The Ghost Tree: Gripping historical fiction from the Sunday Times Bestseller. Barbara Erskine

obviously, that you had kept a key to her house when she asked you to leave.’

      ‘My house.’ Timothy was tight-lipped.

      ‘I doubt if any court in the land would substantiate that claim.’ Finlay folded his arms. ‘I understand you’ve removed articles belonging to Ruth’s mother which are her property and no part of her father’s inheritance; that is theft.’

      Timothy stared at him, seemingly inarticulate with fury, then he turned and walked back to the car. Finlay closed the door. He put his hand in his pocket and brought out his phone. ‘Let me make a note of the licence number for future reference.’

      Ruth was seething with anger. ‘The nasty sneaky man! What was he planning to do when he got in?’

      ‘I should have asked him.’ Finlay slipped his phone back into his pocket. ‘I think you should ring your Mr Reid. Tell him what happened. We have to keep the law tight on your side and at the same time warn him that your so-called brother is not playing cricket.’

      Ruth stared at him, her mouth open. ‘My brother!’ she echoed in horror. ‘No!’

      ‘Well, half-brother. And almost certainly, no. He will have to take a DNA test to prove it.’

      ‘Of course.’ She frowned. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. That will prove he isn’t Dad’s son.’

      There was a moment’s silence. ‘Or that he is.’

      ‘Right.’ Finlay glanced towards the window. ‘Let’s see if he’s gone. If he has, I’ll load up my car with anything you want to save right now before he has a chance to come back. You should also tell Reid that he went through your mother’s belongings, and damaged them, and you suspect he may have taken valuables away. For instance,’ he paused thoughtfully, ‘what about jewellery? Or family silver? Those pictures you mentioned. You showed me the ring and the little miniature, but what else did she have?’

      ‘There was a jewellery box. I can’t really remember what was in it, but it lived on her dressing table. I don’t think Dad made her lock that away, but she never wore anything out of it as far as I remember. That’s not up there.’ She gave a miserable little wail. ‘Oh, Finlay! If he has taken anything I’ll never know.’

      ‘We’ll sort it, Ruthie, don’t you fret.’

      They packed up all the most sentimentally precious things and locked them in the boot of his car, then he helped her search her father’s desk for his chequebook and bank cards, things that it had not even occurred to her to look for, and which were conspicuous by their absence. He stood by while she rang the bank and reported their theft, then he took her out to lunch.

      When he finally drove away that evening he tried to persuade her to go with him, but she refused.

      He didn’t argue. ‘OK. Good for you. Stick to your guns and stay safe and call me at any time of day or night if you need me.’

      She watched him drive away then closed the door and bolted it before wandering back towards the kitchen.

      The house was dark and very quiet now that he had gone. As she reached for the light switches by the kitchen door she stopped suddenly in her tracks. She had heard a noise from the kitchen, she was sure of it. She held her breath, listening. Had Timothy managed to find a way in round the back? The silence stretched out and then she heard it again. It was another second before she realised with a flood of relief that it was the sound of the tap dripping slowly into the sink. She took a deep breath and brought her hand down heavily on the switches, lighting every corner of the kitchen. There was no one there.

      Of course there was no one there.

      For several seconds she stood still as slowly her heartbeat returned to normal then she walked over to the back door and checked the locks. No one could have come in that way. Picking up her laptop, she tucked it under her arm. The wave of loneliness and despair that swept over her was overwhelming.

      In the end she turned off the lights and climbed wearily to her bedroom, wishing she had taken up Fin’s invitation and gone home with him. Below, in the darkness, the house was very empty. Clutching her teddy bear in her arms she climbed into bed and lay there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling.

       7

      Timothy’s sister, April, was waiting for him in the White Hart, a glass of shandy before her on the table, a bottle of lager for him. She looked up as he walked in. ‘Did you get in?’

      ‘Nope! She’s changed the locks.’

      ‘I told you she would. You should have taken everything while you had the chance.’

      He sat down opposite her and reached for the bottle, twisting off the cap. Taking a large gulp, he wiped the foam from his lip with his sleeve. ‘We’ve got most of the valuable stuff anyway. Do you want to get me another one?’

      ‘Not particularly.’ She was very like him to look at; the same skin, the same colour of hair, but while his eyes were brown hers were hazel. She studied his face closely. ‘You look rattled.’

      ‘There was someone else there. A big bloke. Some kind of minder.’

      She scowled. ‘Never mind. You don’t need to go there again. We got what we came for: the old man’s cash, jewellery, silver. Now you can sit back and wait for the house to fall into your lap.’ She took a sip from her glass.

      He noticed the packet of crisps at her elbow and reached across for it. ‘But she’s obviously gone to the solicitor.’

      ‘Of course she has. He will have contacted her the moment he received the new will.’

      ‘Doesn’t it worry you?’

      ‘No. It’s your word against hers. She hasn’t seen her father for years.’

      ‘What about the DNA?’

      She gave a grim smile. ‘You got it, didn’t you? The swab from the old man’s mouth.’

      Timothy grimaced. ‘Disgusting.’

      ‘Proof!’ She smiled at him. ‘Just don’t lose it.’

      She reached into her pocket. ‘I’ve been going through some of the stuff you brought back.’ She brought out a small cotton bag and tipped half a dozen rings into the palm of her hand.

      ‘Don’t!’ Timothy let out a cry of alarm. ‘For God’s sake, April. Someone will see.’

      ‘Shut up, you numpty. You’re just drawing attention to us.’ She rattled her two hands together then opened them with a smile of triumph as if she had produced the rings out of thin air. ‘These are nice. Gold, rubies, diamonds. Victorian, I should say. Not worth a lot these days, but better than a slap in the face. Eighteen carat. They’ll melt down well if nothing else.’

      They both looked down at her hands. She reached for one of the rings and slid it onto her little finger. It wouldn’t go over her knuckle. ‘They must have had tiny hands in those days,’ she said critically. She shivered suddenly and plucked the ring off. ‘It doesn’t feel right. Been on a dead person, I reckon. That’s why I hate second-hand stuff.’ She tipped the rings back in the bag and pulled the cord round its neck to tighten it. ‘Best move these on as soon as.’

      Timothy frowned. ‘We can’t risk it. Not yet. Ruth might be able to identify it. Just sit on it for a bit. All of it.’ He helped himself to a handful of crisps. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ She was staring down at her hand, lying on the bag.

      She shuddered visibly. ‘I told you. Someone walked on my grave.’

      He laughed. ‘Stupid mare. I tell you, if you want something spooky, it’s that house. It gave me the creeps,