But the fact was that four women had left the Elincourts’ employment in the last year. Having the bad luck to engage one nervous, superstitious employee seemed quite likely. Getting four in a row seemed . . . less so.
Which meant that there was a strong chance that something else was going on, and all sorts of possibilities had run through my mind on the long journey up to Scotland. I had been half expecting to find that Heatherbrae was a draughty ruin of a house, or that Mrs. Elincourt was a very difficult employer. So far, at least, that didn’t seem to be the case. But I was reserving judgment.
Inside Heatherbrae the dogs were, if anything, more boisterous and excited to find a stranger admitted into the house, and at last Mrs. Elincourt gave up trying to control them and dragged them both by their collars through to a room at the back to shut them up.
As she disappeared, I hastily fumbled my inhaler out of my pocket and took a surreptitious puff, then waited for her just inside the front door, feeling the atmosphere of the house settle around me.
It wasn’t a big house, just a family home. And the furnishings weren’t ostentatious, just incredibly comfortable and well-built. But there was a sense of . . . of money. That’s the only way I can put it. From the polished wooden banister and deep peat-colored carpet runner that curved around the long, elegant flight, to the squashy bronze velvet armchair squeezed beneath the stairs and the frayed Persian rug spread across the worn flagstones in the hall. From the slow, sure tick of a beautiful grandfather clock standing beside the long window, to the deep patina of age on the refectory table against the wall, everything conspired into an almost overwhelming sense of luxury. It wasn’t that it was neat exactly—there were piles of newspapers scattered by the sofa, and a child’s Wellington boot left abandoned by the front door. But there was not a single thing that felt wrong. The sofa cushions were plump with feathers, there were no drifts of dog hairs in the corners of the room, or muddy scuffs on the stairs. Even the smell was right—not a trace of wet dog or stale cooking, just beeswax polish, woodsmoke, and the faintest hint of dried rose petals.
It was . . . it was perfect, Mr. Wrexham. It was the house I would have made for myself if I had the money and the taste and the time to create something so deeply, infinitely welcoming and warm.
I was just thinking all this when I heard a door shut and saw Sandra coming back from the far side of the hallway, shaking her heavy, honey-colored hair out of her face and smiling.
“Oh dear, sorry, they don’t see many strangers, so they do get terribly excited when new faces appear. They aren’t like this all the time, I do assure you. Let’s start again. Hello, Rowan, I’m Sandra.”
She held out her hand for the second time, slim and strong and tanned, and studded with three or four expensive-looking rings. I shook it, feeling her fingers grip mine with unusual firmness, and returned her smile.
“Right, well, you must be famished and rather tired after such a long trip. You came up from London, is that right?”
I nodded.
“Let me show you to your room and then when you’ve changed and made yourself comfortable, come down and we’ll have something to eat. I can’t believe it’s so late. Past nine already. Was your journey awful?”
“Not awful, no,” I said. “Just slow. There was some kind of points failure at York, so I missed my connection. I’m really sorry; I’m usually very punctual.”
That at least was true. Whatever my other flaws and failings, I’m very rarely late.
“I got your text. So sorry I didn’t reply. I didn’t see it at first; I was up to my elbows in the kids’ bath time when it came through, and I only just managed to rush out and tell Jack to collect you. I hope you weren’t waiting at the station for ages.”
It wasn’t a question exactly—more of a remark, but I answered anyway.
“Not too long. Are the children in bed then?”
“The three youngest, yes. Maddie is eight, Ellie is five, and the baby, Petra, is just eighteen months, so they’re all in bed.”
“And your other child?” I asked, thinking of the flash of red I’d seen between the trees on the drive up.