Page 138 of The Stranger in Room Six

‘I’ve kept it quiet for years, but please understand that I’m being honest about all of this.’

I want to believe the woman who has become my friend. I really do, but this doesn’t sound good.

‘If you look under my bed,’ says Mabel, ‘there’s a floorboard which is slightly looser than the others.’

Garth’s face stiffens.

‘It’s why I insisted on staying in the Red Room when the house was made into a home, even though I never cared for it. I wouldn’t let the builders alter it like the other rooms.’

Garth is already on his knees.

‘I’ve got it.’

He prises it open and brings out a small badge.

‘I found it when I was helping Jonty and Clarissa with their paperwork,’ says Mabel. ‘I picked it up by mistake and then was scared of giving it back, so I kept it.’

Garth’s face is grim. ‘I’ve seen this design before. It was a distinction award given to certain members of the Blackshirt movement.’

‘It belonged to one of the guests who visited,’ adds Mabel.

‘I think,’ says Harry, ‘that we should stop right here until I’ve called my lawyer.’

Garth’s mouth tightens. ‘In the meantime, I’m afraid I cannot allow your sister to leave Sunnyside.’

Harry is physically sweating. ‘But even if my sister had been part of the Blackshirt movement, that’s not a crime any more.’

‘No. But we have to keep her safe from the public. She’s already had one anonymous threat and an assassination attempt. There are plenty of people out there who would be happy to take revenge.’

‘But I didn’t mean to,’ wails Mabel. ‘I just did what Clarissa and Jonty told me to do.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not an argument that will save your life.’

Traitor or not, I can’t help putting my arms around Mabel to comfort her, grateful that she hasn’t made the connection between the headlines and me. Then I leave to give her time with her brother.

As I walk away, down the corridor, the manager catches me. ‘Belinda? You have a visitor.’

My heart leaps. Elspeth? Imran? Despite me telling him to go away, I yearn to see him. Be in his arms.

‘His name is Stephen Greaves,’ says the manager. ‘Says he’s Karen Greaves’s son.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘I hope he isn’t going to complain about something.’

100

Stephen Greaves? Karen’s son? My heart feels as if it’s beating overtime as I walk down the corridor, past the community lounge where two residents are arguing over a jigsaw.

I push open the office door with a trembling hand. A man is standing with his back to me, looking out of the window and over the croquet lawn. He turns to face me.

I gasp. A young Gerald is standing before me.

‘Belinda Wall?’ he asks.

I nod nervously.

His face breaks out into a smile. ‘My mother kept saying she had a lovely carer called Belinda. I wanted to thank you for being so kind to her.’

Phew! So he has no idea who I am.

‘It’s funny,’ he adds. ‘My mother also told me you reminded her of someone. When I asked the manager if I could talk to you, I also asked what your surname was.’