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‘Gran specifically left this and the riddle for us but you never took it seriously, not really,’ said Isla, grabbing the letter from its envelope on the top of the bureau and waving it at her sister. ‘You only stuck around to try and get me to sell up.’
‘How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t want you to sell this place? And what do you mean I never took the letter seriously? Of course I did. Who was it who got hold of Edith’s death certificate and found out vital information at the cultural centre? I’ve done loads and it’s not my fault that Gran’s riddle makes no sense.’
‘It does make sense but we just can’t see it,’ said Isla through gritted teeth. ‘There must be a reason she wrote it – “don’t get in a spin, girls, though mistakes can cost you dear. This one brings good fortune and, I hope, will make you cheer.”’
‘Please stop repeating the riddle! What good fortune is she talking about? If Gran had a stash of money somewhere, we’d have found it by now. We’ve been through her bank accounts and there’s no pot of gold hidden under her mattress.’
Had they even checked under Jessie’s mattress? wondered Maisie, feeling increasingly hot and uncomfortable as the argument continued to escalate. It reminded her of school, when the WhatsApp girls ramped up their bitchy remarks.
Her eyes went back to her phone and she felt the blood drain from her face because the video was still on TikTok and she’d been tagged into another one. The second video had obviously been shot by someone else in the classroom, from a different angle, and Maisie’s face was in close-up as the gloop covered Miss Welby – at first Maisie was laughing, and then her expression morphed through concern and horror into fear.
‘The answer must be in this letter,’ said Isla, her loud voice breaking into Maisie’s thoughts.
‘No, it isn’t,’ Caitlin shouted back. ‘We have to stop kidding ourselves. I know why it’s so important to you to solve what Gran—’
‘Oh, you know why, do you, Caitlin? You know nothing about me after fifteen years away. I can’t believe you—’
‘Stop it!’ yelled Maisie, jumping up and grabbing the letter from Isla’s hand.
Her tray and its contents tumbled to the floor but she didn’t care. Her life was falling apart.
‘Give me the letter,’ said Caitlin, taking a step towards her. ‘Give it back now.’
‘No!’ Maisie turned and threw the piece of paper towards the fire.
Time seemed to stand still as it floated through the air and, like a magnet, was pulled into the flames. The letter curled and crackled as it caught alight.
‘Grab it quick!’ said Isla, rushing to the fireplace and kneeling down.
But it was too late, Maisie realised as the flames flared higher and the paper blackened, turning to ash. It was all far, far too late. She ran from the room, grabbed her coat from the coat stand and fled into the night.
38
MAISIE
She had to be in. The good thing about visiting an ancient recluse was that they were never out. Maisie hammered again on the front door and yelled ‘Connie!’ at the top of her lungs. It was scary being out here on her own in the dark, with the wind whistling round the corners of Connie’s isolated farmhouse.
Upset and anger had carried her along after she’d stormed out of Rose Cottage and marched through dark lanes that led towards the moors.
But as the lights of the village had disappeared into the distance and spits of sleety rain hit her face, Maisie’s anger had begun to fade. Now all that was left was upset – and fear. What on earth was she doing out here, all alone?
When the front door was suddenly wrenched open, Maisie let out a scream and jumped back. Connie, in a long white nightdress in the barely lit gloom of the hall, looked like a ghost of Carmichaels past.
‘Well, that’s nice,’ the old lady grumbled. ‘You frighten me half to death, hammering on my door in the dead of night, and then you scream when I open the door.’
‘Sorry,’ Maisie managed. ‘I didn’t think you’d be in bed.’
‘Not much to stay up for round here, and I’m always up with the dawn.’ Connie narrowed her eyes. ‘What are you doing here in the dark?’
‘Um…’ Maisie looked at her feet. She didn’t know why she was here. Not really. She’d had nowhere to go after storming out of the house and the only place she could think of – her only refuge – was here, with a ninety-seven-year-old woman who hated everyone. Including her.
Connie let out a long sigh that echoed the wind wrapping around the eaves. ‘I would leave you outside to freeze but I s’pose that’d cause a stir with the authorities, and I’m trying to keep my head down right now. So you’d best come in.’
She pulled the door wide open and, once Maisie had stepped inside, banged it shut behind her. Maisie felt prickles of fear run down her spine. What if the rumours about the Carmichael family were true and Connie was a serial killer on the quiet? At least Maisie would have the benefit of youth if it came to hand-to-hand combat.
‘Come on,’ said Connie, leading her into a room Maisie hadn’t been in before. She switched on a bare lightbulb that hung from the nicotine-stained ceiling. ‘Go on, sit down.’ She grinned her gap-toothed smile. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to murder you.’ Picking up a grey cardigan from the back of a chair, she pushed her arms into it. ‘So what brings you to my door at such an ungodly hour?’
‘It’s only half past eight,’ protested Maisie.
