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  “I’m willing to wait.” I could hardly articulate the words for the yawn. The children seemed to be more alert. Timothy had found a ping-pong ball and paddle and was looking around hopefully for an opponent. Tessa had drifted over to the jigsaw puzzle and was becoming absorbed in it, something she could do easily with one hand.

  “You could all do with an early night.” Celia led the way back upstairs and headed firmly for the front door. “I’ll be over in the morning. Get a good night’s sleep.”

  At the open door she turned back suddenly and hugged me. “Oh, Rosemary, I’m so glad you’re here!”

  Chapter 3

  Hi, Rosemary, Tessa and Timothy—Welcome to Cranberry Lane. I hope you’ll like it here. I just know we’re going to love your place …

  I had seen the note waiting for us on the kitchen table, but Celia had been dismissive. “You can read it later.”

  Later had arrived. The children were bathed and in their pyjamas, having a glass of milk and some sweet biscuits—we must learn to say “cookies,” as was printed on the packet—before going to bed. I was reading the letter aloud.

  I won’t try to put everything in this letter or you’ll be up all night reading it. I’ve left notes around the house re things you ought to know about. You’ll find them as you need them—I hope!

  We nodded at each other. I had done much the same. The washing-machine had had a special note of warning.

  I’ve explained to Errol that you’re going to be his temporary family for the summer and he said “Okay.” He’s an absolute love and very easy-going and I know you’ll love him as much as we do. Just one thing—please don’t let him have canned cat food more than twice a week. It doesn’t agree with him after that. He usually eats what we eat—he gets a lot of mileage out of scraps. One other thing—you’ll find his brush and a can of flea powder in the back entry. Sorry about that—but with the woods right behind us and the hot weather, there’s no way he can avoid fleas.

  I usually water the flowers in the hanging baskets every second day and just talk to them a little while you’re doing it—it makes them grow. The garden should be watered once a week and in-between if it needs it. Unless there’s a drought and the water restrictions are in force. You’ll read about it in the local paper, of which, please save all copies for me so that I’ll be able to catch up with the news when I get back. Don’t worry about buying it—we subscribe and it will be delivered every Friday. It’s all paid for, so don’t let the paper boy try to tell you any different—I don’t quite trust him …

  Fortunately the children were distracted by a noise outside and didn’t notice my voice trailing off as the letter became both confidential and libellous. I decided I would finished reading it when they were in bed.

  “What’s that?” Tessa asked as the noise came again, a high, piercing, demanding summons at the back door.

  “It must be the cat—” Timothy set down his glass of milk and dashed for the door. He opened it and fell back in awe at the creature who marched past him.

  “Is that a cat?” Tessa eyed it doubtfully. It was a good question.

  The brute was twice the size of our lovely Esmond; a burly, thick-necked, square-headed animal, given an unexpectedly rakish look by the fact that the tip of one ear had evidently been chewed off in some private dispute of long ago. A patch of tiger fur was growing back at the base of his long waving tail, but had not reached the length of the rest of his fur yet. He had great flashing eyes—one blue and one amber. He paused inside the doorway and regarded us thoughtfully.

  “Errol?” I asked tentatively. “Are you Errol?”

  The monster leered affably and advanced into the room. Half way across, he lowered himself into a crouch, brought up a hind leg and attacked the mangled ear with such vigor that he seemed in danger of scratching off what remained of it.

  “Shall I bring in the flea powder?” Timothy asked helpfully.

  “Not now. Errol will just have to put up with it until morning. We’ll tackle it then. He must be used to fleas.”

  Errol finished scratching and resumed his interrupted progress. He halted in front of the refrigerator and stared at it pointedly.

  “I think he’s hungry,” Tessa said.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” I said faintly. Errol looked capable of eating a cow-and-a-half at each meal, skin, bones and all. It was difficult to think of him as having a delicate digestive system. “I’m afraid he’ll have to settle for a tin of cat food tonight, though. We’ll go shopping tomorrow and get in some supplies—”

  The telephone rang and we all jumped. “It must be Celia.” I went to answer it.

  “I’ll feed Errol,” Timothy said. “I’ve found the tin-opener.”

  “Hello?” Absently, I registered the note left for me on the telephone pad. It was like an unexpected nudge in the ribs.

  Useful telephone numbers: Fire Department 341;

  Doctor 748; Electrician 225; Plumber 576;

  May’s Mini Market 963 (more expensive than the supermarket, but they’ll deliver COD if you phone in an order) …

  Then a list of names which meant nothing to me now but presumably would at some future date.

  “Hello?” I realized that I had been waiting for a reply. “Hello … Celia?”

  There was a click at the other end, then the dial tone. Odd … and there was something odd about the note on the telephone pad, too.

  “Who was it, Mummy?” Tessa asked as I went back into the kitchen.

  “A wrong number,” I said. They might have apologized. Or perhaps it was someone who had been startled to get an English voice answering. Surely, though, all the Harpers’ friends must know about the house swap. If any of them had rung in an absent moment, why hadn’t they identified themselves and explained? It would have taken only a moment and would have been the courteous thing to do.

  The children lost interest. Bemused, they were watching Errol as he gulped down the cat food. He was a noisy eater. As though he felt my disapproval, he raised his head and glared at me. He had a fine line in disapproval himself. He turned his head and concentrated on Tessa’s glass of milk.

  “I think he wants a drink,” Timothy said. “Shall I give him some milk?”

  “Why don’t you?” I decided against voicing an opinion that Errol looked as though he might prefer straight whisky.

  The telephone rang again. This time it was Celia.

  “Did you ring a few minutes ago?” I asked.

  “No, I just got in. I wanted to remind you that the cat was around somewhere and would expect to be let in and fed.”

  “Thank you, we’ve already found him. At least, I think it’s a cat.”

  “Errol is a Maine coon cat—they’re the large economy size.”

  “Except when you’re feeding them.” Errol was making short work of a tin which would have done Esmond for two meals.

  “Fortunately, he likes vegetables. When you’re cooking, just toss an extra potato and another handful of peas or whatever into the pot for him. Nancy started him as she meant him to go on when he was just a kitten—”

  “Celia, is everything all right?” She was burbling on far too much about the blasted cat. It wasn’t like her. Or had it been so long since we’d met that I no longer knew what she was like?

  “Of course. Why shouldn’t it be?”

  “You said something about Patrick not being well …” I frowned absently at the message pad; I could tell from the quality of the silence at the other end of the line that she hadn’t liked my answer.

  “Nothing dramatic is going to happen suddenly. It isn’t that kind of unwell.” Her voice was too crisp. She was trying to convince herself as well as me.

  “You asked if I’d rung earlier—” She changed the subject abruptly. “Did you have a … an unidentified caller? What did they say?”

  “They didn’t say a word. Just listened for a moment and then rang off. Why? Has Nancy been having trouble with telephone calls?” Inheriting an
obscene caller was all I needed. Welcome to America!

  “No, no, of course not!” Had she denied it too quickly? “It must have been one of her friends who’d forgotten she’d already left.”

  “I thought of that. Rather rude friends, hasn’t she? They might have spoken and apologized. The other thing I thought of,” I added wickedly, “was that perhaps it was burglars ringing to find out if the house was empty.”

  “You will lock the doors tonight?” Celia didn’t laugh. “Front and back—and check that all the windows are latched. One can’t be too careful these days.”

  “Oh, Celia—” I caught back a yawn—“of course, I’ll lock up properly. I’m not a child.”

  “You’re dead on your feet.” Her voice softened. “Get to bed, the lot of you.” She rang off.

  I yawned again, not even trying to restrain it. She was right. It was bed for all of us. I’d lock up all right, but if burglars got in tonight, they’d just have to take anything they wanted.

  They could start with Errol. Having finishing his meal, he was sharpening his claws on the leg of the lovely maplewood kitchen table.

  “Stop that at once!” I darted at him, hand upraised threateningly. “I’m sure you’re not allowed to do that when your family are home.”

  Muttering darkly, he stalked over to the door and demanded his freedom. I let him out, slammed the door behind him and locked it; while I was at it, I checked that the kitchen windows were latched.

  Then I gazed with dismay at the fresh raw scars on the table leg. We hadn’t been in the house one night yet and already there was visible damage. It wasn’t our fault, but it was there.

  “Oh dear,” I moaned, kneeling and rubbing vainly at the scars. “And we were going to be so careful!” Even through my guilt, I wondered what was happening back at our house. Were the Harper twins as bad as their yobbo cat? What damage would we find waiting for us when we returned?

  “It doesn’t show much.” Timothy spat on his fingers and rubbed the scars. “Not when you’re standing up.”

  “Don’t worry, Mummy,” Tessa comforted. “We can get something to put on it and polish it every day and the scratches will go away.”

  “I can’t worry about anything more tonight,” I admitted. “Let’s go up to bed.”

  Once the children were tucked up in bed, I found that I couldn’t settle down myself. I paced the floor of the luxurious master bedroom; the double bed waited. I had not approached it; I could not. At this hour, in the darkness, it seemed to represent everything I had lost.

  I crossed to the window and stood looking out over the humming air-conditioning unit which occupied the lower part of the window. Immediately below me was the roof of the veranda. Beyond it, I could see the path leading up from the road. The trees stirred silently, there must be a breeze. I tugged at the window but it refused to budge; the air-conditioning unit ruled, no natural air could be allowed in to disrupt its smooth operation.

  Restlessly I left the room and checked on the children—they were both sleeping soundly. From Tessa’s room, I could hear the predatory yowl of a marauding cat somewhere out in the woods. Errol, no doubt. I was beginning to see why he had been so named.

  Tonight I was not amused. Like a prowling cat myself, I left Tessa’s room and went down the corridor, exploring the rooms I had glimpsed so briefly on Celia’s whirlwind tour.

  The sewing-room; an electric sewing-machine, the dark sinister shadow of a dressmaker’s dummy, a Victorian sewing basket on a pedestal. Evidently Nancy was the domestic type. I closed the door softly; I’d have no reason to open it again for the remainder of our visit.

  At the end of the hallway, I opened the door on enchantment. A guest room so welcoming it seemed to reach out invisible arms and draw me inside. It was decorated in New England Colonial style, delicate floral-sprigged wallpaper, braided rugs on the polished pinewood floor, a light maple rocking-chair beside a bookcase full of well-read books, a large window set into the eaves so that there was a wide, comfortable window-seat one could curl up on. And the three-quarter-size brass bed was also wide and comfortable, inviting without being daunting. I could feel at home in here.

  I retrieved my suitcases from the master bedroom, turning off the air-conditioning as I left, and moved in at once. This would be my room for the summer.

  After unpacking, I knelt on the window-seat and found, as I had hoped when I had noted that it was without an air-conditioning unit, that the window slipped upwards easily. There was a screen on the outside and a cool breeze from the lake immediately wafted into the room.

  There was an old-fashioned electric fan on the dressing-table; I flicked the switch and it hummed into action; picking up speed and revolving slowly. On the opposite side of the dressing-table was a vase of fresh flowers. The oddity surprised me for a moment; there had been no flowers in the master bedroom.

  With a mental shrug, I tossed back the patchwork quilt covering the bed. A white envelope lay on the pillow. I was beginning to be familiar with those envelopes by now.

  Dear Rosemary,

  I thought you might prefer this room. I know I would, if I were in your shoes. It’s where I put my favorite guests.

  Look in the bedside tabouret for a little nightcap. It’s homemade—Pixie Toller’s specialty. (You’ll meet her soon, if you haven’t already.)

  Have a nice summer—

  Nancy

  The tabouret held a small decanter labelled elderberry brandy and a plastic box containing thin crispy vanilla biscuits.

  Shamelessly ignoring the fact that I had already cleaned my teeth and had no intention of cleaning them again, I partook of both. Both were delicious.

  I slid into bed and turned out the light. In the darkness I was conscious of the small night sounds outside, no longer drowned by the noise of the air-conditioner. The wind rustled the trees, grasshoppers sang, frogs croaked softly; a soothing and pleasing lullaby.

  Just as I drifted off to sleep, I identified the disquieting element I had subconsciously noticed in the telephone list. The order of importance was wrong.

  I was a woman on her own with two children, one of whom had a broken arm.

  Why, then, did the Fire Department lead the list of emergency numbers instead of the Doctor?

  Chapter 4

  It wasn’t the dreams that were the nightmare, it was the awakening. In sleep, John was there again. We were laughing together, planning a holiday, talking about a future beyond that. We turned to each other with love and joy …

  I don’t know what woke me. I opened my eyes to bright sunlight and the unfamiliar room and slowly the joy drained out of me and the bleak grey sadness took its place. John was dead and I was left to face another day.

  There was no point in lying there. I threw back the sheet and automatically walked over to the window. I could see now that my room was right at the back of the house, over the kitchen. Beneath the window was the slanted wooden bulkhead door which opened into the cellar. Beyond that was the spacious back yard, then the thick ring of woodland, mostly pines and maples, and beyond that the glittering blue of Edgemarsh Lake. The sky was clear and cloudless, the birds sang. It was a beautiful day in a beautiful country.

  And what should I do in Illyria?

  “No! No! Stop it!” The childrens’ voices shrieked out in anguish from the kitchen below me. I ran downstairs, not waiting to put on my dressing-gown, terrified of what I might find.

  I burst into the kitchen and was relieved to find Tessa and Timothy safe, although furious and upset. There was a delicious fragrance in the air, which seemed to be part of the problem.

  “Mummy! Mummy!” Tessa threw herself into my arms, sobbing. “We were cooking breakfast. We wanted to surprise you. We were going to bring you breakfast in bed.”

  “We made scrambled eggs—” Timothy glowered. “Only that rotten old Errol got up on the table and ate them all!”

  “Oh, darlings—” I tried not to laugh, as much a hysterical reaction as Tessa’s
tears. “Never mind. We’ll cook some more and we’ll be more careful this time. Remember Nancy told us that Errol eats everything we eat—she should have warned us ‘especially if he gets there first’.”

  “Rotten old Errol!” Tessa echoed Timothy, a faint smile breaking through.

  “Rotten to the core,” I agreed. A trail of greasy egg fragments stretched across the table from the empty plate, across the floor and under the stove. As we gazed at the mute evidence, there came a tremendous belch from beneath the stove.

  “Perhaps it will disagree with him,” I said hopefully, then rescinded my hopes. “Errol—” I called sharply. “Come out. You can’t be sick under there—” I dashed over to open the back door. “Come on—outside! Quick!”

  There was no response from Errol. I left the back door open—the screen door was still closed but could be opened quickly enough—and walked over to the stove.

  “Errol?” Silence. I crouched and looked under the stove. He was curled up into a tight ball and out like a light, plainly exhausted by the night’s excesses.

  “Is he all right?” Timothy asked doubtfully.

  “Your cooking didn’t kill him, if that’s what you mean.”

  I straightened up. “I should think he’ll sleep for most of the day now. We can forget him for a while. Now … what’s in the pantry for breakfast?”

  Fortunately, the children did not remember their Uncle Patrick. I was hard-pressed to hide my shock at the sight of him as I opened the door; they never could have managed it.