The Haunting [antikvár]

The Streamside, Hampshire i6 April 1816 Fish say, they have their stream and pond; But is there anything beyond? Rupert Brooke, 'Heaven', 1915 It was not a day for death. For a start, the weather was all wrong. It was one of those perfect days, the sort that occur only a handful of times each year. Usually in spring. Air as clear as crystalj the sort of day when the whole world seems to sparkle and glisten - freshly laundered by a shower of rain, buffed up by the gentlest of breezes and then polished to perfection by clear sunlight. It is there only for those who are prepared to see it -the sort of people whose senses are heightened by having spent much of their time out of doors rather than having had their finer feelings dulled by decades of desk-bound toil. Those poor mortals whose eyes are forever cast downwards are likely to let the moment pass, and by the time their gaze is raised heavenward, it is to discover the source of the rain that dampens further their mood or the squall that tears at their clothing. On this April day, at a quarter to nine in the morning, Anne Flint took advantage of her mistress's absence in the hope of changing her life. Tentatively she lifted the latch on the heavy oak door and slipped from the great house without a backward glance. The events that had occurred since she had risen at five o'clock had made her more determined than ever