*And you're not worried about staying here alone?' He raised an eyebrow. *Perhaps it wasn't a burglar at all. Perhaps the woman you saw was a ghost. I told you this place was haunted. Haunted and evil. The locals won't come near it.'

Was that it, then? Was this all a ploy to frighten her away? She laughed. *Being a writer of history I'm happy to live with ghosts.'

*I trust you're not tempting providence with that remark,' he said. Throwing himself down in his chair again he crossed his leg, left ankle on right knee and sighed. *I used to find it very oppressive here after a while. My paintings would change. They would grow more and more angry. Whilst I am by nature quite a sunny chap.'

She was watching him closely.

*At the farmhouse I paint differently. With more superficiality,' he went on thoughtfully. *If I ever paint a masterpiece it will be in this cottage.' For a brief moment it was as though he was talking to himself. He had forgotten she was there; forgotten he was trying to scare her. Remembering her again he glanced at her. *Art, it seems, must wait for commerce.'

Straight from the hip. She took it without flinching. *Don't you sell your paintings then?'

*No.'

The reply, loaded with scorn, was succeeded by a long silence. She did not pursue the subject. Studying his face as he stared morosely into the flames she was conscious suddenly of the lines of weariness around his eyes and the realisation that Greg Lindsey was a very unhappy man. The moment of insight struck her dumb. The silence dragged out uncomfortably as she, too, stared into the flickering fire.

The crash from upstairs brought them both to their feet. *s.h.i.t! What was that?' Greg put down his gla.s.s.

She swallowed. She had heard a crash like that before and her investigation had found nothing. *The wind must have blown the door shut,' she said at last. *I'd better look.' She did not move. The room seemed suddenly warm and safe. She did not want to climb the stairs.

The noise seemed to have shaken him out of his introspection. He looked at her, noting her white face and anxious eyes and was astonished at his own reaction. He should have been pleased that she was scared but his studied hostility wavered and for a brief second he felt a wave of protectiveness sweep over him. *I'll check.'

Taking the stairs two at a time he went first into the spare room. The room was empty save for her cases and boxes, and his own pictures, standing where he had left them behind the door. He noted briefly that they still faced the wall, then he ducked out of the room and switched on the light in the main bedroom. After the stark businesslike aura of the living room downstairs with its computer and books, the bedroom a his bedroom a shocked him by its unaccustomed femininity. He glanced round. Nothing was out of place. Both doors had been open. Nothing appeared to have fallen a he checked the painting on the wall. One of his, it was uncharacteristically pretty, depicting the bluebells in Redall Wood. He scowled at it. His mother must have brought it over, for it used to hang in the spare room at the farmhouse. Having ascertained that there was no reason for the bang that he could see, his gaze travelled more slowly around the bedroom for the second time, noting her towelling bathrobe, thrown across the bed, her slippers near it, both a bright flame which would suit her rather mousy colouring. He found himself picturing her in the robe for a moment. On the chest of drawers lay a heap of silver bangles a she had been wearing them the day she arrived, he remembered a and next to them a gla.s.s filled with winter flowers she must have gathered in the wood. The naturalist in him noted periwinkle, small velvety-red dead nettles and a sprig of daphne she must have found in what was once the cottage garden. Continuing his quick perusal, he studied the small collection of cosmetics. On neither occasion that he had met her so far had she been wearing any makeup at all, but obviously when the occasion demanded she was happy to gild the lily. He turned to the low windowsill where she had put several paperbacks a poetry and social history, he saw. No reader of fiction, this author.

*Have you found anything?'

Her voice behind him in the doorway made him jump guiltily.

*Nothing. Both doors were open. Nothing seems to have fallen over. The windows are closed.'

*Could it have been outside?'

*The chimney, you mean?' He smiled. *I think we would have noticed if it had fallen through the roof.'

*What was it then?' Her voice betrayed her irritation. From the landing she had seen him studying her things. His interest made her feel vulnerable and angry.

*Perhaps it was the ghost of Marcus. I've often heard things here.' When she did not rise to the remark, he headed back towards the stairs, glancing at his watch. *Look, Kate, I should be going back. There's nothing here. Nothing to worry about. I'll take a look at the roof as I leave, and get a few more logs in for you. It was probably out in the trees a a branch coming off or something. Acoustics are often unaccountable.' He descended the stairs ahead of her. *If you're worried, give us a ring and Dad or I will come back and check things for you.'

*There won't be any need. I shall be all right.'

Marcus She shivered at the name which had floated unbidden into her head, watching as Greg pushed his feet into his boots and reached for his jacket. Half of her wanted him to go. He had been perfectly polite, but she could sense his dislike. The other half was afraid. She did not relish the idea of being alone.

Which was crazy. She had rented the cottage for six months and she wasn't planning to have any lodgers. She had to get used to being alone, and get used to whatever funny noises the countryside had to throw at her. As if to test her resolution the sharp scream of a vixen rang out as he opened the front door. He turned and studied her face. *You know what that is, I suppose.'

The b.a.s.t.a.r.d! He expected her to be frightened. *I know,' she said. She managed a smile. *I've lived most of my life in the country, Greg. Because I have, or had,' she corrected herself as she remembered yet again the full implications concomitant with moving out of Jon's flat, *a London address, it does not make me a townie.'

She thought he had the grace to look slightly shamefaced as, with a bow and a mock touch to his forelock, he headed for the Land Rover. She did not hear his parting comment as he hauled himself behind the wheel: *And f.u.c.k you too, Lady Muck!'

It was only after she had watched the tail lights disappear into the trees that she realised he had neither given the roof a glance as he left, nor fetched her in the promised extra logs.

*b.a.s.t.a.r.d.' She said it out loud this time. She glanced at the log box. There were still a few there but not enough after the blaze he had initiated, for the night. She would have to go out again into the dark.

The torch was sitting where she had left it on the counter in the kitchen. Next to the dagger. She looked at her jacket hanging on the back of the door and she reached a decision. When the fire died she would have a bath a heated by electricity a and she would go to bed. Nothing and no one was going to get her out of the front door again until it was daylight.

With an immense feeling of relief she shot the bolt on the door and walked back into the living room. She made sure the damper was closed a make the wretched thing last as long as possible a put on an Elgar tape a the Enigma Variations a loud a and then she poured herself another whisky.

She had worked for another couple of hours on the book, and was printing up a rough copy for herself when she remembered the silver polish she had stashed away in the cupboard under the sink. Switching off the computer with a sigh of relief she stacked the pages neatly away and went to the drawer. The torc looked greenish-black as she lifted it out and examined it again in the bright kitchen light. Shaking the bottle of polish she smeared some of the mixture cautiously onto the metal and began to rub it gently with the corner of a duster. Ten minutes later she gave up. Her more and more energetic rubbing had had no effect whatsoever. Disappointed, she laid duster and metal on the counter when the phone rang.

*Hi, Kate.' Jon's voice was so strong it sounded as though he was in the next room. *I'm in Boston. How is Lord George?'

*Going well.' She found she was smiling. *What about your tour?'

*OK. A bit tiring. Nearly over now, thank G.o.d. I'm taking five at the hotel. English tea and m.u.f.fins before I get ready to go out this evening. What are you up to?'

*I'm cleaning an ancient British torc with modern British silver polish and its having no effect whatsoever.' Leaning against the counter, the phone comfortably tucked against her ear she turned and surveyed her handiwork.

*Sounds fun.' The response from across the Atlantic was muted. *May I ask where you got an ancient British torc?'

*It was lying on the beach.'

*I see.' She could tell he didn't believe her. *There isn't an ancient Briton wearing it, I suppose?'

*Not at the moment, no.' She smiled to herself again. *You'd love it, here, Jon.' It was a tentative feeler; a peace offering.

*The parties are good are they?' The irony in his tone reminded her that they were no longer supposed to be friends. Or lovers.

So, why had he rung her again?

She knew better than to ask.

*There's no one to party with, here. Just the birds and I believe there are seals round in the bay.'

*And the occasional ancient Brit.'

*You got it.' She mimicked what she hoped was an American insouciance. *Actually the ghost is Roman.'

There was a moment's silence.

*You sounded almost serious,' Jon said cautiously.

*Did I?' She reminded herself how quick he was to pick up nuances; his sensitivity was one of the things she loved a had loved, she corrected herself sharply a about him. It made his actions over the last few weeks harder to bear.

She laughed lightly. *How silly. Only joking.'

*I see.' He was still thoughtful. *You are all right?'

*Yes. Fine.'

*OK. Well, enjoy yourself kiddo. I'll give you a ring in a day or two.'

For the second time he had not given her time to say goodbye. The line had gone dead and she was left staring at the receiver once again. Replacing it slowly she went thoughtfully back to the table and picked up her duster.

The blast of cold air behind her, smelling heavily of wet earth, took her completely by surprise. She whirled round. The front door must have blown open in spite of her care in locking and bolting it. She peered out into the hall. The door was as she had left it. The hall was dark and deserted.

Come on, Kennedy. Either a window has come open or the wind has blown back down the chimney. She found she was whispering to herself as she looked into the warm, dimly-lit living room. There was still a faint glow coming from the stove, though the log box was empty. The room was cooling, but the scent of earth was not coming from there. It was coming from upstairs.

Her bedroom window must be open. She frowned. She had opened it earlier to stare out at the sea, watching the mist drifting in across the still, grey water as night came in from the east. Obviously she had not latched it properly. Her hand on the stair rail she began to climb.

Both doors at the top were open. Both rooms were in darkness. Reaching the top she clicked on the light. The window in her bedroom was shut as she had known in her heart it would be, and the curtains were tightly drawn across. She sniffed. There must be a patch of damp in the house which the rain had activated somehow. Ducking out of the room she peered into the other across the landing. The smell was stronger there and the air was cold. Bitterly cold. The room had a north-facing window, she reminded herself as she went to examine it. It was closed and judging by the cobwebs welded over the catch, had not been opened for a long time.

Slowly she surveyed the walls, looking for the telltale signs of discolouration on the wallpaper. Tiny lemon yellow flowers on brown green stems romped across the uneven walls and between the oak beams without a sign of damp.

Switching off the lights she walked downstairs again, sniffing. The smell was still strong. A sweet, cold smell like a newly-turned flower bed after rain. With a shrug she walked back into the living room and turning over the tape, threw herself down in the armchair nearest the fire.

When she awoke *In the South' had finished, the fire was out and the room was ice cold. Her head ached and for a moment she was too stiff to move. Forcing herself to her feet she groaned and reached for the switch on the table lamp. Turning it off she made her way to the door. A warm bed and a heap of soft pillows to cuddle into, that was what she wanted. In the doorway she turned and surveyed the room before flicking off the light switch on the wall and plunging the room into darkness. It was as she made her way into the bathroom and reached for her toothbrush that she realised she had not had any supper. Two whiskies was not exactly a nutritious way to end the evening. Perhaps that accounted for her splitting headache. She frowned. She was beginning to drink too much. She contemplated getting herself something to eat and realised that she wasn't hungry. She also realised that she had not switched on the immersion heater so there was not enough hot water for a bath. With a sigh she bent over the basin and splashed some tepid water into her face. All she wanted was sleep. Food and bath could wait until morning. That was one of the joys of living on your own, she recognised suddenly. You could please yourself. Cook or not cook. Wash or not wash. Sleep when you wanted. And just at this moment that was all she wanted.

It was as she put her foot on the bottom step of the staircase that she saw the movement upstairs. She froze, *Is there anyone there?' Her voice sounded thin and frightened in the silence.

There was no answer.

*Who is it?' She called again. Her desire for sleep had vanished.

She was answered by the rattle of rain on the windows as a squall of wind hurtled in from the sea.

*Christ, I'm seeing things now,' she muttered to herself. Tired eyes. Too much computer, that was the problem. It was the logical explanation but it still took an enormous effort of willpower to force her up the stairs, throwing on all the lights when she reached the top. The place was empty, the windows closed against the storm. She sniffed hard. The scent of wet earth seemed to have disappeared, though when she pushed back the curtains and stared out at the blackness she could see the rain coursing down the panes of gla.s.s.

Undressing as fast as she could she slipped between the sheets, leaving the light on the landing switched on against the dark. She lay, wide awake, clutching one of her pillows to her chest, her eyes straining out through the door to the small expanse of wall a painted a dark Suffolk pink and bisected by one pale oak beam a which she could see from the bed. And she listened to the rain.

XVII.

*Are you awake, Sue?' Alison stared through the darkness of her friend's bedroom towards the bed by the far wall.

*Yes.'

They had been whispering and giggling for the last two hours. Twice Sue Farnborough's mother, Cissy, had come in and shushed them wearily and told them to go to sleep; now she had gone to bed herself and the house was in darkness. For the last twenty minutes or so the silences between the two girls had been growing longer and longer.

*Do you think I should tell them at home?'

*About what happened at the grave?'

*Of course, about what happened at the grave.'

*No. They'll interfere. Parents always do. Are you going to go back?'

Alison hesitated for only a second. *Of course I'm going to go back. I'm going to finish the excavation.'

*By yourself?'

*You could come with me.' Alison sounded almost eager.

*No way. That's not my scene.' Sue was adamant.

*Oh, come on. You'd enjoy it. It's fun.'

*It doesn't sound fun to me.' Sue grinned maliciously in the darkness. *You were so scared you nearly wet yourself. You told me as much.'

*I didn't.'

*You did. And why else did you come here? Running all the way through the woods instead of staying at home and waiting for your mum to get back from Colchester. You were really chicken.'

*I wasn't.'

*You were. Are you going to school tomorrow?'

*No. I'm still not feeling well.'

*You're skiving off, you mean. Well, I'm going, so shut up, Allie. I want to get some sleep.' Sue reached in the darkness for the headphones of her Walkman and switched on the little machine beneath her pillow. The blast of Sisters of Mercy at full volume in her ears seemed an unlikely lullaby but within minutes she was asleep.

Across the room Alison lay awake, staring towards the curtained windows, listening to the rain. Beneath the borrowed duvet she had begun to shiver again.

XVIII.

There was a scattering of wet, sandy earth on the kitchen table. Kate stared at it. The torc lay where she had left it, next to the duster and the jar of silver polish. She touched the soil with her finger. It was wet and cold. She sniffed. The smell was there but very faint now a the smell of a newly-turned garden.

Or a newly dug grave.

She shook her head. She had not slept well. The room had been cold and the noise of the wind and rain lashing the windows had woken her several times from her uneasy, dream-laden sleep. Her head was so heavy she could not even think straight as she walked over to the sink, filled the kettle and switched it on. Perhaps after a cup of coffee she would find an explanation for the mess on the table. There had to be a reason. Earth does not just materialise on a kitchen table. It must have fallen from the beamed ceiling, perhaps released by creeping damp and rain, or it had been swept in on a freak gust of wind under the front door or down the chimney.

She spooned Nescafe into a mug and poured in the water, watching the swirl of brown granules clinging to the blue pottery dissolving as she stirred. It scalded her tongue when she drank but the caffeine shot into her system with gratifying speed. Putting down the mug she picked up the torc and stared at it closely. There was no sign of the effort she had made to clean it. Even the scratches she had made with her nail had disappeared. The metal was as greenish-black and corroded as ever. Wrapping it carefully in the duster she carried it upstairs and through into the spare room. Only one of her suitcases boasted a key. Locking the torc inside it, she pushed it into the corner and, closing the door behind her, she made her way downstairs again. She put the polish away and going to the sink rinsed out a J cloth under the hot tap. It took only a few minutes to wipe up the earth, rinse the cloth again and put it away before she dragged out her boots and jacket and throwing open the front door went outside with her log box. It was a bright sunny morning. High, white, wisped clouds raced across a vivid blue sky from the west and behind the cottage the sea glittered blindingly.

The rain had blown into the shed and many of the logs were soaked. Rummaging in the back she found a few that were dry and carried them indoors. Three times she made the trip back and forth, until there was a satisfactory pile beside the stove. Then she brought in kindling and a final armful of logs to put in the stove itself. Satisfied that she had enough fuel for twenty-four hours at least she stared down at the stove. There was no point in lighting it now. There was one more thing she had to do before she settled down to work for the day. It had been gnawing at the back of her mind since she had cleared up the soil in the kitchen.

Locking the front door behind her she wedged the key into the pocket of her jacket, and pulling on her gloves she headed across the short gra.s.s at the back of the cottage towards the beach. A flock of tern rose and wheeled as she appeared on the shingle banks and ran slipping and sliding towards the sand. The beach was wet still from the tide and trailed with weed. A line of sh.e.l.ls, white and pink and glabrous in the bright sunlight, marked the line of the high tide. The air was so cold it made her eyes water as she turned right and followed the line of dunes towards Alison's excavation.

For a long time she stood on the edge staring down into the declivity. Another huge chunk of the dune had broken away and she could now see clearly the different strata in the bright sand. There were pale lines of clay, different shades of sand and gravel and now, clearly visible, a thick black crumbling layer of peat.

There was a strange dryness in her mouth as she half jumped, half slid into the hollow. A spray of bladderwrack lay draped across the bottom of the trench and, half-buried in the sand, something bright red caught her attention as she peered nearer. Frowning, she kicked at the sand fall. Alison's ghetto blaster lay there beneath a pile of sea weed. Stooping she pulled it free. The *on' b.u.t.ton was still depressed. Alison had been back this morning early and had gone again. Putting the machine on the edge of the hollow she stared round. What could have happened to make her abandon her precious ca.s.sette player? There was no sign of the girl's tools, but perhaps they were buried in the latest sand fall. She stepped closer to the face and cautiously she drew off her glove. The peat was soft, layered, compressed. It smelt, when she withdrew her fingers, of wet garden soil. She swallowed hard. *Alison?' Her shout was whipped up by the wind and carried only a few yards before it was dissipated and dissolved. *Alison?' She shouted louder. Scrambling up to the edge of the hollow she put her hand to her eyes against the glare and stared round. The beach was empty.

She turned round. There could be no question of the girl being there, under the sand, but for a moment her imagination was playing the wildest of tricks. She could see where it was soft and loose, where it had fallen, and where, in the bottom of the hollow, a long mound lay compressed beneath the clay. A mound that had the shape of a human grave.

She stared at it. Alison would not have come back in the dark. She was safe at her friend's house when Diana had rung last night. Whoever a whatever, she corrected herself swiftly a lay down there, it was not a twentieth-century fifteen-year-old schoolgirl. Kate stepped towards the mound cautiously. It was her imagination again working overtime. From a different angle the mound was just a part of the sand, shadowed by the low sunlight. She could see the worm casts on it now, and the sprinkling of loose peat which had fallen from the sand cliff.