“Shame I didn’t think of doing that before I went outside,” Cleo said, “but I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I hope it wasn’t Finn you bumped into,” Lucy said. “He and Geoffrey sometimes spend the night down by the lake. Although I’m sure he wouldn’t have run away when he saw you.”

“It definitely wasn’t him,” Cleo said, “not unless he’s started chain smoking since I last met him. Whoever it was, they were about six foot two and stank of cigarettes and camphor.”

“I’m not even sure what that smells like,” Lucy said. She pulled the long blinds closed again and immediately felt safer and less vulnerable.

“Mothballs,” Cleo said. “Mustiness. Old spaces like secondhand books shops—”

“And museums,” Lucy said. She remembered Gabriel leaning against the wall of the village museum, smoking. A coincidence? Perhaps not.

“I’m just going to check outside,” she said. “Can you stick the kettle on whilst I take a look?” She grabbed the huge torch that was part of the emergency equipment for power cuts.

“Well at least if you can’t hit him with a baseball bat, you’ll be able to blind him with the light.” Cleo was back to her usual self. She took the kettle over to the sink and some sachets of hot chocolate out of the cupboard. “Though I’m sure he’s long gone by now.”

Lucy opened the door. The night was hot, the moon hidden behind clouds now and the air so still she could hear the trickle of the stream, the bark of a distant fox and the call of some unidentified night bird. The hairs rose on the back of her neck, though she was not sure why. Was it her imagination or something else that seemed to provide the figure of a woman, as insubstantial as shadow, yet nevertheless standing by the gate that led down the valley...

“Anything?”

Cleo popped up beside her, a saucepan brandished in one hand, making Lucy jump.

“Nothing at all,” Lucy said, sweeping the torch around the courtyard one last time.

“What’s that?” Cleo darted forward. The light had caught the edge of something silver lying half-hidden between the cobbles. “It’s a key,” she said. She picked it up, bringing it over to Lucy. “Looks like a door key.”

“Let’s go back inside,” Lucy said. She could still feel the primitive sense of wariness that breathed unease along her skin. They went in, slamming the door shut and bolting it behind them. The normality of the room, lamplit and warm, was soothing, but Lucy was grateful for the heat of the hot chocolate, rich and strong, and laced her fingers around the mug.

“I don’t mind admitting,” she said, “that this place gives me the creeps sometimes.”

“That was no ghost tonight though,” Cleo said. She prodded the key, which was lying on the worktop. “Do you recognize this?”

“Yes,” Lucy said. “It’s from the old set of keys for the barn. I had the locks changed after the incident when someone left me a dead bouquet. Remember I told you about that on the phone? I had a couple of spare sets cut today when I was in Highworth.”