A Spell of Darkness.

The author’s name was Mary Estelle Graves.

He turned to the inside back cover, where a photograph showed the novelist’s face beautifully cast in half-shadow. A caption read, ‘Mary Estelle Graves achieved fame as “Miss Kreeley” in the theatre play The Moon Awakes. Many other roles followed, both classical and modern. She is esteemed by audiences and critics alike. A Spell of Darkness is her first novel. She lives in London with her family.’ Hobbes flipped to the opening pages of the book and saw that it was a first edition, published in 1958. The title page was signed and dedicated.

To my loving son, Nicholas, on his birthday.

Your mother, Mary Estelle

Hobbes sat on the bed and read the first paragraph of chapter one:

Leigh Park Manor had a reputation for being haunted even before the Parnell family moved in, and their stay there did little to rid the local townspeople of their fears, for the family was seen, from that very first day in the midsummer of 1897, to be the carriers of a curse. Over time suspicion turned to fear and the large three-storey building at the end of Lumb Lane was shunned by all. It was a house of mysteries, within whose shadowy rooms and corridors a family of peculiar nature went about their secretive business. Indeed, we might never have known of the exact nature of that peculiarity if a certain young lady had not walked up to the ornate front door and pulled on the bell rope some two years after the Parnells had taken up residence.

The cover of the book showed a proud-looking woman in profile, a large dark house behind her, an overgrown rose trellis partly obscuring her white gown. In her hand she held a lighted lantern, which shone a yellow light on the book’s title.

Hobbes’s mind was active with new thoughts, all vying for attention, but none would come into focus. And then he bent forward slightly. From his position on the bed he could see under the table: a wastepaper basket was pushed against the wall. He pulled it out and rummaged through the sheets of crumpled paper it contained. When these were opened and spread out on the desktop it became obvious that Nicholas Graves had been composing a letter, or at least trying to. After several false starts, he had managed at best a half-paragraph. But Hobbes read this with great interest.

For the third time in this case he saw the name written down: Adeline.

The Dreamers

Mrs Rosamund Kepple lived in Plumstead, in a small house at the end of a row. DS Latimer accompanied Hobbes. The front door was opened at the first ring of the bell, as though the householder had been waiting for them in the hallway. She led them into the living room, which was compact, neat and tidy, and spotlessly clean. Everything that could be polished had been polished. The air was scented. Not a speck of dust disturbed the whiteness of the carpet. Hobbes had never seen so many knickknacks before – porcelain figurines and brasses dominated, with a few souvenirs of holidays in Spain slotted in, all arranged in rigid lines on shelves, tabletops and inside glass cabinets. It was a collector’s den. A portrait of the Virgin Mary took pride of place above the mantelpiece.