Secrets and Lies by Janet Woods

envelope in her pocket.
    She slowed when Foxglove House came into view. It stood tall in its neglected grounds, and cast a long shadow. She imagined its dark and dusty interior, the probing gleams of light momentarily piercing the cracks in the shutters, but not lingering long enough to allow the ghosts to escape and introduce themselves.
    The house was a closed book to her, yet it contained her story. One day she’d discover what it was and record it in her diary. She might even write a book. She liked writing.
    Nutting Cottage was a bit of a walk, so she took the leash from the dog and picked up pace. She should have borrowed her Uncle Chad’s old bicycle, but then, the inner tubes would probably have perished after all this time.
    A thin trickle of smoke came from Nutting Cottage chimney. It was a pretty cottage with roses growing round the door. Her mother owned it and Major Henry lived in it. Yet the two never spoke. How odd it all was.
    It was with some trepidation that she knocked at the door. She felt like a traitor to her mother. There must be a good reason why she would not allow this man to intrude into their lives. Alarm speared her. What if he was a murderer?
    Her heart pounded when the door opened and she felt like running. At the same time, her feet refused to move.
    He was wearing a russet red cardigan with brown plus fours, grey socks and carpet slippers. The brightness of his cardigan surprised her. It seemed young and flamboyant, as though he hadn’t noticed himself growing old inside it. In comparison, his pink scalp shone through thin white hair.
    She didn’t know what to say, but he did, and his voice was kind of clipped. ‘Hello. It’s Margaret, isn’t it? I’ve seen you walk past now and then. How lovely. I wondered when you’d find time to visit a lonely old man.’
    He stood aside to allow her entrance and her feet obeyed the gesture. Shadow glued himself to her side, and the cottage swallowed them when the major shut the door. It smelled fustily of burned on grease and stale sardines, as if the windows were never opened to let the fresh air in. ‘You know me then?’ she said.
    ‘Of course . . . of course. It’s Richard’s girl . . . my . . .
granddaughter
.’
    There, that had confirmed what she’d always known, deep down.
    ‘I’ve brought you a letter that came from America,’ she said, as he ushered her into the sitting room, and she placed it on the sideboard. ‘The postman delivered it to our house.’
    Shadow commandeered the worn, multicoloured length of the hearthrug, turning round three times in some doggy ritual before sinking on it with a sigh.
    ‘It was nice of you to deliver it personally. You’ll stay and have tea, won’t you? There’s fruit cake.’
    ‘Thank you, sir, but I should be getting along. I’m walking the dog.’
    He raised an eyebrow as he took in Shadow. His eyes were astute as he gazed at her, and he offered her a conspiratorial smile that made her feel slightly uncomfortable. ‘I don’t think the dog will mind, will you, boy?’ Shadow raised his head to look at him and thumped his tail before going back to sleep again. ‘The thing is, will you? I’ll go and make the tea. You make up your mind whether to stay or go. The door’s not locked.’
    She gazed around the room she was in. There was nothing sinister about the comfortable chairs and occasional tables. An upright piano fitted in an alcove with a small display of photographs on top.
    There was a picture of her father in his uniform. He looked handsome. There was a close up of a woman’s face. She picked it up and gazed at it. The woman was perfectly breathtaking.
    To Henry. Love always, Rosemary Mortimer
, was dashed in black ink across the bottom. That was the name on the back of the envelope she’d brought him.
    She was still looking at it when she heard him returning. Quickly she set the photograph back on the piano and took her seat. He carried two cups of tea and slices of