Rosamund raises her eyes as though in desperation. ‘OK. Keep the door locked,’ she continues into the phone. ‘I’m on my way.’ She ends the call, and I stare, my curiosity piqued, waiting for her to explain. ‘It’s Elise,’ she says. ‘I need to go.’

‘Is she OK?’ I ask, rising. ‘Is Neil with her?’

‘No, he’s not with us. He’s working in Wales.’ She races towards the door, her coat flapping open. Stops. Glances back. ‘Elise said she saw someone looking in the window.’ She takes a breath. ‘Someone wearing a mask.’

‘Oh God,’ I say, my heartbeat picking up speed.

‘I’m sure it’s nothing; you know what she can be like.’

I nod, recalling Elise – the way she told stories.

But then I’d seen the masks last time we were here – we all had.

‘She hasn’t said anything like this in a long time,’ Rosamund adds. And with that, she flutters her fingers, and heads out into the snowy night.

Chapter 9

Present Day

Ruth

I rarely show my annoyance. Normally I keep it bottled up, out of reach, not for human consumption. In fact, the last time I got angry was when Finn’s wife came looking for him. That woman soon scurried away with her tail between her legs. But all evening Amelia’s been pushing my buttons; talking loud, inhibitions lowered by alcohol. She should take note of her brother Thomas. He remained sober – a decent man.

I remember watching my husband drink too much each night – drowning his sadness, he said. I never needed alcohol to drown mine. The thing is, people spiral out of control when they drink too much. There are no exceptions.

And now, as I enter the conservatory once more, expecting everyone to have gone back to their cottages, Amelia is still here, alone, rocking her chair backwards and forwards, sipping yet more wine as she twiddles her red hair round her fingers.

‘You should leave now,’ I say, folding my arms. ‘The dining room closes at nine, and it’s almost ten-thirty.’

Amelia looks up at me. Shows no sign of moving.

‘Finn!’ I call out, and he appears through the door behind me looking flushed. He’s probably been out for a brisk walk; he often goes out in the evening as part of his fitness regime.

Amelia turns and smiles at him. ‘Finn,’ she says, swinging her arm in the air in an exaggerated wave. ‘How lovely to see you again.’

‘Hey, shall I get you back to your cottage?’ he says, walking towards her and, taking hold of her arms, he pulls her to her feet.

‘I’m sure the lass can find her own way,’ I say. ‘Just point her towards the door, son.’

Amelia threads an arm through Finn’s and leans against him. ‘You smell nice,’ she says.