on the table, ready for her return. Supper for one. The house was silent, and Evangeline felt like an intruder.
But when she took her weekend bag up to her old room, she was surprised to find the bed already made up, and with fresh-smelling linen. She’d given her mother no warning of this visit, so Evangeline could only conclude that this was how she always kept it.
She laid out her nightdress on the bed, but otherwise she didn’t unpack. She went downstairs and out to the garden shed, which was no more secure than the house; its door didn’t even have a lock, but a small toggle of wood that turned on the frame to hold it.
From out of the shed, she wheeled her bicycle.
She hadn’t ridden it in two years, but her mother made occasional use of it, so its condition was good. The tires were soft but the chain ran freely, and a drop of oil and a minute’s work with the air pump had it ready for the road. She never rode in London, but back when she’d lived here she’d cycled everywhere. Evangeline was even adept at cycling in a skirt. Being neither rich nor eccentric, she owned none of the “rational cycling wear” that tended to draw ridicule onto women in public places.
When she set off down the hill, she wobbled a little at first; but within a minute she had the hang of it again and was soon sailing along.
If her mother had been surprised to have her turn up unannounced, imagine how Grace would feel.
O N HEARING where Sebastian wanted to go, Sir Owain’s driver said, “But that’s thirty miles from here!”
“Twenty-five,” Sebastian said. “I just measured it on the map.”
“I have other duties than this,” the driver protested, but Sebastian was firm.
“As I recall it, the offer of the car was for anywhere I may wish to go.”
The driver conceded, but did nothing to disguise his displeasure. He went to get behind the wheel, and this time Sebastian had to open the passenger door for himself.
Once inside, Sebastian set the camera down on the seat beside him. The car had been fully cleaned up now, and the broken window given a running repair with a sheet of thick parchment. It was opaque, but it let in some light while keeping the wind out.
These were country lanes, but a good part of the route would be along the Bristol road. When they’d left Arnmouth behind, he slid open the window that divided the passenger cab from the driver’s position.
Leaning forward and raising his voice almost to a shout to be heard, he said, “I fear we got off on the wrong foot, you and I.”
“Did we, now,” the driver replied without emotion. In his cap and goggles, facing forward in a scarf wound tight against the oncoming weather, he had the advantage over Sebastian, whose face was up against the little window with his eyes already beginning to stream in the rush of air.
Sebastian said, “I believe the fault is mine. It’s easy to mistake loyalty for obstinacy. How long have you worked for Sir Owain?”
The driver took a while to respond. And then all that he said was, “Long enough.”
“He said those girls were torn by beasts. What do you think?”
“I wouldn’t know,” the driver said. “I didn’t see them. I stayed outside with the car.” He glanced at Sebastian. “I take it they were bad.”
“Torn by beasts or not. Someone meant to spoil them.”
They passed over the bridge across the railway line. The estuary was behind them now. Beyond the station stood a hill dense with trees.
Sebastian said, “What’s your name, driver?”
“Thomas Arnot, sir.”
“Forgive me for the way I spoke to you before.”
This belated touch of civility, along with mention of the suffering of the victims, seemed to temper the driver’s attitude.
The man said, “If you want to talk about beasts, go to the post office and ask them to show you the book.”
“The what?”
“The book where all the holiday people write down their stories of what they see on the moor.”
“Are you joshing
But when she took her weekend bag up to her old room, she was surprised to find the bed already made up, and with fresh-smelling linen. She’d given her mother no warning of this visit, so Evangeline could only conclude that this was how she always kept it.
She laid out her nightdress on the bed, but otherwise she didn’t unpack. She went downstairs and out to the garden shed, which was no more secure than the house; its door didn’t even have a lock, but a small toggle of wood that turned on the frame to hold it.
From out of the shed, she wheeled her bicycle.
She hadn’t ridden it in two years, but her mother made occasional use of it, so its condition was good. The tires were soft but the chain ran freely, and a drop of oil and a minute’s work with the air pump had it ready for the road. She never rode in London, but back when she’d lived here she’d cycled everywhere. Evangeline was even adept at cycling in a skirt. Being neither rich nor eccentric, she owned none of the “rational cycling wear” that tended to draw ridicule onto women in public places.
When she set off down the hill, she wobbled a little at first; but within a minute she had the hang of it again and was soon sailing along.
If her mother had been surprised to have her turn up unannounced, imagine how Grace would feel.
O N HEARING where Sebastian wanted to go, Sir Owain’s driver said, “But that’s thirty miles from here!”
“Twenty-five,” Sebastian said. “I just measured it on the map.”
“I have other duties than this,” the driver protested, but Sebastian was firm.
“As I recall it, the offer of the car was for anywhere I may wish to go.”
The driver conceded, but did nothing to disguise his displeasure. He went to get behind the wheel, and this time Sebastian had to open the passenger door for himself.
Once inside, Sebastian set the camera down on the seat beside him. The car had been fully cleaned up now, and the broken window given a running repair with a sheet of thick parchment. It was opaque, but it let in some light while keeping the wind out.
These were country lanes, but a good part of the route would be along the Bristol road. When they’d left Arnmouth behind, he slid open the window that divided the passenger cab from the driver’s position.
Leaning forward and raising his voice almost to a shout to be heard, he said, “I fear we got off on the wrong foot, you and I.”
“Did we, now,” the driver replied without emotion. In his cap and goggles, facing forward in a scarf wound tight against the oncoming weather, he had the advantage over Sebastian, whose face was up against the little window with his eyes already beginning to stream in the rush of air.
Sebastian said, “I believe the fault is mine. It’s easy to mistake loyalty for obstinacy. How long have you worked for Sir Owain?”
The driver took a while to respond. And then all that he said was, “Long enough.”
“He said those girls were torn by beasts. What do you think?”
“I wouldn’t know,” the driver said. “I didn’t see them. I stayed outside with the car.” He glanced at Sebastian. “I take it they were bad.”
“Torn by beasts or not. Someone meant to spoil them.”
They passed over the bridge across the railway line. The estuary was behind them now. Beyond the station stood a hill dense with trees.
Sebastian said, “What’s your name, driver?”
“Thomas Arnot, sir.”
“Forgive me for the way I spoke to you before.”
This belated touch of civility, along with mention of the suffering of the victims, seemed to temper the driver’s attitude.
The man said, “If you want to talk about beasts, go to the post office and ask them to show you the book.”
“The what?”
“The book where all the holiday people write down their stories of what they see on the moor.”
“Are you joshing
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