In mid-bite, she heard a car door slam that was recognizable. It had been a part of the vast domain of the servants in the house’s earlier incarnation. The entrance of the house 85 was grand, and upon entering she was immediately greeted by John’s mother, a tall, thin woman quite a few years older than Cathy Beck. He did not have to. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. ’ ‘She is no longer a mystery,’ Gerald said. Occasionally he would lean back and stare at the window which gave upon the sea.
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