The last time he’d been to Cronly, Caroline was with him. It seemed like a lifetime ago, although only four days had passed. He pushed open the front door. The house was cold and dark inside, with the curtains drawn tightly. Despite this, it still filled him with a welcome sense of being home.
Wasting no time, he made his way to the kitchen. The back door by the stove was bolted from the inside. He slid back the bolts, unlocking the newly fitted Chubb lock before heading out through the garage and up the pathway to the top of the hill. From there he could see the coastline for miles. Tara Hill stood 800 feet above sea level, formed on molten rock more than 400 million years old. The furze and heathers that flanked the surrounding area had lost their bright summer shade of yellow, but the elderberry trees were still adorned with dark cherry-coloured berries, a sublime delight after their summer of creamy-white clusters.
It was his mother who had told him that the elderberry tree dated back to Roman times, and that it was the tree Judas hanged from after his betrayal of Christ. To William, the trees were magnificent specimens. Ever since his holiday in Tuscany as a boy, he’d grown to compare the view from Cronly Lodge to the view overlooking Costa degli Etruschi.
He inhaled a deep breath. That day, the brilliance of the elderberry trees was surpassed only by the vibrant blue of the ocean, despite it being October. He knew the water would be perishing cold, but he was still tempted to chance a swim, resisting only because time wasn’t on his side. The beach was one of his favourite places, even in summer, when it was spoiled by the annual throng of vulgar tourists. It was here, as a child, inhaling the smell of the Atlantic, that he had developed his love of swimming; the beach, like Cronly Lodge, held good memories for him, as well as bad.
Once back inside the house, he checked the doors and windows, turning the Chubb twice on both the front and back doors. Pulling across the bolts he’d recently fitted, he checked his watch. It was just gone ten o’clock, time was speeding against him, but the important thing was to remain calm, a clear head would achieve so much more.
The ticking of the Napoleon clock soothed him with the familiarity of its sound, just as it had when he’d been here with Caroline. Safe and constant, it had guided him with timely patience the night he’d prepared her. He had tried not to think about the blood as he’d cleaned down her face and body. He remembered how her skin had looked so pale, her hair soft and delicate in his fingers, the tease of her lovely curls. He had been surprised by how long her hair was when he’d brushed it out. Plaiting it was very relaxing. Within the rhythm of the clock he’d completed his task, remembering the right positioning. Although her body had become rigid, he fixed her until she was close to perfect.
It had been different after Mother died. He had felt dragged down. At first, he thought it was the tiresome visitors, all that gushy outpouring of sympathy and he having to maintain the pretence of the grieving son. Even the weeks following her death, he had been struck by how much the whole episode had sapped the energy from him. All that time during her illness, despite her frail disposition and restricted movement, she still seemed to be everywhere. Even when she was gone, he could still feel her watching his every move. The walls, the furniture, the creaks within the floorboards, they all reeked of her. He’d burned her walking stick in the fire the night she died, pushed it into the flaming grate as if it were a poker, watching with pleasure as it turned to ash.
He had no expectation of being distraught when she passed, but stupid thoughts came into his head. Within days of her death, he became convinced she was still alive, her and those porcelain dogs of hers, their eyes boring into him no matter which part of her bedroom he stood in.