’

‘You must be mistaken,’ said the man. ‘There’s no one of that name living here.’

I opened my mouth to reply but was met with a sharp buzzing noise, signalling that the man had ended the call. With a heavy heart, I returned to the van and picked up my mother’s diary.

According to this, I have one last lead to follow. I read her final entry dated Christmas Eve 1988 , the day before she left. I don’t know who I am any more, she writes, in faded black biro. Everything I thought was real was just a lie. Maybe if I can find them then I can put myself back together again, fix what is broken inside me. Maybe if I can get away from here, head to my soul’s home, then everything will be all right. The words sting just as much as they did when I first read them. To think that my mother had felt so hopeless, so broken that she would up and leave her husband and child like that, without warning or explanation. But who was she trying to find? And where was the soul’s home she was heading for? A physical place? Or – and this is something I really do not want to entertain – somewhere beyond this mortal coil?

These thoughts whirl around my head as I drive away from Lustrum Manor and head for the coast. I’ll park the van up by the sea tonight, let the waves soothe me to sleep, then in the morning I will work out what to do next. After all, as I keep reminding myself, I no longer have a busy work schedule to stick to, a nine-to-five job restraining my movement. Like my mother, I am as free as a bird, and I will find her, whatever it takes.

It’s a beautifully sunny day and I decide to take the scenic route to the coast, detouring from the motorway and its

endless traffic queues. In my old life, I would be chairing the morning meeting right now, anxiety welling up inside me as I nodded my agreement to every request, my lifelong fear of delegation pressing on my shoulders as I punched dates and times into my burgeoning spreadsheet, wiping out evenings and weekends and quality time with my wife, and filling them with urgent edits, Zoom meetings with the New York office, replying to emails from an inbox that never seemed to deplete. Thank God that’s all behind me, I think, as I catch a glimpse of myself in the rear-view mirror. My skin, once grey from the daily interminable Tube journeys, face pressed against strangers’ sweaty backs, is now clear and glowing, my eyes that developed heavy bags from squinting at a screen for twelve hours a day are now twinkling and bright. And though I spend my days driving a battered old camper van I have not succumbed to slobbing it in hoodies and joggers, preferring to stick to my favourite classic vintage attire which today includes a pair of Chanel cigarette pants, black vintage Miu Miu pumps and my beloved red Bella Freud 1970 sweater. When I set off on this journey, I truly thought that I was broken. But bit by bit I am putting myself back together again and a huge part of that is the search to find my mother. I should have done this a long time ago instead of burying my pain in work.

I realize now that, much as I loved it, my high-flying job as senior editor of a big five publishing house took so much out of me, not least the ability to read for pleasure, though I am hoping to remedy this. I glance at the book on the passenger seat beside me and smile. I’d found my old Time Traveller’s Journey paperbacks in my childhood

bedroom when I cleared out the house, and they have stayed with me all through this trip. One day, when the fog clears, I will be able to read them again and feel the magic ripple through me just as it did all those years ago. Written by the literary megastar of the eighties Maeve O’Malley, each instalment of the series took the young reader on a whirlwind tour of a particular period of history in Paris, from the court of Louis the Sun King to the bloody days of the Revolution and the headiness of the Belle Époque. Those stories had not only ignited my love of reading when I discovered them as an abandoned seven-year-old, they had also taken me away from the real world with all its confusion and sadness and transported me to a time and place where anything was possible. When I saw The Time Traveller’s Journey to Belle Époque Paris, starring the bold and glamorous historical sleuth Darcy Diamond – the woman I wanted to be when I grew up – while sitting in my dad’s cleared-out house that day almost forty years later, it felt as though Maeve O’Malley and her fantastical story was soothing my sadness all over again. I remember the look on my mother’s face when I opened it that Christmas morning, the happiness in her eyes as I whooped with delight, though as far as I was concerned it was Santa and not my parents who had left the book in my stocking. ‘It has a funny picture inside,’ I said, opening the book to show my mother the strange but beautiful black-and-white stamp on the title page. ‘That’s because it came from a special bookshop,’ she told me. ‘One that only Santa Claus knows about. Perhaps one day you will get to go there yourself.’ I remember so little about that day, pain and grief serving to block out most of it, yet that exchange with my mother, the

sadness in her voice as she told me about the bookshop, has stayed with me all these years, seared on my heart, a scar that won’t heal.

Suddenly, my phone starts buzzing in the holder next to me. I glance at the name on the screen. Tara. My stomach flutters with a mix of excitement and trepidation. I go to answer it, then stop myself. One step at a time, Alexis. But I make a silent promise to call her once I’m at the coast, happily chilled with a glass of wine in my hand as the sun sets. I think back to our honeymoon in Venice, sitting on the terrace of our hotel, a glorious seventeenth-century palazzo, wrapped in each other’s arms as we watched the sun go down, Tara’s beautiful face glowing in the golden light.

‘I want us to always be together at sunset,’ she’d whispered, as the day faded into night. ‘Does that sound silly?’

‘No,’ I’d replied. ‘It sounds perfect. And I promise you, darling, whether in person or not, however long we have left on this earth, I will make sure we’re always together at sundown.’

But I didn’t keep the promise. A ripple of sadness passes through me as I think of all those sunsets we have missed this past year, and I vow that I will make it up to her.

Dumping the call, I turn my attention back to the road but am startled to see a figure standing right in the middle of it. I stamp on the brakes, praying that they don’t fail, my heart lurching inside my chest. Thankfully, the ancient brakes still have life in them, and I grind to a screeching halt just inches from the person, who is standing frozen to the spot.

With trembling hands, I manage to switch off the engine and jump out of the van.

‘I could have killed you,’ I cry, staggering towards the person who, I now see, is an elderly woman. ‘Why are you standing in the road like this?’

The woman, who has long, straggly white hair, is barefoot and dressed in a rather grubby white towelling robe. She trembles as I take her arm and guide her to the van.

‘Come and sit down for a moment,’ I tell her, my nerves subsiding as I open the passenger door and attempt to guide her into the front seat. ‘Catch your breath. You must have had an awful shock.’

She looks up at me, her face etched with confusion, and mutters something under her breath.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,’ I say, leaning closer to her as a lorry rushes by. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said I have to find him,’ she whispers, in a voice that is oddly familiar. ‘I have to find William.’

ALEXIS

When I finally get the woman settled in the van, throwing my Maeve O’Malley book and my mother’s diary onto the dashboard, her agitation seems to dissipate, and she sits in silence, gripping the seat belt to her chest.

‘Now, if you tell me where you live, I can drive you home,’ I say, starting up the engine which sounds alarmingly croaky. We appear to be just outside a village called Haughton. ‘It must be near here.’

I turn to the woman. She is staring straight ahead. If I couldn’t see her chest rising and falling, I would think she were dead. Her skin is pale and paper thin, her lank, shoulder-length white hair looks like it hasn’t been washed in weeks, and her dressing gown is stained and grubby. A sour smell emanates from her, like spoiled milk.

‘Can you at least tell me your name?’ I ask gently. ‘That would be really helpful.’

The woman turns to me, opens her mouth to speak, then stops. Her face looks stricken.

‘I . . . I’m ever so sorry,’ she says, her strikingly blue eyes welling up. ‘But my mind’s gone blank. I . . . I need a drink.’

She puts a hand to her forehead and closes her eyes, her breath shallow and laboured.

‘Here,’ I say, reaching into the back of the van where I keep a crate of bottled water. I grab one, screw open the lid and hand it to her. ‘Have this. Sip it slowly.’

She takes the bottle with trembling hands and as I watch her drink I am again struck by how familiar she seems. I have seen her before, I’m sure of it, though I have no idea where or when.

‘Thank you,’ she says, when she has finished. ‘I needed that. But I . . . I still don’t know where I am. I . . . I’m sorry.’

‘You don’t have to apologize,’ I say, placing the lid back on the bottle. ‘Speaking as someone who’s the wrong side of forty I know all about brain fog.’

I let out an awkward laugh, but she doesn’t respond.

‘Listen, how about we drive into the village,’ I say, aware of the time and the fact that I had wanted to get to the coast to watch the sunset and return Tara’s call. ‘See if that triggers your memory. If you spot your house just shout, OK?’

The woman nods her head, then closes her eyes. After a few moments she starts to snore gently. I put my foot down and head into the village. There is a central square with empty flower beds and a flagpole. The tatty Union Jack on top flutters limply in the breeze. Around the square sit various rather down-at-heel shops including a butcher’s, a wool shop, and a large, double-fronted chemist with an old-fashioned red apothecary bottle in the window. It’s like stepping inside my 1980s childhood in suburban Newcastle upon Tyne. No wonder this old lady is lost.

‘Do you recognize anything?’ I say, as we drive slowly past the shops. ‘Anything familiar?’

‘It’s the village,’ she whispers, breathlessly. ‘But . . . what are we doing here?’

Up ahead I see a Sainsbury’s Local. There’s a woman in an orange tabard standing outside smoking a cigarette. Perhaps she knows who this lady is. I pull up outside and wind my window down.

‘Excuse me?’ I call out.

The woman looks up in alarm and throws her cigarette to the ground, then places her hand to her chest.

‘Sorry,’ she says, as she approaches the window. ‘I thought you were my boss. She gets ever so prickly about us taking ciggy breaks. Crikey, look at that lovely old camper van. We don’t see many of those round here. Are you lost?’

‘Well, one of us is,’ I say, gesturing to the old woman who is still gripping the seat belt for dear life.

‘I found her standing in the middle of the road just outside the village,’ I say, turning back to the shop assistant. ‘I’ve tried asking her name but she’s very confused. I don’t suppose you . . .’

‘Oh, that’s Mrs Hardy,’ says the woman, raising her eyebrows in surprise. ‘She’s . . . well, she’s not been herself lately. She lives up at the old manor house. It’s about five minutes’ drive north of the village, up the steep hill. You can’t miss it.’

The woman, who introduces herself as Linda, gives me directions and as I take note, I realize that the place she’s describing is Lustrum Manor, where I had stopped earlier. Mrs Hardy must have been walking for over half an hour by the time I found her.

Thanking Linda, I drive out of the village, back up along the hilly road we came in on. As we reach Lustrum Manor I see that the gates, which had been closed when I spoke to the man on the intercom, are wide open. Pulling through

them and up the tree-lined drive, I see what is hidden behind those high imposing gates and let out a gasp.

‘My goodness, Mrs Hardy,’ I say, as the van bumps over the heavily gravelled driveway. ‘What an amazing home you have.’

Beside me the old lady wakes from snoozing, looks up, then sighs forlornly.

The house, if you can call it that, is a medieval moated manor with black timbers, mullioned windows and, to my delight, a drawbridge.

‘We’ll have to park up here and walk the rest of the way. Can you manage?’ I ask, switching off the engine before undoing Mrs Hardy’s seat belt. ‘This hulking van will never get over that bridge.’

I jump out, my feet sinking into the gravel, and go round to the passenger side, but as I try to get Mrs Hardy down from the van, she grips the dashboard, shaking her head violently.

‘It’s OK, Mrs Hardy, you’re home now,’ I say gently. ‘Let’s get you inside into the warm. I bet you’re gasping for a nice cup of tea.’

But the old woman will not budge. Defeated, I close the door and make my way towards the grand entrance to the manor.

What is this place? I wonder to myself, as I cross the wooden drawbridge and gaze down into the green, chalky water that looms up from the moat below. It’s like something from a Grimm’s fairy tale.

‘Can I help you?’

A man has emerged from the back of the house and is striding towards me across the cobbled courtyard. He looks

to be in his mid- to late sixties. With his salt-and-pepper beard, side-parted, neatly cut hair, creased moss-green cords and tweed jacket he reminds me of the older dons I encountered at Oxford, those who seemed to have been pickled in aspic circa 1940 and remained unchanged for ever more. I recognize the plummy voice I heard over the intercom less than an hour ago.

‘Oh,’ he snaps. ‘I remember your face from the entrance camera. As I told you before, you’re in the wrong place. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to leave. This is private property.’

‘Hi, yes, it’s me again,’ I say, feeling rather awkward. ‘Alexis Harper? Look, I’ve not come to bother you, it’s just that I have Mrs Hardy in my van. I found her wandering down the road outside the village.’

‘Good grief,’ he says, rushing towards me, his previous hostility giving way to concern. ‘We’ve been worried sick. Is she all right? She wasn’t hurt, was she?’

‘Thankfully not,’ I say, as we hurry across the drawbridge. ‘Though she does seem very confused. She was asking for you, I think. I’m assuming you’re William.’

He stops and looks at me, his expression pained.

‘Are you sure that’s what she said?’

‘Yes,’ I reply tentatively. ‘She was very clear.’

‘Oh, dear God, not again. I thought we’d got beyond all that,’ he whispers to himself. ‘I’m her husband, Professor Hardy.’

‘Her husband?’ I say, somewhat taken aback. Despite his rather fusty appearance he is a good deal younger than the hunched old lady in my van. ‘I . . . I didn’t realize.’

‘Yes,’ he says, his face etched with worry. ‘I’d only turned

my back to make her a cup of tea and then . . . then I couldn’t find her. Ms Harper, I’m so very sorry you’ve had to come all the way back here.’

When we reach the van Mrs Hardy is sitting motionless, staring straight ahead.

‘My darling,’ cries the man, pulling the door open. ‘Thank God you’re safe.’

Then, with the gentlest of touches, he lifts his wife out of the van.

‘We were so worried,’ he says, removing his jacket and placing it over her shoulders. ‘If you needed anything from the village you only had to ask. Come on now, let’s get you inside. I’ve a big pot of soup bubbling on the range. Leek and potato, your favourite.’

He goes to guide her towards the manor, but she halts and turns to me with a fraught expression.

‘You’ll come too,’ she says, her eyes boring into me. It is more of a command than a question.

‘Oh, I imagine we’ve inconvenienced Ms Harper enough today,’ says Professor Hardy. ‘I am sorry I couldn’t help with your search, my dear. Would you like a cup of tea before you go? It’s the least we can do after all your help.’

‘That’s very kind,’ I say, glancing at my watch. ‘But I’ll have to get going. I’m on my way to the coast and want to get there before dark.’

‘Of course,’ says the man, with a weary smile. ‘I’m so sorry if my wife has delayed you.’

I look again at the woman and a memory comes to me with a start. A hand grasping mine, a pair of dazzling blue eyes looking up at me, a soothing voice whispering, ‘Well done, my dear.’ I can’t place the memory or quite match it

with the bedraggled woman standing in front of me. But as I look at her and she stares back at me with those strange, intense eyes something compels me to stay.

‘On second thoughts, Professor Hardy, a quick cup of tea would be great.’

‘Oh, marvellous,’ says the man, putting his arm round his wife’s shoulders and leading her towards the drawbridge. ‘We’ll take tea in the orangery. It’s this way. And please, do call me Jasper. May I call you Alexis?’

I nod and he leads us across the bridge before taking a right turn through a black-timbered archway.

‘This is the gate tower,’ he says, his voice echoing against the ancient walls. ‘It’s where the knights would enter back in the Middle Ages.’

‘You’re telling me this house is as old as that?’ I say, as we enter another courtyard which is surrounded on every side by tiny, mullioned windows. I sense movement behind one of them and look up just in time to see a shadow pass across the glass. Unnerved, I run to catch up with the Hardys who are waiting on the threshold of a huge oak doorway.

‘In answer to your question,’ says Jasper, ‘the oldest part of the house dates back to 1290, so, yes, it is as old as that.’

While Jasper fumbles with the door latch, my imagination carries me away and I see knights clad in heavy armour riding in through the gateway in the early-morning mist, weary from battle.

A shiver ripples through me. There is something unfathomably strange about this place that I can’t quite articulate. It is a feeling more than anything else, a sensation of stale air, of time literally standing still. Perhaps it is the same in

all old houses though, I think to myself, as Jasper opens the door and I follow them both inside.

‘My goodness,’ I exclaim, as we enter a magnificent stone-floored hallway, its walls adorned with faded tapestries depicting hunting scenes and jousting knights. A wood fire blazes in a vast fireplace and the air smells of smoke and beeswax. ‘What an incredible place to live.’

‘We’re both big history buffs, my wife and I,’ explains Jasper. ‘Aren’t we, dear?’

Beside him, Mrs Hardy lets out a faint sigh and pulls her husband’s jacket more tightly around her. She looks exhausted.

‘Come on, my love. We’ll soon have you settled,’ says Jasper, gripping her hand. ‘This is the great hall, Alexis. The oldest section of the house. Back in the day, this would have played host to magnificent feasts and celebrations. I sometimes think I can hear laughter and lute music when I’m walking through here late at night, though of course it’s just my mind playing tricks.’

‘That’s understandable,’ I say, as I narrowly avoid colliding with a taxidermized wild boar, its mouth wide open, razor-sharp teeth bared. ‘I feel like I’ve fallen through time.’

But he doesn’t hear me. He is already leading his wife down the long, narrow corridor that leads out from the great hall. Though it is still daytime outside, this part of the house is dark, save for the sickly yellow glow of the oil lamps that are mounted here and there along the panelled walls. I wonder at the effort to light them all. It is beginning to feel rather claustrophobic, so I am relieved when we reach the end of the corridor and step into glorious light.

‘This second entrance hall connects us to the newer part

of the house,’ says Jasper, glancing at me over his shoulder. ‘Built by the Lustrums in 1750. The orangery is just off here.’

I gaze upwards as we cross the hall. Sunlight pours in from the domed glass ceiling, illuminating the chequered floor tiles, the highly polished mahogany staircase, and the elaborate silver-framed mirror that fills an entire wall. It is truly spectacular.

‘Here we are,’ says Jasper, opening an ornately carved wooden door. ‘Do go through.’

The orangery is far less elaborate than the other spaces, more homely. With its glass ceiling and doors opening out onto the courtyard, it feels light, airy and fresh, and for the first time since I arrived here, I allow myself to breathe out. There are two sunken, floral-patterned sofas, faded by the sun, and either side of the glass doors, two beautiful wing armchairs in plush crimson velvet. It reminds me of my own home, the one I left behind. My chest tightens as I recall those lazy Sunday afternoons in our more modern conservatory. Tara stretched out on the sofa while I sat beside her with the Sunday Times laid out across my lap, marking off that week’s bestselling books with my trusty red pen. But that was another life, I think to myself, blinking away the memory as Jasper closes the door behind us with a thud.

‘Now, my darling,’ he says to Mrs Hardy, leading her to the chair by the window. ‘Let’s get you comfortable.’

As I watch him tenderly tucking a thick herringbone knitted blanket around her before kissing her forehead, I think to myself how lucky they are, to have made it to that age and still be devoted to one another. I think of Tara

that final, bitter day last January, the look of bewilderment etched across her face. It was the same expression my father had when we stood watching my mother’s camper van pull out of the drive, never to be seen again. I had promised myself I would never be like my mother, never inflict pain on another human being in that way and yet here I am repeating that history. I’d told Tara I’d only be gone a month or so but it has already been over a year.

‘Now, do make yourself comfortable, Alexis,’ says Jasper, his soft voice replacing the harsh one inside my head. I look up and see that he is gesturing to the armchair opposite Mrs Hardy. ‘I’ll go and put the kettle on. Oh, sorry, I didn’t ask – how do you like your tea?’

I am about to answer when a woman appears in the doorway. She seems only a little older than me and is wearing a red polo-neck jumper under a belted camel coat. Her blonde hair is tied back in a tight bun which gives her attractive face a rather startled, stretched expression.

‘The wanderer returns,’ she says, stepping into the room. ‘Where have you been this time, Mrs Hardy?’

‘Cordelia, there you are,’ says Jasper, rushing to the woman’s side. ‘She didn’t get far, thank goodness. This is Alexis. She found her on the road and brought her back. Alexis, this is Cordelia, our housekeeper and all-round superwoman.’

‘Well, I don’t know about superwoman, but I’m definitely kept on my toes here,’ she says with a laugh. ‘Nice to meet you, Alexis. And thank you for helping her. That was very kind of you.’

‘It was the least I could do,’ I say, glancing at Mrs Hardy who is sitting rigid in the chair, her eyes fixed on the floor.

‘It’s a busy road. God knows what might have happened if I hadn’t seen her.’

‘I was just about to make tea, Cordelia,’ says Jasper wearily. ‘Will you join us?’

‘I’d love to but I’m due at the chemist for my afternoon shift. I’m going to need you to sign these too,’ she says, passing Jasper what looks like a pile of prescriptions. ‘For the pills. Mrs Hardy’s going to need them to get through the night.’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ says Jasper anxiously. ‘I’ll do it immediately.’

‘And don’t you think we should get her to bed after all that walking?’ says Cordelia, lowering her voice. ‘She’ll be stiff as a board if she stays in that chair.’

‘Oh, gosh, yes,’ says Jasper, flustered. ‘What was I thinking.’

‘Listen, I’d better be going after all,’ I say, getting up from the armchair. ‘Leave you to get Mrs Hardy settled.’

‘Are you sure, dear?’ says Jasper, turning to me. ‘I was about to make tea.’

‘I’m sure,’ I say, hooking my bag across my chest. ‘I’m just glad to have got your wife safely back home.’

‘And for that I am eternally grateful,’ he says. ‘Are you able to make your own way back across the courtyard?’

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘It was nice to meet you all.’

‘You too, Alexis,’ he says, as he ushers me to the door.

‘Safe travels.’

‘Goodbye, Mrs Hardy,’ I say, turning back.

The old lady lifts her head and smiles.

‘Goodbye, dear,’ she says. ‘And mind you don’t scuff those beautiful shoes on the gravel. I must say, it’s been

nice to have a bit of glamour about the place, if only for a short time.’

‘Come now,’ says Cordelia, frowning at Mrs Hardy’s slight. ‘Let’s get you upstairs.’

As I make my way out into the courtyard, I reflect on what has just happened, still half wondering if it was all a dream. I had felt such a strange connection to Mrs Hardy, like I had known her all my life. Anyway, back to business, I tell myself, as I climb into the van and put the keys in the ignition. An hour’s drive to the coast. More than enough time before the sun sets.

But as I try to turn the engine on, nothing happens. I wait and do it again, praying for the familiar bluster as my old van splutters into life, but there is nothing. I try a third time, then a fourth, before finally acknowledging with a sickening dread that, for the first time in fifteen months, I am going nowhere.

Turn static files into dynamic content formats.

Create a flipbook
Issuu converts static files into: digital portfolios, online yearbooks, online catalogs, digital photo albums and more. Sign up and create your flipbook.