CHAPTER THREE

ABIGAIL ran out of the room and directly up the staircase which rose from the inner hall, her laboured breathing sounding loud and distorted in the almost eerie silence which had settled on the house.

She did not go to hers and Orlando’s bedroom; she had not slept there for months.

But it was a magnificent room, overlooking the house’s greatest glory—its eighteenth-century garden—and Abigail had half thought that she might move back in, once the policeman had told her that Orlando was never coming home again.

But now she knew that nothing would ever entice her to sleep in that room again.

Instead, she made her way to the East Room, whose curtains were drawn almost shut, leaving only a chink in the heavy brocade, giving the bedroom a gloomy half-light which suited her mood perfectly.

With a sense of relief, she kicked off the spindly high-heeled shoes, unbuttoned her black jacket and lay down on the wide four-poster bed, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling.

In the distance she could hear the faint chink of china and glass being clattered, and supposed that the waitresses were clearing away the debris from the food.

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