Sleeper’s Castle: An epic historical romance from the Sunday Times bestseller. Barbara Erskine

rain on the flagstones outside the windows.

      Huddled under the duvet in her bedroom she put on the bedside lamp and reached for one of her favourite books. Later she would turn on the TV or perhaps start to plan a supper party to return Sian’s hospitality. Anything to distract her. She didn’t want to think about Kew. She didn’t want to think about Rhona there in her home, Graham’s home, desecrating the place, taking ownership of everything Andy treasured and loved. She didn’t want Rhona invading her memories. Better to try and forget.

      But it was no good.

      ‘Graham,’ she whispered. ‘Where are you?’ The loneliness was unbearable.

      On that last sunny day she and Graham had spent at the house in Kew before he had had his terrible life-shattering diagnosis they had wandered out onto the terrace with a jug of Pimm’s and two glasses and the Sunday papers. She was barefoot; she remembered clearly the wood of the boards warm under her feet. Graham of course would have been wearing shoes. She didn’t ever remember seeing him without shoes in the garden. In her mind she put down the paper and her glass and she walked down the steps onto the grass, which was soft and warm beneath her toes.

      As she walked across the lawn the sun went in and a cloud crossed the sky, blotting out the blue. The first drops of rain began to fall.

      She turned and looked back at the house. It had changed. The season had changed. It was raining hard now; Graham had gone. The table on the terrace was deserted, raindrops bouncing off its surface. Before going in he had tipped the chairs against it so the rain ran off their seats. It was the last time they had sat outside together.

      Running up the steps she put out her hand to the door. ‘Let me in, Graham,’ she called. But the door was locked. There was no Graham there.

      Rhona shivered as she walked down the passage towards the back of the house. It was a dull wet day and the building felt empty and cold and sad. Pushing open the door and switching on the lights she walked into the kitchen and stopped short. There was a figure outside on the terrace, peering in through the glass of the French doors. Miranda. She could see her clearly. With an exclamation of utter fury she turned and ran back into the hall. With only the smallest hesitation she picked up the phone in the living room and dialled 999.

      There was a clean wash of cold sunshine across the garden next morning as Andy walked into the kitchen and switched on the radio. There was no sign of Pepper but she filled his bowl with biscuits, rather hoping the familiar rattle would bring him bouncing in through the cat flap. There was still no sign so after a minute she put it on the floor anyway; he was probably celebrating the return of the sunshine and would come in later. She reached for the jar of muesli and was stooping to take the jug of milk out of the fridge when there was a knock at the back door.

      The policeman was tall and fair-haired and accepted a cup of tea with alacrity. ‘I just need to establish your whereabouts last night, Miss Dysart.’ Sitting at the kitchen table he smiled at her as he reached for his notebook.

      She stared at him, confused. ‘I was here. Why?’

      ‘Can you prove it?’

      She frowned. ‘My mother was here until about four o’clock. She’d been spending the weekend with me. I saw her off down there in the lane.’ She had glanced down at the parking space when he arrived and seen the blue-and-yellow squares of the police car with the Welsh word Heddlu inscribed across the doors parked in the space where her mother’s Citroën had been.

      ‘And your mother could vouch for your presence here and the time she left?’

      ‘Yes, of course she could. Why? Is she all right? Oh my goodness, she hasn’t had an accident?’ Andy was suddenly frantic.

      ‘No. No. Nothing like that.’ He smiled at her reassuringly. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. It must be a case of mistaken identity. There has been a complaint that you were harassing someone in Surrey last night.’

      ‘Oh no. Not Rhona.’ Andy looked at him in despair. ‘Rhona Wilson? In Kew?’

      ‘So you do know the lady?’

      Andy sighed. ‘Oh yes, I know the lady. She’s the former wife of the man I lived with for ten years. She can’t forgive him, or me, for being happy together after she left him. She’s a vindictive bitch.’ She smiled at him apologetically. ‘Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have said that. But really … No, I wasn’t harassing her last night. I was here. I can’t prove it, though; there wasn’t anyone else here to back me up.’

      ‘Your mother left at about four o’clock, you say?’

      Andy nodded.

      ‘Well, the complaint was made at six fifteen last night. So unless that car out there is a great deal faster than it looks …’ he looked up and gave her an apologetic grin, ‘I don’t see how you could have driven to Surrey in the time. Would your mother confirm the time she left?’

      Andy nodded again. ‘I’m sure she would. She’s very accurate about things like that.’

      ‘Perhaps you could give me her address and one of my colleagues can take a statement from her. Then we can put Mrs Wilson’s mind at rest. Have you any idea why she should think you were at her house yesterday evening?’

      Andy gave a groan. ‘If anyone was being harassed it was me. She drove me away after Graham died a couple of months ago. He left me the house in his will, but the will disappeared.’ She paused. ‘I can’t prove that either. She just upped and moved in. I decided it was better I leave the area, and I was lucky that Sue, the lady who owns this place, was going away and needed a house-sitter. So I quietly faded out of Rhona’s life. Or I thought I had.’

      He was staring at her, his elbows on the table, his yellow jacket crackling slightly as he lifted his mug to drink. ‘That’s Sue Macarthur? She’s gone to Australia?’

      Andy nodded. ‘You know her?’

      He smiled even more broadly. ‘Everyone knows everyone round here, you’ll find.’

      ‘Do you mind me asking how you knew where I was?’ Andy shivered. ‘Rhona was very unpleasant after Graham’s death. She rang me constantly and made life very unhappy for me. I was anxious she shouldn’t know where I was living after I came to Wales.’

      He flipped the page back on his notebook. ‘Mrs Wilson said a James Allardyce would know where you were. He was contacted and he gave your address to the constable in charge of the case.’

      ‘James,’ Andy whispered. One of the trusted few who had sworn not to tell Rhona where she was. ‘Will the police have told her I’m here?’

      He hesitated. ‘They will tell her that we have proved you couldn’t have been in her back garden. I will mention to my Surrey colleague that you want your whereabouts protected. I’m sure they would keep it confidential anyway.’

      ‘I hope so. James shouldn’t have told anyone where I was. I thought I was safe here.’

      ‘Mr Allardyce had no option but to tell the police,’ he replied reproachfully. ‘But I will make sure they understand the situation. They’re used to dealing with domestics.’

      Andy gave a small laugh. ‘A domestic? Is that what this is?’

      ‘Well, I admit it is unusual. And the fact remains, if it wasn’t you banging on her kitchen door, then who was?’ He glanced up at her again. ‘Perhaps she was dreaming.’

      His quick look had been casual, but she could see him trying to read her mind, double-check, form a judgement.

      He pushed away his mug, standing up at last. ‘Well, I’m sorry to have disturbed you so early. I will report back and make sure they understand the situation. Obviously Mrs Wilson was mistaken. I’m sure we won’t have to bother you about this again.’

      Andy watched from the window as his car reversed out of the parking space and turned down the lane. She sighed and glanced at her