And then his smile faded. He looked down again at the crypt before him. At the rough crescent-shaped hole worn in the iron door. It went down into nothingness, down and down forever, for all he knew. And he raised his eyes to Belham Grange, to the wing of the house that extended beyond the double row of trees.

There were often, I knew, in abbeys and the neighbouring houses, secret chambers and hideaways … underground passages …

He remembered Sophia’s story, the story she had told him about the noise in the house, about the night she had seen her father standing over her mother with a bloody knife. He had known at the time she told it to him that something had been left out of that story, that something had been missing. Now, as the rain grew steadier, stronger, he realized what it was.

The wind rose, cold, and the rain started slanting down. There was another snarl of thunder that seemed to come from deep in the belly of the sky.

Richard Storm turned up the collar of his trench coat. He turned away from the ruin, and headed back across the field to the house.

11

By the time Sophia reached the door, her father had withdrawn. The door stood open and she went in, closing it behind her.

“Daddy?”

“In the sitting room,” he answered her.

But she stood in the foyer another moment, at the foot of the stairs.

“Right,” she said in an undertone. She made a gesture with both hands. Held them open in front of her and pushed them down against the air: a calming gesture. She wanted to compose herself. She was agitated after her conversation with Storm. She was jittery, confused. Apprehensive. They were all feelings she disliked intensely. “Right,” she said again.

She stripped off her overcoat, hung it on a peg by the door. Smoothed down her jumper as if to smooth down her inner self as well. She went along the corridor to the dining room, consciously trying to work her expression into one of cool irony. She did not feel she was succeeding very well at all—and then she was at the sitting-room doorway.

She stepped across the threshold. It was a long room, from the cold stone fireplace to the tall windows. And it was dark: the walls hung with dark, misty paintings, the windows with dark, heavy green drapes. Her father was at the far end, by the window that looked out across the field to the abbey. He faced her when she entered. He stood with the black clouds behind him. She saw the lightning flash down from the clouds, heard the thunder.

“Come in, come in, Sophia. We’d better talk,” Sir Michael said.

She hesitated where she was. And it struck her for a moment: she was afraid; she was afraid of him. But she shook the thought off. It was ridiculous. He was her father. She approached slowly.