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Chapters (82)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise for The House of Whispers
  3. Title Page
  4. Note to Readers
  5. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  6. One
  7. Two
  8. Three
  9. Four
  10. Five
  11. Six
  12. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  13. Seven
  14. Eight
  15. Nine
  16. Ten
  17. Eleven
  18. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  19. Twelve
  20. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  21. Thirteen
  22. Fourteen
  23. Fifteen
  24. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  25. Sixteen
  26. Seventeen
  27. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  28. Eighteen
  29. Nineteen
  30. Twenty
  31. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  32. Twenty-One
  33. Twenty-Two
  34. Twenty-Three
  35. Twenty-Four
  36. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  37. Twenty-Five
  38. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  39. Twenty-Six
  40. Twenty-Seven
  41. Twenty-Eight
  42. Twenty-Nine
  43. Thirty
  44. Thirty-One
  45. Thirty-Two
  46. Thirty-Three
  47. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  48. Thirty-Four
  49. Thirty-Five
  50. Thirty-Six
  51. Thirty-Seven
  52. Thirty-Eight
  53. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  54. Thirty-Nine
  55. Forty
  56. Forty-One
  57. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  58. Forty-Two
  59. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  60. Forty-Three
  61. Forty-Four
  62. Forty-Five
  63. Forty-Six
  64. Forty-Seven
  65. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  66. Forty-Eight
  67. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  68. Forty-Nine
  69. Fifty
  70. Fifty-One
  71. Fifty-Two
  72. Fifty-Three
  73. Fifty-Four
  74. Fifty-Five
  75. Fifty-Six
  76. Fifty-Seven
  77. Fifty-Eight
  78. Fifty-Nine
  79. Sixty
  80. Priory Hospital North London: 20 December 2019
  81. Acknowledgements
  82. About the Publisher

With an energy I hadn’t felt since I’d been painting, I grabbed my keys and coat and dashed out of the house. My steps hit the pavement briskly as I set off down the road like any purposeful commuter but slowed as I neared the churchyard. I never went to church. Did I have to ask permission, or did I just walk in? What would I say if anyone saw me? Feeling like a burglar, I unlatched the churchyard gate and stepped away from the noise of the street. I’d spent the past four years avoiding this place – refusing to take the shortcut – and now I was here through choice.

A narrow tarmac path led through well-tended gardens toward the church, each side of the path punctuated with gravestones, tombs and memorials that hunkered under towering yews and cedar trees. I knew she wouldn’t be here – just a glance told me that these graves dated farther back than ten years – but around the side of the church lay the more recent graves.

I tightened my scarf and, with my hands deep in my pockets, I made my way down the path, around the church and through another gate into another space, where the headstones here were cleaner, newer, better tended. A footpath had been carved through the grass by commuters taking the shortcut to the station and, at the far end, I could see the gap in the hedge they used to bypass the long walk down Albert Road. I stood for a moment to get my bearings, then stepped among the headstones, scouring the names and dates one by one until I found the cool grey curve and neat lettering of the one I was sure must be hers.

Face to face with the tombstone, I read the words. Dearly Beloved Daughter. Simple. Factual. Just the dates to jolt the heart; the short lifespan apparent only to those who stopped to notice. The grave looked untended, the weeds of the churchyard taking it over. I stood with my head bowed and thought about the remains of the girl who’d worn the dresses we’d found, the girl who’d played with the toys – surely decomposed now, under my feet, and I felt tears pool. Why was life so cruel? So unfair? I bent and pulled a big weed from the edge of the grave. Then suddenly I knew what to do: there may be nothing I could do for her in life, but I could make her final resting place tidy.

With growing urgency, I pulled at the weeds that grew around the stone. Soil balled under my fingernails as I tugged the roots out of the ground, suddenly desperate to do something – anything – for the girl. On my knees, with the damp seeping through my jeans, I pulled and raked and tidied with fingers that reddened with cold until the area around the grave looked neat.

Loved.

Fifty-Three