As I drew nearer, I covered my mouth and nose with my sleeve, almost retching. The smell was putrid, something akin to a combination of rotten meat and eggs. I could see that her eyes were partially open and her lips parted, forming a stiff oval. I pushed the curtain aside, allowing a narrow shaft of light to fall on her face. There was a purple gash on her head and a crust of blood had trickled from her mouth and dried onto her cheek. I wafted away a single fly, which was crawling across her forehead. Tentatively, I reached out to touch the crepy skin of her hand. She was stone cold, like a marble effigy. I had never seen a dead person before. I retracted my own hand in revulsion and backed away.

*

A post-mortem revealed that her neck had been broken in the fall. She had been dead for over seventy-two hours. It was deemed likely that she had lost her footing on the stair carpet runner, worn smooth and slippery over the years. I tried to take comfort from the fact that she hadn’t suffered; that she would have died instantly. But the image of her like that was engraved onto my memory. I could still picture her ashen face, waxy and expressionless, her silver hair fanned out behind her on the old green and gold Axminster. It made me shiver. I hated the fact that this last sighting of her had overshadowed my recollection of Auntie Jane as she had been in life, left this ghoulish imprint on my consciousness. I was overcome with a deep feeling of self-reproach in the knowledge that she had died in such a way, and had lain there cold and alone for days. She had taken me in when I needed someone and I hadn’t been there for her at the end. I felt angry with myself and a terrible sense of remorse.

I think that Mrs Barley reminded me of her in some small way, and it made me the more determined to stand up for her. Maybe in some selfish way it was to assuage my own guilt.

CHAPTER 5

I had recently begun work on a feature about Avoncote for a local magazine. Although I didn’t want to embark on anything too ambitious, a nice little article was something I felt I could manage, plus it was something else to focus on, apart from the house and my pregnancy. Having approached Avon Life, a popular regional monthly publication, with an idea about exploring the history behind various local myths, legends and traditional festivals, the suggestion had been met with enthusiasm by the editor to whom I pitched it. It was agreed that the article would go out in the October edition to coincide with Halloween and all things spooky, and since it was only the second week of June, I had plenty of time in which to complete it.