THE SILENT HOUSE

A GRIPPING, EMOTIONAL PAGE-TURNER

LAURA ELLIOT

BOOKS BY LAURA ELLIOT

After the Wedding

The Silent House

The Thorn Girl

The Wife Before Me

Guilty

Sleep Sister

The Betrayal

The Prodigal Sister

Stolen Child

Fragile Lies

Available in audio

The Thorn Girl (Available in the UK and the US)

The Wife Before Me (Available in the UK and the US)

Guilty (Available in the UK and the US)

Sleep Sister (Available in the UK and the US)

CONTENTS

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Part II

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Part III

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Epilogue

The Wife Before Me

Laura’s Email Sign-Up

Books by Laura Elliot

A Letter from Laura

After the Wedding

The Thorn Girl

Guilty

Sleep Sister

The Betrayal

The Prodigal Sister

Stolen Child

Fragile Lies

Acknowledgements

The Tinderbox is dedicated to my beloved grandchildren, Romy and Ava Flynn, and Nina and Sean Considine. I love you all to the moon and back.

PART 1

CHAPTER ONE

Southern Stream FM

This is Gavin Darcy opening Morning Stream with an exclusive news flash.

An emergency call was received in the early hours of this morning from a young girl who claimed she was being held at gunpoint by a dangerous gunman at an unknown location. The connection was broken before she was able to reveal her whereabouts and it’s believed a shot was fired before her call abruptly ended.

Gardai were tracing the call to find out if it was genuine or a hoax. Unfortunately, as listeners know, hoax calls, whether to the gardai or the fire service, are regular occurrences and we have been awaiting confirmation from the Garda Press Office, who, as yet, are not prepared to comment. It’s not known if there are others at the location with her. We’ll keep you up to date as further information is released so stay tuned to Morning Stream for coverage of this unfolding situation.

CHAPTER TWO

SOPHY

Six months earlier

The rooks had arrived before them. The shriek of rusted hinges when Isobel opened the entrance gates had startled them from their roost and they had risen in clamorous protest to wheel above their nests before scattering into the evening air. Now, they had settled like an ominous, black cowl over the chimneys and roof of Hyland Hall. Silent and unmoving, their sharp, beady eyes watched Sophy as she left her car and took stock of her surroundings.

She had imagined moving into a ‘great’ house. One that had weathered the centuries and stood stately and proud at the end of a long, tree-lined avenue. The bumpy, narrow lane leading to the entrance gates had worried her but the avenue had been as leafy and wide as she had hoped. Her spirits had risen as she drove under a canopy of overhanging branches towards her destination. The trees, she now realised, had been a deceptive lure that did nothing to prepare her for the shock of seeing her new home for the first time.

Hyland Hall would once have been a magnificent dwelling but decades of neglect had carved fissures into the red brickwork, flayed the paint from the front door and tarnished the brass horseshoe-shaped knocker. The courtyard was equally run-down, the flagstones barely visible beneath a wilderness of weeds and overgrown shrubbery.

She did not need to look at her daughters’ expressions to appreciate their shock. They must be waiting for her to break; to turn on her heel and leave this eerie house to the rooks and the two stone lions perched on either side of the high steps. She shared their desire to run but she could not turn back now. Too much was at stake. This house, whatever its flaws, would shelter them and that, for the time being, was enough.

The musty smell of abandoned spaces rushed up to greet them when Sophy unlocked the front door. Isobel stepped back, her nose wrinkling in disgust, and Julie, after an initial hesitation, asked, ‘Is this really the start of our exciting new adventure, Mammy?’

‘You’re right, Julie, that’s what it is.’ Taking their hands, she ignored Isobel’s resistant pull and drew them forward into the wide entrance hall. Its glory days were well past and the embossed wallpaper had faded to an indistinguishable beige. A pall of dust covered the furniture – a large wooden trunk with a curved lid, two antique chairs, and a long-legged console table positioned under a gun cabinet. A carving of a horse’s head was displayed on the marble pillar and portraits of horses hung from the walls. A tall grandfather clock sent out six startling, sonorous booms, as if acknowledging and welcoming their arrival.

Isobel clasped her hands over her ears and Julie, unable to hide her fear, ran back to the car where she had left Cordelia. She carried the mannequin back into the hall and propped her against the grandfather clock. Crooning softly to her, she straightened Cordelia’s wig and adjusted her arms.

‘What’s this supposed to be?’ Isobel stood at the bottom of the stairs and stared at a steel rail with a stairlift attached. It ran along one wall and followed the curve of the staircase until it wound out of sight.

‘It’s a stairlift that’s been installed for Mr Hyland,’ Sophy replied. ‘Remember what I’ve told you. You are not to climb these stairs under any circumstances. Do you understand, Isobel? Julie?’

‘Yes.’ Isobel nodded. ‘No way are we to bother The Recluse.’

‘His name is Mr Hyland.’ Sophy frowned. ‘I’ve told you to stop calling him by that ridiculous name.’

Julie pressed her foot to the bottom step then withdrew it. ‘It’s weird,’ she whispered. ‘Him not wanting to see anyone. I’d hate that.’

‘He has his own reasons for demanding his privacy,’ Sophy replied. ‘He’s been very ill and is still recuperating. We must respect his wishes at all times. Come on, let’s check out the downstairs rooms. We have two bedrooms. Decide which one you want to take and I’ll use the other one.’

‘Does that mean I’ll have to sleep with Julie?’ Isobel sounded outraged.

‘The rooms are large. There’s plenty of space for the two of you.’

‘Three of us,’ warned Julie. ‘Cordelia also needs her own space.’

Sophy sighed as she opened the door of the larger room. The dark, cumbersome furniture was such a stark contrast to their bedrooms in Park View Villas and Isobel, staring in horror at a four-poster bed, its canopy speckled with blue mould, shuddered.

‘That’s disgusting.’ Her finger shook as she pointed at the bed. ‘No way will I sleep in that… that thing.’

‘It’ll have to do for now,’ Sophy replied. ‘I promise I’ll organise separate beds once we’ve settled down.’

‘Settled down—’ Isobel began but Sophy was already entering another room. The high ceiling was discoloured yet faint, intricately designed mouldings of musical instruments and musicians were still discernible on the cornicing. Sophy imagined the Hyland family gathered there in the evenings to play music but all that remained of its former purpose was an out-of-tune grand piano and an elaborate piano stool. The overgrown courtyard was visible through two long windows at either end of the music room. The frames of their six-over-six sashes were flaking and encrusted with mould.

‘Cordelia thinks this house is really eerie.’ Julie opened the lid of the piano and struck a few chords. She winced at the discordant notes and carefully closed the lid. ‘But she’ll get to like it soon.’

‘How do you feel about your new home?’ Sophy asked.

‘It’s… okay. Kind of nice, I guess?’

‘Nice.’ Isobel rolled her eyes. ‘It’s only nice if you like living in hell. You can’t possibly expect us to live here, Mum. You can’t.’ Her truculence had disappeared and she sounded on the verge of tears.

‘We made a promise to be brave and share this new adventure,’ said Sophy. Understanding her daughter’s distress was not the same as acknowledging it. To do so would undermine her composure. What purpose would it serve if she wept and huddled into a mass of anxiety? Her daughters needed to see her strength, not the weakness that threatened to overwhelm her at times.

Once past the staircase the hall narrowed into a corridor that led them down three steps into a spacious kitchen. A long, wooden table ran along the centre of the room and an old-fashion dresser filled with crockery stood against one wall. The fridge, washing machine and dishwasher were new but a wood-burning stove seemed to be her only means of cooking. A dusty space with wires hanging from the wall showed where the original cooker had stood. She spotted a note on the table and read it. Charlie Bracken apologised for the delay in the delivery of the cooker and hoped she could manage with the stove until it arrived.

Jack Hyland had mentioned Charlie in his correspondence with her and referred to him as his friend. He had been asked to organise the delivery of electrical goods and had succeeded in doing so except for one of the most important items. After they had carried in their luggage and chosen their bedrooms – because of its size, the girls agreed to sleep in the four poster bed – they returned to the kitchen to eat.

‘The stove shouldn’t be too difficult to light…’ Sophy pointed resolutely to a stack of old newspapers on the floor. ‘Roll the pages up as tight as sticks and we’ll have a fire going in no time at all.’

The girls did as they were told. As the spirals of paper piled up and began to burn, she added logs from a basket. The fire went out immediately. She set more newspapers alight and shrieked when flames lashed across her fingers. As she splashed cold water over her hands, she realised that smoke was billowing from the chimney and filling the kitchen. She coughed and ushered the girls outside into the backyard.

The setting sun cast an eerie glow over the blackened remains of the burned-out stables that had almost killed Jack Hyland. They reminded Sophy of pyramids; the roofless walls bleakly angled. The corrugated frame of a larger building with a domed roof was visible beyond the stables. That must have been the barn where the fire started. One of Jack’s stipulations was that the girls were not to go near the ruins in case they collapsed. They nodded glumly when Sophy reminded them that the stables and barn were out of bounds.

‘Let’s forget about a hot meal for tonight,’ she said when the smoke had cleared and they returned to the kitchen. ‘I’ll make sandwiches instead?’

‘Can me and Cordelia have cheese and onion crisp sandwiches?’ Julie had taken the mannequin from the hall and settled her into a rocking chair by the stove. ‘They’re our best favourite food.’

‘I want proper food,’ Isobel snapped. ‘I’m not going to sleep in the same bed as Julie if she smells like a stinking onion.’

Sophy sucked in her cheeks and buttered bread. Losing her temper was not going to help matters. She was weary of arguments. Weary of understanding her daughters’ grief, worries, loss. So many emotions expressed, and she had listened to them, determinedly positive, while she battled her own inner conflict. Selling her boutique and then her house, the proceeds of both running like water through her fingers, had numbed her too much to feel true pain but it swept over her now, raw and raging against the circumstances that had led them here.

‘Don’t start arguing again,’ she said. ‘We’re all tired after our long journey. Everything will work out if we just give it time.’

‘No! It won’t.’ Isobel smashed her fists off the table. ‘You know it won’t get better, not in a million years. We can’t stay here. It’s horrible. I don’t want to live with The Rec— with Mr Hyland. There has to be another way. There has to be.’

‘What do you suggest we do, Isobel? Where will we go?’ Sophy stared at the blisters rising on her hand.

‘You’re crying.’ Isobel made it sound like an accusation. ‘You’re crying yet you keep pretending everything’s going to be all right.’

‘It’s all your fault, Issy Kingston!’ Julie yelled. ‘You keep spoiling our exciting new adventure. Cordelia hates you—’

‘Cordelia is a fucking dummy—’

‘You said a curse.’ Julie rose on her toes with self-righteous shock. ‘Mammy, Issy said the F word.’

‘Stop it this instant, both of you,’ Sophy shrieked. ‘I’m tired listening to the pair of you bickering. You never stopped for the entire journey and I won’t put up with it for a moment longer. Do you hear me? Eat your sandwiches then go to your bedroom and unpack.’

‘I’m never going to unpack—’

‘You heard me, Isobel. Do what you’re told for once. I don’t want to hear another word out of either of you for the rest of the night. Is that understood?’

Isobel, her eyes downcast, bit hard into a sandwich and nodded.

‘Don’t worry, Mammy.’ Julie leaned her elbows on the table and cupped her face in her hands. ‘This is going to be the best adventure ever.’

‘I know it is, my darling.’ Sophy released her breath, in and out, deep and slow.

When the girls were asleep, she entered her bedroom and loosened her hair, allowed it to fall to her shoulders. She stared at her reflection in the dressing table mirror. Tears had traced furrows on her soot-stained cheeks and her eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep. Too tired to undress, she lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. A series of faint cracks radiated across the once-white surface. She watched the slow sway of a cobweb hanging from the lampshade. How long had that dreary, grey smear been suspended above the bed? Decades, probably. Sounds reached her from the bedroom next door. The thump of something falling – a book, perhaps. Books had become Isobel’s defence, her weapon of choice to keep her parents at bay. Sophy considered going in to check on her. She would gather her eldest daughter into her arms and reassure her that everything was going to be okay. A wasted effort. At fourteen years of age, Isobel recognised a lie when she heard one, but Sophy continued to repeat the same platitudes every time they discussed their future. What else could she do? Isobel might demand the truth but did she want to hear it? No, Sophy decided. Reality needed to be doled out in bearable doses.

The high pitch of Julie’s voice reached her. The sound of the voice that Julie used when practising her ventriloquism skills set Sophy’s teeth on edge. Julie’s affection for Cordelia, the child mannequin who had once stood in the window of Sophy’s boutique, was just another problem to be tackled when life settled into a new normality, whenever that would be.

Was Luke sleeping, she wondered, or was he also lying awake and tormented by thoughts of their broken marriage? He had only ever laid his hands on her in tenderness and passion, yet when he walked from their home, she felt as if her body had been bruised beyond healing. He had never betrayed her with another woman yet when she uncovered his lies, she was as duped and humiliated as any wife who had ever been deceived by an unfaithful husband. He adored their two daughters yet he had recklessly steered their future onto the rocks.

She continued staring at the ceiling. Like palmistry, it seemed as if her two lives – the one that had been heedlessly destroyed, and the new one that was being forced on her – could be read in the lines. The crack that ran in a straight direction until it broke into a tangled network was the present. There had to be another line, a newer one, and she eventually found it. This one had the sharpness of a recent fracture; a quavering uncertainty in its run towards the centre of the ceiling. Her future. It hadn’t taken shape as yet, but the forward momentum was unstoppable, and the past, where happiness once reigned, was seen for what it was: a deluded ideal filled with false promises and empty kisses.