Maud Westaway St. Piran missing dead said the grayed-out text beneath the link, showing that it didn’t tick all the search boxes, but that, nonetheless, this piece was the best match.

Hal didn’t click. She didn’t need to. The information she needed didn’t lie in this piece, with its lurid details and sorrowful tone. Self-styled psychic practitioner, Hal remembered, and familiar local figure in her characterful dress, as though her mother were one step away from a medicated stay in a secure facility, rather than a cheerful, down-to-earth woman making a living for herself and her child in the best way she could.

Great loss to the pier community, though, that was true.

Hal still remembered the way they had gathered round her when she returned to her mother’s booth, the mute sympathy on their faces, the way she had found that for months and months afterwards, cups of hot tea would be left quietly outside her kiosk on cold days, how the mistakes in the change at the fish-and-chips stand were somehow always in her favor.

Now she blinked as she scrolled past the links about the crash, her vision blurring as she tried to make out the text in the other pieces. She clicked through to a few, but none of them were related. There was a missing West Highland terrier in St. Piran, and a slew of totally irrelevant links from baby name websites and the St. Piran tourist board.

At last, she shut down the screen, drew the eiderdown around her shoulders, and simply sat, looking out of the little barred window across the rain-spattered garden.

Whoever Maud Westaway had been, whatever had happened to her, she seemed to have gone without a trace.

CHAPTER 12

* * *

It was the sound of tires on the gravel outside the window that made Hal’s head jerk up, breaking into her thoughts. The satin eiderdown slithered from her shoulders and she snatched for it reflexively, shivering in the sudden gust of cold wind, and then let it fall as she went to the window to see who had arrived.

She could not see the faces of the people below, only the tops of their heads and their umbrellas as they hurried across to the main doors, but she could see the parked cars—they were the two long black sedans, sleek as sharks, that had made up the funeral cortège.

The family had arrived. The real test was about to begin.

She felt suddenly sick with nerves, lightheaded with tension. This was it. A face-to-face encounter with her supposed relatives. Was she really going to do this?

She played people for a living—in her moments of clear-eyed honesty, she knew that. But this was different. This wasn’t just telling gullible people what they wanted to hear or already knew. This was a crime.

“Bugger tea,” Hal heard, floating up the stairwell as she reached the bottom of the narrow attic staircase. “Brandy’s what I want—or whiskey, if you can’t do that, Mrs. Warren.”

Hal heard no reply from Mrs. Warren, but there was a remark from one of the other brothers and a gust of laughter, and she heard one of Harding’s children complaining at having to put away his phone.

This was it. The moment of truth. The words floated into her head unbidden, and she let out a short laugh. Truth? No. Lies. The moment of lies.

She had been preparing for this her whole life.

If anyone can do this, you can, Hal.

She flexed her fingers, feeling like a boxer before the fight—no, that wasn’t quite right, for this was going to be a test of mental agility, not physical. Like a grand master before a chess match, perhaps. She saw herself, as if from above, her hand hovering over a pawn, ready to make the first move.

The cold seemed to be leaving her now, and her face felt flushed and hot with anticipation as she descended the next flight of stairs, her heart beating hard beneath the black dress.

“Let’s see if we can’t get you some hot chocolate, darling,” she heard from a female voice—not Mrs. Warren, for it was clipped and rather monied. Mitzi, presumably? “That morbid wait by the grave was the absolute limit, Harding. Kitty’s frozen, where are the bloody radiators in this place?”

“There aren’t any, Mit, you know that perfectly well. But I expect there’s a fire in the drawing room,” Hal heard.

As she rounded the corner of the stairs she saw them all: Harding struggling out of a Barbour jacket; Abel tapping on his phone in the corner of the room, still in his raincoat; Mitzi pulling layers off the children.

Not one of them looked up as she began to make her way down the final flight, until she stepped on a loose board, and Ezra’s head came up.

“Hellooo . . .” he drawled, and Hal felt her face flush as all the heads turned towards her, their expressions ranging from curiosity to frank surprise. “I saw you at the funeral, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Hal said. She swallowed. Her throat felt dry and sore, almost as if a thorn were stuck there, digging in. “Yes, my—my name is Hal, short for Harriet. Harriet Westaway.”

Their faces didn’t change until a little dry cough came from behind Harding’s shoulder.

“Harriet is . . . Maud’s daughter.”

It was Mr. Treswick who had spoken, and his quiet voice cut through the chatter in the hallway like a knife through cheese.

The name plainly meant nothing to younger members of the group, nor to Mitzi, who carried on as if he hadn’t spoken, shooing her children towards a room up the corridor, complaining audibly as she departed about the smell of damp.

But to the three brothers, it was as if he had sworn, or smashed the empty china vase standing at the foot of the stairs. Harding felt for the chair behind him and sat down abruptly, as if he no longer trusted his legs. Abel gave an audible gasp, and his hand went to his collar. Only Ezra didn’t move. He went quite still, and his face turned pale.

“She had—she had a child?” It was Harding who spoke first, the words clotted and thick as though he had to force them out. “Why didn’t we know?”

“No one knew,” Mr. Treswick said. “Except, evidently, your late mother. Perhaps your sister told her, I am not certain.”

But Abel was shaking his head.

“She had a child,” he said, repeating his brother’s words, but with an entirely different emphasis, as if he could not believe the words, or the reality behind them. “She had a child? But—but it makes no sense.”

Hal felt her stomach shift, and she gripped the banister tightly, feeling her sweaty palm slide against the polished wood.

“It makes no sense!” Abel repeated. “She wasn’t—she didn’t—”

“Nevertheless,” Mr. Treswick said, “here is Harriet.”

Hal took a step down into the hallway, feeling her heart beating fast and hard inside her chest, thinking of the part she had to play. It’s natural for you to be nervous, she told herself. You’re meeting your family for the first time. You can use this fear—make it your own.

“I didn’t know I had an uncle,” she said, not trying to hide the tremor in her voice, as she held out her hand towards Harding. “L-let alone three.”

And he took it, his fingers warm and thick around her cold ones, and shook it, hard, in both of his, as if that handshake could somehow seal a bond between them.

“Well, well, well,” he was saying. “Very pleased to meet you, Harriet.”

But it was Abel who pulled her into a hug, crushing her glasses into his damp raincoat, so hard that she could feel his heart beating beneath her cheek.

“Welcome home,” was all he said, his voice shaking with a kind of painful sincerity. “Oh, Harriet. Welcome home.”

5th December, 1994

Maud knows. She came to my room last night after I had gone to bed, but I knew before that—I knew from her expression as she watched me over the dinner table, pushing the congealing cod and limp broccoli around my plate with my fork, feeling the nausea rise at the back of my throat.

I knew then, from the look she gave me, and the way she shoved her plate away and stood up, that she had guessed.

“Sit down,” her mother snapped. “You do not leave this table without asking permission.”

Maud gave her a look close to hate, but she sat back down.

“May I leave the table?” she said, spitting each word out as if it were one of the stray bones from the cod, arrayed around the edge of her plate.