There had also been a barn in Chedworth, much bigger than this one, but similarly unused. When first exploring the Cotswolds, she had come to the conclusion that virtually every stone-built barn in the region had been converted into a house years ago. If a farmer wanted somewhere to keep his hay, he erected a steel and concrete monster of no aesthetic appeal, and certainly no mystery. But now she had to revise that conclusion. There were still a number of these handsome, historic empty spaces, home to birds and spiders and small scuttling creatures. Here was an example so tucked 65away and secret that it made Thea’s heart skip to see it. Remembering the grim discovery that she and Drew had made in Chedworth, she felt no desire to push through the undergrowth for further investigation. It was enough just to know it was here, in this modern world of business parks and computers and far too many cars. Had it seen the days when the old drove road was the only way through Barnsley? Was it under the protection of some kind of preservation order? Had the farm gone out of business, with everybody too distraught to give an old barn any attention? Or was something hidden in it behind all these weeds? Something that had been there for decades, carefully wrapped against moss and rust and bird droppings?

Perhaps Sleeping Beauty was in there. That had been Thea’s first childish thought. An unembellished photograph of this forgotten scene would perfectly illustrate that particular fairy tale.

She followed the lane round to the right, where she could glimpse the side of the barn with more ivy climbing over the tiled roof. A little way further, and she found herself in a car park attached to the smart Barnsley House Hotel. She could see the gardens and main entrance, through a gateway in a wall, before turning back the way she’d come. She paused again by the old barn, listening to birdsong and wondering where to go next.

In the main street again, she saw people starting the day. She drifted along to the short approach road leading to the church and observed three or four people standing 66amongst the headstones. It was Sunday – they were probably preparing for a morning service. Not wanting to get involved, she turned back towards the Corner House. Two cars passed and a woman came out of her front door, locking it behind her. Thea knew she should go and tend to her guest. She’d been gone ten or fifteen minutes already. Ancient rules of hospitality might never have been as strong in Britain as elsewhere, but vestiges remained. She should make tea and produce some scraps of food. Under more normal circumstances, the two of them could have enjoyed an early lunch at the Village Pub – but Grace would never agree to an appearance in public – and besides, Thea wanted her gone before then. The irritation and resentment were coming back. She was more and more certain that she had been ‘played’. Deceived, exploited, made a fool of. She would have to insist the woman left. She might even give the wretched creature some money, if it helped to get rid of her. In fact, she thought crossly, she could scarcely avoid giving her money for a taxi or a bus, or whatever transport Grace could find. That in itself was going to raise a host of difficulties, especially on a Sunday. With a sigh, she turned back the way she’d come, walking slowly like a reluctant schoolgirl, knowing she had no choice.