Beneath the Shadows Read Free Page B

could just be out shopping. The fact that the place creaked and groaned unaccountably might well have been due to the weight of everything inside it. A lifetime spent gathering, Grace thought, looking at the books stacked against the walls, magazines piled in corners, the collection of china bird ornaments that crowded together in the low glass cabinet. Many of the surfaces had decorative mats or tablecloths on top of them. On one small side tablethere was an enormous vase hand-painted with flowers; on another a brass lamp with a glass shade. Next to that sat a wooden box, which Grace opened to discover a pipe and a pouch of tobacco inside. The smell brought back the memories of her own grandfather, and the past flew into the present for just a second, disappearing as quickly as it came, leaving a bittersweet sense of longing. She put the box down and sighed. Although she was a relative stranger to the old couple, it was entirely up to her now, to go through everything and try to figure out why they had kept these things in the first place, and what the hell she should do with it all. She would be responsible for dismantling the last traces of their lives.
    She wished she had more idea of what Adam might have wanted, but they had only had a week together in the cottage before everything fell apart. In those few days she’d noticed that Adam spent most of his time working on odd jobs, putting off anything sentimental. It was clear he was finding it daunting. While he’d been fond of his grandparents he’d had limited contact with them for most of his life – except for a brief spell when he’d stayed with them for a few months after his mother died. Yet their funerals, so close together, had hit him hard. With their passing, he had lost the last family he had.
    Grace had only visited the cottage once while Adam’s grandparents had been alive. She had instinctively liked them, but they hadn’t had enough time to move past polite friendliness. The only other occasion they had met had been at Grace and Adam’s wedding, which had gone by in a blur of excitement for Grace. But she did remember them: inseparable,looking a little nervous and pale on a rare trip to the south, the subdued black and burgundy hues of their Sunday best in stark contrast to Grace’s suntanned parents – her father in his morning suit, and her mother’s dress of pink and white swirls topped off by a fascinator that sprouted a large fan of pink feathers from one side of her head. However, Bill and Constance Lockwood had smiled proudly at anyone who caught their eye that day, particularly their grandson.
    Twelve months later, Bill had been taken into hospital soon after his wife had been found dead at home; and the stress and grief meant the old man had never returned. When Grace and Adam had first arrived, there had been a magazine on the coffee table, open at a short story. Adam had looked at it in silence for a moment, then told Grace that he remembered seeing his grandmother reading the stories aloud to his grandfather. He’d closed it and gone across to the bin, then hesitated and put it on a bookshelf instead.
    Grace looked over towards the shelf and saw the magazine straight away, exactly where Adam had left it. She bit her lip and put her hands on her hips, as Millie began pushing clothes pegs underneath the sofa. She barely knew where or how to begin. Just do it methodically, bit by bit, she said to herself. Just make a start, that’s all.
    She had been putting the kettle on, when she heard a knock on the door. Their visitor was five minutes early.
    â€˜Michael Muir,’ said the young blond man waiting outside. ‘Call me Mike.’
    He couldn’t have been more than thirty, but he had the portly bearing of a man much older, and ruddy cheeks to match. He stuck out a plump hand, which Grace shookobligingly before stepping back so he could come in.
    Grace looked on as he began assessing the