Cressida McLaughlin - The Dawn Chorus

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

The News Building

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in ebook format in 2018 by HarperCollins Publishers

Copyright © Cressida McLaughlin 2018

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018

Cover illustration © Alice Stevenson

Cressida McLaughlin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © March 2018

ISBN: 9780008225803

Version 2018-02-21

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd The News Building 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk First published in Great Britain in ebook format in 2018 by HarperCollins Publishers Copyright © Cressida McLaughlin 2018 Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018 Cover illustration © Alice Stevenson Cressida McLaughlin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Ebook Edition © March 2018 ISBN: 9780008225803 Version 2018-02-21

Part One: The Dawn Chorus Part One

Prologue Prologue The autumn wind rustled through the trees, and it was as if the building was sighing. The Georgian house was still beautiful, with its yellow paintwork, white pillars either side of the double front door, a curved gravel driveway and a long-dry fountain. The September sun made the tall grass of what must have once been a manicured lawn shimmer invitingly. But the black, wrought-iron gates were rusted closed, an ancient-looking padlock and chain adding an extra layer of security. The house had been empty for over fifteen years and, behind its elegant exterior, the cracks were expanding, the sturdy bricks and plaster giving way to trails of ivy and birds’ nests, crumbling to dust after so much neglect. It still looked proudly over Meadowgreen, the village it had once been the beating heart of, and the Meadowsweet Nature Reserve, its decay shielded behind tall, redbrick walls. But grass, brambles and bushes thrived where there was nobody to tame them. The mansion would soon be lost to nature, only an echo of the home it had once been. A ruby-red Range Rover drove past the walls and into the village, slowing to a near stop as if the driver were lost, before turning right into a narrow, tree-lined road. Then, towards the south corner of the house, where Meadowgreen’s main thoroughfare met a street of cosy terraces, a young woman, her dark blonde hair in a ponytail, breathed in the clean, countryside air and started walking, a handsome husky trotting alongside her. Suddenly, the air was full of birdsong: blackbirds chorusing, the high, repetitive call of a chaffinch, the conversational tweet-chat of a flock of starlings. If anyone had been paying attention they might have noticed the flash of the afternoon sun in one of the upstairs windows, or heard the sudden rush of wind that made each blade of grass stand to attention, almost as if Swallowtail House was waking up.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter 1

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Cressida McLaughlin

About the Publisher

The autumn wind rustled through the trees, and it was as if the building was sighing. The Georgian house was still beautiful, with its yellow paintwork, white pillars either side of the double front door, a curved gravel driveway and a long-dry fountain. The September sun made the tall grass of what must have once been a manicured lawn shimmer invitingly.

But the black, wrought-iron gates were rusted closed, an ancient-looking padlock and chain adding an extra layer of security. The house had been empty for over fifteen years and, behind its elegant exterior, the cracks were expanding, the sturdy bricks and plaster giving way to trails of ivy and birds’ nests, crumbling to dust after so much neglect.

It still looked proudly over Meadowgreen, the village it had once been the beating heart of, and the Meadowsweet Nature Reserve, its decay shielded behind tall, redbrick walls. But grass, brambles and bushes thrived where there was nobody to tame them. The mansion would soon be lost to nature, only an echo of the home it had once been.

A ruby-red Range Rover drove past the walls and into the village, slowing to a near stop as if the driver were lost, before turning right into a narrow, tree-lined road. Then, towards the south corner of the house, where Meadowgreen’s main thoroughfare met a street of cosy terraces, a young woman, her dark blonde hair in a ponytail, breathed in the clean, countryside air and started walking, a handsome husky trotting alongside her.

Suddenly, the air was full of birdsong: blackbirds chorusing, the high, repetitive call of a chaffinch, the conversational tweet-chat of a flock of starlings. If anyone had been paying attention they might have noticed the flash of the afternoon sun in one of the upstairs windows, or heard the sudden rush of wind that made each blade of grass stand to attention, almost as if Swallowtail House was waking up.

The robin is a small, brown bird with a red breast, that you often see on Christmas cards. It’s very friendly, and likes to join in with whatever you’re doing in the garden, especially if you’re digging up its dinner. It has a beautiful, bubbly song that always stands out, much like its bright chest.

— Note from Abby’s notebook.

Abby Field was off the reserve.

She didn’t know how it had happened, but one minute she was treading the well-worn woodland trail, intent on finding the perfect spot for the ladybird sculpture, the final creature in her nature treasure hunt, and the next she had pushed her way through the branches of the fallen elder and was standing at the side gate of Swallowtail House, looking up at the impressive, empty building. As always, she strained to see inside the grand windows, which remained free of any kind of boards, as if she could discover what Penelope’s life had been like all those years ago.