The House Between Tides by Sarah Maine EPUB & PDF – Details About
- Author: Sarah Maine
- Genre: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense Literary Fiction, Amateur Sleuths
- Publish Date: August 2, 2016
- Size: 1MB
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Status: Avail for Download
- Price: Free
Prologue
1945
The woman stood a moment on the old drive and stared up at the boarded
windows, a dark silhouette against the grey walls, then she turned her back on
the house and went down to the blaze on the foreshore.
Figures moved in the smoky shadows, small awed groups, lingering after
the drama of the auction. They drew back as she approached, a gaunt stranger
in a black coat, and a whisper rustled amongst them. Piuthar Blake! She drew
nearer to the flames. Bho Lunnainn . . . Gusts of wind formed small tornadoes
of sparks, and the woman’s eyes followed them until they faded over the
drained stretches of sand. Blake’s sister. From London. An outsider now. More
of the house’s contents crashed onto the pyre—a broken display cabinet from
the study, an easel riddled with woodworm. The flames were suppressed for a
moment, then leapt to consume the offering—and a way of life.
Earlier in the day there had been a macabre episode when the moth-eaten
birds and animals had been brought out, their glassy eyes catching the flames,
flashing a sharp reproach. A hotel owner had bought the stag’s head from the
landing and the rarities had been sent to Edinburgh, while anyone who
fancied a tatty guillemot as a souvenir had bid a few pennies. The rest, dusty
and faded, had gone onto the bonfire, and she had watched them burn. But
she had turned away when the once prized black-and-white diver from the
dining room was brought out.
It had been found in the back of an old boot
cupboard, ravaged by mice, together with more paintings, wrapped in old
hessian, too late for the auctioneer’s hammer. The paintings had shocked her:
the tormented scenes and heavy brush-strokes exposed too painfully the
anguish of her brother’s broken mind, and she had ordered that they too be
destroyed. All except one, a watercolour which she remembered well, painted
when his talent had been at its outstanding best, and she lingered over it
while the others burned, then put it carefully to one side.
A figure approached her. “That’s the last of it, Mrs. Armstrong.” It was
Donald. She turned and nodded, smiling slightly, and they stood together,
the flames casting flickering shadows across their faces.
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