Page 26 of The Peculiar Incident at Thistlewick House

Edward’s wig was of the finest quality and had taken six heads of human hair to make.

The strands were hand-tied onto a flesh-coloured lace cap, and it had been custom-made in Paris – all paid for from the Cattisham Orphanage Fund.

He’d previously experimented with dyes of boiled walnut hulls or silver nitrate, but the latter gave off a purplish hue in certain lights, and the white growth of his roots showed within days, making the whole process time-consuming and far from satisfactory.

The colour faded quickly and left stains on pillowcases and the collars of his shirts.

In the end, a wig had proved the best option.

He shaved his face twice daily, to avoid the tell-tale white stubble from showing.

His flamboyant and flowing clothes hid most of his body hair, apart from that on his face, but he dyed his eyebrows with the walnut hulls and used a stick of E.

Rimmel’s black cosmetique to darken them even more and colour his lashes.

All very well until the heat of a blazing summer day or the driving rain of winter caused the dark stain to run.

As part of his condition, the lack of pigment in his body gave him the most piercing blue eyes, but had also affected his vision.

He struggled to see objects near to him so needed spectacles to read, and was sensitive to bright light.

It was one of the reasons he kept out of the sun, preferring winter and night-time – the other, of course, being that his pale skin would burn easily.

But he knew many people with his condition had it worse.

He’d once seen a little girl with red eyes – much harder to conceal and pass yourself off as ‘normal’ – whatever that meant.

But with the help of Delphine and Carl, he’d successfully pulled the wool over most people’s far more clear-sighted eyes.

Maude didn’t flinch as he placed the black wig on his lap, but then she’d seen the snow-white hairs covering his broad chest when she’d pulled back his shirt on the beach.

She could now be in no doubt of the secret that he kept so closely guarded.

The secret that had forced him to move away from the people he’d grown up with, to reinvent himself, disguise his appearance and even change his name. Blackmore – how could he resist?

He was the second child in his family to be born lacking in pigment, but the older sister he’d never met had only survived a few days.

And then when Jonah Shaw’s son was also born an albino, he’d sworn never to sire another child.

Edward was a bitter disappointment and had spent a great deal of his youth trying to prove to his father that his fragile appearance didn’t mean he was weak – physically or mentally.

But there are none so blind as those who choose not to see, and nothing he could do made Jonah Shaw proud.

Instead, over time, the man turned his hopes and attentions to his nephew, Barnabas, determined to have a Shaw run the maltings after his death, because he refused to countenance his freak of a son at the helm.

Edward reached for the gin bottle and poured himself another half tumblerful – it wasn’t as if Maude was going to drink it.

‘Your secret’s safe with me,’ she said, and they locked eyes.

Did she see his pain as he saw hers? Because there was something about her that told of a cavernous emptiness – a haunted look and her defeated body language – that he understood.

She was not a good woman, but then he’d not always been a good man.

He’d spent the majority of his life lying to people and extracting money for a gift he didn’t possess.

His clients believed they were donating to a worthy charity, when in truth the orphanage was fraudulent.

He noticed her gaze drop to his open shirt again and was suddenly embarrassed to be so exposed, pulling the two sides of the cotton together and refastening the buttons.

A faint pink tinge bloomed across the apples of her cheeks.

All the while he thought she was a hostile drunk, their sex had hardly come into their encounters, but now that he’d discovered she was a perfectly rational woman with a head clear of drink, albeit slightly older than him, he was acutely aware that such intimacy was inappropriate.

‘Thank you for your kind ministrations,’ he said, rising to his feet, picking up his wig and deftly placing it back on his head. He winced as he put weight on his ankle. ‘But I must head back to Thistlewick House. Barnabas will be wondering where I am.’

In reality, Edward doubted his cousin would notice his absence. The man hadn’t left the house since the funeral, and continued to look for reasons to live in the bottom of his whisky tumbler.

Maude stood with him and the pair walked over to the door. As she fumbled with the bolt, Edward looked down at her. She was quite tall for her sex but even so, at nearly six feet, he towered over most people.

What was it about this strange woman that made his heart suddenly accelerate?

Her weathered skin told of a hard life, and the soft crêpe of her skin around her eyes and on her neck attested to her age.

She was on the attractive side of plain, but not a particular beauty, and, for most of their short acquaintance, she’d been downright unpleasant to him.

But he sensed there was something deeper to her – something he’d only begun to unearth that afternoon, in the confines of her small cottage.

Alcohol was a ruthless master. It had turned her into something that she wasn’t.

The shock of her husband walking out, and her subsequent sobriety, had allowed this more reasoned woman to resurface.

Look how she’d tended to his wound. But perhaps he’d always subconsciously been aware that she was not what she pretended to be.

Her level-headedness on the night that Silas had fallen from the cliffs was a prime example. Everyone deserved a second chance.

‘Do you not get lonely?’ he asked, unable to stop himself from reaching for her hand to help her draw back the bolt.

Her earlier confidence seemed to have deserted her as she stared at his fingers, wide over hers, and tipped her head up to meet his questioning gaze.

Was it his imagination, or was she trembling?

‘Sometimes.’

Her simple, honest reply, and vulnerable expression, had a bewildering effect on him.

Edward’s breathing felt momentarily constricted, as though someone was pushing a firm hand down on his breastbone.

His heart flipped upwards, replicating the sensation he felt when the carriage went too fast over a humpback bridge – a feeling of seasickness and discombobulation.

He ran his tongue across his lips and, with the same inevitability as gravity, his head was pulled towards her slightly open mouth.

He inched towards her, almost imperceptibly, and her head remained defiantly tilted upwards, before he chastised himself.

What the hell was he doing? This was a married woman with a disturbing past. Added to which, he’d made the decision long ago not to complicate his own life by becoming involved with a woman.

His unfortunate condition meant he’d never entertained the idea of a wife.

If his own father could hardly bear to look at him, why would a young woman feel any different?

Especially in the bedroom, where he could no longer hide behind wigs and long, sweeping clothing.

And who would risk bringing albino children into this world?

To society at large, he was Edward Blackmore – the man with black hair and pale skin – but the intimacy of marriage would reveal the truth, so he’d refused to pursue any meaningful romance.

He’d even stepped away from the one woman he’d loved, without ever revealing why.

But Maude knew about his albinism now. Did it matter to her? She was still frozen, but whether that was because the potential kiss was an unwelcome shock, or she was steadying herself in anticipation of it, he couldn’t be sure.

His focus, which had been entirely on her lips, now darted back up to her eyes, and she snapped out of her hypnotised state and shook her head, pulling away.

‘I can’t do this,’ she said. ‘It makes me uncomfortable.’

He’d been fooling himself that she felt an attraction to him. Like everyone else in his life, he realised, she didn’t want to be associated with a freak.

Edward slid back the heavy bolt and opened the door. Limp light from the miserable day flooded the cottage, but the chilly atmosphere that swirled about them wasn’t just down to the breeze.

‘I’m sorry. You’re married. The gin… What was I thinking? You’ve been so kind and my behaviour was unforgivable.’

‘Mr Blackmore—’

‘Please, call me Edward.’

‘Despite my determination to live an independent life, I am lonely. If you can bear the chatter of the gossips, then I could use a friend,’ she admitted, emphasising the platonic nature of their possible relationship.

‘There are strange things going on and I think you’re the only person who can be trusted to do the right thing. ’

Edward hesitated, half over the threshold, and then stepped back inside, drawing the door to a close again.

He banished all thoughts of romance. They’d been fleeting and ridiculous.

The alcohol had blurred his judgement, and the truth was that he often felt lonely, too.

But he’d run after her on the beach because he believed she could help with his investigations, so he should return his focus to the matter in hand.

She’d told him the truth of her past and assured him she wouldn’t reveal his secret. He could trust her.