Chapter Four

My case wasn't big but it took some navigating over the bumps and dips in the path. I'd gone just a few steps when I heard the gentle rumble of the engine; Steve was reversing, heading back up to the crossroads to turn around. The beams flicked twice and he waved from the window - a pale hand barely illuminated by the amber glow of the dashboard. I waved back, trying to appear cheerful, and extracted my phone, flicking the torch on and straining to gauge the distance.

I began to walk, eventually picking up the suitcase by its handle and carrying it, my shoes squelching through the mud, leaving deep prints in their wake. The torch beam swung in time to my steps. It couldn't be much further.

Five minutes passed before I saw the trees up ahead, great pines reaching towards the sky. The path led directly through them and I sighed, checking the signal; there was none.

Not only was this much more remote than I'd been expecting, but the struggle wouldn't end here and I knew it. Many of our clients felt unsure about the process, at least to begin with. They revealed little about their motivations, still less so about themselves. I'd encountered people with such a deep-seated suspicion of strangers it was incredible they'd contacted one of their own free will. And it wasn't as though I was there to value a property, fix the boiler or tend to the garden. Memoir-writing, by necessity, required a deep dive - a lengthy process of revelation. There was no use being coy about it.

I'd been feeling tired and hungry and a little daunted by the prospect of settling into Miss Carey's home. Now unease replaced it all, and my scalp prickled at the sight of the tapering path. I turned, hoping to see an alternative - a junction, perhaps, another signpost directing visitors any way but through what appeared to be not just a copse or a brief row of trees, but a forest.

It is also, I think, important to note here that I wasn't a frightened, skittish sort of person - not then. If anything, I went into most situations feet-first, fearless to the point of stupidity at times. I took risks and, usually, no harm came of them. I'd learnt to trust my gut, to know when to stop. It hadn't always been like this, but I enjoyed the feeling of solidity that being in my mid-thirties provided: a sense that the ground would keep shifting, but that the major quakes might, at last, be behind. And I loved the variety of the job, the fact I didn't know from one week to the next what I might be doing or where I might be going. The idea of booking tickets to a far-flung train station, devoid of graffiti and discarded cigarette ends, packing a small bag for the days I'd spend here and leaving my flat behind - I liked it. I had nothing to tether me, no anchor weighing me down. I liked the free-floating nature of the days, the ability to come and go and do as I pleased. It was self-sufficient, rudderless, lacking in any kind of restriction.

I wished I'd asked Laura for more information. The years spent moving from client to client and confidently navigating my way round towns and cities had all but removed any sense of caution, any need for clarification. That confidence had always stood me in good stead until now. There was nothing but hedgerows ahead, and it was beyond foolish to walk through here, at night and on my own, without any real knowledge of what was waiting on the other side.

The path was a little smoother now, at least, covered over by pine needles protruding like stubble. The case rolled easily enough as I placed it down. Holding the torch straight in front of me, I counted my steps as a distraction, reminding myself that this wasn't an urban alleyway but the middle of nowhere. Any company I had was limited to mice and badgers, owls, woodpeckers nestled in drilled nooks of their own excavation.

A hundred steps became two hundred. I avoided looking either side of the path, worried that if I did so I might panic. I willed the house to appear, praying for a glimmer of light. My ears strained for the sounds of a snapping twig, a rustle of leaves.

I forced myself to think of something else, to notice the beauty of the place. Here, just a few hours by train from London, was a swatch of land unspoiled by machines, by tall buildings or redevelopments. Nature had been allowed to do its thing, to run riot. The shrubbery was waist-high in places bordering the path. Here there were fallen trunks at either side, toppled by age or lightning or bent double by the rolling wind. Instead of being cleared quickly away, tidied up, they lay where they'd lie for weeks, months or years more, a home for insects, a playground for snaffling mammals. And above it all, the deep coal of the night sky was speckled with impassive stars. They held themselves aloft with indefinable self-gravity, spread in joyful abandon like a midnight feast on a picnic rug.

The trees started to thin and the torch reflected off something to my right. I peered closer and saw a square tin on a stick, the sort of post box found on driveways in America, with Carey written in curling script on the side. Beside it a stray patch of foxgloves stood in upright formation, their tubular bells flamingo-pink despite the onset of autumn. Years ago now, a botanist client had explained the meaning of the name, how foxes were said to silence their steps with the petals, how they slipped them over their paws to hunt. And by ringing the bells of the flowers, they can also warn their comrades of danger, she'd said. Of course, foxgloves are horrifically toxic: a form of self-protection, and a warning to unwanted visitors.

The post box was half-open; inside was a bundle of letters and postcards, their edges sodden from exposure to the elements. I shone the torch ahead and my hand stilled as it scanned the horizon.

There, up ahead at last, was Elver House.

I had expected a squat little thing, perhaps covered over with disciplined ivy. Original windows, a garden brimming with dahlias, nasturtium, a farmhouse-style door. This couldn't have been further from such cosy images, and I stared for a full minute at the black mass before me, too preoccupied with its incongruity here, in the middle of the woods, to notice for a moment that none of the lights were on.

Elver was taller than it was wide; it had at least three floors, perhaps four. Creeping vines corkscrewed up its facade, almost obscuring the brickwork on the right-hand side. Circular porthole windows pitted the uppermost level and above them, the domed roof rose with peaks like tiny church spires, turreted and jagged as incisors. Steve had been right. If Elver was a cottage, Balmoral was a camper van.

Fumbling for my case I pressed ahead, pushing the wrought-iron gate, which squealed in protest, and walked slowly through the choked weeds of the forecourt. A ruined fountain, its curled lip long since run dry, forced me to swing round to the edge of the gravelled path, holding my torch high, waiting for any sign of movement behind the glaring windows up ahead. If she'd been waiting, half-asleep, perhaps she'd heard the sound of the gate.

The ground was uneven, rough, and trenched through with puddles. As I came closer to the house I paused a moment, watchful, every sense on high alert. There was water somewhere over to my left. Its cascade was continuous, though its path was broken by rocks. Although I couldn't see them, I knew these would be sprinkled with moss, springy and clumped like doormats across the stones. We'd spent our childhood, you and I, crossing the stream at the end of your garden, picking off the drenched tufts and throwing them at one another. As the wind cut across the forecourt the smell of mulch, decaying plants and fallen leaves combined with the mineral, earthy scent of the water.

The grass soaked through my trouser legs. I ran the torch up from the uneven front of the building to the roof, where several cracked, broken tiles lay precariously in a coquettish balancing act, caught between wanting to fall and staying put. In some places the coverings had been blown off completely, exposing the sable beams of thick trunks; the bones of the house laid bare.

Everything about the situation, I realised, felt wrong. I was a practical sort of person - organised, adaptable, able to blend when I needed to. I could barely remember a time where a job had troubled me, when this long-hidden, primitive boom of self-preservation had so viciously kicked in. I thought of the road trip we'd taken in the dead of night, and the sick knowledge of danger when the car's wheezing terminated our journey on a quiet road, dimly lit. I'd known then, and I knew now, that some arcane part of the reptile brain was broadcasting red flags, stop signs.

But then, I realised, as I walked slowly forward and peered...