Sophie Draper - The Stranger in Our Home

Then I heard a different sound. The familiar ping of an incoming Skype call, my laptop in the kitchen. I almost skipped down the stairs, dashing into the kitchen, grabbing for the mouse to answer the call, cursing as my mug of tea crashed to the ground.

‘Hi, Sis.’ It was Steph. ‘Sorry it’s so early.’ Her face quivered into focus on the screen.

I didn’t reply. I looked at the clock. It was almost seven in the morning. Dawn wasn’t far off. It would be two am in New York.

‘Caro? Are you there? I saw you were online – I’ve just got in from a night out. Thought I’d see if the connection worked. Are you okay?’

‘Yes … no, really I’m fine.’

I spoke too quickly, actually not sure that I was. But I was pleased to hear her voice. The electricity coming back on must have triggered a reconnection to Skype. Blood welled slowly from my palm and I was unsettled.

‘How’s it going?’ she said.

‘Okay – well sort of. There was this guy in Ashbourne who was a bit nasty.’

‘Nasty? Oh Caro, what happened?’

I gave her a potted history of the incident outside of the artists’ shop.

‘That’s horrible, some people are prats. Don’t let it get to you. But this man who tried to help, he sounds nice – what did you say his name was?’

‘Craig something. He said he’s my neighbour, the cottage down the road.’

‘Oh, I think I know that name.’

‘You know him?’

‘Sort of. That sounds like Craig Atherton.’

I waited, expecting to hear more. ‘And?’

‘Well, there’s not much to say. I remember him from school. He was cool. You won’t have known him, he’d have been in the older class. I heard he’s a carpenter now, he’s on Facebook.’

The village school had been tiny, only two classes, that much I did remember. And Steph was right, I had no memory of a Craig Atherton. I tried to picture the man as a boy, kicking a ball around in the playground with his mates … No, it didn’t gel – I couldn’t remember him at all. But that didn’t surprise me, most of the kids had kept their distance, I’d always been the outsider.

I opened my mouth to speak, but Steph was before me.

‘Look Caro, I’ve gotta go, it’s really late over here. I just rang to check in with you. I wanted to know that you’re alright.’

I felt the warmth of her voice enclose me. Only Steph could have understood how I must be feeling, back here in this house.

‘I’ll call again, if you like, tomorrow evening, your time. Take care of yourself. Bye!’

‘Bye!’ I said.

I felt unexpectedly bereft. But Steph had already signed off.

As the morning progressed, the weather didn’t improve. The sky was heavy and grey and whirling with large snowflakes. The house was like a fridge and I went to find another jumper. When I got back to the kitchen my mobile rang.

‘Hello?’

‘Miss Crowther? Is that Miss Caroline Crowther?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hello, Gareth Briscoe here, from Briscoe, Williams and Patterson.’

‘Oh, hi.’

I gripped the phone and sat down. It was the lawyers, the ones who were handling probate. They were Elizabeth’s lawyers really and it had been Briscoe who’d organised everything. His voice was low and deep. I imagined a portly fellow, propping up the bar at his gentleman’s club, cracking open another bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.

‘I understand you’re now at the house.’

‘Yes.’

‘And all is well, you have what you need to settle in?’

‘Oh, yes, thank you. Everything’s fine.’ Sort of.

‘Wonderful.’

Briscoe sounded uncomfortable, I wasn’t sure why.

‘I’m glad you felt able to move in for a while,’ he carried on. ‘And deal with the contents, it’s not an easy job after losing a loved one.’

Loved one – didn’t he realise? Probably not and why would he? I’d never met him, and it didn’t seem likely that Elizabeth would have ever discussed with him the exact nature of our relationship.

‘It’s a big old house and not in the best of condition. It’s been a bit neglected over the years too. And I don’t know to what extent the funeral directors …’ he gave a cough ‘… cleaned up.’

After Elizabeth’s fall – that’s what he meant, didn’t he?

‘I’m sorry, I’ve no wish to distress you,’ he said.

I began to warm to the man; did he have a family, grandchildren? He sounded genuinely concerned.

‘No, it’s okay – I’m fine.’

I thought of the rug that had been in the hallway, the stain underneath. Briscoe, with the best of intentions, was serving only to remind me of what had taken place. Elizabeth lying dead in the house. I suddenly wondered who had found her. How long had her body been lying there? A few hours, a day, longer? Slowly decomposing in this house? No one had said. Had that been the reason for the musty smell? It hadn’t occurred to me when I’d agreed to come that I would be living in an isolated empty house where someone had recently died. Or that there would be visible evidence of her death. I shifted on my feet, straightening my back. I wasn’t superstitious about that, was I?

Briscoe coughed again.

‘Good. Don’t worry about the bills, heating, et cetera, they’ll be charged to the estate whilst probate is still pending. Just send me any invoices and statements that you find, or anything that comes through the post, and I’ll deal with them. It’s all in hand, but I have to warn you, in a case like this, probate can take a while.’

‘A case like this?’ I asked. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh well, only that the property in the estate can take time to value and unravel. Everything has to be totted up, for inheritance tax purposes, you understand. We’ve had an estate agent visit the house already, but the investments may take a little longer, and the trust is quite complicated.’

The trust – Steph had already explained about the trust.

‘Hang on, did you say investments?’

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t know anything about any investments.’

‘Ah, well, it’s mainly stocks and shares that are bound into the trust, and the estate includes a small cottage.’

‘A cottage?’

I heard a murmur of voices in the background. Was that the rattle of a tray being placed on a desk?

‘Yes, Lavender Cottage. I believe it was rented out. The tenant is still there, a Mr Atherton.’

‘Oh.’

I felt my heart sink. Craig, the man in Ashbourne, had been Elizabeth’s tenant. And was presumably now my and Steph’s tenant.

‘So it might take us a while to settle things and resolve probate, but I promise you that everything’s in hand.’

‘Thank you, Mr Briscoe. I appreciate the call.’

After he rang off, I sat there looking through the kitchen doorway, into the hall with its pool of light from the window on the stairwell. I felt the blood rushing to my head. The rug might be gone, but there was still that stain, a disturbing reminder of what happened. I’d never been one to get superstitious, but now all those films and stories about restless spirits and ghouls lurking in abandoned houses came rushing into my head.

The last thing I wanted to do was to get down on my hands and knees and scrub Elizabeth’s blood from the stone floor.

I decided to distract myself. I turned out the drawers of the hall table, emptying leaflets, maps and business cards onto the floor, kneeling to rifle through them. The business cards were illuminating: Dave’s TV aerials, Ashbourne Window Cleaners, Larkstone Butcher’s. So, Elizabeth had been a regular at the butcher’s? Not really a surprise, but did that have something to do with their apparent snub to me? I shook my head. I pushed the papers and cards into a pile to throw away.