‘A tricky manoeuvre,’ I say, straight faced.

  ‘What an awful woman,’ Bea adds. ‘No wonder you don’t go to her classes any more.’

  ‘And what’s this about yoga?’ Gabriel is looking at me and Bea quizzically.

  ‘We’ll tell you,’ I say, gesturing to the table. ‘But first I need to chuck this out. Sandwiches, anybody?’

  ‘Why did she keep going on about you being busy?’ he asks, as I scrape the meal into the bin. I’m glad he can’t see my face.

  ‘I have no idea,’ I lie.

  ‘It was probably an obscure dig,’ he says. ‘She’s obviously taking it personally that you’re not going to her class.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agree, gratefully. ‘I think you’re right.’

  I search Cecily’s room again. I rattle the locked drawer in the dressing table and try picking the lock with a hair pin I find in Cecily’s make-up bag; but it doesn’t work like it does in films. The hair pin snaps. The key must be hidden somewhere, so I go through the room systematically, sliding my hand into the back of drawers, checking under ornaments. I pick up the two books on her bedside table, flicking through pages in case there’s a hidden cut-out. I don’t find a key, but a piece of loose paper wafts out of the Bible. The paper is covered in her handwriting. I sit on the side of the bed to read it.

  There’s a chunk of text about yew trees, which she must have copied from a book.

  Druids held them sacred in pre-Christian times. They have been used as symbols of immortality, but also death and omens of doom.

  I think of the yew tree at our childhood home – the thick, gnarled branches, the split trunk. It was supposed to be over three thousand years old. Our father found a Civil War cannon ball lodged inside it when he was a boy.

  The toxicity of the leaves is due to alkaloids known as taxines. Eating even a small quantity can be fatal. The victim is unable to breathe properly, becomes confused, has convulsions, and falls into a coma. There’s no known antidote.

  When we were children, we’d dared ourselves to eat the red yew berries. They’d smelt of pear drops but tasted disappointingly of nothing much. We’d rolled them on our tongues, spitting out the deadly seed before swallowing the flesh. Afterwards, we’d have a raging thirst and run inside to gulp water from the kitchen tap, laughing with the relief of being alive. Why is she researching yew trees? Perhaps she’s finding facts to impress our father with – she did it all the time as a child – always thinking of what she could do to pacify and please him, bringing him snippets of information like a dog bringing a stick to its master.

  There’s a name with a question mark after it. Edith Baxter? A phone number and address scribbled underneath. I can’t think where I’ve heard the name before. I frown, concentrating. There’s a brief flicker in the shadows of my mind, the shiver of something lost.

  Another name, this time underlined. Mary Deveraux. No address or telephone number. She must be a relation. Her portrait might even hang at Hawksmoor.

  The next name makes me gasp. Jude O’Clery.

  We’d crouched on the landing by the window that terrible morning and watched him getting into an unfamiliar car. He’d cringed as he walked past our father. He’d looked beaten, forlorn, not like the Jude we knew with the easy grin and broad shoulders, cigarette clamped between his lips as he rolled a cricket ball over his thigh. We never saw him again. He didn’t come to Henry’s funeral. I haven’t thought of him for years.

  She’s got an address for him too, and a phone number. I stare at the number. I have an urgent desire to call him now. I’m sick of the passive waiting game she’s forced me to play; he might know where she is. It’s late, but not too late. But I can’t ring him from the house phone, it would elicit questions from Gabriel that I can’t answer.

  I check that I have enough coins to pay for a call and slip out of the front door into the darkening evening, hurrying to the bottom of the street where I remember seeing a phone box. Inside, I hold my breath against the stink of urine, and dial the number on the paper. He answers straight away. ‘Jude?’ I grip the greasy receiver tighter, reeling from the sound of his voice, the memories it releases. ‘It’s Cecily,’ I say after a beat.

  ‘Cecily?’ He’s surprised, but not in a good way. ‘I don’t think we have anything else to say to each other.’ His voice has become cold. ‘Do we?’

  A whirly-gig of panic. I clear my throat. ‘I’d like to see you, Jude. Just to talk.’

  There’s a moment’s silence. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘One more time,’ I say. ‘Please. It’s important.’

  He sighs, ‘It’s difficult for me. You must understand that.’ His voice breaks. ‘I don’t want to go over it again.’

  ‘I promise I won’t make it difficult,’ I say, cautiously, feeling my way. ‘And… and I’ll never bother you after this.’

  There’s another echoing silence. The hiss of the connection. ‘Alright,’ he says, grudgingly. ‘But you’ll have to come to me again. I can’t get away during the week.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I say, remembering that he lives in Bath. ‘That’s fine. Where should we meet?’

  ‘Same place as before?’

  ‘Remind me.’

  A restaurant. I repeat his words. We arrange a time and date, and I replace the receiver. I remember her shivering in her silver dress the night of the party – do you think Jude likes me? – she’d been bright with hope that night. But nothing happened between them. Not then. If she’s started to have an affair with him all these years later, that could explain the subterfuge and mystery. Perhaps he’s married too. But it sounds as if the relationship has ended. Or at any rate, he’s ended it, and Cecily’s pursuing him, refusing to take no for an answer.

  As I push out of the phone box and walk home, I think I hear footsteps behind me, but when I turn, the footsteps stop and there’s nothing there, except a liquid swill of shadows. But I feel a prickle of knowing. A sense that I’m not alone. A rush of adrenaline makes my muscles tense, and I’m primed to run. I walk quickly, with the keys in my hand. The footsteps pad behind me again. When I get to the house, I glance back up the street, searching the inky darkness between pools of streetlight. Nothing, except the cat who comes slinking from under the privet hedge. Perhaps it had been my own stuttering heartbeat I’d heard. I open the door and slip into the hall, Sukie at my heels.

  23

  CECILY

  It had been snowing heavily since Henry’s funeral, and I woke up to an eerie nebulous feel, ghostly white light reflecting through my window. It was still early, but I couldn’t go back to sleep. I pushed my feet out of the sheets, stepping into a freezing draft, and tugged a cardigan around my shoulders. I didn’t want to be alone. I’d slip into bed with Alice until it was time to get up. Unlike me, she never had trouble sleeping. She’d harumph when I woke her, but she’d lift the cover as she always did, shifting over for me to clamber inside. We’d stay snug, pressed hip against hip, our feet entangled. She’d wince at the touch of my icy toes, but she wouldn’t really mind. Now that Henry was gone, we needed each other more than ever.

  I padded along the corridor on bare feet. ‘Alice?’ I whispered, shivering on the threshold. But I could tell the room was empty as soon as I stepped inside; there was an Alice-absence, a lack of energy in the frigid air. The covers were neatly pulled up on her bed, the pillow undented by her head. I walked over to the wardrobe and wrenched it open. Empty metal hangers jangled as I ran my hands across them. I sat down heavily, mattress springs creaking. She’d threatened to run away, and now she’d done it. I gulped down a sob. Images flickered behind my eyelids: Alice trekking through a rocky landscape, stopping to pluck figs and olives from trees, Alice murdered by Arabs, Alice swimming in the Sea of Galilee. A hysterical laugh formed inside me and died before it could express itself in sound. How could I survive without her? She promised she’d never leave me. We said we’d be together forever. And now she was gone.

  She’d left before I could tell her the truth about Henry – about what I saw him doing with Jude and what happened afterwards. I needed to tell her, but I’d been plucking up the confidence, rehearsing the words. Pressure squeezed my ribs, a constraint around my throat as if hands were squeezing. I thought I might cry, and waited for tears to fall, but my eyes remained oddly gritty and dry.

  The room was freezing, and I pushed my numb feet under her covers. I lay down and pressed my face into her pillow, searching out the last traces of scent. ‘Alice,’ I moaned through chattering teeth. ‘Why did you go?’

  Tears escaped from under my lids, trickling along the edge of my nose, making a salt path across my cheek, slipping into my ear. It was a relief to cry, to feel my body taking charge of my emotions.

  Daddy banished all traces of Alice and Henry from Hawksmoor. Silver-framed photographs were swept off dressers and sideboards, images of Henry and Alice in christening gowns and school uniforms were removed from the grand piano. Henry’s sporting cups, his clothes, his books, and Alice’s abandoned possessions disappeared. Coats, wellingtons, and shoes were taken from the boot room, along with the grimy shape of Henry’s ribcage etched into the lining of his gaberdine mac, the shape of Alice’s long hands, continuously shoved into pockets, worn into the soft, tweedy blue of her coat. Their tennis racquets and riding hats vanished too, the strapped handles and inner silks darkened with their sweat. Nobody was allowed to mention their names. It was as if they’d never existed.

  My shock and rage became grief, and then a quiet despair, a cold emptiness. Severed from my twin, I existed inside solitude, removed from everyone. But I had to take on the weight of the others. I had to somehow make up for their disappearance. Daddy needed me. I was the last one left, the only hope for future.

  Mummy became one of the ghosts wandering the corridors, Dilly padding at her heels. She murmured under her breath as she went in and out of empty rooms as if she was continually looking for something. Daddy was a man made of ice, his expression rigid, teeth clenched, eyes dead. He locked himself in his study to work on the book and nobody dared disturb him. He’d thrown an axe at Jane’s head when she went in to retrieve his tray, and she’d given her notice, saying it was the last straw.

  Then a letter arrived for me.

  Dear Cecily,

  I’ve arrived at the kibbutz. It was a long journey, and sometimes frightening. I pretended you were with me to give me courage. I know you’re angry with me for leaving. But I didn’t have a choice. Please forgive me, darling Cecily, and remember it’s not too late. I wish with all my heart you’d come too. If you change your mind, I’m here, in the place where Jesus walked – just think of it!

  Tell Mummy that I’m fine and not to expect me home for a long time. There are people here from all over the world – America, Japan, Canada, Germany, France – and loads more. It’s incredible mixing with different cultures and religions. Everything is shared equally between us – all the chores. We work hard, but there’s lots of fun too, drinking sweet Israeli wine, and dancing. We’re going to go on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem soon. There’s a little Arab village nearby, but sadly no communication between us. My shoulders ache from picking fruit, but I’m already tanned and stronger.

  Please write back to me. I’ve enclosed the address. I miss you.

  Love, Alice.

  I missed her too. She was right, I was angry with her, but having her letters gave me hope – and I told myself that I could go to her if I wanted. But my life was here, at Hawksmoor, and I knew I wouldn’t leave. I wrote back, and that was it, the beginning of our secret correspondence.

  In my last years at school, without Alice to outshine me, I found I wasn’t as stupid as I’d believed. I worked hard. I aimed to go to university and do history, Daddy’s favourite subject.

  I took a short typing course at school, for girls who wanted to be secretaries, and plucked up enough courage to suggest to Daddy that I could type up his manuscript for him. He refused at first, but after a couple of days, he agreed.

  ‘Three evenings a week,’ he said. ‘You will sit in the office with me. But I must have silence while I’m working.’

  He grumbled about the noise of the typewriter keys, and then seemed to get used to them. We sat together at opposite ends of the desk, the sound of wood pigeons cooing on the roof. The massive manuscript was impenetrable. Daddy’s handwriting was almost illegible and scored through with crossings-out, the pages jumbled in the wrong order, but I worked through it methodically, doing my best. The Labs lay at our feet, farting and sighing. Daddy smoked and scratched his chin, scribbling furiously, consulting some of the history books he kept piled on his desk. Sometimes there would be a weapon laid out before him which he’d take to pieces and sketch, labelling the parts.

  It didn’t matter if we didn’t speak, I was happy to be engaged in a joint project, to be allowed in the same room. He’d ask me to hold the end of a tape measure, or a cannon ball he wanted to weigh. I wrote things down for him – measurements, numbers, making sure my handwriting was clear and accurate.

  After a couple of weeks of sitting in silence, he began to talk. And it was as if he couldn’t stop. He spoke about the tragedy of the Great War, the three Deveraux sons that had been killed in it, and how the youngest, who remained, had gambled some of the estate away. He told me about General Deveraux who’d lost his eye in combat and was promoted to Field Marshal. He described the grand shooting parties and the balls that had been held in the Edwardian era, and his memories of being a boy in World War Two when the house had been requisitioned by the army, how he’d tried to lie about his age so that he could enlist, and how the house had been left badly damaged, and the family uncompensated.

  I listened, asking questions, feeling a surge of satisfaction that I had been the one to bring Daddy back, to relight his burning, blue gaze. His impatient movements returned, and his ringing, imperious voice. The others had betrayed him, but it was my faith that had saved him. ‘This family has been in residence at Hawksmoor since William the Conqueror,’ he said. ‘Of course, it looked very different then. Country houses didn’t exist. It’s been built and added to over the years. We’ve survived wars, disease, the Industrial Revolution, taxes, the Crash of ’29. And I’m dammed if we’re giving in now.’ He’d given me a look that made my stomach turn over. ‘The Deveraux are tough. The world has tried to erase us. But we fight back.’

  He threw back his head and laughed, and I laughed too, feeling euphoric with the sense of being chosen, the knowledge of his approval. But I kept a watchful eye out for his sudden switch into anger, or despair.

  24

  ALICE

  It’s a long trip to Bath, so I’ll only have time for a quick lunch before I’ll have to rush for the return train. I’ve left Bea something to heat up when she gets back from school, and a note explaining I’ll be late. As I walk briskly through the spring sunshine, a chill runs down my spine and across my scalp; I turn quickly and stare behind me. There’s no one there, except a woman on the opposite pavement walking her dog, and someone with their hood up turning down a side street. What if another of Cecily’s one-night stands comes after me again? I hold the keys in my fist, ready to stab. I’m not defenceless. I’ve spent years surviving alone.

  At the station, I queue to buy a ticket from the booth, and feel a crawling sensation over my skin, a prickle of knowing – as if someone’s gaze is on my back. A few people wait in line behind me, and I look at their faces. They seem unconcerned and bored; one man taps his foot and looks at his wristwatch. A group of chattering women walk past with wheelie suitcases, and a few people are reading the departures board. There’s a tall man with his back to me, studying one of the posters on the wall on the other side of the hall. I take my ticket and hurry onto the platform. As I find a seat on the train, I tell myself that my imagination is working overtime.

  The restaurant is near the station. It’s a French bistro done up in red, with gold lettering picking out the name; inside there are spindly wooden chairs and checked tablecloths, waiters in white aprons. I recognise Jude at once. He’s sitting at a corner table, consulting the menu. He’s thinner, making the wide bones in his face more prominent; his mop of hair is a little less luxuriant, but he’s as handsome as I remember. He stands up politely when he sees me, but his expression is wary.

  ‘Well,’ he says, gesturing at the other chair. ‘It’s an awfully long way to come for lunch.’

  The strength goes out of my legs, and I sit down and pour myself some water from the bottle on the table. I gulp half a glass, using the time to collect myself. The waiter comes over and we order; I pick the first thing my finger points to on the menu and wait for the man to move away.

  ‘Jude,’ I say quietly. ‘I’m not Cecily. I’m Alice.’

  He stares at me. ‘What?’ He searches my features with guarded curiosity. ‘If this is joke,’ he says slowly. ‘I don’t think it’s funny.’

  ‘It’s not a joke.’ I keep eye contact with him. ‘I promise.’

  He continues to scrutinise me in silence, then, ‘My God,’ he lets out a breath. ‘You were always identical. But this…’ his hand moves to describe the curve and planes of my face, sketching me on an invisible canvas. ‘I only saw her a few weeks ago – I’d never have been able to tell the difference if you hadn’t told me. It’s a subtle thing. More a feel than anything.’

  ‘Jude,’ I clear my throat. ‘I need to ask you something. Are you having an affair with Cecily?’

  I may as well have slapped him. His stunned expression tells me everything I need to know. ‘Sorry,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s just… you didn’t sound too pleased to hear her on the phone, and she’s been acting strangely⁠—’