“I think you should go now,” she said sharply. “It was kind of you to come, but we can—”

Dan protested, “Listen, I understand how hard this is for you, but you have to help the police—”

“I don’t have to do anything,” she cried angrily. “My only job now is to make sure my mother gets through this and you two, who’ve pretended you didn’t know who we really are . . . You can . . . You can . . .” As she started to break down Dan caught her, and held her, but she pushed him away. “Thank you for coming,” she mumbled, struggling to control herself, “but I need to go now,” and before they could stop her she left the room.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Andee stopped as she reached the police tape that surrounded the coach house, her padded coat and scarf helping to keep out the cold. At least it wasn’t raining, although the ground was awash with puddles created the night before by the firemen’s hoses.

In spite of being familiar with many of the forensic team hard at work at the scene, she knew better than to breach the tape, or even to try and talk her way in. They had a job to do and she wasn’t here to disturb them, or to press them for information. She’d come simply to gauge for herself, in the cold light of day and now that the fire engines and their crews had departed, just how much damage the blaze had caused. Until she went inside it wouldn’t be possible to assess the full extent, but from where she was standing it was obvious that the central part of the house, kitchen dining area, and sitting room had taken the brunt of the attack. Her heart ached as she thought of how lovingly Claudia had put it all together, the exquisitely restored cornices and windows, the hand-crafted units, quirky patchwork sofas, splendid refectory table, and colorful mismatched chairs . . . All the care and pride she’d put into it gone in one random act of violence, or revenge, or whatever it had been.

Andee could see that what Gould had told her on the phone was correct: both bedroom wings appeared unscathed and the tower too was standing tall, apart from the scorch marks marring the limestone facade like forked tongues flickering around it. All six of the arched windows had been lost, glass shattered, metal frames buckled and burnt, but the stonework around them, blackened as it was, seemed solid. She couldn’t see the back of the place from here, but she imagined—at least hoped—that the damage might be slightly less severe, given the fire had been started at the front.