“What do you mean, you think she’s dead?” I said. “Did you call for an ambulance?”
“Now calm down,” said Mum. “It’s not all bad.”
“Calm down?” I exclaimed. “And what do you mean, it’s not all bad! You just said Muriel was dead.”
“Alfred said she looked it.”
“Did he feel for a pulse?”
“I’ll let Alfred tell you what happened— Alfred!” Mum shouted. “You can come out now!”
Alfred emerged from the downstairs cloak cupboard.
“You did call for an ambulance, didn’t you?” I said.
Mum and Alfred exchanged looks. “Of course he did,” she said, but I wasn’t sure whether to believe her or not. “We need to talk to you. I put the kettle on, but I think—no, we all need a brandy.”
“Sit down. I’ll get it.” I retreated to the kitchen and took out my emergency bottle of brandy that seemed to be used so regularly these days that the term no longer qualified.
“Just bring out mugs,” Mum called from the living room. “We don’t need your fancy glass.”
“Just like we don’t need your fancy coronation china to drink our tea.” I brought out my fancy glass—three Pall Mall brandy balloons with the Lady Hamilton pattern—set the tray on the table and sank into the armchair. Even though I was shattered from my own disastrous evening, I was filled with such anxiety I hardly knew what to think.
“I know you didn’t walk here,” I said. “So where is your car?”
“We parked in the undergrowth,” she said. “I didn’t want to cramp your style if … well, you know … if Piers—”
“How can you even be thinking about my social life after dropping such a bombshell.”
“I wasn’t,” said Mum. “You were. You asked me if I had walked up here.”
“I have this weird sense of déjà vu,” I said. “The three of us drinking brandy in the middle of the night following a catastrophe masterminded by you. And you’re certain that Muriel is alive?”
“He didn’t hang around, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Mum. “We had nothing to do with it this time, did we, Alfred?”
There was a long silence. In fact, Alfred didn’t say a word. I realized he was dressed entirely in black and was clutching his balaclava. I guessed what must have happened.
“Alfred broke into the post office. Muriel caught him and fainted from shock,” I said.
“Nothing like that,” said Mum. “But at least I now have proof that Muriel read my manuscript.”
“I thought we had already established that.”
“He found the missing pages.” My mother took a big swig of brandy and grimaced. “I still prefer gin.”
“Where were these pages?” I asked.
“In her kitchen. Under an armchair.”
“So Alfred not only broke into the post office, he also broke into her flat?”
“The door wasn’t locked, Katherine,” Mum said, “So technically, no. He just let himself in. Actually, Alfred saved her life.”
“I’m confused. You just told me Alfred thought she was dead.”
“You won’t believe this,” said Mum. “But Muriel was trying to do herself in.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Muriel tried to kill herself. She was going to put her head in the gas oven.”
“What!” I was truly horrified. It wasn’t what I expected to hear at all. “Oh. But that’s terrible.”
“And she left a suicide note on the kitchen table, didn’t she, Alfred—?”
“Not exactly.” Alfred scratched his head. “It was the start of a suicide note. It just said, Dear Friends. I’m sorry, but I can’t … and that was it.”
“Can’t what?” I said.
Alfred shrugged. “I suppose the fumes just got to her before she had a chance to finish it.”
“Alfred couldn’t risk being seen,” said Mum. “That’s why he had to leave in a hurry.”
I thought for a moment. “But how can she have written a suicide note with her head in the gas oven?”
“Her head wasn’t in the gas oven,” said Alfred. “She was lying on the floor on her back next to the gas oven.”
I was more confused than ever. “But the oven—?”
“Door was open.”
“Didn’t you smell any gas?”
“Nope,” said Alfred. “But the kitchen window was open as well.”
“Wait a minute … the kitchen window was open?”
“Why are you repeating everything Alfred says?” Mum demanded.
“Just the top bit was open,” Alfred continued. “On a latch.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute. Let me think.” I tried to steady my racing thoughts. Something didn’t feel right to me. I thought back to one of my English literature classes when we discussed the suicide of Sylvia Plath. “Doesn’t the room have to be sealed up?”
“And the door to the hall was wide open,” Alfred went on. “Come to think of it, there was quite a breeze. And she was only wearing one shoe.”
“One shoe,” I said.
“Shocking pink, it was,” said Alfred.
“Maybe it was a cry for help?” Mum suggested.
“Poor Muriel,” I said. “We must call the hospital in the morning.”
“Whatever happens,” said Mum, “I thank God for the suicide note—”
“Which was unfinished,” I pointed out.
“Doesn’t matter. Alfred is off the hook.”
“Was he ever on the hook?”
“And he didn’t take anything else, did you, Alfred?”
“Of course I didn’t,” said Alfred. “I left all her electronics and whatnot. You’ve never seen so many new appliances. A bloody enormous TV for starters.”
We fell quiet. Mum reached for the brandy bottle and topped us all up.
“Why the gas oven?” I said suddenly. “Why not take pills?”
“Oh everyone used to do it in the old days,” said Mum dismissively. “It’s quite painless.”
“So if you’re not worried, why did you come up here in the middle of the night to tell me all about it?” I demanded.
Mum looked to Alfred, but he kept quiet. He seemed distracted, lost in his thoughts.
“Just in case … just in case Alfred needs an alibi … we thought we might say we spent the evening with you.”
“Well, unfortunately, that won’t work,” I said. “Because I saw Shawn tonight in Plymouth and he saw me with Piers. Sorry. This time you’re on your own.”
Mum brightened. “Was he jealous?”
As I bundled the pair of them outside, Alfred stopped. “You go and get in the car, Iris. I’ll be with you in a tick.”
“Don’t tell her anything,” said Mum.
“I know you don’t believe in the spirit world, Kat—”
“I didn’t say I didn’t believe in the spirit world, Alfred,” I said. “I’ll believe it when I see it with my own eyes.”
Alfred nodded. “I have a message for you,” he said. “You must take care. Someone is not who they seem.”
“I think that goes for everyone I know,” I said drily.
“Shush!” Alfred cocked his head and listened, then nodded.
“Now you’re going to tell me you can hear voices.”
He looked puzzled. “She says you can’t help who you fall in love with.”
My heart lurched. “That makes no sense to me,” I said. “But I’ll bear it in mind. Good night, Alfred.”
But of course Alfred’s message did make sense, but it seemed too far-fetched to be real. Alfred’s channeling was infamous, but weren’t all psychics just extra-sensitive and able to pick up on people’s emotions? Call me a cynic, but that’s what I believed to be true. Mum and Alfred knew I’d gone out with Piers, who was completely unsuitable. There was no danger of me falling in love with him at all. But what about the tragic love story between Eleanor Honeychurch and Piers’s ancestor Nicholas Carew?
Unexpectedly, a rash of goose bumps raced up my spine just as my birthday cards toppled onto the floor, one by one. There had been no wind—not even a draft—and the front door was closed.
She came to me a few hours later. A sudden crash sent my bedroom window flying open. Startled, I sat up in bed, shivering with cold despite the mildness of the night. Once again I was overwhelmed by the distinctive scent of sweet honey mixed with the salt of the ocean.
This time I called out her name, “Eleanor. Is that you? Oh for God’s sake, Kat, don’t be ridiculous.”
I felt foolish, but I was scared.
I switched on the lamp, got out of bed and closed the window. The smell vanished. I daren’t go back to sleep for fear of having the same horrific dreams returning from the night before. Grabbing my pillow and the duvet, I went downstairs and spent the rest of the night on the sofa with all the lights on, falling into a deep sleep just as the dawn chorus began.