Just Like the Other Girls(69)

Elspeth never mentions Una or Jemima. Not even Matilde. Considering Una died less than two months ago it’s like – from Elspeth and Kathryn’s point of view anyway – she didn’t exist. They’ve wiped her from their memories just like they did with the daughter, Viola, who supposedly ran away all those years ago. If Courtney hadn’t told me, I’d never have known Una, Jemima, Matilde and Viola had ever existed, let alone lived in this very house. It gives me the creeps when I think about it.

Kathryn’s cold, sneering face appears in my mind’s eye and disappears again, like a fading photograph. It sounds like Courtney and Peter are sure she had something to do with Una and Jemima’s deaths. And the bag Una found in the cellar is definitely suspicious – I can’t get away from that. Yet something doesn’t add up. Why would Elspeth employ a companion just for Kathryn to dispose of them? Is that what they do? Like the Moors murderers? One to lure and the other to kill? Kathryn doesn’t like us being here, that much is obvious, but … murder? Then I think of some of the true-life crime documentaries I’ve seen. Ordinary people kill for all sorts of reasons and sometimes no reason at all. Maybe Kathryn is a psychopath who is compelled to do it. And, if so, when did she start? With Matilde … or before that? With Viola? I shudder at the thought that maybe Viola didn’t run away after all.

The creak of a floorboard makes me jump. I spin around but nobody’s there. Oh, for goodness’ sake, Willow, I tell myself. Stop scaring yourself with these ridiculous thoughts.

I continue down the stairs. It’s dark, the only light coming from the moon filtering through the pane of glass in the front door, bouncing off the Victorian tiles. They are cold beneath my bare feet as I tiptoe across them. The cupboard on the left nearest the front door has a row of keys inside, dangling enticingly on a rack, like jewellery in a shop. They glint in the moonlight. There are about eight keys, plus a small bunch containing two and a diamanté key-ring in the shape of a dog, which I know are Elspeth’s because I’ve had to get them for her often enough. They open the front and back doors. The other keys are singles, each with their own little plastic-labelled fob. How very organized. The gallery keys must be here somewhere. I know Elspeth has a set. I cast my eye along them, but it’s too dark to make out the writing and I’ve left my phone upstairs. I unhook one and take it to the front door to catch the light. Study is written on it in Elspeth’s slanted hand. I return it and try another. Attic. I frown. I’m in the attic. I was given a key when I arrived, not that I ever use it. So this is a spare? What’s the point of giving me a key if they can gain access to my room any time they want? I replace it and go through the other keys until I reach the last one. This has to be it. I’m just about to hold it up to the light to read the tag to make sure, when I hear someone clear their throat.

I jump, almost dropping the key, and spin around, my heart thumping.

Elspeth is standing in the middle of the hallway, her chignon all awry and dressed in her favourite ankle-length thermal nightdress. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

I fold the key into my palm and close the cupboard. ‘I … I was checking the front door. I hadn’t double-bolted it.’

Even in the half-light I can see the doubt in her expression. ‘I thought I’d double-bolted it.’

‘Yes. Yes, you had.’

‘Right.’ She comes towards me. She looks like she’s floating in her long nightdress and I kick the cupboard closed with my foot before she asks why I’m looking in it. ‘So why did you check?’

‘Because I couldn’t remember you doing it. And I know how you like the house to be properly locked at night. So I thought I’d check. I couldn’t sleep for thinking about it.’

She smiles, reaches out and touches my hair almost maternally in a way I’ve never seen her do with Kathryn. Her little finger catches my cheek. ‘You’re a good girl,’ she says, her eyes softening. ‘I’m glad you’re here, watching over me.’

I feel a little awkward. So I stand there smiling inanely, wondering what the correct response should be. She’s so close to me I can smell her breath: mint mixed with something sour. The end of the key presses painfully into my palm.

‘Will you help me back up to bed? You know how difficult it is for me to climb stairs.’

I’d noted that she had no trouble getting down them but I agree – anything to stop her breathing in my face – and she takes my elbow, leaning on me heavily, even though she’s a head taller. Good job I’m stronger than I look, I think, as I help her back to her room.

She pats the edge of the bed. ‘Sit with me awhile,’ she says. ‘Now I’m awake I’ll have trouble getting back to sleep.’

She’s never asked me to sit with her before. Usually I put her to bed and she falls asleep straight away. Like clockwork. Every night at nine thirty on the dot. I wonder if she asked the other girls to sit with her like this, in her pristine bedroom, with the heavy walnut furniture and the Tiffany lamps. I sit awkwardly on the edge of the bed, while she lies back against the pillows, smiling indulgently.

‘I can make you some cocoa,’ I say, because that’s what they do in films – it gives me nausea and makes me want to pee.

‘No, I don’t like hot drinks before bed. Just sit. Please. Keep me company. I had an awful dream. I think that’s what woke me.’