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The Lost Child
Ann Troup
Mandy Miller disappeared from Hallow’s End when she was just 3 years old. She was never found.‘The Lost Child is complex, mysterious and highly compelling reading.’ - Reviewed the BookThirty years on, Elaine Ellis is carrying her mother’s ashes back to Hallow’s End to scatter them in the place that she once called home. Elaine has never been there, but it’s the only place Jean talked about while she was growing up – so it seems as good a place as any.As Elaine settles into her holiday cottage in the peaceful Devonshire village, she gets to know the locals; family she never knew she had, eccentric and old-fashioned gentry, and new friends where she would least expect them. But she is intrigued by the tale of the missing girl that the village still carries at its heart, and which somehow continues to overshadow them all. Little does she know how much more involved in the mystery she will become…For fans of K.L Slater, Diane Chamberlain and C.L. TaylorWhat readers are saying about The Lost Child‘atmospheric, haunting and quite dark’ – Book boodle‘An unusual, beautifully written mystery.’ – The Disorganised Author‘A fabulous book that gripped me and left me wanting more!’ – Compelling Reads‘You won't spot the twists and turns coming and they will keep you on the edge of your seat!! You just won't want to put this book down until you find out what happens at the end!’ – Becky Lock
Mandy Miller disappeared from Hallow’s End when she was just three years old. She was never found.
Thirty years on, Elaine Ellis is carrying her mother’s ashes back to Hallow’s End to scatter them in the place that she once called home. Elaine has never been there, but it’s the only place Jean talked about while she was growing up – so it seems as good a place as any.
As Elaine settles into her holiday cottage in the peaceful Devonshire village, she gets to know the locals; family she never knew she had; eccentric and old-fashioned gentry, and new friends where she would least expect them. But she is intrigued by the tale of the missing girl that the village still carries at its heart, and which somehow continues to overshadow them all. Little does she know how much more involved in the mystery she will become…
The Lost Child
Ann Troup
Copyright (#ulink_c655e89d-6f0d-5146-94a4-34905d8761e1)
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015
Copyright © Ann Troup 2015
Ann Troup asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9781474034968
Version date: 2018-09-20
ANN TROUP
tells tales and can always make something out of nothing (which means she writes books and can create unique things from stuff other people might not glance twice at). She was once awarded 11 out of 10 for a piece of poetry at school – and now holds that teacher entirely responsible for her inclination to write.
Her writing process is governed first by the fine art of procrastination, a field in which she is outstanding. Once that phase is complete, she knuckles down and writes, completely abandoning the careful plans made during the procrastination phase. At some point a story emerges and after a bit of tweaking and a re-acquaintance with the concepts of grammar, punctuation and the myriad glories of the English language, she is surprised to find that she has written a book!
Her writing space is known as ‘the empty nest’, having formerly been her daughter’s bedroom. She shares this space with ten tons of junk and an elderly West Highland Terrier who is her constant companion whether she likes it or not. He likes to contribute to the creative process by falling asleep on top of her paperwork and running away with crucial Post-it notes, which have inadvertently become stuck to his fur. She is thinking of renaming him Gremlin.
She lives by the sea in Devon with her husband and said dog. Two children have been known to remember the house which they call home, but mainly when they are in need of a decent roast dinner, it’s Christmas or when only Mum will do.
In a former incarnation she was psychiatric nurse, an experience that frequently informs her writing and which supplies a never-ending source of inspiration.
You can contact Ann on Facebook or at anntroup.wordpress.com (http://anntroup.wordpress.com)
My thanks also go to Mike, Tom, Ellie and Naomi for keeping the faith and to Rooney, my constant companion and four-legged writing buddy. Without the five of you I might get a lot more books written! But with you, life is good.
Last but not least, Victoria Oundjian and the team at HQ Digital for picking me out of the slush pile and helping to bring this book to life. Thank you.
For Eddie and Ness, two of the very best.
Contents
Cover (#u80140e19-66a6-59e8-98c6-5202145d577b)
Blurb (#u0479f460-b944-5be0-a8d1-144c6bdf8ae8)
Title Page (#u5da0dddc-c864-5386-957b-3760f2539ed1)
Copyright (#u826ff365-66d7-545a-8565-21658d1763d5)
Author Bio (#u64e6cd66-1ce1-5e00-a19b-26fd5a1b6c2c)
Acknowledgement (#ua01f7fc3-915d-5818-ba7a-96db933362df)
Dedication (#ud8df6849-210a-5746-96ec-9c73d3592c96)
Chapter One (#ulink_ea35d5ec-81e1-5a5e-a9f8-5a0b1c4ffaf6)
Chapter Two (#ulink_a594d3ef-dfdc-5840-902c-07f718b10ca5)
Chapter Three (#ulink_ec8dc170-2417-5f93-aedc-7e0f99166a19)
Chapter Four (#ulink_056b35b2-b159-5e33-af41-80159eb6f77f)
Chapter Five (#ulink_f996edcb-5e6a-5cc1-bdd9-2ed2e97a864f)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_bb3fb5e8-a974-54c2-b57c-f6dbdab99d15)
It all began with the dead badger. Elaine had spotted it on the road to Hallow’s End, lying stiff and cold near to the grass verge that edged the narrow lane.
Ordinarily she would have ignored it, just swerved past and put the sight out of her mind. However, faced with an oncoming tractor, she had no choice but to drive over the poor thing. As the rear wheels bumped over its now thrice crushed corpse, she gave absolution to its lingering spirit with an apology made insincere by the shudder of revulsion that accompanied it. Rural Devon seemed to be inordinately littered with roadkill.
Driving over the badger had caused a jolt to the suspension, which in turn dislodged the lid of an urn. The three events sent the contents of the urn, the ashes of Elaine’s recently cremated mother, skittering across the boot in a cloud of gritty detritus.
Remnants of the dead woman worked their way into every surface as the car rumbled over uneven tarmac. The tumbling, rolling motion helped to embed the very crumbs of Jean Ellis deep into shoes and coats and bags, where she could cling unseen.
Even in death Jean could cleave to the daughter she’d coveted. In this powdered state she could nestle against Elaine’s skin, work under her fingernails and linger in the air that she would breathe. Jean had become an ethereal cloud, which no one could escape.
When the car drew to a halt Jean settled for a moment, a dust storm in waiting. At the eye of that storm a burdened soul smouldered.
*
Elaine knew none of this as she negotiated the lanes, diligently following the signs to Hallow’s End and looking out for the fork in the road that would lead to the cottage she had rented. Just past the village she took the right fork, as instructed on the booking confirmation, and within a hundred yards saw a cottage which matched the photograph from the website. Sure enough, the sign on the gate read ‘Meadowfoot Cottage’ and Elaine knew she had found the right place. A gravelled pull-in formed the parking space and she pulled up there. Once out of the driving seat she stretched her stiffened limbs and walked to the back of the car. A girl had emerged from the cottage next door and was walking towards her. ‘Miriam says I’ve got to help you with your bags’ she said.
Elaine smiled at her and opened the boot. She was forced to watch, helpless and appalled, as a gust of wind seized the remains of her mother and delivered them into the unsuspecting face of the teenager who was waiting to her side.
‘What the hell was that?’ the girl demanded, spitting. She wiped at her dusty skin with the sleeve of her hoodie.
Elaine quickly pulled a coat over the urn, trying to ignore the grime that sugared the fabric, ‘I’m so sorry, I’ve been having some building work done, I had a bag of plaster in here and some must have spilled.’ She had to think quickly. The confabulation was in lieu of the truth; she could hardly tell the girl she’d just received a face full of cremains. Mortified, she told the girl to go inside and clean herself up, she would unload her own bags.
The girl scowled and sloped off towards the neighbouring cottage, unknowingly patting clouds of dead woman from her clothes.
‘If that had been anyone else but you, Mother, it might have had a funny side,’ Elaine muttered as she shook out her coat and dusted off her luggage. She wondered how appropriate it would be to sweep one’s parent into a dustpan?
‘I should have had you buried, even you couldn’t have got out of a coffin.’ She scooped what she could back into the green plastic urn and screwed on the lid.
She groped around the boot for a bag, which she could wrap round the urn to stop it disgorging its contents again. When she had finally enclosed Jean inside a Tesco’s carrier she felt a flush of guilt. ‘Sorry Mum, but you never could resist embarrassing me. That poor girl! And I know you hated Tesco, but this will have to do.’
To her continuing shame her muttering was interrupted by a small cough, forcing her to turn around and face a cheery looking, apple-cheeked woman who had been standing behind her for God knows how long. ‘Hi.’ Elaine said, acutely aware of the blush that had crept across her own cheeks.
The woman took a long appraising look at both Elaine and her car, ‘You must be Miss Ellis, welcome to Hallow’s End. Good journey?’
Elaine hastily checked the open boot. ‘Not too bad thanks, though the road up here is a mite bumpy,’ Thankfully the remains looked more like unused cat litter than anything else. ‘Is the girl OK? I think I might have upset her when she came to help me unload.’
‘You mean Brodie? Oh, don’t mind her, she’s always like that. Hasn’t stopped moping since she got here.’ The woman bent to pick up one of the bags. ‘Righto, follow me and I’ll show you into the cottage and let you know how everything works. I’m Miriam Davies by the way, I live next door, so any problems and I’m on the doorstep. I come in twice a week to clean and change the linen, but anything you need in the meantime – don’t hesitate to ask. I look after my sister you see, she’s had a stroke poor woman, can’t do a thing for herself, so I’m always in. And now we’ve got Brodie to worry about too; poor waif, got to feel for her really, what with her mum being poorly in the hospital.’ Miriam scrunched up her face as she pronounced the word ‘hospital’, making it sound like a profanity – and leaving Elaine in no doubt about which kind of hospital it was. ‘So all in all, I’ve got my hands full, but nothing’s too much trouble for guests.’
By the time Miriam had finished talking they were inside the holiday cottage and she was busy straightening cushions and twitching curtains. As if she hadn’t already made the place spotless. ‘So, what brings you to Hallow’s End then, Miss Ellis?’ she asked, pausing her activity. Her ruddy face was expectant and smiling.
Elaine took a quick glance around the room where she was to live for the next few weeks. She was looking for the clock – the source of the incessant ticking, which was already grating on her. There it was, on the dresser, its face taking on the essence of a Cheshire cat. She turned her back on it. ‘It’s Elaine by the way. Well, I’m having some building work done at home, so need to be out of the way for a couple of weeks, and Hallow’s End is where my mother was born – she died recently – so I thought I’d come and see where she grew up.’ She hated explaining Jean’s death, it felt as though she were asking for sympathy. The anticipation of the mawkish reaction, which most people heaped upon her, was beginning to turn into a feeling of mild dread. She braced herself for Miriam’s anticipated compassion.
‘I’m sorry to hear that Elaine, that must have been very difficult for you. Still, life goes on doesn’t it?’ Miriam said evenly.
The matter-of-fact response was oddly refreshing, ‘Yes, I suppose it does. You might have known her. Her maiden name was Jean Burroughs.’
Miriam gave the name a moment or two’s thought, ‘No, doesn’t ring a bell, and I’ve lived here all my life.’
Elaine was surprised, the village hadn’t seemed exactly extensive when she had driven through and she’d always imagined that there was an intimacy in rural communities that dictated everyone would know everyone else. But her mother had told her that the family had moved away when she was young, so perhaps it wasn’t so unusual after all. ‘I know the family moved to Bristol a long time ago, but I’m sure there was an aunt still here – Ruby I think.’
Miriam stiffened slightly, ‘Ruby Tyler.’ She stated the name with a tone of grim disapproval.
The unexpected change in Miriam’s efficiently cheerful persona was quite disconcerting.
‘I think so, I never knew her surname. She was just someone who was mentioned once or twice.’ It was true, Jean had never talked much about her family, or her childhood, but the never-met Aunt Ruby stood out in Elaine’s memory as the lady with the cottage garden where Jean had liked to play. It was one of the few things she had been able to imagine from the snippets of information her mother was always so unwilling to share. From Miriam’s reaction it seemed that Aunt Ruby might not be the warm and cosy woman that Elaine had always pictured.
‘Well, I’m ever so sorry to tell you, but Ruby’s been gone a long time. Must be twenty years at least now.’ Miriam had adopted a more conciliatory tone, as if she had consciously decided not to speak ill of the dead.
‘Oh well, never mind. I’m sure I’ll enjoy my stay anyway.’
‘I’m sure you will’ Miriam agreed with a degree of warmth that Elaine hadn’t been expecting after the mention of Ruby.
To her surprise Miriam leaned forward and patted her on the hand, ‘None of us can help our family, can we?’ she said. ‘But you seem like a nice girl. Anyway, I must get on, Esther will be wanting her tea and God knows what Brodie’s been up to since I’ve been gone. Well, here’s your key, and don’t forget I’m across the way if you need me.’
As the curious little woman waddled away, her floral apron flapping against her legs, Elaine was reminded of Jemima Puddle-Duck and found that she was smiling at the comparison.
*
Despite the fact that it really did have roses around the door, the cottage wasn’t quite the bucolic idyll she had imagined when she’d booked. It wasn’t so much how it looked; it was quaint enough, even twee in places, right down to the wood burning stove in the inglenook and the horse brasses over the mantel. Now that she was alone with the mismatched furniture, the chintz and the ticking clock it all felt slightly oppressive, as if the cottage was waiting for her to do something that would bring it to life. Though the wind buffeted the windows and forced the trees outside to look as if they had to bow and pay homage, it wasn’t cold enough to light a fire, so she cast around for another way to drive the shadows out.
The place needed light, it needed noise and it needed movement. She found a radio in the kitchen and tuned it in to Radio 4. Voices flooded the two rooms and she felt herself begin to relax. Having filled the kettle and set it on the stove to boil she was happy to discover that Miriam had been kind enough to leave milk in the fridge and tea and coffee in the cupboard. She switched on a couple of lamps, letting puddles of light the colour of orange squash illuminate the gloom. Satisfied, she hauled her bags upstairs and into the whitewashed bedroom.
By the time she’d put her toiletries in the bathroom and had wedged that damned clock in a cupboard, she felt as though she had made a dent in the moribund atmosphere. Hiding the clock had established the fact that she would mark her own time in this place. It had felt like a small act of rebellion, and left Elaine feeling stupidly victorious at taking matters into her own hands. She laughed at herself for being so pathetic and settled herself onto the sofa where she toasted Jean with a cup of tea. ‘Cheers Mum, sorry about the rough journey, but we’re here now. I’ve brought you home.’
Jean lay still and quiet in the boot of the car, fortuitously unaware that she had been wrapped in a cheap plastic bag (a fact that would have offended her sensibilities no end) or that she had been returned to the last place on earth she would have chosen for her final resting place.
Chapter Two (#ulink_69b35b50-f544-5fc9-a594-88370753d550)
