The Inheritance (21 page)

I woke up feeling strangely peaceful.  Danny was watching me. 

“You saw something again, didn’t you?” 

He was smiling at me, waiting to hear the story.  I felt a sudden urge to step outside.  We got dressed and walked out onto the battlements.  The sun was shining, and the breeze from the sea was blowing my hair away from my face.  I turned my face up to the sun feeling suddenly happy.  Life had its own plan, and everything would fall into place.

“They didn’t die.  They left the castle through
the secret passage that led down to the beach, and boarded a French ship bound for the Colonies.  She was pregnant and they were looking forward to their new life.”  I smiled up at Danny.

He looked at me in awe.  “I can’t believe you saw that.  I’ve never slept with a psychic
before.”  His face grew serious and I dreaded what was about to come.

“Katie, I’ve been
wrestling with myself for the past week, thinking that it was unrealistic of me to ask you this after such a short acquaintance, but you’ll be gone soon, and this might be my one chance.  Is there any way you would consider staying? I love you, and I want to make a future with you, and if you refuse you’ll have to deal with me following you home to America.”  He looked like a little boy waiting to see if he was getting a puppy for Christmas. 

I turned toward him
, wrapping my arms around his waist.  My face told him everything he needed to know, and he swept me off my feet and swung me around on the narrow walkway.

“It will be a new world,” he said.

“And a new life,” I added.

The End

March 2010

I poured milk into my coffee and padded into the living room to catch up on yesterday’s mail and current events.  Plopping down on the sofa, I turned on the television and turned my attention to numerous bills and store circulars that had accumulated in my mail box over the past few days.  I was just staring in disgust at a particularly high credit card bill when something on TV caught my attention.  The newscaster was reporting from the Blackfriars neighborhood of London, standing in front of a charming Tudor house, her face infused with artificial concern.  She pointed to the house behind her
, just as a team of police officers carried out something to a waiting police van. 

“A grisly discovery this morning as workers stumble across the remains of what appears to be a woman and an infant entombed behind the kitchen wall of this historic building.  There is no way of telling at this time how long the remains have been in their hiding place, but we
’ll have more information for you on this gruesome find as soon as we hear back from our forensic experts.  As of now, the location is being treated as a crime scene by the Metropolitan Police and no one is allowed to enter the premises.  All work on the house has been suspended until further notice.”

The reporter dropped her false sorrow and went on to say something about world markets, but I wasn’t listening to a word she said.  A tidal wave of sorrow washed over me as I saw the body bag carefully deposited into the vehicle,
and the door slammed shut by a burly policeman.  I wiped a tear from my cheek whispering, “Oh, my darling.”  

I spent the rest of that day feeling weepy and listless.  I started several projects, but left them unfinished due to my inability to concentrate.    I had no idea what prompted these feelings since, as far as I could recall, I
’d never set foot in the house in Blackfriars.  My thoughts kept turning to the news report.  It would take days, or possibly weeks, for the forensic report, but deep down, I already knew what they would find.  How I knew, was an entirely different story. 

I spent a restless night dreaming of strange faces and airless tombs, and was up at the crack of dawn searching the internet for any updates on the strange story.  There were no new developments yet, so
, feeling disappointed, I powered off the computer, and pulled out my appointment diary.  I had nothing on the agenda for that morning, and I’d blocked out the time to start working on my new novel.  My latest manuscript was already with my agent, and she would call once she had some feedback from the publisher. 

I
’d been putting off starting a new novel for weeks because, frankly, I had the worst case of writer’s block that I’ve ever experienced.  I wrote my first novel while I was still at university, and although it took a long time to find a literary agent who was willing to even consider looking at it, once I got signed on, it had been smooth sailing.  My novel went on to become a bestseller in several countries, and I was hailed by the critics as one of the best writers of my generation.  It’s hard to allow praise like that not to go to one’s head.   I basked in the glory of my newfound fame for months until I finally began work on a new book. 

The second novel sold even better than the first, and now my third manuscript was with the publisher.   It was time to start writing a new book, but I had no clue what to write about.  Normally, an idea would pop unbidden into my head, but this time my mind felt as barren as the desert.  I sat at my desk staring at the empty notepad.  Usually, I would start by writing down the bones of the story.  Once I
had a premise and an ending, filling in the events in-between was easy enough.  Half an hour later, I threw the notepad into a drawer and went to get dressed.  I wasn’t getting anywhere, and the best way to deal with my frustration was to go take a nice, long walk by the river. 

The sun was already up, and the cool breeze off the Thames cleared some of the cobwebs from my mind.  I walked along the Victoria Embankment, enjoying the sunlight sparkling on the water and the faint smell of seaweed that filled my nostrils.  A few small piles of dirty snow still lay in the shaded areas, but the winter was clearly on the way out.  There weren’t too many people about at this time of the morning, and I had another hour or so before the sleeping city began to stir itself and get ready for another day.  I didn’t even realize that my steps were taking me toward Blackfriars, and it wasn’t until I was standing in front of the house from the news that I realized where I
’d been heading all along.  The house was a typical Tudor structure, built in the post-and-beam fashion where the space between the beams was filled with plaster to create walls.  The beams could be seen on the outside, a stark contrast to the white plaster that filled the gaps.  The second floor overhung the first by at least a foot, leaving the front door and the windows of the first floor in permanent shadow; the steep roof boasted a large, brick chimney and several dormer windows that must be the attic. 

The house was set back from the street and surrounded by a wrought iron fence complete with a creaky gate.  At the moment, there was yellow police tape warning the nosey passerby that this was a crime scene and not to be tampered with.  I stood with my hands on the gate looking up at the house.  I was positive I had never been there before, but in my mind, I could see exactly what the house looked like inside, down to the last detail, and I could almost see myself climbing the narrow stairs up to the attic.  For some reason, the thought of the attic filled me with dread, so I let go of the gate and turned to leave.  I was startled to find a man standing across the street watching me intently.  We stared at each other in mute appraisal.  He was very tall, with broad shoulders and a lean, athletic
build.  His dark hair fell into his eyes and hadn’t seen a pair of scissors for at least six months; his slanted gray eyes were watchful and predatory.  He reminded me of a wolf stalking its prey, and I thought he would make a great character for one of my novels.  His mouth slowly stretched into a smile.  “I knew you’d come,” he said as he turned around and walked away before I could ask him what he could have possibly meant by that comment.

I watched him disappear around the corner and shook my head.  He must have mistaken me for someone else.  I’d never seen him before.  I would have remembered someone as striking as him.  I suddenly realized that I was famished, and I turned toward home.  Tristan would be back from his business trip today, and I couldn’t wait to see him.  He’d been in China for the past two weeks and I felt instantly better knowing I wouldn’t sleep alone tonight.  We still maintained separate flats, but I spent at least four nights a week at his place, and we were seriously discussing moving in together.  I picked up a cappuccino and a danish from my favorite bakery, and went upstairs to have my breakfast and wrestle my imagination for a good story.

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