Free The Sea Garden by Deborah Lawrenson

awake in the darkness as the panic subsided.
    It was not until the morning that she dared to look in the second drawer again. It was empty. She stared, searching for an explanation in the dusty interior of the chest. She must have dreamt it, she decided; she had been trapped in a nightmare so vivid she was convinced she had been awake.
    Her phone was still missing, though.

5
    The Historian
    Thursday, June 6
    I t had been light for hours when Ellie went downstairs. At the foot of the stairs she listened for sounds from the kitchen, but all was quiet. For one odd moment she had the feeling she was the only person in the house. The sensation passed. If there was no one in the kitchen yet, she would make herself a cup of instant coffee.
    As she crossed the hall, she looked through the main room to the French doors, closed now. At that precise moment something hit the clear surface with a dull thud. What were the chances of that happening just as she looked in that direction? Shakily, she went over to see what it was. A small black bird was lying on the tiles outside. It must have flown into the glass. The bird had made no sound of distress. It had knocked itself out. Or perhaps it was dead.
    Ellie turned away.
    There was no one in the kitchen. Surely Jeanne would arrive soon. It didn’t feel all that early. She looked at her wrist and saw that she had left her watch upstairs. As she did so, a clock chimed softly. Seven—or was it eight times?
    Ellie went back into the hall, then the sitting room, looking for the clock. As she did so another small bird slammed into the window. It was so quick and so upsetting, especially as the corpse of the first was still twitching, that she felt sick.
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    O ut in the grounds, Ellie was determined to bury her anxieties by thinking about work. She had not yet seen the memorial garden this early, and she should do. Notebook in hand, she mapped the sequence of shadows in the anterooms leading into it and the angle of the sun in the main space.
    Sitting on the low stone rim of the bassin , she sketched the archway and the precise proportions of the view of the lighthouse and the bay.
    At first she thought it was birdsong. Then, when the melody was accompanied by words, she wondered whether one of the gardeners was singing as he worked. Though it was too high for a man’s voice, surely. A child of one of the gardeners, then. She strained to get a fix on the source, but could not.
    She listened for sounds of activity, but soon the grounds were quiet again. She continued her sketch, looking up quickly and regularly from the page. It was only when she put her pencil back on the paper that the impression formed in her head, as if her mind had only now been able to process the image, however indistinct. Had someone just walked across the view of the sea and through the gap in the arch? She sat completely still and raised her head. She was alone. The once-grand topiary arch rustled in a light breeze that shook loose dead leaves and twigs. The view was uninterrupted.
    It was hard not to think about the previous night’s conversation with Mme de Fayols. Her instincts were to dismiss the old lady’s assertions about otherworldly sensations as a spiteful game. She seemed to enjoy finding ways to disconcert Ellie. It was pathetic, really; she should feel sorry for her. It occurred to Ellie only then that perhaps she was the one who was mad. Had the strange episodes over the past few days tipped her over the edge? All she was sure of was that she needed to talk to Laurent. But she would not be spending another night at the Domaine while she waited for him to return.
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    S he would do it her way. Ellie cycled the most direct route back to the village and harbour, resolutely keeping her thoughts on normal matters: a late breakfast of coffee and croissants; checking at the hotel to see if anyone had come across her mobile. She was flushed with the effort as she pushed into the wind. When