“The servants’ corridor?” Tom pointed through the archway.
“No. Narrower.”
“Sounds like the attic. Where was I, at the time?”
“I don’t know. Do you think we should tell the cop?”
Tom winced. “Tell her what exactly?”
“Good point.”
Tom squeezed Amelia’s arm. “Keep thinking.”
As he headed for the entrance hall, he rubbed his face, and discovered that only part of it was shaven. He’d got halfway through in the shower before getting the flashback to the body in the rug, or whatever that was.
As mornings-after went, this one was completely nuts. But then, even before the hallucinations had started, it was well on its way to being a deeply intense twenty-four hours, mostly in good ways. Very good ways. It would indeed be a wrench to lose Amelia to dull old Mr. Knightley.
Tom hauled open the main doors and jogged down the steps. After briefly greeting the visitors, he took Xanthe aside. “Have you heard from Duncan this morning, by any chance?” he said. His mouth was so dry it was hard to speak properly. He’d given Amelia a glass of water and forgotten to pour one for himself.
“Not a peep,” Xanthe said, looking around. “He’s usually faffing about somewhere when we arrive, to make sure the tourists don’t take one look at the place and back out. Something wrong?”
“Not at all,” he said. No point worrying her if it was indeed a hallucination. “If you see him, let him know I’m looking for him?”
“He’ll be out fixing fences for your nonexistent sheep. He’s determined no one is going to find fault with his landscaping. I told him they’ll probably concrete the lot. Tossers.”
“Hey, can you stall coming into the kitchen for a bit?”
“Sure. Everything okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“That might well be the most likely explanation.”
Her face lit up. “Which one? The soldier, yeah? I swear I’ve been feeling his presence. And did you hear that scream yesterday, just after we did the air raid siren? It was unearthly.”
“I’m joking. No ghosts. Just … a technical hitch. Five minutes.”
By the time Tom returned to the kitchen, Amelia nearly had it restored to its normal state of disrepair.
“I’ve mostly just shoved everything in the nearest cupboard,” she said as she finished wiping down the table.
“Isn’t that what cleaning up is? Might as well leave it there for when they bring in the wrecking ball.” He grabbed a cloth, wiped the kitchen sink, then stood back, assessing. “That’s respectable enough—thank you. Looks like less of a crime scene. Did you find your keys?”
“No,” she said, doing a last circuit of the room, “I remember putting them in my pocket after I locked the car, and that’s all.”
“The bedroom?”
“I had a good look this morning.”
“While you were creeping away without saying goodbye?”
Suddenly, Amelia screeched and sprang backwards, clattering into a stack of copper pans. She was staring at something on the floor, beside the door to the kitchen garden. “Holy shit, is that … blood?”
Tom caught up with her. It did look like a pool of blood. Dark-red rivulets had flowed out between the flagstones and dried. He tracked the trail back to a bottle of wine, knocked onto its side. He picked it up and swished around its remaining contents. “Not blood. That was one of the bottles that had gone off. There was thick sediment in it, remember?” He grabbed a mop from a bucket in a cleaning cupboard and ran it over the puddle. “And now it looks like a poorly cleaned crime scene.”
“Yes, when you look closer, it’s too gritty for blood.” She planted her palm on her chest, relieved.
Xanthe stuck her head around the arched doorway. “Are we good to go? I’ve left them in the… Oh!” she said, noticing Amelia.
“Hi!” Amelia said, awkwardly loudly.
