A Voice in the Night by Sarah Hawthorn

Author:Sarah Hawthorn
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781925760811
Publisher: Transit Lounge

LONDON

PRESENT

When Lucie arrived home, she picked up her mail from the hall mat, tossed aside a few circulars and kept one letter to read. Still in her overcoat, she went through to the living room and placed the official-looking brown envelope on the side table next to the fire. An unfriendly winter nip penetrated the night air. She flicked on the gas jets, and went in search of Trim.

He sat on the kitchen counter, glaring at her. When she approached, he flicked his ears back in disgust.

‘Pleased to see you, too.’ She ruffled his coat, and he arched his back, jumped down and stalked off, leaving her in little doubt of his feelings about being left for a few days with only Mabel for company.

She hung up her coat and poured a glass of wine, then undertook the evening ritual of drawing curtains, lighting lamps and selecting music. Dame Kiri hit the high notes of ‘O mio babbino caro’. Settled in the armchair, Lucie tapped the envelope on her palm, turned it over and slid her finger under the flap.

The single sheet of paper was headed Certified Copy of an Entry. Beneath that: DEATH. Lucie took a deep breath and scanned the details.

Beatrice Penelope Cornish, aged fifty-three, had died at Forget-me-not Cottage, Link Lane, Shipton-under-Wychwood, Oxfordshire, on 18 October 2018. Cause of Death: Aspiration pneumonia. Her death had been registered by Harrison Franklin Cornish, Son.

Lucie blew a long breath from pursed lips and leant back against the chair. ‘Wow,’ she murmured. It was a lot to take in. She re-read the certificate, trying to get her head around the small details that revealed so much.

It struck her that Penelope had chosen to live near Oxford, the place of Martin’s dreams, and call her home Forget-me-not. A coincidence – or at Martin’s bidding? And she’d said, Wherever I live, he will have a presence, and with each passing year, his presence will become greater, not lesser. Taken literally, could that mean he’d escaped death and fled to England with his family?

Lucie shook herself, picked up her drink, and put it back, untouched. She needed to stay focused, not be sidetracked by wild theories. If Martin had lived with Penelope and Harry in the Cotswolds, he would have been discovered in a nanosecond. In order to stay undercover, the whole family would have had to assume new identities.

Lucie took her laptop from her briefcase and googled Forget-me-not Cottage, Link Lane, Shipton-under-Wychwood, Oxfordshire. The first listing showed it last sold a few months after Penelope’s death. Lucie flicked through photos of the picture-perfect stone cottage. Ivy framed the windows, while established trees shielded the home from nosy neighbours. A large vegetable patch dominated the side garden, and at the back a small circular stone table and two chairs nestled beside a well-kept lawn surrounded by flowerbeds. The interior was stripped of furniture, with low beams and whitewashed walls giving the rooms character. Hooks dotted one wall where a collection of photos or artworks must have hung.

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