Secret Lament Read Online Free Page B

anything? Spirits, after all, do not sleep.”
    “George,” Esther said with exasperation, “has discovered that if he opens the kitchen window on a windy night, the pots and pans all clatter together and wake the household.
Charles, however did you put up with him as an apprentice?”
    “Fortunately, he was only with me a few weeks before he died. What was he doing when your intruder attempted to get in?”
    “Thinking, he says. He believes he heard a scratch or two but took no notice. He thought it was probably a stray cat.”
    I stepped back carefully, on to the lawn. The path was of gravel and held no mark. I retreated to the herb beds, scanning for footprints in the soft well-tended soil. There were none. I looked
across the garden, squinting against the low sun.
    “Is there a gate to the street?”
    Esther pointed to a place where rose blossoms flourished.
    I walked slowly down the path, scanning the flowerbeds on either side. Beyond the beds stood three damson trees, then the path turned sharply right along the wall; the roses trailed long thorny
stems to snag at my coat. The gate was set back under a fall of heavy pink blossoms; I lifted the latch. It did not open.
    “It’s locked,” Esther said behind me. Silently, she handed me another key. Her hand brushed mine; I shivered with its warmth.
    This lock too opened smoothly; I pulled open the gate and saw outside a narrow cobbled lane, bordered on both sides by high garden walls. It was a dead end; Esther’s gate stood at the
blocked end.
    I checked the lock on both sides. There were no scratches.
    I walked down the alley. The garden walls were high and well-maintained; no crumbling mortar offered handholds that would have enabled someone to climb. A ladder might have been set up, I
supposed, and would have left no marks on the cobbled alley but the thorned roses would have made it impossible to get down on the garden side.
    The street at the end of the alley ran at right angles, passing the back walls of the houses in the square. As I stood looking along it, several people trudged past, casting me incurious
glances. Late at night, drunks sauntered along here; the lower sort of thief would think Esther’s house worth breaking into; even if all he got were a few silver spoons or lace cloths, it
would repay the risk handsomely. But how could he have got into the garden?
    I went back to Esther who was standing by the back door of the house, turning the house key in her hands.
    “Perhaps the gardener was right and the scratches were caused by Tom,” I said. “No one could have got into the garden.”
    She hesitated then shook her head. “There was someone. I saw him.”
    I stared at her in horror. “But you said – ”
    “That none of the servants heard anything. They did not. But I did.”
    She breathed deeply. In the strong light of the setting sun, I saw how tired she was, and how unnerved, and that worried me more than anything. Esther is not a weak woman to break down in
fearful tears at the first hint of danger. I’ve seen her outface a whole gang of ruffians.
    “Last night I had a headache when I went to bed,” she said. “I was restless, could not sleep. I heard a noise, after midnight, I think. A kind of chink.”
    “Like keys?”
    She considered. “Perhaps. The only thing I could think of was that perhaps a fox had got into the garden and knocked something over. So I got up to look.”
    “And you saw something – someone.”
    She was breathing more easily now, as she thought back to the events of the previous night, as if it was a relief to explain what had happened.
    “It was very dark, unfortunately – the moon had not yet risen. But I saw a shadow moving away from the house, along the line where the path is. I distinctly saw him where the path
turns, as if he was going down to the gate. Then I lost him.” She gestured in annoyance.
    I took the key from her, ushered her back into the house, locked the door firmly. “This is