Shadows in the Moonlight

Chapter One Cornwall 2013

Chapter One

Cornwall 2013

Sea mist had settled upon the land like a sponge, choking the light and saturating the fields and hills with drizzle. In the damp, the air felt colder. Sheep huddled among the rocks to keep warm despite their woolly winter coats and the odd rabbit thought better of it and dived back into its burrow. Trees shivered without their summer foliage, spindly branches black against the grey, and only gulls dared fly into the wind, their cries like the eerie laments of sailors drowned long ago. The tide was out, leaving the estuary bed crawling with unfortunate creatures left behind to survive in the shallow pools and sodden sand that remained, and everything, everywhere looked bleak and inhospitable.

It was not a day to be on the road, but Bruce and Olivia Talwyn were determined to settle into their new Cornish home in time for Christmas. Bruce sat at the wheel of their shiny black Range Rover, paying close attention to the dulcet tones of the satnav and driving slowly due to the mist. His tousled red hair, hazel eyes and wide, handsome face revealed the remains of a once dashing appeal, but a certain weariness had dulled his radiance and robbed him of his polish, like a peach left too long in the fruit bowl; he just looked tired. Olivia, on the other hand, blonde and pretty with vivacious blue eyes and a large, toothy mouth, looked spirited. There was no way she was going to let on how anxious she was, for she had invested all her hopes in this new adventure. ‘Isn’t this exciting?’ she gushed for the hundredth time, turning around to beam at their two children as the satnav told them they were only ten minutes from their destination.

Their two children ignored her. Zach, who was fifteen, watched a film on his iPad. He had sugar-brown hair and intelligent hazel eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles over his nose, which was still small and boyish. His younger sister, Tabitha, who resembled her mother with long, curly blonde hair and dreamy blue eyes, gazed out of the window, her thirteen-year-old imagination stirred by the desolate beauty of the countryside. Indeed, it lit something inside her; a small spark of creativity, fanned by a sense of wonder she hadn’t yet grown out of. Bruce cursed the weather, Olivia tried to be positive, Zach was absorbed in George R. R. Martin’s fantasy world, but Tabitha saw necklaces of pearls in the hedgerows and twinkling diamonds in the grass, and her excitement escalated as the winding lanes grew narrower and the mist darkened, for this place was galaxies away from the bright, metallic streets of Notting Hill, and held within it the promise of enchantment.

Their new home, St Sidwell Manor, was positioned at the end of a long avenue of ancient plane trees. It was a grey-stone Elizabethan mansion built in the shape of an E with three Dutch-style gables and tall, square chimney stacks. There was a pleasant harmony in the proportions and a playful prettiness in the flamboyantly carved gables, but something about the windows belied its apparent air of frivolity. They seemed to gaze upon the world with resentment, like the eyes of one who did not wish to be disturbed. Or more exactly, the eyes of one who most strongly objected to being disturbed.

Admittedly, the mist did not help. It gave the impression that the house was looming out of the past like a ghost – a ghostly galleon that haunted the seas and embroidered the talk of local fishermen who liked to scare tourists with tales of the supernatural over tankards of beer in the pub. Olivia wished the sun would come out so the children could see the size and splendour of the gardens. They had been charming, albeit unloved, when she had first seen them back in the spring. There was a walled vegetable garden, overgrown with weeds but full of potential; two stately Victorian greenhouses, which, with a good scrub, would shine like new; an orchard of apple and pear trees, and endless lawns that Bruce would enjoy mowing on a tractor. It all required a lot of work, for Bruce’s distant relative, who had bequeathed him the place, had clearly run out of both money and enthusiasm, and left it to the mercy of nature. On this dreary day it didn’t look charming at all, it just looked hostile, and Olivia wondered whether they had done the right thing in selling their house in London and moving down here so hastily. St Sidwell Manor was in a terrible state of disrepair, and it was the middle of winter. What were they thinking?

She glanced across at her husband, whose jaw was rigid as if he, too, was rather wishing they hadn’t been so rash, and reminded herself why they had, in fact, given up on their city life so quickly to move to an estate in the middle of nowhere. Bruce’s health depended on it; it was as simple as that. They had grabbed the opportunity when it had so unexpectedly presented itself, like desperate rock climbers to a rope, even though they weren’t quite sure what they’d find on the other end of that rope. Bruce needed tranquillity following a nervous breakdown brought on by the accumulative stress of his trader’s job – a job that Olivia had finally persuaded him to leave – and he needed an entirely new profession. The sweet promise of a farmer’s life deep in the Cornish countryside had seemed to come just when he’d needed it most. Bruce knew nothing about farming, but how hard could it be?

Bruce drew the Range Rover to a halt in front of the pillared porch. As he did so, the large wooden door opened and a stout, grey-haired woman appeared in a long black dress and brightly coloured tasselled shawl, followed by a burly young man with scruffy brown hair and an unshaven face, wearing a chunky, navy-blue fisherman’s jersey and heavy, lace-up boots. Olivia and Bruce had already met Elsa Tregoning and her son, Tom, when they had first visited the place in the spring and found them to be decent, quietly spoken people. Elsa had worked for the previous owner, Mrs Delaware, for over fifty years, and was keen to retire. Olivia had tried to find a replacement for her, but no one had answered her advertisement, even though it had been pinned to the noticeboard in the local newsagent’s for over seven months. She had never imagined it would be so hard to find staff in the countryside. Tom managed the farm, which his late father had done before him, as well as doing useful things around the house like chopping logs and unblocking drains. He had seemed relieved when Bruce had told him that he wasn’t intending to replace him, and somewhat bemused when Bruce had added that he was, in fact, intending to farm himself, if Tom had the patience to teach him. Olivia had read the man’s mind – in jeans and trainers and an expensive blazer, Bruce did not look like the sort of material that could be easily moulded into a man of the land.

Fortunately, Elsa had agreed to stay on until the family settled in. ‘I think it best. This old house needs time to get used to you,’ she had said in her gentle Cornish lilt, a knowing smile upon her lips. ‘It can be a little cranky with newcomers.’ Olivia had thought that a strange thing to say, to imply that the house had feelings like a person. She had laughed Elsa off as eccentric and resolved to advertise further afield. However, as she and her son came down the steps and over the gravel to help with the luggage, Olivia was grateful to them for she would not have liked to arrive to an empty house.

Olivia was pleased to find a large fire in the hall. The flames danced vigorously about the giant-sized logs, which crackled and burned and threw woodsmoke into the air. She had hired a local building company to do the bare minimum, for the bones of the building were already beautiful and the rooms were full of grand marble fireplaces, antique wooden furniture and gilt-framed paintings. Faded tapestries hung on the walls and threadbare rugs covered the wooden floorboards, but Bruce and Olivia did not have the money to do much beyond the small number of rooms they were actually going to use. At some point they would have to rewire and replumb the entire building, for nothing had been touched since Victorian times, but that would cost a small fortune. For now, the important thing was to live in it before deciding what needed to be done. In spite of being stuck in a time warp, it was a dream house and, as the children ran off to find their bedrooms, Olivia let her anxiety go and sighed with relief; it had been a long drive, but they were here. Bruce took her hand. ‘It’s okay, isn’t it?’ he asked, hazel eyes seeking validation, for even though the decision to move had been mutual, he knew his health was the overriding motivation behind it.

‘It’s perfect,’ she replied, giving him a reassuring smile. ‘I might need another sweater, though,’ she added with a shiver. Despite the roaring fire the house felt cold.

Olivia swept her gaze around the hall and wondered about the previous mistress of St Sidwell Manor, Bruce’s mystery relation who had left her entire estate to him in her will. Bruce had never heard of her, and she hadn’t left much of an explanation, stating simply that he was the closest living relative she had. It hadn’t taken much to find out that Delaware was her married name and that her maiden name had been Pengower. Elsa had told them back in the spring that the Pengowers had built the house in the time of Elizabeth I and lived here, uninterrupted, for nearly four hundred years. Bruce had done a bit of research and discovered that there was no Delaware or Pengower in his ancestry, but what did it matter? Mrs Delaware had left St Sidwell Manor to him, and how very nice of her.

The house was much too big for the four of them, Olivia thought as she wandered into the grand drawing room with its high, moulded ceilings and tall, mullioned windows. She wondered how Mrs Delaware had lived here for so long on her own. It certainly wasn’t a house for one person, but for a big family with a large retinue of staff. Olivia would not have chosen to live in such a mansion, but, when she had visited for the first time, on a clear spring day nine months before, she had fallen in love with the house, which was undeniably magnificent, and with the idea of the peaceful, wholesome life it promised. It was just the place where poor broken Bruce could put himself back together again and where Olivia could have a proper studio to paint in. She had chosen a pretty sitting room overlooking the box garden to be her den. She would no longer have to illustrate books at the kitchen table, disturbed by the children and the doorbell endlessly ringing with everyone’s Amazon deliveries. It was going to be marvellous.

She was inspired, too, by the thought of living close to the sea, which was only a few miles from the house. Imagine being able to wander down to the beach? To stroll up the sand in bare feet whenever she felt like it? To lie on her back in the sunshine and listen to the gentle whooshing of waves? She looked through the small rectangular windowpanes to the garden, still obscured by mist and the impinging darkness, and tried to imagine it. Everything would be lovely when the sun came out, she told herself firmly.

She moved away from the window and felt suddenly daunted by the size of the room. She wasn’t used to so much space. She didn’t know what to do with it. She was overwhelmed, and, for a terrible moment, doubted she could do it. Of course, it was quite a leap of faith leaving their home and friends and everything that was familiar, but they had both agreed that Bruce’s health was a priority. Without it, he had nothing. Without it, they had nothing. Besides, the children would thrive in the clean air and with all this freedom. It would do each of them the world of good. It was going to be the best decision they had ever made – the best , she was sure of it.

Just then her heart lurched as a sharp thought punctured her positivity like a thorn. She saw herself in her cosy London kitchen with a cup of tea and the music softly playing. How warm and snug it was in that tiny but familiar room. She pushed the image out of her mind. No, this was going to be wonderful, she reassured herself for the millionth time – a new start, a new adventure – and once she’d settled in, St Sidwell Manor would feel just as cosy as her London home had.

She folded her arms and shivered. As she’d said to Bruce, she’d simply have to wear an extra sweater, or two.

Making a home out of a mansion was always going to be a challenge, but there were certain changes they had made in order for the house to feel less cavernous. They had decided not to use the attic at all, for why did they need six small servants’ bedrooms when the floor below already had ten big ones? Olivia had therefore already shut off the narrow staircase with a door. It would remain untouched with its old wooden floorboards, plain white walls and simple iron beds. ‘I’m not sure the house will be happy with this change,’ Elsa had said when she’d seen what was being done. Olivia had reassured her that the house would get used to it. Elsa had looked doubtful. She had put her hands on her hips and narrowed her sea-green eyes and shaken her head portentously, but that was as far as her objections had gone.

No one liked change, Olivia understood that. However, nothing ever stayed the same. That was the nature of the world. St Sidwell Manor would just have to deal with it – as would Elsa Tregoning.

The first night was strange for all of them. Bruce and Olivia had chosen the largest bedroom for themselves. It was south-facing with a view of the lawn and lake. In it was an antique four-poster bed, a sturdy wardrobe and dresser, and an elegant dressing table, all fashioned out of walnut. Big Tudor windows with small rectangular panes dominated one wall and into the panelled recesses had been built charming seats. Olivia had decorated the bedroom to suit her taste – Bennison floral wallpaper and curtains, seagrass carpet and White Company bedlinen – but it still felt oddly spooky, as if she was being watched, as if the very house had eyes and was observing her reproachfully. The mist lay low on the ground and, as darkness settled over the gardens, nothing could be seen but an impenetrable blackness through which a subdued moon occasionally shone. Out of that blackness the lake gleamed like onyx. The wind whistled about the walls and through the branches of the plane trees, and the old house creaked and groaned like a cantankerous old man who objects to the arrival of strange city folk. Olivia lay awake, ears alert to every unfamiliar sound. She missed the soft rumble of traffic and the reassuring orange light that used to trickle through the gaps in the curtains of her bedroom in Notting Hill. Here the darkness was total, as if she had been swallowed into the belly of a whale. She pressed herself against Bruce’s warm back and felt better when he took her hand and drew it into his chest. In a few moments he was asleep and for the first time ever she was grateful for his snoring because it made her feel less afraid. She hoped the children were asleep too and not lying awake like she was, feeling like she shouldn’t be here.

Zach did not want to admit that he was frightened. He was fifteen years old and had been at boarding school since the age of eight. However, the moaning of the wind sounded like someone crying and the squeaking floorboards were like footsteps, making their way along the corridor towards his bedroom. He half expected the door to open at any moment and for a Wildling or a White Walker to barge in with an axe. He found the four-poster bed creepy. In fact, the whole house was like something out of a horror film. His parents were mad to have decided to move down here, to this remote part of the countryside where they knew no one. He would have preferred to remain in London. At least there they’d had nice neighbours and streetlights. He blinked into the darkness and tried to rein in his imagination. Finally, to subdue his fear, he put on his earphones and listened to his favourite playlist until he drifted into a restless sleep.

Tabitha, on the other hand, was not at all scared. To the contrary, she sat cross-legged on the seat in the window recess and watched the cloud slowly thin until silver wisps of moonlight began to brighten the sky like angels flying slowly across it. Through the small panes, she gazed transfixed at an enchanting new world as little by little it revealed itself to her. The trees, silhouetted now, waved their delicate branches and she imagined they were coming to life, like giants convening in the midnight garden. Perhaps they were waving at her, welcoming her to her new home, recognising that she was special, because she could see them for what they really were.

Tabitha loved it here already. She loved her four-poster bed with its thick velvet curtains, the wood panelling and window seats, and the sense of history in the old corridors, uneven walls and creaky floorboards. She hoped she would see a ghost, for surely a house as old as this must harbour souls who had died long ago. When she’d been small, she had often awoken at night and seen shadowy beings moving about her bedroom. At first, they had scared her, those translucent figures, and she had switched on the light in panic, and they had disappeared. But since she had read The Ghosts by Antonia Barber, a tattered book she had found in the school library and read with a torch long after her lights had been turned out, she had been fascinated by the paranormal, not fearful of it. Zach didn’t believe in ghosts, and she hadn’t told her parents in case they had a logical explanation that negated their existence. She didn’t want to hear it. Tabitha knew that what she saw was real. Therefore, she had made a decision long ago to keep her experiences to herself. But to see one here – wouldn’t that be delightful? She stared up at the cloud, now parting to reveal the bright round face of night’s dependable watchman, and hoped more than anything that she would see something otherworldly.

The following morning, dawn broke onto limpid skies. Frost covered the lawn and twinkled like fairy dust in the weak winter sunshine. The wind had died, and, in its place, a gentle breeze slipped up the estuary and onto St Sidwell Manor, carrying with it the sulphurous scent of brine. Olivia opened the curtains and smiled with relief at the sight of her new home, for it looked so innocent and reassuring dressed in white. The overgrown weeds and tangled shrubs, hidden beneath their winter clothes, were magical. A red kite soared in the crisp blue, its mournful whistle punctuating the silence, and a pair of mallards waddled across the surface of the lake, which had frozen over during the night. Olivia took it all in, for soon the sun would melt the frost, and the rot would reveal itself along with the immense amount of work that would be required to restore the gardens to their former glory. But restore them, she would. She had taken on no new work assignments just so that she could dedicate her time to making this magnificent house a home.

Elsa had cooked breakfast and left it on the hot plate in the dining room. The house had not been modernised and the kitchen, pantry, scullery and storerooms were still cut off from the main part of the house by a green baize door. Behind it was the servants’ domain and a place where, traditionally, the family was not welcome. Olivia had wanted to open that part of the house to make a large kitchen–living area, but they didn’t have the money. At least not right now.

It felt strange to Olivia, the four of them sitting at one end of the long mahogany table, leaving the greater part of it empty. But Bruce tucked into bacon and eggs with relish and suggested they go exploring straight after breakfast. He hadn’t heard the creaking bones of the house and had slept soundly. In a blue plaid shirt with his sleeves rolled up and a pair of jeans, he didn’t seem to feel the cold either. ‘Isn’t this great?’ he said, looking at each child in turn. ‘How does it feel to live in a mansion? I suggest you eat up and then we can take a look around. This place doesn’t seem to have changed since Victorian times. It’s a real time warp.’

Zach was relieved it was morning. Sunlight poured in through the windows, banishing the shadows of the night and with them his fear. His father’s enthusiasm made him feel stupid for having been afraid. White Walkers, indeed! What an idiot he’d been.

Tabitha was impatient to explore the house, but Olivia wanted them all out from under her feet; there were still boxes to be unpacked and things to be put away and she did not want to be distracted by the demands of her family. They’d have plenty of time to explore the house later.

‘Right,’ said Bruce, draining his coffee cup and pushing out his chair. ‘Ready to venture into the wild?’ He grinned at Zach and Tabitha, eyes shining with enthusiasm. ‘We’ll need scythes and swords to cut a path through the weeds.’ Then to Olivia, ‘It’s going to be a challenge!’

Zach buttered another piece of toast to take with him. Tabitha hurried off to put on her coat and boots. Olivia laid her napkin on the table. ‘This entire place is going to be a challenge,’ she replied, smiling bravely. ‘But together we can turn it into a fabulous home.’

After breakfast, Olivia found Elsa in the kitchen. It was one of the rooms she most longed to change for it was woefully outdated. It had a huge pine table, a cast-iron range placed in the alcove where once there must have been a great fire, and a dresser laden with shiny brass pots and pans, which would never be used. Olivia had put in a dishwasher, but, by the sight of the plates piled up in the sink, it did not look like Elsa knew how to work it. ‘Everything to your liking, Mrs Olivia?’ Elsa asked. Despite being told to call her Olivia, Elsa insisted on a certain formality. She did not seem pleased to see Olivia in her territory, either.

‘All good, thank you, Elsa,’ Olivia replied cheerfully, determined to make a friend of her.

Elsa looked as comfortable in that room as the table. With her dove-grey hair clipped loosely to the back of her head, a white apron worn over a black dress that reached down to her ankles, and black lace-up boots, she appeared out of another era, just like the house. Her whole demeanour was, in fact, old-fashioned, except for the large prehnite gemstone at her throat that matched the unusual greeny-blue colour of her eyes. Olivia felt as if she was intruding, even though the house was hers. ‘I would love some help,’ she said, her tone apologetic. ‘There are boxes to be unpacked. Would you mind very much?’

Elsa nodded and went to wash her hands in the butler’s sink. ‘How was your first night? Did you sleep well?’ she asked, picking up the soap and turning on the old brass tap. The water choked and spluttered before coming out in a rusty torrent.

‘A bit scary, to be honest,’ Olivia replied. ‘I’m not used to such a big house.’

‘Oh, it’s a big house, and a little surly,’ Elsa agreed, bangles jangling on her wrists as she soaped her hands. ‘You just need to get to know each other.’

‘It’s not haunted, is it?’ Olivia laughed nervously. She didn’t really believe in ghosts, but, nonetheless, she wanted reassurance.

Elsa turned and her face softened. ‘No, Mrs Olivia. It’s only the sound of the wind and the natural creaking of an old building. In a few days’ time, you won’t even notice it.’

Olivia was relieved. ‘That’s good. One always assumes places like these are full of ghosts.’

‘People love to tell tales, don’t they? There are plenty of people around here who will tell you this place is haunted. Don’t listen to them. I’ve lived here for over fifty years, and I’ve never had a moment’s worry.’

‘Thank you, Elsa. I’m glad to hear that,’ said Olivia. ‘Silly of me to mention it.’

Elsa smiled warmly and dried her hands on a tea towel. ‘Now, where would you like to start?’

In her coat and boots, Tabitha followed her father and brother through the back door and onto a wide terrace that looked out over the garden. It was framed by an elegant but mildewy stone balustrade and had mossy steps that descended onto a paved pathway. The path sliced through the middle of what would once have been an immaculate lawn but was now overrun with weeds that peeped through the frost like tufts of fur. At the end of the path was a sorry-looking fountain. It seemed lost there in that desolate part of the garden.

Tabitha watched in delight as her breath misted on the air. It was bitterly cold, and everything was white, for Jack Frost had been busy in the night. The sky sparkled with millions of ice crystals and the gulls that wheeled beneath it suggested the sea was close. Tabitha was excited to be near the sea.

Propelled by a wave of enthusiasm, she set off along the path. Giant balls of yew topiary sat in rows on either side, resembling enormous Christmas puddings resting beneath a sprinkling of icing sugar. Tabitha abandoned the path and ran across the grass, her Wellington boots leaving a trail of footprints behind her. A pair of rabbits must have had the same idea for their tiny pawprints, set down in two trails of entangled tracks, revealed their nocturnal dance.

At length she reached the end of the path and stopped by the fountain. Crafted out of grey stone, it was circular in shape and quite large. In the centre was an intriguing statue of a woman. She seemed lonely, as if no one had noticed her in a very long time. Even the blackbirds and crows seemed to stay away, pecking the ground at the other end of the lawn. The stone that shaped her was mottled with lichen, yet time had not robbed her of her beauty. Indeed, her face was compelling, being both striking and sad. Her long swirling skirts gave her slender figure the illusion of movement while her outstretched hands reached up to heaven in supplication. Tabitha stood before her, assaulted suddenly by a strange feeling of sorrow. The way she tilted her face was pitiful, as if she were searching for something precious up there in the clouds. The fountain was dry, which seemed to compound the sense of solitude and neglect. Only dead leaves collected in the basin beneath it where water had once been.

‘Tabitha!’

Tabitha was pulled out of her contemplation by her father waving at her from a pretty wooden gate built into a high stone wall. Reluctantly, she left the beautiful woman to her loneliness and ran to join him.

Through the gate was a walled vegetable garden that contained two enormous greenhouses, a rusted wheelbarrow discarded on its back, disused cold frames and a barn full of giant logs. While Bruce groaned at the sight of the mildewed glass on the green-houses and the unappealing prospect of having to clean them, Tabitha and Zach raced on ahead over the abandoned vegetable plots and through a rickety gate at the far end into woodland. Their father called after them, but they ignored him and ran on. The feeling of space was intoxicating, the sense of adventure thrilling; neither wanted to slow down to a walk. There was too much to see. Too much to discover. Having been confined to the streets of London, this sprawling land was a paradise. Even Zach was beginning to appreciate the advantages of living on a large country estate.

Eventually, the trees opened onto a lush meadow and, in the far distance, the blue ribbon of the estuary glittering in the morning sunshine. In the middle of the meadow stood a small grey chapel surrounded by gravestones. The children stopped and stared, their exuberance stolen suddenly by the sobering sight of the graveyard. The place was eerily quiet, obviously neglected, perhaps for decades. Only crows hopped about the long grasses where the frost had already melted. Among the traditional gravestones were various obelisks on plinths. One or two leant unsteadily, maybe from the fierce gales that blew off the water, or possibly, Tabitha thought as she gazed upon them in fascination, unsettled by the souls of the dead that lingered restlessly beneath.

Zach, whose imagination was not made of the same fertile stuff as his sister’s, saw simply tombstones, blackened by time and corroded by wind. What interested him, however, were the inscriptions carved into the stone, for that was history, and Zach was very interested in the past. He ran on ahead to examine them.

Bruce caught up with his children. ‘Wow, look at this!’ he exclaimed, putting his hands on his hips and catching his breath. He regretted spending so much time sitting at his desk and not taking exercise. But he was going to be a farmer now. He was going to get fit. ‘An abandoned chapel. Amazing!’ He hadn’t explored this far when he’d first looked around the house back in the spring. Taking Tabitha by the hand, he strode towards it. ‘Let’s see what’s inside, shall we?’

When they reached it, Zach was already wiping the lichen off one of the memorials and trying to read the inscription there.

‘Who do all these gravestones belong to?’ Tabitha asked.

‘Dead people,’ said Zach with a laugh.

‘I know they’re dead, silly,’ she responded, rolling her eyes. ‘Do you think they’re people who used to live in the house?’

‘I imagine it’s the Pengower family chapel,’ said Bruce. ‘Let me see.’ He bent down to read the inscription on one of the stones. ‘ Bernard Pengower 1821–1881. There, you see, I’m right.’

‘This one’s a Pengower too,’ Zach called out, picking at the moss that concealed the first name. ‘1886–1965. Looks like it could be Robert, Robin, Richard. R-something.’

Tabitha let go of her father’s hand and skipped over to look at one of the leaning obelisks. She stood before it. On the plinth was a white marble relief of a woman’s hand. Gently resting in it was the small hand of a child. Above was a brief inscription: Cordelia Pengower 1862–1896 . May she find peace in holy rest . ‘Daddy, look at this one,’ she said. ‘Who do you think she was?’

Bruce came over to have a look. He, too, read the inscription and took in the elegant sculpture. The hands resembled a white dove. ‘Well,’ he began, remembering the small amount of research he’d done after he’d been told about his surprising inheritance. ‘Thomas Pengower built the manor in fifteen eighty-six, having made his fortune providing wood for the royal fleet. I’d say Cordelia Pengower was important because she’s been given a big memorial. The Victorians loved elaborate gravestones. I’d guess that she was mistress of the house and a mother, too, because she’s holding a child’s hand. And she died young. Only thirty-four years old. Perhaps she died in childbirth. Who knows?’

Tabitha wondered whether she was the same woman as the statue in the garden. The moment her thoughts turned to the statue she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She put a hand there and rubbed the skin.

‘Are they all Pengowers?’ Zach asked, now going from stone to stone like a bee in clover and counting how many Pengowers he could find.

‘Looks like it, doesn’t it? No Talwyns?’ Bruce asked.

‘Not yet,’ Zach replied.

Shall we go inside?’ Bruce suggested, making for the door. ‘Then we can go home and see what we can find in the library. The library at the manor,’ he added proudly, ‘is pretty spectacular.’

‘Home,’ said Zach with a shrug. ‘Sounds funny.’

‘Funny ha-ha, or funny odd?’ his father asked.

‘Odd,’ Zach returned. ‘It doesn’t feel like home yet.’

‘It does to me,’ Tabitha interjected. ‘I don’t ever want to go back to London.’

To Bruce’s surprise, the chapel door was unlocked. The children followed him inside and fell silent. It was a simple place of worship, built for the Pengower family judging by the commemorative plaques bearing their name that dated as far back as the seventeenth century. Wooden pews were lined in rows facing the altar and the large stained-glass window behind it. The white altar cloth was clean, but nothing lay upon it. There was little doubt that the place was no longer in use – it had an air of abandonment – but somebody clearly came in to keep it clean; there were no dead insects on the windowsills or dry leaves in the corners. It did not smell stale as one might expect of such an old, disused building and it had a pleasant feeling, like an oasis of peace and tranquillity in a landscape that was battered by sea gales and rain.

‘I’d like to know more about the Pengowers,’ Bruce murmured, running his fingers over the marble relief of a certain Arthur Pengower who had died three hundred years before. Bruce was speaking to himself, but Tabitha overheard.

‘There can’t be any left,’ she said. ‘Because if there were, you wouldn’t have been given the house.’

‘Very true, darling,’ he replied.

‘Was Mrs Delaware a Pengower?’ she added.

‘She was. She was Emily Pengower, but she married Henry Delaware, so she must be buried here,’ said Bruce. ‘I didn’t see a fresh grave out there, did you?’

‘Are you sure you’re not a Pengower, Dad?’ Zach asked, plonking himself down in the front pew and folding his arms. It was icy cold and he shivered. ‘How are you related to Mrs Delaware anyway?’

‘I don’t know,’ Bruce replied. ‘Distantly, for sure.’ He and Olivia had both asked themselves the same question, and Elsa had been unable to enlighten them either. They hadn’t had the time to do much research beyond looking down Bruce’s family tree, which had yielded nothing. Frankly, he had more important things on his mind than genealogy.

‘How can you not know?’ said Zach.

‘Well, the relations I called hadn’t a clue. No one has heard of either Pengower or Delaware. I’m none the wiser.’ Indeed, Bruce’s parents were both dead and his younger brother lived in Australia. The fact that Olivia came from such a large family had been one of the things that had first attracted him to her. He had been tired of feeling alone in the world.

‘How far back can you trace your family?’ asked Zach.

‘ Our family,’ Tabitha corrected.

‘Quite far, actually, but there are no Delawares or Pengowers in it. That’s for certain.’

Zach chuckled. ‘So, you believe you’re related to Mrs Delaware because she said so?’

‘Yes, Zach. I’m sure she didn’t make it up. Perhaps I’m descended from a distant cousin of hers. Doesn’t have to be Delaware, does it? Could be anything. There’ll be a connection somewhere. She’s not going to have given it to a random person who has nothing to do with her. She specifically stated that I’m the closest living relative. So, there we are. And I’m not complaining.’ He chuckled, appreciating once again his extraordinary good fortune at being handed such a magnificent estate on a plate.

Tabitha grinned. ‘I’d like to be a Pengower,’ she declared.

‘Why?’ said Zach, getting up. ‘What’s so good about being a Pengower? As far as I can see they’re all dead.’

‘I like the name. It sounds like Pendragon,’ she replied. She couldn’t put into words how much she already admired this family who had built the beautiful house and chapel and the statue in the garden.

‘There’s probably a family tree in the house somewhere,’ said Bruce, leading the children out into the sunshine and closing the chapel door behind them. ‘We can have a look in the library. There are loads of books in there. In fact, I’ll assign you both a challenge. The first to find a family tree gets a fiver.’

Zach liked the sound of that. ‘I’ll find it,’ he said, thrusting his hands into his pockets and setting off towards the trees at speed.

Tabitha took her father’s hand. ‘I know you’re a Pengower,’ she said, looking up at him with serious eyes.

‘How do you know that, darling?’

‘I just do,’ she replied.

Her gaze lingered on the gravestones a moment as she and her father followed Zach through the long grasses. She was sure she’d seen something pass in front of one of them. It had been fleeting and out of the corner of her eye. It might have been a bird, or a squirrel. A chilly breeze lightly caressed her cheek and the skin on her arms rippled. She searched for the eyes that watched them, because she sensed they were not alone, but she saw nothing, only the gravestones – still, silent and cold.