‘You won me by false means,’ she wept. ‘I have always loved another. I feared to tell you.’
‘Who is he? Tell me his name.’
‘You will do him harm.’
‘I will find it out, Evangeline. It will be known to me.’
Adam awoke in a cold sweat. He was still in the desk chair and his muscles ached from the unforgiving wood. But the physical discomfort was as nothing compared to the unfolding pain in his head.
He, as Tribulation Smith, had raped Evie. It was a dream, yes, it was not a substantial crime, and yet he felt as guilty as if his own body had violated hers. It made no sense, but it was so vivid that he felt again the retching nausea that had overcome him at the seaside.
He sank his head on to the desktop and groaned with anguish.
The groan was still not fully discharged when an indignant rapping at the door interrupted it.
‘Oh Lord, have mercy on me,’ he whispered, deciding to ignore the late-night caller. Even Evie would not be welcome at this time, surrounded as she was with these disturbing ghosts and presences.
But within a minute, a dark shadow loomed by the window and knocked on it. Adam leapt from his chair and moved towards it. The shadow was slight, almost wraith-like. With a shock of yet more guilt – this variety from a different source – he recognised Julia.
He gestured towards the front door, indicating that he would go and open it for her. When he did so, she streaked inside like a cat, flattening herself to pass him and head straight for the living room.
She was already sitting, like an enthroned queen, on the best armchair in the house when he entered. He stood uncertainly in the door frame for an instant, too out of sorts to know how to speak or act.
‘Why didn’t you come?’ she asked. ‘What are you afraid of?’
Two very separate questions in Adam’s mind. He decided to tackle only the first.
‘Evie was here. I lost track of time after she left, fell asleep in the chair.’
‘She makes you lose your mind. Ah well, perhaps it’s too late after all.’
Julia chewed moodily on a knuckle, looking sideways at the bookshelves. J.E. Lydford’s history of the village caught her eye.
‘That book’s mine, isn’t it?’ she said, stalking over to inspect it.
‘You lent it to me.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Why don’t I remember it?’
‘You were – well, you’d had a drink or two.’
‘Oh, that sodding journalist. Yes, well, you shouldn’t have taken advantage of me.’
Adam burst into a mirthless laugh.
‘The irony,’ he said.
She came closer, close enough for him to smell her, if she’d had any scent except an anonymous floral perfume. He tensed.
‘You were asking for it,’ she said, softly. She reached for the book. ‘I’ll have this back, if you don’t mind.’
‘I haven’t finished reading it.’
‘It’s codswallop, start to finish.’
‘You seem very sure of that.’
‘An interesting man, Joss Lydford. He was vicar here, half a century or so ago.’