‘When it – she – smiled, that was so weird, Em. Do you think she has gone?’

‘What do you think?’ she asked.

‘The house feels – maybe – lighter.’

‘It does,’ she said.

‘They were really strange, those two.’

‘Beavis and Butthead?’

He smiled.

‘What do you really think?’ she said. ‘Was it real, or some kind of conjuring trick? Some very clever illusion performed by them?’

‘No way. But, honestly? I don’t know what to think. I keep going back to that old movie, The Matrix. With all that’s been going on since we moved here, it feels like we’re living in some kind of simulated reality.’

‘But the house does feel lighter, doesn’t it? They did something, didn’t they?’ Emily insisted.

He tapped his head. ‘Something psychological to us?’

‘Or they really cleared away something negative?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not sure what I believe any more.’

She reached forward and picked up Sussex Mysteries. ‘This has something on Cold Hill village in it?’

‘That’s what the librarian said. Hey, I didn’t tell you, she’s a massive fan – she and her husband have two of my pictures!’

‘Really?’

‘And the Bishop – he had two in his office!’

‘You’re kidding? You didn’t tell me.’

‘Nope, I am not kidding.’

‘The Bishop had your paintings in his office?’

‘He really did.’

‘Amazing, I love it. You see, it’s happening, darling, your career is really taking off, and you so deserve it!’

‘Well, let’s see how the next exhibition goes – if I ever get all the paintings done in time.’

‘You will.’

Emily began leafing through the book as Jason drank some more wine. ‘Shit, what a day. Maybe we’ve made a huge mistake, moving here. We were happy back in Brighton.’ He stood and walked over to the sink.

‘We were, but we both had the dream of living in the country, OK?’ She continued turning page after page. ‘Don’t forget that. We are going to be happy here.’

He ran the taps, then soaped his hands and began washing them. The act of doing it calmed him. He rinsed the soap off and repeated the process. ‘I feel it’s my fault; I was the one who originally suggested it, this move.’

‘What was it you said, about love meaning you never have to say sorry?’

‘Touché.’

She stopped, suddenly, at a page. ‘Got it!’ she said.

‘Got what?’

She raised a hand. ‘Gimme a second.’

He rinsed his hands, then soaped them again.

She read, avidly, the brief entry. When she had finished, she looked up at her husband. ‘This is really interesting.’

‘What?’

‘Do you remember the estate agent telling us this house – this whole part of the development – is built on the footprint of the original mansion, Cold Hill House?’

He nodded, soaping his hands yet again. ‘Sort of, vaguely.’

‘There’s a piece here on the old place!’ She began to read aloud.

‘Cold Hill House was built to the order of Sir Brangwyn De Glossope, on the site of monastic ruins, during the 1750s. His first wife, Matilda, daughter and heiress from the rich Sussex landowning family, the Warre-Spences, disappeared, childless, a year after they moved into the property. It was her money that had funded the building of the house – De Glossope being near penniless at the time of their marriage.’