My Lies, Your Lies - Susan Lewis Page 0,40

informed her. ‘We keep it the way he liked it; only me and Mrs D ever go in there, me to clean, obviously, and she says it makes her remember him better when she’s where she used to pose for him.’

Apparently deciding they’d had enough of the music room, Brenda closed and locked the shutters and led the way back into the hall where she pulled the double doors gently together again.

‘What’s on the top floor?’ Joely asked as Brenda used her apron to wipe a smear from one of the windows.

‘Oh, there’s only more bedrooms up there,’ the housekeeper replied. ‘None of them get used now, so we’ve got them all shut up.’

Joely paused as she caught the sound of someone singing at a distance and looked up the stairs as she realized it was coming from somewhere much deeper in the house. She listened harder and felt an odd chill go through her as she recognized the ‘Gaelic Blessing’. Why was Freda singing it now, and why was she, Joely, feeling spooked by it?

She turned to Brenda, but the housekeeper was already on her way back to the kitchen saying it was time for her to get on.

Not knowing what else to do, Joely followed and after Brenda had left she tried to get better reception on her mobile. It was no good, no matter where she went in the house the signal simply wasn’t strong enough to make calls or receive emails, she couldn’t even send a text. So apart from being unable to contact her mother or Holly, she could also forget about googling Mr D, or his wife’s nephew, Edward.

How frustrating and even disorienting it was to be without the Internet and phone, especially in a house that was positioned with its back to the nearest town and seemed so packed full of secrets. She really wasn’t enjoying feeling this cut off; it was bizarrely like being in a different time zone, another dimension even, and she wasn’t quite sure what to do to make herself feel more grounded. Or less unsettled by her peculiar client.

In the end she drove into town and downloaded her messages in a bustling café over a coffee and muffin. There were plenty, mostly work-related (though no actual offers at this time) and a couple from friends wondering when to expect her back. There was nothing from Callum to say he was still missing her – as do I – or from Holly on whether she’d moved to her grandmother’s yet.

From her mother there was a brief text saying Hope it’s going well. Call when you can.

She tried her mother’s number but went straight to voicemail. ‘Hi, no news,’ she said, ‘just getting in touch while I can because the signal where I’m staying is next to useless. Is Holly with you now? Hope she’s OK. Love you both. Speak soon.’

On returning to Dimmett House she went straight through to the kitchen hoping to find Freda ready to give some feedback on the latest paragraphs, or perhaps to reveal more for the memoir, but there was no sign of her. She toyed with the idea of going into the den to watch a movie or boxed set, but as she hadn’t actually been invited to make use of that room she decided to curl up in front of the fire with one of Freda’s books instead. It turned out to be a gothic tale of necromancy, illicit pleasure and treason, and like most of Freda’s works was hard going and unsettling, although Joely’s concentration was poor. Her mind was flitting between the music room and its paintings, and her host somewhere upstairs silent and uncommunicative, apart from when she was singing.

Joely had been around publishing – newspapers and books – for long enough to know that some editors kept writers waiting simply because they hadn’t had time to read anything yet; or because they were so baffled or appalled by what they’d read that they didn’t know what to say. Some did it because they were sadists. But Freda wasn’t an editor, she was an author, she’d had plenty of time to read, and what Joely had put on the page was neither baffling nor appalling.

So did that make Freda a sadist?

A bit of an extreme conclusion, however she’d certainly know how stressful it could be waiting for a response.

I’m making this too much about myself.

This was possible, but Freda was definitely a strange woman, unpredictable and eccentric – and