He left the room and Will exhaled shakily; he’d been on tenterhooks every moment he’d been in John Morahan’s company.

But something had changed. The dog, at last, was trembling, its shivers making tiny ripples in the cloudy water.

Will was so grateful and relieved that he felt something give inside him; as if some part of him had cracked; as if his heart had begun to work again.

‘You’re going to be OK,’ he told the dog, speaking in the same confident tone that John had used to reassure the animal earlier. ‘We’re going to look after you. Everything’s going to be fine.’

From the far side of the house he heard the doorbell ring.

62

‘Thanks for coming,’ the nurse said to Marnie. ‘Camille’s been asking for you and we don’t have long before Mr deV comes back. Mind the mud on the floor. Camille’s upstairs.’ She glanced over her shoulder, towards the downstairs rooms, then ushered Marnie inside. ‘Please hurry,’ she said. ‘I don’t like Camille being up there on her own.’

Marnie followed the nurse up the staircase. Their feet were quiet on the carpet. The house was quiet too; as if it was waiting for something to happen. Marnie heard murmurs, male voices, somewhere below. She thought she heard her father and touched Zoe’s arm.

‘Yes, it’s your dad,’ said Zoe. ‘He’s fine. I’ll explain after you’ve seen Camille.’

The nurse, always so calm and sensible, sounded nervous, and this worried Marnie.

‘Camille’s been in a funny mood all day,’ Zoe said. ‘She keeps asking for you and Mr deV keeps telling her she’s being silly. He refused to call you. He’s watching her like a hawk and she doesn’t want him anywhere near her. In the end she was so agitated I sent him out to the late-night chemist and prayed you were free.’

They reached the first-floor landing and hurried to the narrow staircase leading up to the attic rooms. Zoe unlocked the door at the top of the steps and Marnie followed her along the narrow corridor with the sloping ceiling and into Mrs deVillars’ room. It was as it had been before. Too warm, dark, with its uneasy slopes and shadows. A mirror in an ornate, Gothic frame reflected the lamplight. Camille deVillars was sitting in her armchair, her hands on her lap. She was dressed in an ankle-length, powder-blue dressing gown. Her hair had been drawn into a bun on top of her head; she was wearing a dash of pale lipstick.

She looked up and said: ‘Hello, Denise. Thank you so much for coming.’

‘It’s not Denise,’ said the nurse. ‘It’s Marnie. You’ve been asking for her all day, Camille, remember?’

‘Marnie? Come here, dear, so I can see you properly.’