Page 4 of The Peculiar Incident at Thistlewick House

Edward couldn’t get the letter out of his mind, even though all that remained of it was ash. How dare Barnabas contact him now, after all these years, purely because he wanted something. And yet his guilt at abandoning Emma in her hour of need weighed heavily on his shoulders.

To the casual observer, Edward was doing well.

He had sufficient wealth and was well respected in his field, even if it was a profession viewed as humbug by many, and even dangerous by some.

But he was lacking the one thing that really mattered, and that was love.

His mother had never been around to show it, his father had blatantly withheld it, and the one person who might have truly loved him, he’d rejected.

It was what he desired above all else and yet every time it was offered, he pushed it away, leaving many would-be brides and eager mothers unable to understand why, at thirty-six, he refused to settle down.

The disquiet he felt over ignoring his cousin’s plea was added to when a second letter arrived later that week. The envelope had the same looping hand and curly flourishes, and he had the same sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he read the words.

Thistlewick House,

Norfolk

October 18th, 1895

Edward,

Two days have passed since I wrote to you and I’ve heard nothing back.

I don’t blame you for your reticence to answer my plea but am now all but on my knees, begging you to come to us as soon as humanly possible.

The situation with Emma is becoming increasingly serious.

She still maintains her name is Esfir, and repeatedly claims that she wants to kill us all.

Yesterday morning she even ran at our housekeeper with a table knife.

This is a serious situation and one I fervently believe only you can help me with.

You always had a gift for communicating with the dead, Edward, and your reputation as one of the few genuine spiritualists out there has grown.

I understand you have no reason to look upon me kindly, but if you won’t do it for me, do it for her.

I know you cared for her once. Is there not a part of you that would help alleviate her suffering?

I beseech you. Name your price and I will meet it, for I have no need of fortune without my dearest Emma to share it with.

You are our only hope.

Barnabas

Edward adjusted his spectacles and walked over to the drawing room window to read the letter a second time, rubbing at his clean-shaven chin in contemplation.

There was a part of him that was almost gleeful to find his cousin in such a desperate situation.

He could request a sizeable sum be donated to the orphanage fund, enough to make the man truly suffer for stealing his birthright – because seventeen years ago, his cousin had done exactly that.

When Jonah Shaw had died in the summer of 1878, and everyone had gathered to hear the reading of the will, Edward had every reason to expect that, as his only surviving child, he would inherit everything.

He may not have been close to his father, but it hadn’t been through the want of trying.

An affectionate soul by nature, he’d spent his childhood surrounded by few people he could lavish his affections on.

He’d adored his nanny – an elderly woman who had become a mother figure in the absence of his own – but she was no longer required when he turned twelve and so was dismissed.

He’d had few playmates and was educated at home by a stern tutor – his father refusing to send him away to boarding school.

His cousin, Barnabas, five years older than him, had been his only real friend – a boy who’d welcomed the opportunity to stay with his wealthy uncle and young cousin during the holidays.

Jonah encouraged the friendship, even though he had little time for his own child, and could barely even bring himself to look at him.

Edward had long suspected his father thought of Barnabas as his own but, even so, at nineteen years old, when he sat in the offices of Haycock and Smith, along with his extended family and a few valued members of the household staff, he was totally floored to hear that it was his cousin who would inherit the maltings business and their moderate country home – and not Jonah Shaw’s disappointment of a son.

Edward pulled out a map of England from a low shelf on the bookcase to his left, slid into a leather armchair and studied the pages covering East Anglia.

He knew his cousin had returned to the place of his wife’s birth shortly after their marriage, because the Shaw family home had been sold by a desperate Barnabas – a further betrayal that Edward could not forgive.

Emma had been an only child, set to inherit everything, including a large country house by the sea, and was able to bail her then fiancé out of his desperate financial troubles.

Edward had never been to Thistlewick Tye but, sure enough, there it was – a small village on the Norfolk coast, nestled between Cromer and Sheringham.

He thought back fondly to the young woman who’d captured his heart all those years ago. She should have been his, but then so should his father’s maltings business and the Shaw family home. But he’d never wished Emma ill and so her condition worried him. Was there something he could do to help?

The truth was, however, Edward no more had the power to expel a malevolent spirit than he could turn himself invisible.

He was as much of a fraud as the next man, but played a better game.

Because if there was one thing he understood, it was people.

The mind was a powerful thing and, unchecked, it could conjure up disturbing visions and destructive half-truths.

Equally, with the right guidance, it could positively impact the health and well-being of an individual.

Emma was clearly suffering from some kind of delirium as a result of her fever, but he could perhaps assist with her recovery.

And if he could truly name his price, the Cattisham Orphanage Fund might also benefit. Perhaps it wouldn’t take him an anticipated further two years to accrue sufficient funds for his plans. Now wouldn’t that be something?

Delphine entered the drawing room carrying a small copper watering can and headed over to the window.

Edward relied on this young woman and her brother, Carl, for everything.

They kept the house running and assisted with his spiritualist endeavours, as well as keeping his secrets.

But their loyalty would only remain as long as he had sufficient funds to pay them.

He was under no illusion that they cared for him; it was his purse they cared for.

‘If I were to stay in Norfolk for a few days, would you be able to manage here?’ he asked, as she poked the thin spout into the dense foliage of an unwieldy fern.

‘But you never go away, sir.’

‘It wouldn’t be for long.’

‘But how would you—’

‘I’d be staying with someone I knew from before. I could manage. He knows. He’s always known.’

She nodded.

‘You have a séance next week for that government minister and his wife.’

‘I’ll be back by then. If I go. I’ve not yet decided.’

But the pull of seeing Emma again, and equally Barnabas’s offer of payment, was getting stronger.

The orphanage fund was not growing as quickly as he’d have liked, and it was a cause exceedingly close to his heart.

For Edward Blackmore’s mother had died in childbirth, and his father – who had always seen his son as somewhat of a disappointment – had died nearly two decades later.

Although technically no longer a child at that point, he’d very much felt like an orphan at the tender age of nineteen…

Because what Edward Blackmore failed to tell the benevolent donors to the Cattisham Orphanage Fund was that he was the founder, administrator and sole beneficiary.