‘How long have you worked for Mr Priest?’ she asked.
‘Seven years – since they first bought the house. Flora was only a baby when they came.’
Eve nodded. Flora was the child, she thought, making a mental note. She was trying to think of something else to ask but she was struggling to focus because it was so cold in the car and she didn’t want to ask this rugged woman to turn up the heating.
Hilditch turned off the main road through the forest and drove up a gravel driveway before stopping at a set of iron gates. Hilditch leaned out of her window and typed a series of numbers onto an electronic screen that looked out of place next to the old gates and stone fence. It was the security system of a man who did not want to be bothered.
‘Is Mr Priest well known in the village?’ she asked. ‘Does he, you know, visit the library or the school or anything? Make himself a part of the community?’
‘People know of him but he doesn’t head out much. I do all the running around since Mrs Priest has gone,’ Hilditch answered but there was a pinch in her voice, as though Eve had touched a nerve.
If Eve was a famous author, she would share her success with everyone, she thought as Hilditch started driving along the road that stretched ahead, sloping upwards.
Edward Priest was probably one of those people who wanted to be mysterious and enigmatic but was actually just plain rude.
Large trees lined the way on either side and large brown rocks were dotted about the landscape, popping out of nowhere. It was a dramatic landscape, very Brontë-esque.
Eve knew well enough to be silent as Hilditch’s car went into the next gear and the hill became steeper as they began their ascent. Soon the trees began to clear and then the car rounded a corner and there stood an imposing Jacobean manor, complete with fog surrounding it and a single light on in the top tower.
There was a steeply pitched roof, with a perfectly symmetrical display of chimneys, gables, dormer windows and ornately carved arches around the windows. The house was grand but bleak in its outlook, its smoky shade of grey stone and the wind that was making the trees wave in protest.
There were two large urns on either side of the magnificent front door, with a conifer tree in each, and one had a sad-looking piece of red tinsel hanging on for dear life in the wind.
There was nothing welcoming about the house, Eve thought. It looked like a place where children were sent for punishment in Victorian times.
There were yew trees topiarised into cone and cylinder shapes dotted about the lawn, and paths leading to ornate gardens that spread beyond the house. A large fountain seemed to be an afterthought, perhaps installed by a previous mistress of the house to try and make it look less gloomy. The car stopped next to the fountain and Eve could see it was dry.
‘Geesh, that’s something out of a Gothic novel. It’s what I imagined Lowood School to look like inJane Eyre.’
Hilditch stopped the car and looked ahead. ‘Welcome to Cranberry Cross.’
Her voice had lost its warmth and was there a chill in the car or was she imagining it?
Eve felt the hairs on her arms rise and she shivered.
‘Someone walk over your grave?’ asked Hilditch as she opened the car door.
Probably Serena if she messed up this assignment, Eve thought, and hoped to the gods of writing that Edward Priest was ready to get to work.
3
Edward often told people that being an author was like having homework for the rest of your life. If truth be told, Edward was very behind on his homework on the day Eve Pilkins was travelling to Cranberry Cross.
‘Hilditch,’ Edward yelled from the doorway of his study.
Silence answered and he slammed the door shut and went back to his desk.
This book was proving to be impossible. He had started it four times and now it was a cobbled-together mishmash of ideas and chaos.
Of course, Serena Whitelaw had sent one of her lackeys up to spy on him under the guise of editing his work. Eve Pilkins. What a terrible name, he thought, as he poured himself a whiskey for lunch since Hilditch had gone missing.
Eve Pilchards, he would have called her if they were at school together.
But that was the name of an older woman, with a sour expression and who carried brown bread sandwiches in her handbag.
He sat at his desk and tapped at the keyboard of his computer.
I am a terrible writer, and nobody knows. The end.
