The sound of voices cautioned Susan to move away from the bed. She must look like the nurse they thought her to be, and nothing else. But only Harold came into the room. His manner had changed. He had an air of authority about him that was different from the one he’d previously assumed. He truly was in command now, and all the staff knew it, she could tell. She knew Harold better than he knew himself.

The voices she’d heard had been Harold instructing his butler. She’d heard the last part of the conversation, just before he appeared. ‘Oh, and Barnard, I know it’s early days, but rest assured things will change around here. From now on, this will be run as a proper household should be, and I am relying on you to make those changes for me. I know it hasn’t been easy for you, with all that has been going on, and with the sloppy way things were done here, but I want you to start thinking about employing a good housekeeper who knows her stuff, and whatever other staff you think we will need.’

Barnard’s ‘Yes, sir’ told of a very happy man.

Susan sighed. Harold’s tendency to think himself into a much higher position in life than he occupied was his downfall. And she wondered how long it would take for him to lose all that he’d gained by his murderous act.

Chapter Thirteen

When the cell door opened and Iris came in, Mags couldn’t make out the expression on her face – the small smile that wasn’t quite a smile. Hope rose in her that the straitjacket was to be removed, as Iris had promised that she would try to get permission to release her.

‘I’m so sorry, lass, but I ain’t come with good news.’

Mags stared at her. Since the night she had opened up to Iris about what had happened to her in Brussels, Iris had become her friend, keeping her calm and even making her smile. Giving her drinks of water and washing her, to keep her as comfortable as anyone could be in a contraption that restricted her from doing anything for herself.

But now, as Iris’s expression changed, fear rose in Mags, as she realized the news Iris had for her had nothing to do with the straitjacket. ‘No, it’s not . . .’ She could hardly ask the question, and didn’t want it confirming. ‘Dad . . . Daddy?’

‘Aye, I’m sorry, really sorry. But, Mags, please, please hold it together, love.’

Mags gasped in a lungful of air. Her heart ached with the pain of loss and the feeling of being robbed of her father. She wanted to scream that it was all Harold’s fault – everything. But Iris was talking again, shaking her head and saying words about Betsy.

‘Betsy’s mother, too? Oh God, help me, help me.’ No, I mustn’t let go, I mustn’t. I mustn’t let go.

That the news of both demises was brought to her at the same time would be Harold’s way of loading the maximum sadness on her. And yes, Mags knew that by doing so he would feel a sense of triumph over her and Betsy, and he would be hoping that she would react in such a way as to make the doctors think she had regressed.