‘Old houses can get so chilly.’ She grimaced sympathetically.
‘Especially this one. The boiler’s packed up. The kitchen’s the only warm place in the house – I’ve managed to get the Rayburn going. Coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’
They went along a corridor towards the back of the house, where the kitchen light was casting a warm glow out into the shadows. Leah peered through doorways and into corners, her curiosity irresistible. It didn’t look as though the decor had been updated for twenty or even thirty years. In a sitting room, the sofas and armchairs bore deep impressions in their cushions, moulded and flattened by years of being sat upon. There was a thick layer of dust on the mish-mash of furniture, most of which was dark oak, a wood which Leah had always found oppressive. Dog-eared motoring and fishing magazines in a rack in the hallway were a decade out of date. The shades of reading lamps were faded, bleached by the sun of many summers gone by; and beneath her feet were rugs so threadbare and worn that the original patterns and colours were lost, and only the criss-cross of warp and weft remained. Glancing over his shoulder, Mark caught her quick appraisal of the place.
‘Don’t be too horrified. He’s an old-fashioned bloke, my dad. Saw no reason to change something if it still functioned. And in the months before he moved out he was in no state to redecorate.’
‘I’m not horrified,’ Leah replied hurriedly. ‘I’m just so curious about this place. I’ve read the letters your great-grandma wrote here so many times over—’
‘Did you bring them with you? I’d like to read them,’ he said, pulling out a stool for her at the kitchen island.
‘Of course.’ Leah rummaged in her bag.
‘No rush. Coffee first.’ He filled a battered metal kettle, plonked it on the hot plate. A coal scuttle sat next to the stove, pitch black dust twinkling on its lip. The acrid, sooty smell of it filled the room, and a fine layer of smuts speckled the sticky vinyl counter top. A long, sagging green sofa was set against the opposite wall, with a messy stack of blankets at one end, and a small television sat amidst empty cups on a low coffee table next to it. The kitchen units were as dated as the rest of the decor – a fake white marble top, with fake beechwood door fronts. Mark jimmied a drawer open, gritting his teeth in irritation. He gave up after a while, snaked his hand in up to the wrist and withdrew it with a teaspoon pinched precariously between his fingertips. ‘You can see why I thought this would be a good place to hide out. It’s the house that time forgot,’ he said, grimly. Leah wondered whether to say anything about the newspaper articles she’d read. She stole a glance at his careworn face, and thought better of it. There was such tension behind his grey eyes; she knew she needed to tread very carefully. But it was all over, supposedly – the court case, at least. He’d been acquitted, and yet he acted as though he was still waiting for a judgement of some kind.
‘It must have been a gorgeous house in its day. I mean, it still is, obviously, it’s just …’ she floundered.
‘Don’t worry. I know it’s in a state – no offence taken. The rectory was often the grandest house in small villages like this, not including the manor, of course. Back in the days when the vicar was the most important person after the land owner.’
‘How is it the house stayed in your family when it stopped being the actual rectory?’
‘I’m not sure. My great-grandparents must have bought it from the church at some point, I suppose.’ He shrugged.
‘Do you have any childhood memories of her? Of Hester Canning?’
‘No, none at all. Sorry. She died before I was born. I remember my grandfather, Thomas, though – Hester’s son; although he died when I was still just a boy.’
‘So this house passed to your parents? Did you grow up here?’
‘No, no. It passed to my uncle and aunt. My cousins lived here as children. I visited sometimes – a few Christmas holidays. The house only came to Dad when my uncle died ten years or so back.’
‘Not to your cousins?’
‘One died in a car accident when he was twenty-two; the other fell out with the family and moved to Australia. Not heard a word from her in fifteen years.’ He put two mugs of coffee on the work top, and caught her expression. ‘I know, I know. My family isn’t exactly blessed with luck or harmony.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Witness my own current situation,’ he added, almost to himself. ‘What about you? Domestic harmony or Jeremy Kyle Show?’ he asked. Leah smiled.
‘Domestic harmony, for the most part. We’re very conventional. Home counties, golden retrievers, that kind of thing. My mum is in the WI; Dad plays lawn bowls. You get the picture.’