The Girl in the Picture - Kerry Barrett

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a writer,’ I said in a rush. ‘I write crime novels.’

      ‘I’ve never really been one for books,’ Margaret said. She looked quite pleased about it. Or perhaps she was just pleased that the village newcomer wasn’t about to kill her in cold blood.

      I beamed at her. ‘Hal and Ken said they’d heard there had been a murder, but we all assumed it was recent. If your granddad knew about it, though, it could have been much earlier. I’d like to find out more about the history of the house. See if there is a mystery here.’

      Margaret screwed her forehead up in concentration. ‘I wish I could remember more,’ she said. ‘I think my granddad said no one ever knew what had happened. It must have been a really long time ago, though. Before he was born I think.’

      ‘I’ll do some digging,’ I said. ‘It’ll keep me busy.’

      ‘Do you have a lot of work to do?’ Margaret said suddenly.

      ‘I do, actually.’ I didn’t want to think about how I still had a whole novel to write. And maybe I could google the house, or find out who lived here years ago, and see if there was any record of this crime …

      ‘And is your husband here?’ Margaret looked round.

      I shook my head. ‘Pre-season fitness tests or something,’ I said.

      ‘So why don’t I take the boys out into the garden and you can have an hour or so getting yourself sorted out,’ Margaret said. ‘Give you a break, and give me and the boys time to get to know each other.’

      Considering I’d spent days avoiding work, I was surprised how pleased I was with the offer. I looked at Margaret in gratitude.

      ‘That would be brilliant,’ I said. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’

      ‘Go,’ said Margaret. ‘Sort.’

      I bounded upstairs. The attic was the huge – the whole top floor of the house, so there was lots of space. It was a million miles away from my desk/dressing table combo in our old house.

      I stood at the door and surveyed the room. I would put my desk in between the two large windows. It was an astonishing view and I hoped it would inspire me. The bookshelves were on the opposite wall, either side of the small windows that looked down the lane. On my right was the wall that Ben had knocked on to see if it was hollow – the one with the ventilation window on the outside. I could put some pictures up there, perhaps. And on my left was a built-in cupboard with a door that had been painted shut. I narrowed my eyes as I looked at it. That wouldn’t stay shut for long, if I had anything to do with it.

      The removal men had left everything in a pile by the door, so I cleared the boxes that were stacked on top of the desk and dragged it to the wall.

      I plugged in my computer and the printer, then printed out some photos of the boys, and stuck them to the right-hand wall. As I pinned them up, I knocked the wall once or twice, just to see if it was hollow. But I still couldn’t tell.

      Knowing I should be thinking about a plot for my next Tessa book, I instead opened the internet and found the census records for England. I thought about Margaret and how old she was and scribbling some dates down on my notepad, I worked out that her grandfather would probably have been born around the turn of the twentieth century.

      ‘Hmm,’ I said out loud. ‘Did Margaret say it happened before he was even born?’

      I typed our address into the search box and was pleased to see there were records going back to 1841.

      ‘Let’s start at the very beginning,’ I sang under my breath, Julie Andrews style, clicking on the first entry.

      At first I was confused as the village was simply listed as one entry without individual addresses. But thanks to the pubs, which had obviously been in the same place for all that time, I worked out the census recorders had started at the opposite end of the village and just worked their way along towards the sea. Our house, therefore, had to be the very final entry. I scrolled down and found it.

      Marcus Hargreaves, I read. Male. 34 years old. Industrialist.

      Below Marcus was a wife, Harriet, listed as thirty years old, and a little girl, Violet. She was just four years old.

      ‘Aww, a little family,’ I said. ‘Did you have more children, Marcus? This house is built for lots of kids.’

      I clicked on the next entry, for 1851.

      Marcus Hargreaves, I read again. Male. 44 years old. Industrialist.

      But beneath Marcus was no mention of Harriet. Instead just Violet – who was now fourteen – was listed. Beneath her was a woman called Elizabeth Pringle, who was listed as a governess, a housekeeper called Betsy Bolton, and a maid – who was just sixteen – called Mabel Jonas.

      ‘Where’s Harriet?’ I said, feeling unaccountably sad, but intrigued nevertheless. ‘Was she the murder victim?’

      I went back to the search results and chose 1861 this time. But now our house was listed as unoccupied. And the same in 1871.

      ‘No one at all,’ I said. ‘Where are you all?’

      I clicked off the census website and found another that showed birth, marriage, and death certificates. But there was nothing online this time. Instead the website suggested checking parish records for the time.

      Disappointed, I sat still at my desk for a minute. Then I gave up all pretence of working on my book and instead I picked up my notebook and a pen, and headed downstairs.

      Margaret was throwing a ball to the boys in the garden. I went outside and she looked round.

      ‘All done already?’ she said. ‘That was quick.’

      ‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘I just need to pop out – I can take the boys with me but if you don’t mind staying, I would get it done quicker …’

      ‘Go,’ she said, without hesitating. ‘We’re having a great time.’

      Pleased to have something to think about other than Dad and the stress of our move, I bounded down the lane towards the village church.

      I’d not been inside before, but we’d admired it on our walks to the shops. It was a gorgeous Norman church with old graves in the churchyard and a square bell tower. The heavy wooden door was open, so I ducked inside.

      Luckily for me, the vicar was there, pinning a notice to the board in the porch. He smiled at me as I walked in.

      ‘Hello there,’ he said.

      I introduced myself and explained what I was after. And the vicar – who was much younger than I expected vicars to be and who told me to call him Rich – showed me into a side office where the parish records were kept.

      ‘They’re all fascinating,’ he said. ‘I sometimes look up people at random and trace their family back to see how far they go. Lots of folk have lived here for generations.’

      He pulled out the books for me and I settled myself down at the desk.

      It wasn’t as easy as searching online, but it didn’t take me long to find the christening record of little Violet in 1837, and then, in 1842, I found the record of Violet’s mother’s death. Harriet had died of childbirth fever, the record said.

      Not a murder then, I thought. I was disappointed that the mystery wasn’t a mystery after all.

      ‘Found what you were looking for?’ said Rich, peering over my shoulder.

      ‘I did,’ I said. ‘But she wasn’t murdered. She died in childbirth.’

      ‘The baby died, too,’ Rich pointed out. He showed me the line below Harriet’s

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