Cilla had confirmed, as asked, in writing that Johnny would very much like to move into one of the cottages and the promise to help Zoe was more than kind. And she requested that the new owner be thanked for confirming that The Nectarines would be theirs for the duration of their lives. Having it in writing meant a lot to Cilla and her nerves could climb down from high alert now. She was as chirpy as a spring sparrow though Zoe, Marnie noticed, was a little quieter than usual.
When Cilla brought Marnie a coffee, she closed the door behind her as if to impart a great secret.
‘I thought I’d let you know that Titus has called a meeting for everyone tonight in the Lemon Villa at seven o’clock.’
‘Oh really? That’s interesting.’ Not entirely unexpected though.
‘I think you should be there too,’ said Cilla. ‘You are part of this village as well. The new owner’s decisions affect you as much as us, I should imagine.’
‘Thanks for the tip-off,’ replied Marnie. ‘Just out of interest, you didn’t come up to the manor last night did you? About midnight?’
‘Whatever for?’ laughed Cilla. ‘Nope, not me. Or anyone in my house. We were all tucked up in bed for ten latest. Why?’
‘I was out walking and I saw the Pink Lady, so I ran up to catch her.’
Cilla shuddered. ‘You’re a braver person than me, then.’
Marnie had a sudden thought. ‘There aren’t any exits in the cellars, are there?’
‘Not that I know of. And I know this place inside out,’ said Cilla.
The cellars were the only place Marnie hadn’t checked. She thought she’d take a look after she’d finished her coffee.
On the way out of the door, Cilla turned back.
‘I heard what happened to Una and Kay yesterday. They’ve had it coming for a long time. Good on you, that’s what Griff told me to tell you.’
Marnie carried on looking through the ledgers. What Emelie had said about Lilian seeing something in the pages that made her realise where the well might be had been niggling her. If it was here, Marnie was determined to find it.
When she eventually lifted her head to rotate the stiffness from it, she saw Herv in the garden through the window and her body began to respond to the sight. She’d thought of that fleeting kiss more times than she should have and wondered what would have happened had she not run off like a racehorse spooked by a gun. She knew she should go and clear the air because she didn’t want things to be uncomfortable between them. She walked through into the conservatory and out of the doors, aware of her heartbeat increasing the closer she got to him.
‘Morning, Herv,’ she called. Please don’t hate me for being the rudest woman on the planet to you. Please don’t ignore me. He didn’t. He turned and smiled and she wondered what the hell she was doing not letting him have free access to her heart. And all areas.
‘Good morning. How are you today? Calmer, I hope?’
‘Yes, much calmer,’ said Marnie, although she didn’t feel very calm next to him. She felt as if she’d been plugged into the mains. Her eyes dropped to his hands on the garden fork and she recalled how tenderly they’d cradled her face.
‘Garden’s looking lovely,’ she said, scouring her mind for something, anything to say to him to show that she was okay with him, and wanted the same in return.
‘Thank you. I do my best.’
‘Is that edelweiss?’ She pointed to the small white flowers covering a large patch of the garden. Lilian’s tall lilies, standing in them, appeared to be growing in snow. It was an odd combination – but then, that was typical Lilian.
‘Yes it is. Mountain flowers in a garden, not my idea,’ and he clicked his tongue mock-disapprovingly. ‘They need a different soil but Lilian insisted so I persevered.’
‘You’ve done really well.’ God that sounds so patronising.
‘Thank you.’
The air between them was thick with unsaid words.
‘Herv, about yesterday . . .’
‘Don’t worry, it’s okay.’
‘I don’t want there to be any awkwardness between us.’
‘There isn’t, I promise.’
‘Really?’
He gave a small nod. ‘Of course, I understand.’
He didn’t understand at all. He might have thought he did, but how could he?
‘I like you,’ Marnie said with a tentative smile. ‘I would hate to think I gave you any wrong . . . any signals that . . .’
Herv tilted his head to one side and studied her intently.
‘I can wait,’ he said, his eyes twinkling.
‘No one can wait that long,’ replied Marnie, unsure if he was joking.
God he’s sexy, said that ridiculous voice in her head. Are you out of your tiny mind?
‘I don’t suppose you fancy a trip down into the cellar with me?’ she asked. ‘Have you got a big torch?’
Well if that doesn’t sound like innuendo, nothing does, the voice scoffed.
‘Sure,’ Herv answered her. ‘What are we looking for?’
‘A pink lady,’ she replied.
The cellar, or rather cellars because there were eight of them, was accessed from the old boot room next to the scullery. Lilian had shown her underneath the house once, but it wasn’t a very exciting place. It might have been when her grandfather was alive with his collection of valuable wines that her father either sold or drank. Now there were just empty racks and alcoves and lots of old furniture that was surplus to requirements covered in dust sheets.
The cellars were cavernous and chilly but there was nothing of interest down there. No secret doors – or trapdoors, for that matter, though she supposed that whoever she heard the previous night could have easily hidden themselves here until the coast was clear.
‘It definitely wasn’t an orb,’ explained Marnie, ‘it was a person, I swear it, a figure holding a torch or a light.’
‘I have no answers,’ said Herv, examining an alcove, knocking on the wall to find it was solid.
‘We need Scooby-Doo,’ sighed Marnie, then started to explain to Herv that he was a crime-solving cartoon dog, but Herv cut in and started singing the theme tune in Norwegian.
‘Se på Scooby-doo, så mye skrekk og gru . . . We have him in Norway. And we also don’t like Scrappy-Doo.’
‘I used to look like Velma when I was younger,’ said Marnie. ‘But without the glasses.’
‘No, I can’t see that. You are a Daphne.’
‘I wish.’ Daphne had always reminded Marnie of Gabrielle.
‘So am I Fred or Shaggy?’ asked Herv.
‘A hybrid.’
Herv laughed, a deep merry boom of a sound that bounced back from the cellar walls, and she had a sudden vision of lying in bed with him, her head against his great chest, his arm draped possessively around her. A lazy Sunday morning where they’d be trading information about themselves, their histories, their memories. He would be talking about flowers and loving families, happy times in Norway and a perfect childhood and she’d be like a black cloud of doom with a backstory of rejection and resentment and her Guinness Book of Records entry for most mistakes in one lifetime. It couldn’t ever have worked between them. He might have been able to plant flowers in his soil and let something good grow from it but her garden was full of triffids. He’d had a lucky escape.