Posy was several paces ahead of her, but Rosalind didn’t try to catch up.

Slowly Rosalind turned around, her ears pounding with the sound of her own heartbeat as it melded with the sluggish trickle of the river and the wind in the reeds. The darkness surrounded her, moonlight flickering between the alder branches as the clouds rushed on overhead.

She was alone. There was no one there.

Her gaze fell to her hands, twisting around each other at her stomach, bone white in the night.

And then she saw the eyes watching her from the reeds.

Rosalind screamed.

‘It looks like she’d been there for some time. At least a day or more, we think. We’re going to need to speak with everyone staying at the house.’

Rosalind tugged the blanket tighter around her shoulders and reached for the cup of hot tea – with a shot of whisky in it – that Isobel had given her. She felt like she’d been awake for days, even though the sun was still a way off rising. Her heart rate seemed to be returning to normal, at least her blood pulsing in her ears didn’t muffle all other noises and conversation. That was progress, she supposed.

Posy had turned back and found her on the path, staring at Clementine’s bloated, grey, naked body in the river. From there, things were a blur, but Rosalind vaguely remembered Posy’s voice as she dialled 999 from the phone in the Gate House, demanding an ambulance and police, then the sound of the sirens as they came up the driveway.

The police had taken over, and they’d been guided back to the library up at Aldermere House, while Hugh and Isobel were woken up.

And then there’d been tea. They were still in England after all.

Dahlia would be so proud.

Caro’s head injury had been checked by a paramedic, and they’d been told to keep an eye on her overnight, but that there didn’t seem to be any concussion.

‘I suppose this means we have an answer to where Clementine went,’ Caro murmured, still watching the officer in charge as he spoke to Hugh.

‘And why she didn’t come back,’ Posy added, from Rosalind’s other side. Rosalind liked that; being flanked by her sister Dahlias. As if their presence could hold the ghosts at bay.

‘It couldn’t have been Clementine that attacked you at the Gate House, though.’ Rosalind’s voice sounded croaky, like she hadn’t used it for too long. Except for the screaming. She’d screamed for some time, she was sure. ‘She’d been dead … longer than that.’

At least a day or more, the DCI had told Hugh. Detective Chief Inspector Larch, that was his name. He’d introduced himself when he arrived. Given the bank holiday, Rosalind was surprised how fast the police had secured the scene and got a senior officer on site.