Echoes in the Darkness by Jane Godman

haughtily. “Now, Mr and Mrs Winton are understandably anxious to know what is going on, but I don’t think this is the best place for them. I suspect that you agree it would not be wise to allow them to see their daughter’s body?” He nodded morosely. “In that case, I will accompany them to their house, but you will need to send an officer along to keep us informed of events here.” He looked a bit taken aback at my imperious manner, but he acceded to my request. I paused to tell Lucy what I was doing and she threw me a grateful, approving look.
    The Wintons’ cottage was sparsely furnished, but neat and clean. I busied myself making tea while Mrs Winton flopped heavily into a chair, gazing numbly into space. Her husband began to pace restlessly up and down, which was not an easy feat in the confined space.
    “She were a good girl, our Amy,” he told me, with a fierce look that defied me to say differently.
    “Of course she was,” I said.
    “Only one we had,” he continued. Clearly a man of very few words, he suddenly seemed to feel the need to unburden himself to me, “We was older, both of us, when she came along and Martha here, she could have no more after. She wouldn’t have gone off with a man, like some have tried to say. Not our Amy…”
    “Is that her?” The room was devoid of ornament, but above the fireplace, a portrait of a young girl dominated the room. She was pale skinned and slender, and her fair hair appeared thick and abundant. Her expression was serious. I judged her age to be about fifteen.
    “Aye.” He took a seat near his wife and patted her hand. She did not seem to notice his touch. “Nothing would do but for Martha to have our Amy’s likeness taken by that fancy painter in Wadebridge. That would have been two or three years since. Cost every penny of the money she was left by her maiden aunt. Proper fierce we rowed about it! Didn’t we, love? I wanted a new shed.” His wife stared at him blankly, and we drank our tea in silence.
    Some time later, Lucy arrived with the sober-looking police officer, whom she introduced as Inspector Miller. He confirmed, in tones of deep theatrical tragedy, that the body was indeed Amy. “The doctor thinks she might have been, you know, interfered with,” he said hesitantly, casting a guilty, apologetic look around at our faces as he said the words. Mrs Winton raised a shaking hand to cover her mouth. “But it’s not possible to say for sure because of her injuries. Her throat was cut, and he stabbed her frenziedly on her breasts, her women’s parts and her lower abdomen. Where the womb is.” The explanation was unnecessary and jarring. “The doctor couldn’t count how many wounds there are. She had been there for some time, so he thinks she died the same day she disappeared.” He broke off abruptly as Mrs Winton fell to the floor in a faint.
    * * *
    There followed a strange time. It was as if we were all waiting for some unknown event, yet dreading it at the same time. I tried to avoid Cad whilst being achingly aware of him. My heart would pound wildly just at the sound of his voice uplifted as he called to a servant in another part of the house. When I heard his ready laugh ring out, a bittersweet pang of nostalgia tugged at a very specific point in the centre of my chest.
    “Stop scurrying away from me,
bouche,
” he said as he entered the library a few days after our first meeting. I had put my book aside and begun to rise from my seat.
    “I don’t scurry!” I protested, unaccountably annoyed at his use of the word.
    Cad’s beautiful mouth twitched slightly in appreciation. “Sorry. Stop gliding gracefully away from me,
bouche.
Is that better?”
    I gave the matter some consideration, my head on one side. “Marginally,” I conceded. “I am not afraid of you.” I lifted my chin proudly, at pains to convince him of that fact.
    “Well, you should be,” he said. “Because if you knew what went through my mind every time I