Harri choked up a little, thinking of poor Anna Cecilia disfigured by disease. Who knew what cruelties she had to endure in life and what strength it had taken to persevere and earn the admiration of all who knew her? Such kind words in death, the legacy of a life well lived. Harri wanted people to think well of her, both now and when she was gone. Could the ghost of this poor young woman be her guide? Could she find a better perspective? Harri’s own misfortunes seemed pale in comparison, and she walked on wishing she could be more like Anna Cecilia.

There was no one around and no traffic. Just the song of birds and the slightest wind in the trees. Maybe when she was old and grown up she’d move to a place like this and live a peaceful life with a family. She might be on the wrong side of thirty, but she liked to kid herself she still wasn’t a grown-up. That way all the missteps she’d taken didn’t matter. If she was still a child she could pretend she wasn’t supposed to know what seemed obvious to others: how to make a success of life.

Anna Cecilia lived and died in the time you’ve wasted trying to find your way, Harri thought darkly.

She tried to shake the sense of failure, and checked an address on her phone. She walked to the second of a row of three terraced cottages, number 46 Church Lane – a narrow grey stone home which exuded warmth and comfort in every aspect of its tiny character. A vine grew up a trellis and over the apex of a porch roof, and bunches of late harvest white grapes clustered here and there. Window boxes full of chrysanthemums hung beneath the upstairs and downstairs windows and flowers fought bees and butterflies to see who could make the most vibrant contribution to the house’s colour palette. Beneath a wooden awning, a small bookcase stood against the wall beside the front door, and a sign told people to ‘Love and Lend, these books are free to borrow, provided they are returned.’ The shelves were lined with an eclectic mix of fiction and non-fiction, and if she’d been local, Harri would have been tempted by offerings from Mari Hannah and Anthony Horowitz.

She noticed the granite threshold slab had been worn to a shallow U and wondered how old the little home was, and how many footsteps it must have taken to weather stone.

She knocked on the front door, and a short while later was greeted by a rosy-cheeked woman in her early sixties. She had short brown hair with the occasional wisp of grey, and wore black leggings and a loose floral top.

‘Hello,’ she beamed.

‘Mrs Hughes?’ Harri asked.

‘Yes.’

‘My name is Harriet Kealty. I’m investigating the death of Beth Asha.’

Dr Abiola had mentioned Cynthia Hughes had been the Ashas’ housekeeper, and thought her sufficiently interested in Elliot Asha to have hired a private investigator. She seemed a potentially rich source of information. Harri was going to have to work hard to get it, though. Cynthia Hughes’s mood curdled.