Free The Distant Hours by Kate Morton

faces and the result was somehow softer on Saffy, sweeter. She looked just as an old lady of the manor should and I warmed to her immediately. Where Percy was formidable, Saffy made me think of oatmeal biscuits and cotton-fibre paper covered with a beautiful inky scrawl. It’s a funny thing, character, the way it brands people as they age, rising from within to leave its scar.
    ‘We’ve had a telephone call from Mrs Bird,’ said Saffy. ‘I’m afraid she’s been caught up in the village with her business.’
    ‘Oh.’
    ‘She was in a frightful flap,’ Percy continued flatly. ‘But I told her I’d be happy to show you round myself.’
    ‘More than happy.’ Saffy smiled. ‘My sister loves this house as other people love their spouses. She’s thrilled to have a chance to show it off. And well she might. The old place is a credit to her: only years of her tireless work have kept it from falling into disrepair.’
    ‘I’ve done what was necessary to stop the walls collapsing around us. No more.’
    ‘My sister is being modest.’
    ‘And mine is being stubborn.’
    This chiding was evidently a normal part of their repartee, and the two paused to smile at me. For a moment I was trans- fixed, remembering the photograph in Raymond Blythe’s Milderhurst , wondering which of these old ladies was which little twin, and then Saffy reached across the narrow divide to take Percy’s hand. ‘My sister has taken care of us all our long lives,’ she said, before turning to look with such admiration at her twin’s profile that I knew she had been the smaller, thinner of the two girls in the photo, the one whose smile wavered uncertainly beneath the camera’s gaze.
    The additional praise did not sit well with Percy, who scrutinized her watch before muttering, ‘Never mind. Not much further to go now.’
    It’s always difficult to know what to say when a very old person starts talking about death and its imminence, so I did what I do when Herbert hints about my taking over at Billing & Brown ‘one day’: I smiled as if I might have misheard and gave the sunlit bay window a closer inspection.
    And that’s when I noticed the third sister, the one who must be Juniper. She was sitting statue-still in an armchair of faded green velvet, watching through the open window as the parkland spilled away from her. A faint plume of cigarette smoke rose from a crystal ashtray, smudging her into soft focus. Unlike her sisters, there was nothing fine about her clothing or the way she wore it. She was dressed in the international costume of the invalid: an ill-fitting blouse tucked in firm and high to shapeless slacks, her lap marked by greasy spots where things had spilled.
    Perhaps Juniper sensed my gaze, for she turned slightly – just the side of her face – towards me. Her eye, I could see, was glassy and unsteady in a way that suggested heavy medication and when I smiled she gave no sign that she had seen, just continued to stare as if she sought to bore a hole right through me.
    Watching her, I became aware of a soft press of sound I hadn’t noticed before. A small television set perched on a wooden occasional table beneath the window frame. An American sitcom was playing and the laugh track punctuated the constant hum of sassy dialogue with periodic stabs of static. It gave me a familiar feeling, that television set, the warm, sunny day outside, the still, stale air within: a nostalgic memory of visiting Gran in the school holidays and being allowed to watch television in the daytime.
    ‘What are you doing here?’
    Pleasant memories of Gran shattered beneath the sudden icy blow. Juniper Blythe was still staring at me but her expression was no longer blank. It was distinctly unwelcoming.
    ‘I, uh . . . hello,’ I said. ‘I . . .’
    ‘What do you think you’re doing here?’
    The lurcher gave a strangled yelp.
    ‘Juniper!’ Saffy hurried to her sister’s side. ‘Darling girl, Edith is our guest.’ She took her