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CHAPTER 9
The good weather had held at least. Rosie pulled her mum’s battered Mini into the side of the road and peered at the wide open moorland around her.
The landscape was bathed in watery sunlight peeping from behind pillows of white cloud, and golden rays were catching a raised rocky tor in the distance. The sides of the hill were dotted with sheep, sure-footed creatures well used to the uneven ground of Dartmoor.
Rosie wound down her window and breathed in great gulps of fresh air. She’d spent many happy hours as a child tramping these moors with her mum, and hadn’t realised quite how much she had missed this ancient, unspoiled land. When she thought of Spanish countryside, vivid shades of ochre flooded her mind. Dartmoor, in contrast, was a palette of soft greens and deep browns with splashes of cream and grey. It was calmer, more soothing.
Glancing at the letter in her lap, she re-read the address on the back of the envelope:High Tor House, Granite’s Edge, near Kellsteignton.
She’d left Kellsteignton behind ten minutes ago but the sat nav stuck to the windscreen was worse than useless. It started having a hissy fit as the village disappeared in her rear-view mirror and had now given up the ghost completely. But High Tor House must be around here somewhere.
Clambering from the car, she grabbed her bag and started walking uphill to get a better view. Before long, she heard the sound of water and reached a narrow stream that sliced through the ground. A rough-hewn slab of pale stone formed an ancient clapper bridge across the rushing water, and she picked her way over it.
Darker clouds drifted onto the horizon as she kept climbing, scrambling up the last rocky parts of the tor. But the view was worth the effort, as she’d known it would be. All around her was a magnificent tree-less landscape. Sheep were grazing here and there and the rough grass was littered with huge boulders of grey granite.
In the distance, a narrow ribbon of track wound from the road, ending at a pale stone house in the middle of nowhere. That must be the Eppings’ country pile – a house so remote that it would be cut off in winter when heavy snow blanketed these high parts of the moors. Who would choose to live in such isolation?
Rosie shivered, feeling nervous at what she was about to do. Charles Epping had quite a reputation in Heaven’s Cove, even though he was rarely seen. He never visited the village, sending staff instead to sort out any issues, and according to rumour, he’d become increasingly reclusive and bad-tempered as he grew older.
Would he shout at her or run her off his land? Rosie jumped when a bird swooped low overhead, and gave herself a good telling off. It was ridiculous to be so on edge. She wasn’t a child any more. She was a grown woman who was simply going to have an adult conversation with a rich landowner. That was the long and short of it – she would face up to Charles Epping for her mum, and for poor, condemned Driftwood House, which was increasingly taking on human characteristics in her mind. She hurried back to the car before her courage could desert her.
Five minutes later, Rosie drove through the black, wrought-iron gates of High Tor House and pulled her car to a halt on the gravel next to a white van.
The churning in her stomach only got worse as she took in the magnificent house before her. Constructed of pale grey stone, the building seemed out of place here, in the middle of vast moorland. Its mullioned windows glinted in the sunshine and a small fountain trickled in front of an arched porchway that led to a black door. The arm of the stone angel that topped the fountain had turned green in the constant stream of water.
Parked on the gravel, near a big, bright flowerbed, was a shiny, silver Range Rover that looked brand new. And Rosie glimpsed a khaki Jeep in the open double garage that had been built onto the old house. Money obviously wasn’t in short supply for Mr Charles Epping and his wife.
With her heart pounding, Rosie rang the doorbell. A clang echoed inside. After a minute, a scruffy-looking man in grey chinos opened the door, rather than theDownton Abbey-style butler she was expecting.
‘Mr Epping?’
‘I should be so lucky. I’m today’s hired help, here to sort out the electrics,’ said the man with a rich Devonian burr. ‘I’m just leaving actually. Is he expecting you?’
‘Um… not exactly.’
The man stepped past her onto the driveway before she could say any more. ‘Good luck, then.’ He threw his bag into the back of the van before sliding into the driving seat and pulling away in a shower of gravel.
Good luck? That didn’t do anything to ease her nerves. Rosie stepped into High Tor House and called out ‘Hello?’, her voice high-pitched and anxious. She was in a large square hallway, with a carved stone fireplace opposite her. Dark panelling lined the walls and turned-wood bannisters, worn smooth by countless hands, flanked a wide staircase carpeted in tasteful burgundy. Glass-shaded lamps on a wooden table cast a mellow glow, even though it was still early afternoon. It must be pitch-black in here during the winter months. A cold shiver went down Rosie’s back.
‘Hello?’ she called again, more loudly this time, but no one came. The house seemed cavernous and empty. She was heading back to the front door, to try ringing the bell once more, when the faint sound of music drifted into the hallway. ‘Yesterday’ by The Beatles. Rosie followed Paul McCartney’s voice towards the back of the house, to a panelled door that was slightly ajar.
When she gently knocked, the music was abruptly switched off.
‘Who is it? Who’s there?’ said a deep male voice. The man sounded so cross and impatient, Rosie’s courage instantly disappeared. But her impulse to flee was scuppered when the door was wrenched open.
‘Who the hell are you?’ The man in front of her faltered for a second, alarm sparking in his icy-blue eyes. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have just come in but the door was open and no one was around. I did ring the bell and shout but no one came, and then I heard the music so I…’ Good grief, she was burbling. Rosie took a deep breath and tried again. ‘I’m very sorry to disturb you but I really need to speak to Mr Epping.’
‘Who are you?’ repeated the man, more urgently, pulling at the collar of his white shirt. A stranger turning up in his house in the middle of nowhere had really spooked him, which was fair enough.
She gave him a reassuring smile. ‘My name’s Rosie Merchant and I’m from Heaven’s Cove.’
That sounded like she was about to take part in a TV game show:survive a showdown with a scary stranger to stop a wrecking ball laying waste to your family home.
‘I see. What do you want?’
The man had recovered his composure but his bony face had set into an expression of disapproval. Rosie swallowed hard and ploughed on.
