The Girl in the Picture

Chapter 10

Present day

Ella

Those early days in Sussex were chaos. It was a blur of boxes and rearranging furniture, and hanging pictures. The weather was glorious, so the boys spent all their time in the garden, kicking balls, bouncing on their trampoline, and generally running wild. I watched them, amazed at how much energy they had, and relieved that I’d bought the lock for the gate.

It was very different from London. More different than I’d expected it to be, considering how close we were. Because our house was at the end of the lane, there were no cars driving by, and it was so quiet. The first few nights, Ben and I had even struggled to sleep, because we were used to the white noise of passing traffic, not the complete silence of the Sussex countryside.

I was determined to make this work but it was hard going those first days. Ben had been thrown straight into work so I spent a lot of time on my own with the kids, which didn’t help. Deep down I was worried we’d made the most awful mistake. What if giving up life in London – giving up my safe, if dull, job – was a massive, enormous, unfixable error?

I kept thinking about Dad saying I would have been better off taking a sabbatical so I still had a job to go back to and I fought the urge to phone him and wail down the phone that he’d been right all along. I knew as soon as I expressed any doubts at all, he’d say it wasn’t too late. That I could go back to accountancy in a heartbeat, that he knew someone who knew someone who could ask about opportunities in his firm and before I knew it, I’d be back behind a desk in the city, on hold to HMRC.

And actually, when I thought about it, that wasn’t what I wanted at all. I was just finding it hard to come to terms with such a big change. I’d settle down. And I’d stop missing my dad so much eventually. Wouldn’t I?

Ben, on the other hand, was embracing our new life. He was really busy at the football club – the new season hadn’t started but he was meeting new players and helping with pre-season training and medicals and fitness tests. I knew he was absolutely loving it so I didn’t want to rain on his parade.

I was both itching to get started on writing and terrified that once I began I’d realize I didn’t have anything to say. I felt like there was a lot riding on this book – it would be the first one I’d had proper time to write. If it bombed, I couldn’t blame my lack of focus or the fact that I was an accountant really. It would be all down to me. For the first time in my life I was a writer. But I didn’t want to write. What if I couldn’t do it any more? The idea made me shudder.

The removal men had taken all my writing stuff up to the study, but I hadn’t sorted it out yet. I told myself it was because I was busy looking after the boys. And I said the same to Ben when he gently suggested that I switched on my laptop.

‘The boys,’ I said, vaguely, waving my arm in the direction of the garden. ‘We should probably think about getting some childcare.’

Ben grinned. ‘I’ve thought,’ he said.

‘You have?’

‘Margaret,’ he said. ‘She’s Mike’s wife.’

‘Who’s Mike?’

‘The estate agent guy who rented this house to us,’ Ben reminded me. ‘His wife was a teaching assistant at the village school for years, but she’s retired now and he said she was looking for some part-time work.’

I was thrilled. ‘She sounds perfect,’ I said. ‘Ring her.’

So Ben did, and Margaret was just as keen as he thought she’d be.

‘She’s coming round to meet you now,’ Ben said, hunting for his car keys – he was off to do another medical on another player. ‘She said she’d love to look after the boys.’

‘She hasn’t met them yet,’ I said with a grin as Ben waved goodbye.

But as soon as Margaret arrived, I knew we had to have her. She was just so capable. She sat at the kitchen table and made Stan laugh as I made tea.

She’d brought little packets of Lego figures for Oscar, and a whoopee cushion for Stan, and the boys were already smitten with her. I liked her too.

‘It’s just afternoons, really,’ I explained. ‘I can take the boys to school and nursery and I’ll pick Stan up at lunchtime and feed him. If you could just come after lunch to watch him, pick Oscar up at 3p.m. and then give them tea, that would be great. I’ll be here – in the study – and Ben works funny hours at the football club so he might be around too. So if you need us, you can shout. Would that suit you?’

‘That would suit me very well,’ said Margaret. She was in her late fifties, perhaps, with neat blonde hair and a tidy figure in very clean jeans. I gave her a mug of tea and offered her a biscuit.

‘How are you settling in?’ Margaret asked, her eyes roaming my face. I tried to resist the urge to screw my nose up but I failed.

‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Wonderful. Ben loves it. And the boys.’

‘And you?’

‘Not so much,’ I admitted. I rubbed the palm of my hand over my hair. ‘I’m restless and nervous that we’ve swapped our life in London – that we loved by the way – for this great unknown.’

‘Sometimes it’s good to take a leap,’ Margaret said.

I nodded. ‘It’s definitely the right move for Ben. He’s got his dream job. As long as I’ve known him he’s wanted to run the physio department in a football club. He’s in his element.’

‘So you don’t want to tell him you don’t like it here?’

‘I don’t dislike it,’ I said. ‘Honestly, I don’t. It’s just different, that’s all. I’ve always been really nervous about taking risks or doing anything spontaneous – this move was risky and spontaneous so it’s no wonder I’m feeling a bit out of my depth. I don’t want to leave. At least, I don’t think I do …’

Margaret patted my hand. ‘It will get better,’ she said. ‘Once the boys start school and you’re in a routine. And you’ll make some friends in the village.’

I nodded, comforted. ‘I met a nice woman,’ I said. ‘Priya.’

‘Oh yes,’ Margaret said. ‘Pregnant?’

I grinned. ‘Very pregnant. And I chatted to Ken in the hardware shop.’

‘He’s our next-door neighbour,’ Margaret said. ‘Ever so handy when something goes wrong in the house.’

Again I marvelled at how everyone knew everyone else down here. ‘His friend Hal was there too,’ I went on. ‘And he said he’d heard stories about our house.’

Margaret looked at me. ‘Stories?’ she said. ‘What kind of stories?’

‘Just about some things that happened here,’ I said vaguely, wanting to see what she knew before I told her what I’d heard.

She nodded. ‘I’ve always thought it was a sad house.’

‘Sad,’ I said. ‘Why do you think it’s sad?’

Margaret looked embarrassed. ‘It’s just silly gossip,’ she said.

I offered her another biscuit and she shook her head.

‘My granddad told me something terrible happened here. I can’t remember exactly but I think someone died. Maybe more than one person.’

‘A murder?’ I said, possibly with a bit too much excitement.

Margaret gave me a sharp look. ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Or some sort of tragic accident.’

‘Your granddad,’ I said more to myself than Margaret. ‘So it must have been a long time before the Seventies, then. I could ask at the police station …’

I realized Margaret was staring at me in horror and looking like she was about to leave – obviously she thought I was some sort of murder-obsessed criminal.

‘I’m a writer,’ I said in a rush. ‘I write crime novels.’

‘I’ve never really been one for books,’ Margaret said. She looked quite pleased about it. Or perhaps she was just pleased that the village newcomer wasn’t about to kill her in cold blood.

I beamed at her. ‘Hal and Ken said they’d heard there had been a murder, but we all assumed it was recent. If your granddad knew about it, though, it could have been much earlier. I’d like to find out more about the history of the house. See if there is a mystery here.’

Margaret screwed her forehead up in concentration. ‘I wish I could remember more,’ she said. ‘I think my granddad said no one ever knew what had happened. It must have been a really long time ago, though. Before he was born I think.’

‘I’ll do some digging,’ I said. ‘It’ll keep me busy.’

‘Do you have a lot of work to do?’ Margaret said suddenly.

‘I do, actually.’ I didn’t want to think about how I still had a whole novel to write. And maybe I could google the house, or find out who lived here years ago, and see if there was any record of this crime …

‘And is your husband here?’ Margaret looked round.

I shook my head. ‘Pre-season fitness tests or something,’ I said.

‘So why don’t I take the boys out into the garden and you can have an hour or so getting yourself sorted out,’ Margaret said. ‘Give you a break, and give me and the boys time to get to know each other.’

Considering I’d spent days avoiding work, I was surprised how pleased I was with the offer. I looked at Margaret in gratitude.

‘That would be brilliant,’ I said. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’

‘Go,’ said Margaret. ‘Sort.’

Chapter 11

I bounded upstairs. The attic was the huge – the whole top floor of the house, so there was lots of space. It was a million miles away from my desk/dressing table combo in our old house.

I stood at the door and surveyed the room. I would put my desk in between the two large windows. It was an astonishing view and I hoped it would inspire me. The bookshelves were on the opposite wall, either side of the small windows that looked down the lane. On my right was the wall that Ben had knocked on to see if it was hollow – the one with the ventilation window on the outside. I could put some pictures up there, perhaps. And on my left was a built-in cupboard with a door that had been painted shut. I narrowed my eyes as I looked at it. That wouldn’t stay shut for long, if I had anything to do with it.

The removal men had left everything in a pile by the door, so I cleared the boxes that were stacked on top of the desk and dragged it to the wall.

I plugged in my computer and the printer, then printed out some photos of the boys, and stuck them to the right-hand wall. As I pinned them up, I knocked the wall once or twice, just to see if it was hollow. But I still couldn’t tell.

Knowing I should be thinking about a plot for my next Tessa book, I instead opened the internet and found the census records for England. I thought about Margaret and how old she was and scribbling some dates down on my notepad, I worked out that her grandfather would probably have been born around the turn of the twentieth century.

‘Hmm,’ I said out loud. ‘Did Margaret say it happened before he was even born?’

I typed our address into the search box and was pleased to see there were records going back to 1841.

‘Let’s start at the very beginning,’ I sang under my breath, Julie Andrews style, clicking on the first entry.

At first I was confused as the village was simply listed as one entry without individual addresses. But thanks to the pubs, which had obviously been in the same place for all that time, I worked out the census recorders had started at the opposite end of the village and just worked their way along towards the sea. Our house, therefore, had to be the very final entry. I scrolled down and found it.

Marcus Hargreaves, I read. Male. 34 years old. Industrialist.

Below Marcus was a wife, Harriet, listed as thirty years old, and a little girl, Violet. She was just four years old.

‘Aww, a little family,’ I said. ‘Did you have more children, Marcus? This house is built for lots of kids.’

I clicked on the next entry, for 1851.

Marcus Hargreaves, I read again. Male. 44 years old. Industrialist.

But beneath Marcus was no mention of Harriet. Instead just Violet – who was now fourteen – was listed. Beneath her was a woman called Elizabeth Pringle, who was listed as a governess, a housekeeper called Betsy Bolton, and a maid – who was just sixteen – called Mabel Jonas.

‘Where’s Harriet?’ I said, feeling unaccountably sad, but intrigued nevertheless. ‘Was she the murder victim?’

I went back to the search results and chose 1861 this time. But now our house was listed as unoccupied. And the same in 1871.

‘No one at all,’ I said. ‘Where are you all?’

I clicked off the census website and found another that showed birth, marriage, and death certificates. But there was nothing online this time. Instead the website suggested checking parish records for the time.

Disappointed, I sat still at my desk for a minute. Then I gave up all pretence of working on my book and instead I picked up my notebook and a pen, and headed downstairs.

Margaret was throwing a ball to the boys in the garden. I went outside and she looked round.

‘All done already?’ she said. ‘That was quick.’

‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘I just need to pop out – I can take the boys with me but if you don’t mind staying, I would get it done quicker …’

‘Go,’ she said, without hesitating. ‘We’re having a great time.’

Pleased to have something to think about other than Dad and the stress of our move, I bounded down the lane towards the village church.

I’d not been inside before, but we’d admired it on our walks to the shops. It was a gorgeous Norman church with old graves in the churchyard and a square bell tower. The heavy wooden door was open, so I ducked inside.

Luckily for me, the vicar was there, pinning a notice to the board in the porch. He smiled at me as I walked in.

‘Hello there,’ he said.

I introduced myself and explained what I was after. And the vicar – who was much younger than I expected vicars to be and who told me to call him Rich – showed me into a side office where the parish records were kept.

‘They’re all fascinating,’ he said. ‘I sometimes look up people at random and trace their family back to see how far they go. Lots of folk have lived here for generations.’

He pulled out the books for me and I settled myself down at the desk.

It wasn’t as easy as searching online, but it didn’t take me long to find the christening record of little Violet in 1837, and then, in 1842, I found the record of Violet’s mother’s death. Harriet had died of childbirth fever, the record said.

Not a murder then, I thought. I was disappointed that the mystery wasn’t a mystery after all.

‘Found what you were looking for?’ said Rich, peering over my shoulder.

‘I did,’ I said. ‘But she wasn’t murdered. She died in childbirth.’

‘The baby died, too,’ Rich pointed out. He showed me the line below Harriet’s entry. ‘A little boy – look.’

‘Frederick Hargreaves,’ I read out loud. ‘Aged two days.’ My voice caught in my throat on the last words.

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Violet was five.’

‘Violet?’ Rich asked.

‘Harriet’s daughter,’ I said. ‘She was five when Harriet died. My mum died when I was five.’ I paused. ‘And I lost my baby brother too.’

The vicar put his hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said. ‘You said you were a writer?’

I nodded, still looking at the entry in the records.

‘Maybe writing this story can help you make sense of your own,’ he said.

‘Maybe it can,’ I said. ‘Maybe it can.’

I thanked him and promised to come back another day to do more research. Then, with my head full of this unknown Violet who lost her mum as I’d done, and poor Harriet, I wandered home.

I’d only been back about two minutes, and I was saying hello to the boys and Margaret, when I heard the front door open. Ben walked out into the garden, a bundle cradled in his arms. A little bubble of excitement popped in my tummy as he placed the bundle gently on the grass in front of the boys.

‘Careful,’ he said to Oscar who was bouncing up and down. ‘He’s just a baby.’

‘Mummy!’ shouted Oscar, almost roaring with excitement. ‘Mummy! It’s a puppy! Come and see!’

I exchanged a look with Margaret.

‘Looks like you’re staying put then,’ she said with a smile.

I nodded. ‘Looks like it,’ I said.

Chapter 12

1855

Violet

After I’d run away from Mr Forrest on the beach, I went into the house through the kitchen – I didn’t want to see Father asleep or awake – and went straight up to the attic. I slumped in the chair and took my hat off. I could hardly bear to look down at the bottom of the cliff, where I’d been so rude to Mr Forrest. Cutting him off, rejecting his kindness.

I flushed again, thinking of how he’d seen right into my soul. How had he known how trapped I felt? How I was looking at him to help me escape? I knew I’d been lucky so far, that Father hadn’t married me off to the first man to show an interest. But recently he’d started talking about a man called John Wallace, who worked with him on one of his projects. He mentioned how clever he was and how good with money, and how he ran a tight ship. And I knew – I just knew – that these were qualities Father admired. Qualities he thought would make a good husband.