“It’s this way,” he said tonelessly.

He opened the gate and led her down a set of narrow, steep steps to the door of a fl at. Unlike the building itself, which was in sad disrepair, the door was sturdy, freshly painted, with a brass knob gleaming in its centre. He unlocked and opened it, gesturing Barbara inside.

She saw at once that a great deal of care had gone into the decorating of the little home, as if the occupants wanted to drive a very fi rm wedge between the exterior grubbiness of the building and the crisp, clean loveliness of what existed within it. Walls were freshly painted; floors were covered with colourful rugs; white curtains hung in windows which housed a splendour of plants; books, photograph albums, a humble stereo system, a collection of phonograph records, and three pieces of antique pewter occupied a low shelving unit that ran along one wall. There were few pieces of furniture, but each one had been clearly selected for its workmanship and beauty.

Jonah Clarence set his guitar carefully down on a stand and went to the bedroom door. “Nell?” he called.

“I was just changing, darling. Out in a moment,” a woman’s voice replied cheerfully.

He looked at Barbara. She saw that his face had become grey and ill. “I’d like to go in-”

“No,” Barbara said. “Wait here. Please, Mr. Clarence,” she added when she read his determination to go to his wife.

He sat down on a chair, moving painfully, as if he had aged years in their brief twenty-minute acquaintance. He fixed his eyes on the door. Behind it, brisk movement accompanied light-hearted humming, a lilting rendition of “Onward Christian Soldiers.” Drawers opened and closed. A wardrobe door creaked. There was a pause in the humming as footsteps approached. The song finished, the door opened, and Gillian Teys returned from the dead.

She looked exactly like her mother, but her blonde hair was quite short, almost like a boy’s, and gave her the appearance of being ten years old, something that carried over to her manner of dress. She wore a plaid, pleated skirt, a dark blue pullover, and black shoes and knee socks. She might have been on her way home from school.

“Darling, I-” She froze when she saw Barbara. “Jonah? Is something…?” Her breathing seemed to stop. She groped for the doorknob behind her.

Barbara took a step forward. “Scotland Yard, Mrs. Clarence,” she said crisply. “I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Questions?” Her hand went to her throat. Her blue eyes darkened. “What about?”

“About Gillian Teys,” her husband replied. He hadn’t moved from his chair.

“Who?” she asked in a low voice.

“Gillian Teys,” he repeated evenly. “Whose father was murdered in Yorkshire three weeks ago, Nell.”

She backed into the door stiffl y. “No.”

“Nell-”

“No!” Her voice grew louder. Barbara took another step forward. “Stay away from me! I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t know any Gillian Teys!”

“Give me the picture,” Jonah said to Barbara, rising. She handed it to him. He walked to his wife, put his hand on her arm. “This is Gillian Teys,” he said, but she turned her face from the photograph he held.

“I don’t know, I don’t know!” Her voice was high with terror.

“Look at it, darling.” Gently, he turned her face towards it.

“No!” She screamed, tore herself from his grasp and fled into the other room. Another door slammed. A bolt was shot home.

Wonderful, Barbara thought. She pushed past the young man and went to the bathroom door. There was silence within. She rattled the handle. Be tough, be aggressive. “Mrs. Clarence, come out of there.” No reply. “Mrs. Clarence, you need to listen to me. Your sister Roberta is charged with this murder. She’s in Barnstingham Mental Asylum. She hasn’t said a word in three weeks other than to claim to having murdered your father. Decapitated your father, Mrs. Clarence.” Barbara rattled the handle again. “Decapitated, Mrs. Clarence. Did you hear me?”

There was a choked whimper from behind the door, the sound of a terrifi ed, wounded animal. An anguished cry followed. “I left it for you, Bobby! Oh God, did you lose it?”

Then every tap in the bathroom was turned on full force.

Clean. Clean! Have to do it. Have to get it. Fast, fast, fast! It will happen now if I don’t get clean. Shouting, pounding, shouting, pounding. Ceaseless, endless. Shouting, pounding. But they’ll both go away-God, they must go away-once I’m clean, clean, clean.

Water hot. Very hot. Steam gushing forth in clouds. Feel it on my face. Breathe it deeply to be clean.

“Nell!”

No, no, no!

Cupboard handles slippery. Get it open. Pull it open. Get the shaking hands to fi nd them, hidden safely under towels. Stiff, hard brushes. Wooden backs, metal bristles. Good brushes, strong brushes. Brushes make me clean.

“Mrs. Clarence!”

No, no, no!

Ugly breathing, tortured breathing. Fills the room, pounds in ears. Stop it, stop it! Hands at head can’t stop the echo, fists on face can’t kill the sound.

“Nellie, please. Open the door!”

No, no, no! No doors open now. No escape can come that way. Only one way to escape it. And that’s clean, clean, clean. Shoes off fi rst. Kick them off. Shove them quickly out of sight. Socks come next. Hands don’t work. Tear it! Fast, fast, fast!

“Mrs. Clarence, do you hear me? Are you listening to what I’m saying?”

Can’t hear, can’t see. Won’t hear, won’t see. Clouds of steam to fill me up. Clouds of steam to burn and sear. Clouds of steam to make me clean!

“Is that what you want to happen, Mrs. Clarence? Because that’s exactly what’s going to happen to your sister if she continues not to speak. For life, Mrs. Clarence. For the rest of her life.”

No! Tell them no! Tell them nothing matters now. Can’t think, can’t act. Just hurry up, water. Hurry up and make me clean. Feel it on my hands. No, it’s still not hot enough! Can’t feel, can’t see. Never, never be clean.

She called his name Moab, father of Moabites unto this day. She called his name Ben-ammi, father of the children of Ammon unto this day. The smoke of the country went up as the smoke of a furnace. They went up out of Zoar and dwelled in the mountain. For they were afraid.

“How is it locked? Is it a bolt? A key? How?”

“I just…”

“Pull yourself together. We’re going to have to break it.”

“No!”

Pounding, pounding, loud, relentless. Make them, make them go away!

“Nell, Nell!”

Water all over. Can’t feel it, can’t see it, won’t be hot enough to make me clean, clean, clean! Soap and brushes, soap and brushes. Rub hard, hard, hard. Slip and slither, slip and slither. Make me clean, clean, clean!

“It’s either that or call for help. Is that what you want? The whole bloody police force breaking down the door?”

“Shut up! Look at what you’ve done to her! Nell!”

Bless me father. I have sinned. Understand and forgive. Brushes digging, brushes digging, brushes dig to make me clean.

“You don’t have any choice! This is a police matter, not some marital squabble, Mr. Clarence.”

“What are you doing? Damn you, stay away from that phone!”

Pounding, pounding.

“Nell!”

Reader, I married him a quiet wedding we had: he and I, the parson and clerk, were alone present when we got back from church I went into the kitchen of the manor house where Mary was cooking the dinner and John cleaning the knives and I said Mary I have been married to Mr. Rochester this morning.

“Then you have exactly two minutes to get her out of there or you’re going to have more police than you’ve ever laid eyes on crawling through this place. Is that clear?”

You are some little cat. Not again! Not so soon! God, Gilly, God!