The Devil`s Feather by Minette Walters

two staircases, one at the front and one at the back leading down to the scullery. This gave me confidence that I could outwit any intruder. I sprayed Jess’s WD40 into every external lock on the ground floor, and embraced the doors and windows as escape routes rather than entry points.
    Nevertheless, it was Winterbourne Valley that was the real healer. The contrast between the noise and chaos of Baghdad and these peaceful fields of ripening corn and yellow rapeseed couldn’t have been greater. Passing cars were few and far between and people even scarcer. From the upstairs windows I could see all the way to the village in one direction and to the Ridgeway—a fold of land behind Dorset’s coastline—in the other. This gave me a sense of security for, even though the hedgerows and darkness would screen a trespasser, those same concealments would hide me.

     

    J ESS WAS A DEDICATED CONSERVATIONIST. Apart from her hostility to social change, she farmed her land in much the same way as her ancestors had done by scrupulously rotating her crops, rationing pesticides, stocking rare breeds and protecting the wild species on her property by conserving their natural habitats. When I asked her once what her favourite novel was, she said it was The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. It was a rare piece of irony—she knew I’d identify her immediately with the difficult, unloved orphan of the story—but the landscape of the hidden wilderness was certainly one she liked to inhabit.
    By contrast, Madeleine liked her landscapes populated. She was at her best in company, where her easy charm and practised manner made her a popular guest. Peter described her as the typical product of an expensive girls’ boarding-school, well-spoken, well-mannered and not overburdened with brains.
    I thought her extraordinarily attractive the first time I met her. She had the sweet face and cut-glass English accent of the elegant British movie stars of the forties and fifties, like Greer Garson in Mrs. Miniver or Virginia McKenna in Carve Her Name with Pride. It was the second Sunday of my tenancy. Peter had asked me along to meet some of my new neighbours over drinks in his garden. It was very casual, about twenty people, and Madeleine arrived late. I believe she came uninvited, as Peter hadn’t mentioned her beforehand.
    Despite the photograph on the landing at Barton House, I had no idea who she was until we were introduced. Indeed, I’m sure I assumed she was Peter’s girlfriend, because she tucked her hand through his elbow as soon as she arrived and allowed him to lead her about the garden. His guests were genuinely pleased to see her. There was a lot of hugging and kissing, and cries of “How are you?” and I was slightly taken aback to discover this was Lily’s daughter.
    “Your landlady,” Peter said with a wink. “If you have any complaints, now’s the time to make them.”
    I’d been doing rather well up until then—with only the odd flicker of anxiety when I heard a male voice behind me—but I felt a definite lurch of the heart as I shook Madeleine’s hand. If Jess was to be believed, she was a callous bitch who had driven her mother into penury and then neglected her. My personal view was that Jess’s unaccountable hatred clouded her thinking, but the doubt was there, and Madeleine read it in my face.
    Her immediate response was contrition. “Oh dear! Is the house awful? Aren’t you happy?”
    What could I do, other than reassure her? “No,” I protested. “It’s beautiful…just what I wanted.”
    There was nothing artificial about the smile that lit her face. She removed her hand from Peter’s elbow and tucked it into mine. “It is beautiful, isn’t it? I adored growing up there. Peter tells me you’re writing a book. What’s it about? Is it a novel?”
    “No,” I said cautiously. “It’s non-fiction…a book on psychology…not very exciting, I’m afraid.”
    “Oh, I’m sure it is. My mother