Contents ( 57)
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
- Also by Sharon Gosling
There was a group of people on the hill behind the tower. Rachel paused and watched, trying to work out what they were doing, strolling around her home in the growing shadows cast by the forest. At first she thought they might be ramblers, thwarted by Dora McCreedy’s fence, but no. They were standing in a tight little knot, with one single person addressing them. Rachel could make out the movement of this person’s arms, pointing towards the forest that hid the fallen bulk of the burned mansion, and then turning towards the James MacDonald Tower. A historical tour, perhaps? The lighthouse was occasionally put on a coach tour’s itinerary, although it was late in the day for a stop.
Then, as Rachel continued to watch, she saw the speaker beckon to someone who had been standing apart from the rest of the group. The figure stepped forward with what looked from a distance like a long white stick. It was only when this was passed to the speaker, who unfurled it, that it was revealed to be a large piece of paper. The group pressed forward, looking at whatever was on it as the speaker continued to gesticulate. Rachel closed the camera obscura’s aperture and made her way down the ladder. Whatever was going on out there, it was happening on private property for which she was responsible.
Outside, the light was fading fast. Rachel could hear the murmur of discussion led by a far louder, more strident voice that she recognized immediately as belonging to Dora McCreedy herself.
‘Excuse me,’ Rachel called as she approached, seeing that the group was made up of smartly dressed people with the air of the boardroom about them. ‘Can I ask what you’re doing?’
McCreedy looked over her shoulder but didn’t acknowledge Rachel at all, rolling up the paper in her hands as she spoke to the group. ‘That’s all there is to say at the moment,’ she said, ‘but as you can see, the groundwork has already been prepared. Now, if you’ll all follow me, we can continue this in the comfort of the conference room at the Fretted Goose. I’ve arranged for refreshments.’
‘Dora,’ Rachel called after her, ‘this is private property. I’d like to know what you’re doing, please.’
A couple of the group turned to look past Dora towards Rachel. McCreedy held out her arms, shepherding them away, the young woman Rachel assumed to be her assistant smiling as she took the lead. McCreedy paused for a second, watching them go before she turned back to Rachel.
‘What’s going on?’ Rachel asked.
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘It is if it involves the lighthouse – this is the property of Cullen MacDonald, and—’
‘MacDonald is dead, Rachel, and tomorrow he’ll be buried,’ Dora said, cutting her off. ‘You don’t have ownership of this place. I’d start thinking about moving on, if I were you.’ She looked past Rachel to the lighthouse. ‘You’ve had a nice free ride for the past few years, but that’s about to come to an end.’