Lost and Gone Forever by Alex Grecian Page A

theblack wrought-iron fence along the street was missing several rails. But through a break between the houses behind it, she could see Kings Road and, beyond that, the endless grey haze of the sea.
    A woman came out of the house next door, at the end of a queue of terraced homes, and stood framed in the open doorway. She was perhaps ten years older than Hatty, but her face was lined and she wore the shadows under her eyes like badges.
    “They don’t want any,” the woman said.
    “I’m sorry?”
    “Those brothers don’t want any of whatever it is you’re selling. You needn’t waste your time.”
    “Oh, I’m not selling anything,” Hatty said. “They’re not at home, are they?”
    “What do you think, I watch this entire street? I wouldn’t have the slightest idea if they’re home.”
    Puzzled, Hatty hesitated with one hand on the gate. She thought she might be able to ask the woman a question or two about the Hargreaves, but she wasn’t sure where to begin or how to break through the woman’s hostile front. She tried on her best and brightest smile and shone it on the woman. “May I ask your name?”
    “I am Mrs Ruskin. Ruth Ruskin. And that’s all you’ll get from me. I’m not any more interested than my neighbors are in buying from you.”
    “Again, Mrs Ruskin, I’m not selling anything. I don’t suppose your husband’s at home?” Perhaps, Hatty thought, Mr Ruskin would be easier to talk to.
    “My husband has not been with us for some time now.” Ruth Ruskin’s frosty exterior cracked, and before she could break entirely, she turned and fled back into her house, slamming the door behind her.
    “What an odd woman,” Hatty said. “I hope everyone here’s not like her.” She shrugged and let herself through the gate and marched up the path to the door of the Hargreaves’ cottage. She knocked and waited and, when nobody came to the door after a minute or two, she knocked again, keeping one eye on the house next door in case Ruth Ruskin decided to come back out and cause trouble.
    She didn’t have much of a plan worked out. She thought she might question the servants and perhaps they’d let her have a look round inside. At the very least, she’d be able to verify that Joseph Hargreave was not, in fact, simply away on holiday, which seemed to be a sensible first step in the investigation. She was surprised when Dr Richard Hargreave opened the door wearing a dressing gown and slippers. His hair was disheveled, tufts of silver sticking up in every direction, and he hadn’t shaved. He had a book in his hand, a finger holding his place halfway through. Hatty tilted her head to read the title.
Venus in Furs.
    “What are you doing here?” His breath reeked of gin.
    “Well,” Hatty said, “what are
you
doing here?”
    “I live here.”
    “I thought you’d be in the city, at work.”
    “I took some well-deserved time away from my practice,” Hargreave said. “I find I have too much on my mind at the moment.” He turned and walked away, leaving the door open. “Might as well come in, you made it this far.”
    Hatty stepped over the threshold and looked around. It was a small cottage with no hallways, each room leading to another, and she guessed she was in some sort of sitting room doing double duty as a study. She held a finger up to her nose to help mask the odor in the room and hoped Hargreave wouldn’t notice or take offense. The windows were shuttered, and the single lamp at the back of the roomdidn’t illuminate much, a sharp contrast to the delicious sunlight outside. Green wallpaper was peeling away at the corners, and a lazy cobweb drifted in Hargreave’s wake as he showed her in. There were three deeply cushioned chairs in the room and a table that was heaped with dirty dishes. Newspapers littered the floor beside one of the chairs. Hargreave bent and tore a piece from one of them, used it as a bookmark. He set
Venus in Furs
on the arm of the chair and looked around, as if