Twenty-two
Clare checked the availability of the BARS’s experts against Richard’s shooting calendar and tasked Anna to reserve the matching days in December. They somehow needed to keep this a secret from Sam. By the end of the week, Fred had reported that Sam was helping at a two-day horse jumping event near Taunton in early December and would be staying there for the weekend.
Clare pulled up her diary, briefly wincing as she saw that she should have been on a flight to Bangkok today. Bingo. 8 December, a Friday. Richard would be shooting. She rang Anna, who promised to alert Ivy and the experts.
A month before Christmas, Fred moved house. By the time Clare reached the almshouses there was a white van parked outside, with the Smugglers Inn written on the side along with a picture of the pub depicted. The door was open, and, as she glanced inside saw the contents of Fred’s sitting room along with some cardboard boxes stacked at one end. She clenched her fists – how would Richard feel if, out of the blue, someone gave him three months’ notice to leave Brambleton Hall? Behind her she heard someone grunting, then Sam’s voice: ‘Steps coming up, George!’
Clare looked over her shoulder. George, Rose’s husband, was backing out of Fred’s front door, his arms cradling one end of a double mattress, his head pressed against a side. He staggered backwards a few steps, then the other end of the mattress appeared, with Sam straining under the weight. Clare scurried past and into the cottage, calling Fred’s name.
‘Up here.’
Upstairs, she found him unscrewing the headboard from the base of the bed. He was whistling and the cheerful noise made her want to cry. She should have refused to let him get involved with BARS. ‘What’s Sam doing here?’ she asked.
‘Grab a hold of the other side, then we can get this off,’ he said. ‘He’s my best mate, of course he’s going to help me move house.’
‘You haven’t told him where you’re going, have you?’ she hissed, lifting her side of the headboard, releasing it from its catches.
Footsteps rang out on the stairs just as George and Sam appeared. ‘Can you two manage the headboard if we do the base?’ asked Sam.
George grasped an end of the bed base. ‘I thought you liked living here, Fred,’ he said. ‘I’m surprised to see you moving. Are you staying in the village?’
Clare shot Fred a warning look. ‘Don’t worry, you’re not losing one of your best customers. He’s not going far. Careful,’ she added, ‘mind those stairs.’
An hour later, the van was packed. George put Fred’s suitcases into Clare’s Land Rover. She gave Sam the keys to her barn – Fred would store his furniture there – and stood beside Fred as they watched the van leave.
‘Check in time isn’t until four o’clock,’ she said, waving, ‘but as we’ve no intention of sticking to many of his rules, I think we might as well get you settled in, Fred.’
She trotted round to the side of Jasmine Cottage, located the key safe and tapped in the code, thinking that if the cottage was hers, she’d chose something a bit more secure than ‘1234’. She extracted a key and handed it to Fred.
‘You get yourself in and the kettle on, and I’ll get the suitcases.’
Back at the farmhouse, she emptied the honesty pot and put out another tray of eggs. She was too upset from the morning with Fred to concentrate on drafting the BARS’s submission, so instead exerted her temper by clearing away more of her mother’s things. She tackled Cindy’s clothes, separating them into two piles: charity shop and recycling.
Three recycling bags later – Cindy seemed to have lived in overalls, often stained with creosote, paint or what looked like oil – she spotted a suit carrier bag at the back of the wardrobe. Intrigued, she unzipped it. Inside was a vintage 1950s swing cocktail dress, with a fitted bodice and flared skirt. She pulled the dress out of the bag. It was stunning, a soft pink colour. She couldn’t recall her mother ever wearing it; it was difficult to picture ‘blue overall’ Cindy in such a grand outfit.
Standing in front of the mirror, Clare held the dress up against her body. Given she was taller than her mother, the full skirt fell on the knee. She pulled it out, imagining dancing in the frock. In the Sixties, the family had been rich enough to buy the old almshouses. Before her father died, had her parents led a glitzy life? Had the farm been sufficiently successful to fund expensive dresses and a lifestyle to match? Did it all change once her mother was left to run it alone?
As a child, it had never occurred to Clare that the farm was losing money. Her mother must have hidden it, hoping things would improve, not realizing the losses weren’t a result of farming going through a rough patch, but of her poor business skills. She felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes and let them spill over her cheeks. After her father died, her mother showed Clare how to pack away her grief and focus on the present. Task lists replaced memories, a process Clare would repeat again after Guy’s death. Both women had lost their husbands tragically early, but unlike Clare, her mother had enjoyed a good marriage.
Letting go of the dress hem, Clare asked herself why her mother hadn’t told her the farm was losing money. She could understand why Cindy had hidden the reality of farming when Clare was a child, but not once her daughter had become a successful lawyer. Or was it worse, that Cindy hadn’t even realized? Had her mother made the classic business mistake of confusing cash with profit?
Clare hung the dress on the side of the wardrobe, wondering what she would have done if her mother had approached her for help when they were not on speaking terms. She sighed. She might not have loaned her the money, but she was sure she’d have found a better deal than Tricky Ricky’s, or would have advised her mother to sell the entire farm, thus saving years of losses. She picked up the dress again, deciding to wear it for dinner at Brambleton Hall in memory of her mother; she would not look like the gawky villager dining at the posh house.
She had a sudden thought, dropped the dress on the bed and dashed into her own bedroom, rifling through the bags and cases she’d brought from London, finally unearthing an old shoe box. There was a lump in her throat as she lifted the lid. Inside was a vintage cream silk cocktail handbag with a diamante clasp – her last Christmas present from Guy. She’d chosen it and lent him the money. She’d never used it.
Her phone pinged. There was a WhatsApp message from someone called Helen. Clare didn’t know a Helen. Then she realized she did; it was one of the trainee lawyers staying in her flat. Helen reported that both the sitters were going home for Christmas but would leave the heating on frost control. Clare replied thanking her, trying to recall when she’d last thought about London.
On the day Fred’s weeklong ‘holiday’ ended, Clare and Stop-it walked into Brambleton.
Promptly at nine, Clare rang Jasmine Cottage’s bell. Fred answered wearing a T-shirt and trousers. Kneeling to unhook the dog, she admired the room. ‘Wow, this cottage is nice.’ The exposed wooden beams were lime-washed, and the walls painted a soft lemon colour. There was no sign of peeling or blistering paint. ‘Properly insulated too,’ said Fred, grinning. ‘Warm as toast in here.’
Checkout time was 10 a.m., but Clare suspected that out of season the changeover team might not be punctual. Shortly before noon, Clare heard a key in the lock. Stop-it barked and a woman’s head wearing a bobble hat, appeared.
‘I’m sorry, I thought you were leaving today,’ she said.
‘No,’ said Clare smiling. ‘Not today.’
‘Righto. I’ll change the linen and have a tidy up for you. Then I’ll leave you to it.’
Fred rose. ‘There’s no need—’
‘Thanks, that would be great.’ said Clare, pushing Fred back down. ‘We’ll pop out for a coffee, walk the dog and be back in a couple of hours.’ It was less than a month before Christ-mas. She didn’t want to do the changeover team out of their wages.
When Clare returned to Orchard Farm – having seen Fred back into Jasmine Cottage – she found an email from Richard’s letting agency, at her new ‘Clare Sanderson’ email address.
Dear Ms Sanderson,
We have been trying to contact you but have been unable to reach you via phone. We are delighted you wish to stay on at Jasmine cottage for another week, the cost is ￡500, and we would appreciate swift payment. Please let us know when you have transferred the money.
Clare hit delete and went to feed the pigs.
On the first Saturday in December, Clare completed her farm chores, despatched another email from Richard’s letting agents to the trash, then emptied her savings jar and drove into Barn-staple. She spent over an hour at a beauty salon. Using rollers, the stylist shaped her hair into an iconic Fifties style, sweeping it off Clare’s face in distinctive waves. Her nails were manicured and painted a pale ivory colour, then her make-up was done professionally with period thick arched eyebrows and exaggerated deep red lips.
Back at the farmhouse, she retouched her lipstick and stepped into the vintage dress. It accentuated her waist and on her tall frame looked stunning. With her hair swept off her face, she looked ready to audition for a part as Marilyn Monroe. She danced down the stairs and into the kitchen. The doorbell rang and Stop-it barked in response. Clare threw a chew at the dog’s basket and stepped outside.
Sam stood beside his car with the passenger door open. As she walked towards him, his eyes popped wide – they really were the most alluring bright blue, and secretly she was pleased he’d noticed that she’d made an effort.
‘Cora will be thrilled,’ he said, taking her bag off her as she folded herself into the car. ‘She’s always ribbing me for not dressing up.’ He pulled the seat belt out a length and passed it to her, then tucked in a fold of her dress which was dangling over the seat edge before carefully eased the door shut.
They drove in silence. It wasn’t a strained silence. The atmosphere reminded her of sitting beside Guy in a London taxi, each content with their own thoughts about the upcoming treat – it was always something related to cars, but for her, just being with Guy was the pleasure. Sadly, discovering Hannah’s postcard had soured her memories of happy times with Guy. Halfway down the drive, it began drizzling. Sam parked near the porch and hopped out, saying. ‘Wait here.’
She did as she was told and a few moments later her door opened. The front door was ajar, and Sam stood in the rain holding an umbrella.
Carrying a brown paper bag tied together with a slip of yellow ribbon, Sam escorted Clare through to the reception room she had marvelled at when she’d last visited, trying in vain to persuade Richard to abandon the chicken factory. Tonight, the chandelier was alight, casting a warm glow over the guests, and the fire was crackling, kicking out a soothing heat. Clare felt like she’d entered a time warp. All the men except Sam wore black tie and the women were dressed as if attending a prom. Magnus and two smartly turned-out assistants were circulating with silver trays of canapés and bottles of champagne wrapped in white linen napkins.
Richard frowned at his brother and spoke frostily. ‘You’re late, and didn’t you get my message? It’s black tie - Cora’s birthday.’ He muttered something to the people standing close to him. The group turned, their eyes boring into Clare as if about to challenge her to a duel.
‘Happy birthday, Cora. I brought you a present,’ Sam said, handing over the paper bag. ‘Made it myself.’
‘That’s sweet of you,’ said Cora. Remembering her hostess’s outfit when delivering prizes at the agricultural show, Clare considered Cora’s attire. Tonight, she was wearing equally vertiginous stilettos paired with a pale blue silk trouser suit. It would have been impractical for most hostesses, but then Cora wouldn’t be dashing to and from the kitchen, carrying trays. There was a welcoming smile on Cora’s face. ‘Let me introduce you to my guests,’ said the hostess, taking a sip of champagne. ‘It’s Clare, isn’t it?’
Tucking her handbag under her arm, Clare accepted a coupe of champagne from Magnus, and tried to remember names as Cora spun her around the room, introducing her as ‘Sam’s friend from London’.
‘Lovely dress,’ murmured one of the other women. ‘Is it vintage?’
‘Yes. It’s a family piece.’
‘Very pretty on you. Excuse me,’ said the woman, giving a tight nod. ‘I must have a word with Cora’ and she wandered off, leaving Clare alone.
Her hand felt clammy on the stem of the glass and for a few calming minutes Clare stood admiring the wallpaper. The section in front of her showed Chinese figures processing towards a temple. Although the colours were faded, the expressions on the faces showed a reverence for the ceremony, respect for a divine force, and she told herself not to be cowed by the opulence of the house or the glamour of her hostess. Magnus topped up her champagne and she took a glug. Sam came to stand beside her, and she listened to him talking about the wallpaper. She learned it was not the standard ‘Chinese style’ English paper, which was often found in bedrooms of National Trust houses, this had been painted in China in the early eighteenth century.
‘It’s like a tapestry,’ she said, running a finger over the muted images.
‘Good spot,’ he said. ‘That’s what makes it so special. It’s one big canvas, not a repeating pattern. This wallpaper has links with the Brighton Pavilion.’ He explained that the paper dated from when the Prince Regent – later George IV – refurbished his Brighton royal residence in the exotic Indochinese style.
‘Well, if Richard is ever short of money, he could always flog this!’ she jested.
Sam gave a soft laugh. ‘Unlikely. We’re Grade I listed.’
It dawned on Clare that while Sam wouldn’t benefit from the factory directly, the family estate was a permanent tie, which time couldn’t sever. ‘You said we . Is that how you think of the Hall, as if you still belong here?’
He furrowed his brows. ‘It’s complicated,’ he said, downing his drink.
‘More champagne, madam?’ offered Magnus. ‘I’ll fetch you another cider, sir. Nice to see you here again.’
Two glasses of champagne later, Magnus announced dinner, and Cora shuffled her guests across the entrance hall and into the largest private dining room Clare had ever seen. She was staring up at the domed ceiling forty feet above her when she heard Sam’s voice.
‘It’s the original medieval dining hall. Above that plasterwork are the roof rafters. One of our ancestors covered them up – I guess exposed beams came to be seen as a bit rural. They panelled the walls and created this spectacular room.’
Clare suppressed an urge to giggle – she should have bought a ticket; he was acting like a tour guide. She felt goose bumps on her arms. The room still retained the atmosphere of a Tudor dining hall. Clare felt an urge to scrape away the beautiful eau de nil wood panelling, to reveal what she was certain would be the original dark wood, to strip off the plasterwork and expose the rafters towering above. She could almost hear minstrels playing and wanted to roll back the vast rug beneath the table and replace it with herb-scented straw.
The party took their places, Clare with her back to the fire. Sam was on her left and Ivy’s successor, Victor, was on her right. Cora asked Victor to say grace. Heads dipped, the vicar said a few words to which everyone responded ‘Amen’.
‘I’m glad I’ve got you to myself,’ the vicar said, unfurling his napkin. She picked up her own, fashioned in a complicated pattern that looked like the Sydney Opera House. ‘I wanted to talk to you about this little tussle over the chicken farm.’
She snorted, then replied, ‘It’s not a farm; it’s a factory.’
Victor slathered butter on a roll and spoke softly: ‘Is there any way we can stop this before it gets out of hand? I saw it in my last village. The dispute was over a farmer wanting a wind turbine. It split the village, and I can sense the same thing happening here.’
Had Richard put Victor up to this? ‘Speak to your host. I’ve tried. He won’t budge.’
‘But it’s just a few chickens. We’re surrounded by farms. Will a couple more sheds really harm anyone?’
Clare felt her face flush. She was under attack. Inhaling, she caught her host’s eye and said, ‘Victor would like to discuss the chicken factory with you. He wants to stop the village fighting.’
‘It’s your fight, not mine,’ snapped Richard.
‘Now, now,’ said Victor. ‘She’s entitled to her opinion.’
‘But she’s not entitled to spread libellous literature about me around my village.’
‘It’s not libellous,’ said Clare, rolling her eyes at Richard, but pleased he had introduced the topic. She was certain he didn’t have a case.
‘But you don’t deny writing it.’
‘Of course I don’t.’
‘Enough, you two. Play nicely,’ said Sam. He rose and walked away, saying, ‘Cora, shall I ring for the first course.’
Richard was undeterred. He pulled something out of his jacket pocket, waving it at his guests. ‘You don’t deny writing this.’
‘All my own words and I’m proud of every one of them.’
‘See? You hear that? You are all witnesses to this treachery.’ Richard rose and marched around the table, slapping the leaflet down in front of her. Victor was fumbling with his roll. He dumped it on his side plate and picked up the leaflet, wiping his greasy fingers on it.
‘Hmm,’ said the vicar. ‘This is quite forceful, isn’t it.’
Clare could see Sam by the fireplace pressing a bell she couldn’t hear. He was scowling. She winced; she was his guest. If she created a scene, it would embarrass him, but she couldn’t resist a parting shot. ‘The village deserves to know the truth.’
Hastings was staring at her. She could see a vein throbbing above his bow tie and his face was a peculiar colour; she couldn’t decide if it was red or purple, but she knew she was being rude and regretted it. Cora spoke in a pleading voice. ‘Richard, it’s my birthday. Can we stop this nonsense – you’re frightening my friends.’
Hastings grunted. Clare felt her ears burning. She shouldn’t have taken the bait. She snatched the leaflet from Victor, opened her handbag and shoved it in, snapping the clasp. Sam sat down and hissed, ‘Let me see that.’ He looked alarmed, making Clare regret what she’d done.
‘No,’ she said, dropping her bag on the floor by her feet. ‘Let’s forget all about it. I’m sorry I’ve caused a scene on your birthday Cora. I didn’t mean to.’
The rest of the dinner passed uneventfully, and Clare found she was enjoying herself. Magnus topped up her water glass and cleared her plates without her noticing. By the time the last course was served, she was feeling light-headed and suspected Magnus had been as adept at refilling her wineglass as he had at clearing crockery. He’d served white wine with the starter, then a delicious claret with the main course, a different sweet wine with the dessert and then there was port with a cheese course.
Magnus announced coffee was waiting in the Chinese reception room.
Clare rose, pushing back her chair. Sam’s leg brushed against hers. She pressed back, felt the answering pressure and a ripple of pleasure shot through her. For a few seconds, they stood like conjoined twins. She glanced up. He was staring at her with an intensity in those bright blue eyes. Victor’s voice intruded on her dreams, offering to escort her to coffee. She stepped aside, trying to decide if there was something between her and Sam, or if it had just been wishful thinking.
Other than the roaring fire, there was nothing to suggest that anyone had set foot in the Chinese room all evening. The sofas were plump, cushions – all with only four sides and thick fringes which Clare suspected Stop-it would consider an amusing puzzle – rested equidistant from each other on pristine velvet sofas. There were no empty glasses and no crumbs. The host and his brother were last into the room, where they collected cups from Magnus before disappearing into Richard’s study. Clare wondered if Sam was in for a dressing down for his guest’s outburst.
She was on her second cup of mint tea, and enjoying a discussion about rare-breed pigs, when she felt Sam’s hand on her bare arm. Clare froze, then felt a warm current shoot through her body and gazed upwards. Sam’s lips parted slightly. She glanced around to see if anyone had noticed their interplay. He whispered he wanted to go. ‘I’ve got an early start. Do you mind?’
Following Sam out of the room, Clare’s body was fizzing with anticipation. Was he going to kiss her on the way home? For the past five years, kissing had been no more than an occasional peck on the cheek from friends. Would she disappoint him?
In the privacy of his car, she fiddled with her handbag. Sam got into the car and leaned close, bringing with him a smell of apples and spices, a heady mix that seemed to fill the car’s intimate space. Sam gently brushed a strand of hair away from her face, his fingers lingering on her cheek and their eyes met. He cupped her face. His breath seemed to mingle with hers and slowly he closed the distance between them. Their lips met in a kiss that was gentle at first, then deepened, enveloping her, making her skin tingle.
He pulled away. She waited for him to start the car and drive off, then, replaying the sensation of his lips on hers, she apologized. ‘I shouldn’t have goaded your brother, especially as a guest in his house.’ The car fell silent; Clare wondered if her words sounded too trite. His eyes turned on her. She could see anger in them and felt a rush of guilty shame.
He spoke slowly. ‘I can’t tell you how annoyed I am. Why the heck are you apologizing? And what for? He behaved abominably. But I need to see that leaflet,’ he said, looking at her bag. She tried to think of a reason he would want the leaflet. Was something incriminating written on the back? Was this all part of a wider plan? Had he just kissed her to get her to relax? Was this a scheme cooked up over the port decanter in Richard’s study? ‘Please. I want to see it.’ He spoke urgently, then lunged for the bag, snatching it off her lap.
How dare he? Even Guy had never looked in her handbag without asking. Anger coursed through her, and Sam’s features seemed to blur with Richard’s into one Hastings’ face. His fingers were fiddling with the clasp. She wrenched the bag back. ‘Leave my bag alone!’
‘I’m trying to help you.’
She lashed out. All of the pent-up rage at what his family had done to hers; what it was doing to people they should protect, like Fred; and what it was planning to do to the village. It all came pouring out. ‘You and your brother inherited everything you own. Didn’t your parents ever teach you that with wealth comes responsibility?’
He was smiling at her, which was like pouring petrol on her fiery temper. ‘You inherited Orchard Farm.’
Clare gasped. She was at a disadvantage. She’d had too much to drink and he was sober. ‘No. I inherited part of Orchard Farm – the part your brother didn’t steal,’ she spat, then opened the car door. She didn’t want to spend a single second longer with this man. He reached across her, his arm brushing against hers and a shiver of desire shot through her. She hated her body’s disloyalty.
‘It’s raining,’ he whispered.
‘Then I’ll get wet.’
For a few moments, they tussled over the door. The rain hammered against the windscreen, bouncing off the bonnet. If she succeeded in opening the door, her prize would be a drenching. She didn’t care. Clare had to beat this family at something. She let her hand fall away from the handle, waited until his were firmly back on the steering wheel, then yanked the door open and shot outside, slamming it behind her.
The rain had softened to Devon mizzle. It was like walking through cold steam and she trudged towards a light shining from one of the lodge cottages. Behind her, she heard the engine start. Headlights illuminated the drive, and a cloud of insects flapped in the mist. As she walked, she took deep breaths to calm her racing heart. How had she ever thought Sam differed from his brother? They were both cut from the same arrogant Hastings’ cloth of privilege. She’d made a huge mistake kissing Sam. It was all a game to him, just like it had been in her twenties. Her enemy was the entire Hastings family.
By the time she reached Orchard Farm, her anger had subsided. She opened the back door, listening to Sam’s car reverse away – he’d crawled behind her all the way home. Looking down at Cindy’s dress, now drenched, she burst into tears and slumped up the stairs, hearing Stop-it’s paws thumping behind her. Clare threw her bag into the cupboard, slipped off the sodden dress and went to take off her make-up. She’d made a complete fool of herself. At least she’d avoided a one-night fling. Clare couldn’t wait to get back to London where she could be anonymous again.
Back in the bedroom, the bright yellow walls failed to lift her spirits. She turned to shut the door but Stop-it’s nose was wedged in the gap. She opened the door a little wider. The dog shot in, jumped onto the bed and sat with his head cocked on one side. She climbed into bed. He snuggled up to her and she cuddled him to her chest like a living hot water bottle.
On Monday there was another email from Richard’s letting agents. This time they pointed to their terms and conditions, and threatened legal action if she didn’t vacate the cottage or pay up immediately. She wasn’t paying. She knew it was only a matter of time before they demanded her details from her bank and unmasked the fact that Clare had made the booking in her married name, but she suspected it would take a while for Richard and the holiday letting company to unravel the web she had woven.
That afternoon, Clare was enjoying a cup of tea and drafting BARS’s appeal document when the doorbell rang. It was the postman.
‘Recorded delivery for you,’ he said cheerfully, holding out a machine. ‘Sign here, please.’ Clare scrawled her name and took the brown envelope. It didn’t look like an early Christmas card. Using her thumbnail, she slit open the envelope and unfolded a letter.
Dear Ms Hetherington,
You have admitted responsibility for both writing and distributing the enclosed leaflet. With reference to our previous correspondence, the offer to settle this matter out of court is withdrawn. Our client, Mr Hastings has instructed us to pursue damages of ￡5 million for your libellous actions.
Oh, for heaven’s sake! This was harassment.
Yes, the guests on Saturday had heard her admit she’d written the leaflet, but she’d never denied that she was the author. This time, she would ask Sally to draft a formal response.
She let the letter fall into her lap. Leaning over to take a sip of tea, it fell on the floor, the leaflet landing beside it. She spurted hot tea over her legs and gasped, the words spinning in front of her eyes. This wasn’t her leaflet!
Richard is corrupt; I reckon he’s bribed officials to win planning permission.
Wow, that was strong.
Do not believe what he says. He is a thief, a cheat and a liar.
The leaflet speculated about Richard’s actual intentions:
The purpose behind this application is pure greed. He doesn’t care about the welfare of chickens or the village.
Clare wasn’t an expert, but even she suspected this leaflet was textbook defamation.
She replayed Saturday evening in her mind. Had the Hastings brothers set her up? Was the whole evening carefully planned to trap her? Was the goal to elicit an admission that she had drafted this poisonous leaflet? Clare would lay odds Richard was its real author. Struggling to control her breathing, Clare sprang up and dashed upstairs. She was convinced the leaflet he’d brandished on Saturday night was not the poisonous one – that would have been too risky. Clare might have read it.
This explained why Sam was so desperate to get his hands on it. No doubt his mission had been to get hold of the innocent version and destroy it, allowing Richard and his chums to claim she confessed to writing the poisonous one. Sam had failed. Clare could now produce the innocent leaflet, complete with Victor’s greasy fingerprint, proving she hadn’t swapped it.
In her bedroom she dug through cupboards, in the same way Stop-it clawed his way through a border – clothes flew off the shelves, shoes landed on the bed, hats joined them, but no silk handbag. She had to find that bag and prove her innocence.
She pulled over a chair, clambered onto it, peering along the top shelf. Her heart skipped a beat. She could see the sparkle of the diamante clasp towards the back. Standing on tiptoes, she reached in, her index finger scrabbling at the bag. She scratched the silk with her fingernail, but she was pushing, not pulling, and with her next effort she clawed at air. Clare jumped off the chair and pushed it hard against the closet. She stepped up again, inched herself close to the shelves, reached in and nudged the bag towards her, then grabbed the prize with both hands and pulled it out. She took a breath, released the catch and pulled out the crumpled leaflet.