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of rhododendrons that were yet to burst into flower, and beyond was Hollow Edge Woods, a copse where generations of foxes and
    badgers had lived. Way off in the distance, the swell of sheep-grazed hills rose up to the morning sky. He rested his hands on the stone sill and thought that Byron had got it right when he had compared Derbyshire with Greece and Switzerland, saying it was just as noble.
    It had been love at first sight for Anastasia when she had seen Mermaid House. She had been an incurable romantic who acted on impulse and was inventively quirky, hence their children’s bizarre names. But she had had her work cut out in convincing him to buy the house - he was so conventional and analytical. It cost much more than they could afford, and was miles from where Liberty Engineering’s factory was situated, but eventually he had given in to her. He could still see her bright eyes flashing with delight as she whirled him round the room when he agreed to put in an offer.
    It was only when they moved in that they appreciated the state of the place. It dated back to the mid-nineteenth century, and it was a wreck: dry rot, wet rot, any rot you cared to think of, Mermaid House had it in spades. Busy with work, he had left Anastasia to deal with it - it was her baby, after all. She threw herself into its restoration, determined to see the job thoroughly well done - and their bank balance just as thoroughly depleted. He had never regretted it, though. To see her happy was enough. And then Caspar and Damson had arrived. The upheaval in their lives was colossal, but Anastasia took the twins in her stride. She never complained of being tired, when night after night she sat in the nursery in the rocking-chair with one or other of the blighters on her shoulder. She never minded how little they slept, or how mischievous they were once they began to explore their surroundings, pulling themselves up on to their chubby legs and ransacking cupboards, drawers, shelves, constantly searching for something new to play with - and break.
    They were an inseparable two-man destruction derby: nothing was safe with them around. Gabriel had wanted to employ a nanny to help Anastasia, but she wouldn’t hear of it, claiming that she loved the challenge of two such lively children.
    It was five years before they took the plunge again and tried for another child. Then Jonah was born.
    And Anastasia died.
    By craning his neck to the left and pressing his head against the window, which was cloudy with dirt, Gabriel could just see the spire of the church in Deaconsbridge; it was where both of his wives were buried.
    He tightened the belt of his dressing-gown and continued along the landing, passing closed doors to dusty rooms he hadn’t been inside for months. He took the stairs slowly: his one-eyed view gave him a misleading impression of the floor - it wasn’t as close as he thought it was. The staircase was yet another reminder of Anastasia: she used to refer to herself as Scarlett O’Hara as she swept down it in a graceful rush of laughter, her long hair tumbling around her shoulders.
    The kitchen didn’t catch the morning sun, and even in the height of summer it was the coldest room in the house. Val had had an Aga installed and had stoked it with coal morning, noon and night. It had been worse than a demanding baby: as she shovelled in fuel at one end, it deposited ashes at the other. She had soon tired of that and had had it converted to gas. Not long after her death it, too, had given up the ghost - something to do with a faulty thermostat that couldn’t be replaced.
    Since then Gabriel had bought himself a bog-standard electric cooker and one of those portable heaters on wheels with a large gas cylinder inside it. He switched it on now - he had to keep clicking the button until eventually a spark ignited the gas and a whoomph of flame shot across the blackened panels. It had been when he was doing this, the other week, that he had burned his