Free A Fatal Likeness by Lynn Shepherd

moment, he realises with a jolt that he has defined the girl in his own mind not just in silence but in stillness, whether in the kitchen, on the street, or in his bed. But now she is crawling about on the tiles like a child herself, rolling a ball of twine backwards and forwards as Betsy shrieks in glee and runs about her trying to catch it. And for the first time since Charles has known her, Molly is smiling. A luminous, almost exultant smile that is all the more intense for being private, and unobserved. He must have moved then, or cast a shadow, because suddenly she looks up and they stare at each other for a frozen moment, and the look on his face takes all expression slowly from her own. Then Nancy catches her daughter up in her arms, the front door opens, and the two of them disappear down the steps into the windy street.
    It takes Charles a good hour to convince himself that Nancy’s plan is practicable, and the next task thereafter is to convince Abel of the same. Though there, to his surprise, he meets no resistance. Stornaway clearly feels that the household can cope quite well without him. “Like I said, Mr Charles, the interests of yer clients must come first, and yer great-uncle would be proud of ’ee for thinking so.”
    Charles has the good grace to flush at this—he hasn’t told Abel of his recent researches, or that he plans to defraud, or at the very least deceive, these particular clients, and the old man’s honest openness puts him a little to shame. Only a little, though, because surely, he tells himself, Abel would understand. If he knew.
    “I’ll come back at least once a day.” He continues quickly, “To make sure all is well. And you’ll send for me at once, whatever the hour, if there’s any change? Of if my uncle takes a turn for the worse?”
    “Aye, I will. And you dinnae need to worry, Mr Charles. He and I managed on our own long enough, and now I hae Billy and the girl to help me. We’ll fare well enough for a few days, never ye mind.”
    Charles sighs. “Very well. In that case I will endeavour to persuade the lady in question to take me in. At least for a week or so, until I can find out what I need. Though I don’t mind telling you, Abel, the mere thought of being closeted in that tiny house with a sour old spinster is almost more than I can stomach.”
    • • •
    It’s shortly after nine the following morning when Charles walks up the steps to Carlo Cottage and stops for a moment to take a breath before ringing the bell. He’d been worried he’d never pass muster as a painter, though Abel seems to think he will at least look the part (but if there is a veiled message there about the less-than-immaculate state of Charles’ hair and wardrobe, it completely passes him by). The door is opened by the same servant he saw in the street when he was last here.
    Charles touches his hat. “My sister was here yesterday and suggested I might call—”
    “Ah yes, sir,” she says brightly. “The mistress has been expecting you. Please come in.”
    She shows Charles to the same parlour Nancy must have sat in, and he too is struck at once by the impromptu, provisional look of the place. It looks—in fact—rather as his own attic room did until only a week or so ago, though like Nancy he cannot yet decide if this is the impermanence of moving out, or moving in. He has no talent for languages, as you perhaps remember, but it seems Nancy was right when she guessed that very few of the books here are in English—a number appear to be Russian, or some other language that uses the same alphabet, while most of the rest look to be Italian. The prints and pictures certainly are—the two hanging above the fireplace are views of Florence, and there’s a larger one propped against the far wall that shows the Bay of Naples and Vesuvius, a curl of smoke rising from the volcano’s crater into a clear Campanian sky.
    “Did you visit Italy? When you were travelling?”
    No sour spinster