Page 71 of The Cottage in the Highlands

My eyes widened at her. Did I hear her correctly? “Sorry,” I blinked at her, “did you just say Flynn Talbot’s house is called Lily Grove?”

“Aye, that’s right. Why?”

“Oh, no reason.”

She gave me a quizzical look.

So, Flynn Talbot had named his house after Lily. That threw me. “Thank you very much. You’ve been very helpful.”

The woman turned back to her shop steps. “You’re welcome, pet. Just watch yourself, though. That Talbot man is a nasty piece of work.”

Harley and I made our way through the woods with the winter sunlight trickling through the bare, gnarled branches.

We soon reached a little pebble lane that opened out to reveal two wood and glass chalet-type holiday homes either side of each other.

Further up the road sat an impressive three-storey townhouse, its garden studded with a variety of evergreen trees and shrubs. There was a black electric gated entrance leading up to it.

Positioned on the gate was a black and white plaque with the words Lily Grove painted on it. He hadn’t forgotten her after all, despite my earlier reservations. After all these years, she must still be with him.

As I stood there, it was difficult to reconcile that I was standing in front of the mysterious Chandler’s house. My stomach gave a flip.

I glanced down at Harley who blinked her hazel eyes back up at me. “Well, here goes.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

A twinkle-eyed lady wearing loose-fitting white shirt and flared trousers emerged at the door. Her short hair, although well-cut, was brassy toned.

I felt like I was in prison, talking to her through the wrought-iron teeth of the closed gate.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Mr Flynn Talbot.”

She must be his housekeeper, I surmised. Mrs Oates, was it?

Her navy eyes narrowed. “Can I ask who you are?”

I knew that revealing I was a journalist would likely would kill off any chance of me being able to speak to him, but I wasn’t prepared to lie. Flynn’s previous words echoed in my head. There seemed to have been enough deception swirling around the Talbot family as it was.

And what if what Flynn had told me about his grandfather being the cult artist Chandler was true? I had no reason to doubt him. If Flynn Talbot senior did decide in the future to tell all, what an exclusive that would be!

“I’m a journalist with Goddess magazine.”

Mrs Oates eyes narrowed further.

“My name is Leonie Baxter. But I’m not here because I’m a reporter. I’m a friend of a Mrs Lily Cruickshank?”

Mrs Oates’s mouth popped open in surprise. She wrapped her arms around herself. “Did you just say Lily Cruickshank?”

Her attention zoomed from me to Harley and back again.

Mrs Oates pushed her hands into the pockets of her charcoal trousers. “Is she alright? Lily, that is?”

“Yes. Well, sort of. Some days are better than others,” I commented diplomatically.

Mrs Oates considered this and gave a nod. “I hope she’s ok.”

I clutched at Harley’s lead. “Me too. That’s why I’m here. I found a letter addressed to Lily from 1973. It was written by Mr Talbot.”