YOU DON’T BELONG HERE, oik, a posh voice sneered in Alice’s head.
Barney and his cronies would’ve laughed themselves sick if they could’ve seen her standing at the foot of a set of white marble steps. What business did the girl from the council estate have here, in the poshest bit of Chelsea?
She lifted her chin to tell the voice she wasn’t listening. Ten years ago, she’d been so naive that she hadn’t realised that Barney—the most gorgeous man at the Oxford college where they were both studying—was only dating her for a bet. She’d found out the truth at the college ball where she’d thought he was going to propose, while he’d been planning to collect his winnings after proving he’d turned the oik into a posh girl. He hadn’t loved her for herself or even wanted her; instead, it had been a warped kind of Eliza Doolittle thing. He and his friends had been laughing at her all along, and she’d been so hurt and ashamed.
Now Dr Alice Walters was a respected lepidopterist. She was comfortable with who she was professionally and was happy to give keynote speeches at high-powered conferences; but socially she always had to silence the voice in her head telling her that she wasn’t good enough—especially if her surroundings were posh.
Why had Rosemary Grey’s solicitor asked to see her? Maybe Rosemary had left some specimens to the university. Or maybe this was about the project they’d worked on together: editing the journals and writing the biography of the butterfly collector Viola Ferrers, Rosemary’s great-grandmother. Alice had visited her elderly friend in hospital several times after her stroke and, although Rosemary’s sentences had been jumbled, her anxiety had been clear. Alice had promised Rosemary that she’d see the project through. Hopefully, whoever had inherited the journals would give her access to them, but she needed to be in full professional mode in case there were any doubts. Now really wasn’t the time for imposter syndrome to resurface and point out that she looked a bit awkward in the business suit and heels she hardly ever wore, there was a bit of hair she hadn’t straightened properly, and her make-up wasn’t sophisticated enough.
The one thing Barney’s callousness had taught her all those years ago was that image mattered—even though she thought people should judge her by what was in her head and her heart, not by what she looked like. For now she’d go with the superficial and let them judge the butterfly by its chrysalis.
‘This is for you and Viola, Rosemary,’ Alice said softly. She walked up the steps to the intimidatingly wide front door with its highly polished brass fittings and pushed it open.
‘May I help you?’ the receptionist asked.
Alice gave her a very professional smile. ‘Thank you. I’m Dr Alice Walters. I have an appointment with Mr Hemingford at two-thirty.’
The receptionist checked the screen and nodded. ‘I’ll let him know you’re here, Dr Walters. The waiting area’s just through there. Can I offer you a cup of coffee while you’re waiting?’
Alice would have loved some coffee, but she didn’t want to risk spilling it all over her suit—and right now she was feeling nervous enough to be clumsy. ‘Thank you for the offer, but I’m fine,’ she said politely, and headed for the waiting area.
There were a couple of others sitting there: a middle-aged woman who kept glancing at her watch and frowning, as if her appointment was running a bit late, and a man with floppy dark hair and the most amazing cobalt-blue eyes who was staring out of the window, looking completely lost.
For one crazy moment, she thought about going over to him and asking if he was all right. She knew from working with her students that if someone was having a rough day, human contact and a bit of kindness could make all the difference.
But the man was a stranger, this was a solicitor’s office, and whatever was wrong was none of her business. Besides, she needed to make sure she was prepared for anything, given the infuriating vagueness of the solicitor’s letter. So she sat down in a quiet corner, took her phone from her bag, and re-read the notes she’d made about the butterfly project.
* * *
Hugo Grey still couldn’t quite believe that his eccentric great-aunt was dead. He’d thought that Rosemary would live for ever. She’d been the only one of his family he could bear to be around when his life had imploded nearly three years ago. Unlike just about everyone else in his life, she hadn’t insisted over and over that he shouldn’t blame himself for Emma’s death, or tried to make him talk about his feelings; she’d simply asked him to come and help her with an errand that almost always didn’t materialise, made him endless cups of tea and given him space to breathe. And there, in that little corner of Notting Hill, he’d started to heal and learn to face the world again.
He’d spent the first three months of this year in Scotland, so he hadn’t been able to visit Rosemary as much as he would’ve liked, but he’d still called her twice a week and organised a cleaner and a weekly grocery delivery for her. Once he was back in London, he’d popped in on Monday and Thursday evenings, and she’d been fine—until the stroke. He’d visited her in hospital every other day, but it had been clear she wouldn’t recover.
And now he was to be her executor.
Just as he’d been for Emma. Hugo knew exactly how to register a death, organise a funeral, plan a wake, write a good eulogy and execute a will, because he’d already done it all for his wife.
He clenched his fists. He’d let Emma down—attending an architectural conference thousands of miles away in America instead of being at her side when she’d had that fatal asthma attack. If he’d been home, in London, he could’ve got medical help to her in time to save her. He couldn’t change the past, but he could learn from it; he wasn’t going to let his great-aunt down. She’d trusted him to be her executor, so he’d do it—and he’d do it properly.
He glanced round the waiting room. There were two others sitting on the leather chairs: a middle-aged woman who was clearly impatient at being kept waiting, and a woman of around his own age who looked terrifyingly polished.
It was nearly half-past two. Thankfully Philip Hemingford was usually punctual. Hugo could hand over the death certificate, and then start working through whatever Rosemary wanted him to do. He knew from the copy of the will she’d given him that she’d left nearly everything to his father and there were some smaller bequests; he’d make sure everything was carried out properly, because he’d loved his eccentric great-aunt dearly.
A door opened and Hugo’s family solicitor appeared. ‘Mr Grey, Dr Walters?’
Dr Walters?
Hugo had been pretty sure this appointment was for him alone; he was representing his father, who wasn’t well. Who on earth was Dr Walters?
The terrifyingly polished woman stood up, surprising him. She didn’t look like the sort of person who’d pop in to see Rosemary for a cup of tea and a chat. Hugo knew all Rosemary’s neighbours, and his great-aunt hadn’t mentioned anyone moving into the street recently. This didn’t feel quite right.
‘Please, have a seat,’ Philip Hemingford said, gesturing to the two chairs in front of his desk as he closed the door behind them. ‘Now, can I assume you already know each other?’
‘No,’ Hugo said. And she looked as mystified as he felt.
‘Then I’ll introduce you. Dr Walters, this is Hugo Grey, Rosemary’s great-nephew. Mr Grey, this is Alice Walters, Rosemary’s business associate.’
Since when had his great-aunt had business arrangements? As far as Hugo knew, she’d been living on the income from family investments, most of which ended with her death. ‘What business associate?’
The solicitor neatly sidestepped the question by saying, ‘My condolences on your loss. Now, Mr Grey—before we begin, we need to follow procedure. I believe you have Miss Grey’s death certificate?’
‘Yes.’ Hugo handed over the brown manila envelope.
‘Thank you.’ The solicitor extracted the document and read through it swiftly. Clearly satisfied that all was in order, he said, ‘We’re here today to read the last will and testament of Miss Rosemary Grey.’
Hugo didn’t understand why this woman was here. Her name wasn’t on the list of people who’d been left bequests. Hugo had assumed that today’s appointment was mainly to start the ball rolling with his duties as Rosemary’s executor, so he could sort out the funeral.
Philip Hemingford handed them both a document. ‘I witnessed the will myself, three months ago,’ he said.
The will Hugo knew about dated from five years ago, when his great-aunt had first asked him to be her executor. Why had she changed it—and why hadn’t she told anyone in the family?
‘Dr Walters, Miss Grey has left you the house.’
What? Rosemary had left her house to a stranger?
Wondering if he’d misheard, Hugo scanned the document in front of him.
It was clearly printed.
Last will and testament…
…of sound mind…
To Dr Alice Walters, I leave my house…
A house in Notting Hill was worth quite a lot of money, even if it needed work—work that Hugo had tried to persuade his great-aunt to have done so that she’d keep safe and warm, but she’d always brushed his concerns aside. And Hugo had a really nasty feeling about this. He’d been here before, with something valuable belonging to his aunt and a stranger persuading her to hand it over.
‘Just to clarify, Mr Hemingford,’ Hugo said, giving Alice a steely look. ‘My great-aunt left her house to someone that nobody else in my family has ever heard of before, and she changed her will three months ago?’
At least the woman had the grace to blush. As well she should, because he’d just stated the facts and they all very clearly added up to the conclusion that this woman had taken advantage of Rosemary’s kindness. It wasn’t the first time someone had taken advantage of his great-aunt. The last time had been Chantelle, the potter who’d befriended Rosemary and told her all kinds of sob stories. Rosemary had given Chantelle her William Moorcroft tea service; Chantelle had sold it to a dealer for a very large sum of money and—worse, in Hugo’s eyes—stopped visiting Rosemary. Hugo had quietly bought the tea service back with his own money, returned it to his aunt, and kept a closer eye on people who visited his aunt since then.
Except for the mysterious Dr Walters, who’d slid very quietly under his radar.
Unless… Was this the woman his aunt had mentioned visiting, the one she’d said she wanted him to meet? Hugo, fearing this was yet another attempt by his family to get him to move on after Emma’s death, had made excuses not to meet the woman. Fortunately this friend had never been available on Mondays or Thursdays, when Hugo visited, so he hadn’t had to deal with the awkwardness of explaining to his aunt that he really didn’t want to meet any ‘suitable’ young women.
Now, he wished he hadn’t been so selfish. He should’ve been polite and met her. He should’ve thought about his aunt and her vulnerability instead of being wrapped up in his own grief and his determination not to get involved with anyone again.
‘Miss Grey changed her will three months ago,’ the solicitor confirmed, ‘and she was of sound mind when she made her will.’
You could still be inveigled into doing something when you were of sound mind, Hugo thought. And Rosemary liked to make people happy. What kind of sob story had this woman spun to make his great-aunt give her the house?
‘There are conditions to the bequest,’ the solicitor continued. ‘Dr Walters, you must undertake to finish the butterfly project, turn the house into an education centre—of which she would like you to assume the position of director, should you choose—and re-wild the garden.’
The garden re-wilding, Hugo could understand, because he knew how important his great-aunt’s garden had been to her. And maybe the education centre; he’d always thought that Rosemary would’ve made a brilliant teacher. But, if Rosemary had left the house to his father, as her previous will had instructed, surely she knew that her family would’ve made absolutely sure her wishes were carried out? Why had his great-aunt left everything to a stranger instead? And he didn’t understand the first condition. ‘What project?’
‘I’m editing the journals and co-writing the biography of Viola Ferrers,’ Dr Walters said.
It was the first time he’d heard her speak. Her voice was quiet, and there was a bit of an accent that he couldn’t quite place, except it was definitely Northern; and there was a lot of a challenge in her grey eyes.
Did she really think he didn’t know who Viola Ferrers was?
‘My great-great-great-grandmother,’ he said crisply.
Her eyes widened, so he knew the barb had gone home. This was his family and his heritage. What right did this stranger have to muscle in on it?
‘Miss Grey also specified that a butterfly house should be built,’ the solicitor continued.
Rosemary had talked about that, three years ago; but Hugo had assumed that it was her way of distracting him, giving him something to think about other than the gaping hole Emma’s death had left in his life. They’d never taken it further than an idea and a sketch or two.
‘And said butterfly house,’ the solicitor said, ‘must be designed and built by you, Mr Grey.’
Rosemary had left him a loophole, then. As an architect, Hugo knew what happened if there was a breach of building and planning regulations, or a breach of conditions in a contract. ‘So the bequest is conditional. What happens if the conditions of my great-aunt’s will are breached?’ he asked, trying to sound more casual than he felt.
‘Then the house must be sold and the money given to a dementia charity,’ the solicitor explained.
Meaning that any scheming done by this Dr Walters would fall flat, and something good would happen with the money. Which was fine by Hugo. It wasn’t the money he was bothered about, even though he knew the house would raise a lot of money at auction; it was the fact that this woman appeared to have taken advantage of his great-aunt’s kindness, and in his view that was very far from being OK. ‘I see,’ Hugo said. It looked as if this was going to be easy, after all. ‘Then I’m afraid I won’t be designing or building a butterfly house.’
‘But you have to,’ Dr Walters said. ‘It’s what she wanted.’
Or what Rosemary had been persuaded that she wanted, which was a very different thing. Hugo shrugged. ‘We don’t always get what we want.’
‘Rosemary wanted the book finished and the house turned into a proper memorial to Viola,’ Dr Walters said, folding her arms and narrowing her gaze at him.
Was that meant to intimidate him? He’d already survived the very worst life could throw at him. He had nothing left to lose, and he wasn’t playing her game.
Philip Hemingford looked uncomfortable. ‘This is meant to be a simple reading of Miss Grey’s will, not a discussion.’
‘That’s fine by me,’ Hugo said. ‘I have nothing to add.’ He wasn’t letting this woman get away with scamming his great-aunt. And it was going to be very easy to defeat her; all he had to do was refuse to build the butterfly house.
‘You can’t let Rosemary down,’ Dr Walters said, glaring at him.
Oh, was she trying to pretend that she cared? ‘Perhaps you’d like to explain, Dr Walters, what your business association was with my great-aunt?’
‘As I said earlier, I was working with her on Viola’s journals,’ she said. ‘I’m a lepidopterist.’
The only people Hugo knew who were interested in butterflies were his great-aunt and some of her friends who were from the same generation, all of whom had been slightly eccentric and who hadn’t cared about whether their clothes matched or even if they’d brushed their hair that morning. This smart, sleek woman didn’t look anything like that kind of person. She looked brittle and fake and completely untrustworthy—much like he remembered Chantelle the potter. ‘Indeed,’ he drawled, putting as much sarcasm into his voice as he could.
‘I lecture on lepidoptera at Roxburgh College at the University of London,’ she said. ‘Your great-aunt contacted my department and asked if I could help with her project. We’ve been working on it together part-time for the last six months.’
‘She never mentioned the project to me,’ he said.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Maybe you didn’t talk to her enough.’
Playing that game, was she? His eyes narrowed. ‘I was working in Scotland for six months from last October, so I admit I phoned rather than visiting—but I’ve seen her twice a week since I’ve been back in London.’ Not that it was any of her business.
‘Maybe she thought you wouldn’t approve of her plans, so she didn’t discuss them with you.’
If he’d known of Rosemary’s plan to leave her house to a stranger, he would definitely have asked questions. Why hadn’t his aunt trusted him? Had this woman coerced her?
‘I really don’t think this is a helpful discussion,’ Philip Hemingford said, looking awkward.
For pity’s sake. Why were lawyers so mealy-mouthed? If Hemingford wasn’t going to stand up for his great-aunt, then Hugo would. ‘Oh, I think it is,’ Hugo said. ‘I’m sure that professionally you’d want to make quite sure that your client hadn’t been cozened into making a bequest. There are laws to prevent such things, I’m sure.’
‘As you’re such an expert in the law, Mr Grey,’ Dr Walters said crisply, before the solicitor could reply, ‘I’m sure you’ll also be aware of the laws of defamation. I had no idea your great-aunt was going to leave me the house and I certainly didn’t ask her to do so.’
‘As I wasn’t privy to the discussions, I wouldn’t know,’ he pointed out.
‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘You weren’t there.’
Hugo stared at her, outraged. Was she trying to claim that he’d neglected Rosemary? The gloves were coming off, now. ‘So if the project goes ahead,’ he asked, ‘what exactly do you get out of it? Let me see.’ He ticked them off on his fingers. ‘You’ll be the one to bring any of Viola Ferrers’s discoveries to light. Your name will appear on any papers written. Your name will appear on the cover of the journals as the editor, your name will be on the cover of the biography, and your name will appear as the director of the education centre. You appear to be doing rather well out of my great-aunt, Dr Walters.’ The way he saw it, this woman was using Rosemary to further her career—to further it rather a lot.
‘I can assure you, Mr Grey, that Rosemary’s name will be on the biography and the journals as co-editor,’ Dr Walters corrected, ‘and I’ll give her full credit on any papers. And, if the education centre goes ahead—which I very much hope it does, because it’s clearly what she wanted—then her name will be prominent because it was her bequest.’ She stared at him. ‘And it’ll be your name on record as the designer and builder of the butterfly house.’
‘Ah, but it won’t,’ he said, ‘because I’m not building it. Which means the conditions of the will are breached, so the house will have to be sold and the money given to charity.’
* * *
Smug, self-satisfied, odious man.
And to think that she’d felt sorry for him in the waiting room—that she’d actually considered going over to ask if he was all right. This man wasn’t the sweet nephew Rosemary had mentioned to Alice a couple of times—a man who’d been very busy and struggled to see her. Instead, he was just like Barney and his cronies: posh, entitled and living on a different planet from the rest of the population. This was all just some kind of game to him, and he clearly thought he’d won.
Well, he could think again.
The barely veiled accusation that she was a gold-digger had made Alice angry enough to absorb the shock of the bequest and decide that yes, she’d do this and carry out her friend’s dream. Hugo Grey wasn’t going to get his own way. At all. He might be able to sell the house, under the terms of Rosemary’s will, but he certainly couldn’t dictate who bought it.
Alice didn’t have the money to buy the property, let alone turn it into Rosemary’s vision. But she could apply to the university for a grant to buy the house, and apply to plenty of other places for grants to do the work to convert it into an education centre and build a butterfly house. If she couldn’t get enough money through grants, then she’d crowdfund it. Help save Rosemary’s butterflies.
This man wouldn’t know a butterfly if it came flapping past and settled on his arm. Rosemary did, and Alice wasn’t going to let her friend down. The solicitor might have referred to her as a ‘business associate’, but the elderly lady was more than that; Rosemary had become a good friend over the last six months, and she deserved better than this arrogant, self-centred great-nephew slinging his weight around. A man Rosemary had obviously seen through rose-tinted glasses.
‘As you wish,’ she said.
He looked surprised.
Did he really think she was some kind of gold-digger?
She wasn’t sure whether anger or pity came uppermost: anger at the insult, or pity for a man who clearly lived in a world full of suspicion and unkindness. It was a confused mixture of both, but anger had the upper hand. Hugo Grey might be gorgeous to look at, with that floppy dark hair and those cobalt-blue eyes, but he was as much of a snake as Barney.
Let him think that the world would go his way. Too late, he’d find out that it didn’t. Not in this case.
‘Do you have a key to the house?’ he asked.
And, damn, her face was obviously very easy to read, because he nodded in satisfaction. ‘I thought so. You need to hand it over to Philip Hemingford.’
No way. Not until she’d managed to rescue the last few journals so she could finish her work. ‘As Rosemary left the house to me, I think not.’
‘The conditions of your bequest have been breached, so technically the house belongs to the dementia charity she named in the will,’ he pointed out coolly.
‘I’m not the one who breached the conditions.’
‘Really, really,’ the solicitor interjected, squirming and looking awkward. ‘This isn’t…’
‘What Rosemary wanted. I agree, Mr Hemingford,’ Alice finished. ‘And I don’t have the key with me.’ That wasn’t actually true, but she was working on moral rights. Rosemary would’ve approved of the white lie, she was sure.
‘Then I suggest,’ Hugo Grey said, with that irritating drawl, ‘that you bring the key here to Philip Hemingford by ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’
‘Provided,’ she said, ‘that you do the same. Because the house doesn’t belong to you, either.’
He looked shocked at that. ‘It’s my great-aunt’s house and I’m her executor. I’m responsible for it.’
And she was responsible for the butterfly project. ‘I’ll hand my key over when you hand yours over,’ she said.
‘That,’ the solicitor said hastily, ‘sounds like a good solution for now. Perhaps you could both bring your sets of keys to me—say, tomorrow at ten?’
‘I’m in a lecture at ten, but I can make it at twelve if that works for you.’
‘Twelve’s fine.’
‘Thank you for your time, Mr Hemingford,’ she said, giving him a brief nod of acknowledgement. Then she gave the younger man a glance of pure disdain. ‘Mr Grey.’ And she hoped he interpreted ‘Mr’ as ‘Entitled piece of pond-life’, because that was exactly what she meant by the word.
And she walked out, leaving both men open-mouthed.
Normally, Alice didn’t take taxis, but she needed to get to Rosemary’s house before Hugo Grey did, to make sure she could still access the journals. So she whistled the first black cab that passed her—to her shock, it actually stopped for her—and took a taxi to the house in Notting Hill.
It felt weird, letting herself into the empty house. Right now the only moving things here were herself and the dust motes dancing in the sunlight.
It was weirder still, not seeing her elderly friend pottering around in the garden, or sitting at the kitchen table with her cup of tea and a welcoming smile.
Tears prickled against Alice’s eyelids. Rosemary Grey was special. Kind, eccentric and with a lively mind. In a lot of ways, Rosemary reminded Alice of her grandfather, and she was sure they would’ve enjoyed each other’s company—despite the fact that socially they were worlds apart.
‘I’m not going to let him win,’ she said fiercely. ‘You deserve better than that entitled, spoiled buffoon. I’m going to finish our book. And your name is going on the cover before mine. I’m not going to let you down, Rosemary, I promise. And I keep my promises.’
She went into the study and found the last volumes of the journals. No doubt Hugo would figure out very quickly that she’d taken them and demand them back, so today she’d need to photograph every page and make sure she backed up the images in three places for safety’s sake. Hugo Grey and his pomposity were absolutely not going to get in the way of Rosemary’s plans.
‘We’re going to win,’ she whispered to the empty house, and locked up behind her again.
* * *
Hugo had half-expected Alice Walters to be there, stripping out whatever she could, when he got to his great-aunt’s house; but it was empty. Nothing but dust-motes and echoes. His great-aunt’s vitality had gone from the place.
He let himself into the garden and wandered through it. The shrubs were overgrown and needed cutting back, but he could smell the sweet scent of the roses and the honeyed tones of the buddleia, and for a moment it made him feel as if his great-aunt were walking right beside him.
The butterfly house.
He could see exactly where Rosemary wanted it. They’d talked about it three years ago, when he’d been so broken after Emma’s death and desperately needed distracting. Rosemary had suggested using the rickety old wall at the back of the garden for one wall of it; they’d talked about a house of glass, filled with plants that were the perfect habitat for butterflies.
Rosemary had loved glasshouses. So had he. She’d taken him to see stately homes with amazing conservatories and domes when he was small, as well as the glasshouses at Kew and the Chelsea Physic Garden. They’d had a road trip to the Eden Project, too, when he was in his teens. They’d both been fascinated by the biomes—Rosemary for their contents, and himself for the structure. And Rosemary had been the one who’d championed him when he’d decided to become an architect, specialising in glass.
Had he been so cocooned in his grief that he’d not paid enough attention? He hadn’t thought that she’d really meant it about the butterfly house; he’d assumed it was her way of distracting him. Particularly when she’d talked about using the wall of Viola’s old conservatory; he’d checked it out and it would’ve needed completely rebuilding before it could be used to support a structure. He’d assumed that she’d realised the idea was impractical. Had he been wrong?
Standing with his hands in his pockets, he stared at the space in front of him. A lawn that had been cut but not cared for, so it was straggly and patchy, with weeds taking over completely in places. Overgrown flower beds with shrubs drooping, their dead flower heads unpruned. Right at that moment, it was a mess. But, with careful planning and a bit of hard work, he could just imagine the garden transformed and showcasing a butterfly house. A modern twist on a Victorian palm house, perhaps, marrying the past and the present. Something that looked like the past but had modern technology underpinning it; something that would last for the future.
Back in the kitchen, he made himself a black coffee in one of Rosemary’s butterfly-painted mugs and sat at the kitchen table.
‘What did you really want, Rosemary?’ he asked the empty air. ‘If the butterfly house was your dream, then I’ll back it all the way and I’ll build it for you. But if it’s this woman trying to use your name and tread on you so she can get to the top, then it’s no deal.’
How did he find out which one it was? He knew nothing about Dr Alice Walters. Rosemary had mentioned her friend but Hugo hadn’t really paid attention. He’d been caught up in work and brooding—because, without Emma’s warmth in his life, he’d been going through the motions. Existing, not living. It had been hard enough to get from the beginning of the day to the end.
Something about this just didn’t sit right. It felt as if Alice Walters had taken advantage of Rosemary in the same way as Chantelle had, using a shared interest as a way to befriend her and then cheat her.
He flicked into his phone and looked up the website for Roxburgh College.
And there she was, listed in the staff of the biology department.
Dr Alice Walters.
He clicked on the link. Her photograph made her look much softer than she had in the solicitor’s office. Her light brown hair had a natural curl rather than being ironed into the sophisticated smoothness he’d seen. She wasn’t wearing make-up, either; her natural beauty shone through and her grey eyes were huge and stunning.
He pushed the thought away. This wasn’t about being attracted to a woman who might or might not be a gold-digger. This was about making sure the woman hadn’t taken advantage of his great-aunt.
According to her biography on the university’s website, Alice had taken her first degree in biology at Oxford, and studied for her Masters and her PhD at London. She was a Fellow of the Royal Entomological Society. Her research interests were in biodiversity, conservation ecology and the impact of land use—all of which fitted with what Rosemary had asked her to do. She’d written an impressive list of papers, including some on re-wilding; she’d been a keynote speaker at several conferences; and she was supervising half a dozen doctoral students.
The academic side of it stacked up.
But were the ideas in the will Rosemary’s, or had Alice influenced her? Was Alice Walters involved in this project because she’d liked Rosemary and wanted to help her make a difference, or because she wanted to make a name for herself and had no scruples about taking advantage of others to get there? Had she lied when she’d claimed to have no idea that Rosemary intended to leave her the house?
Until Hugo knew the truth, he wasn’t budging.