CHAPTER

35

THE MORNING WAS bright and cold, a sheer blue sheet for a sky with only a few wispy hints of clouds to the east. Heather and Nikki came out of the cottage slowly, full of the natural caution of city people suddenly faced with a great deal of quiet. Nikki was carrying a glossy map of the grounds, which had also been left on the table for them.

“You know, this place is huge, and really spread out. The nearest cottage is miles away.”

The wind picked up, chasing old dead leaves across the small drive. Heather sniffed, and fiddled with the collar of her jacket. For the first time in weeks, she had slept the whole night through, and the hot shower had been powerful enough that she felt like she’d already had a massage. This is better, she thought, glancing around at the grass and trees. I should have known staying in that house would make me unwell. She looked at the map Nikki was brandishing at her and raised her eyebrows.

“Countryside people,” she said eventually, “are really keen on walking, aren’t they?”

“Good news is, although we’re not guests of the spa, we can go up to their restaurant and have breakfast. What do you reckon?”

They got back in the car and followed the smooth roads back up toward the main entrance. It was a reasonably long way, Heather noted—walking would have to take at least an hour. Eventually the main building of Fiddler’s Mill loomed into sight, looking very much like all the paintings and photographs Heather had seen at whytewitch’s flat. It had been given new, energy saving windows and a new gravel drive, but the dark stones of the House itself, looking like a rainy afternoon given weight and heft, were still intact. In the sprawling carpark to one side were only a handful of cars, and the big central doors were closed.

Nikki parked and they got out, standing for a moment looking down the hill. Back past the way they had come was a thick band of woods, looking impenetrable at this distance. Heather couldn’t see anyone else about.

“I guess it’s a bit late in the year for this, really,” she said. “Anyone with any sense and this much money has buggered off abroad for the winter.”

“Come on, let’s get inside.”

The reception area was spacious and tasteful and somewhat ruined by a series of tall white signs detailing all the spa treatments available within Fiddler’s Mill House. A young orange woman with yellow hair beamed at them from behind a desk.

“Can I help you?”

“We’d like to have breakfast please,” said Nikki. “Is your restaurant open?”

“Yes of course.” The young woman slid a pamphlet across the counter to them. It had a picture of an avocado on the front and not, as Heather might have hoped, bacon and eggs. “Here is the menu. The restaurant is just through the arch to your right. Have a lovely day.”