Tom moves away from me to make the tea and I stand and watch him. My emotions are so conflicted. I can understand why Mum is so upset, but every time I think of Gran lying in her care-home bed, her eyes wide and frightened, I think of the woman who looked after me every summer, the woman who didn’t expect me to be someone I wasn’t, who allowed me to be awkward, shy, gauche me. Gran loved me like I was her own grandchild, I have no doubt about that. She was always so kind, so gentle. Nurturing. To me, to her plants and her animals. No . . . there’s no way she murdered the real Rose. I refuse to believe it. All she’s ever done is protect me and Mum.

‘It saddens me that she couldn’t be honest, though,’ I say, taking the mug of tea from Tom and wrapping my hands around its warmth. ‘From the book of poems we found, she obviously loved Rose. Maybe she never got over her.’

‘It’s actually really sad,’ says Tom, thoughtfully, sipping his drink. ‘She pined for her all these years.’

My heart contracts. ‘To think they stood here, Tom. Right here in this kitchen.’ I walk over to the window and place my hand on the leaded glass as though doing so connects me to them, to the past, as though my hand is touching the invisible prints they left behind. ‘Do you think she killed Neil Lewisham?’

‘I think maybe one of them did. And the other protected her.’

‘God.’ I breathe in deeply, the glass cold beneath my fingers, watching as the raindrops cascade down the window. Outside the deluge has caused the sky to mist, obscuring the woods in the distance, but through the glass I imagine them out there, two ethereal creatures in the garden, Daphne and Rose, burying their secrets.