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even had to have caterers because Mrs Matlowe had given the cook and the maid the weekend off!’ Her eyes were like saucers.
    ‘That was rather a nasty snub!’
    ‘A real snub!’ They had reached a door. ‘Here we are. Wait ’til you see this!’ With a flourish Lorna turned the key in the lock. She flung open the door and ushered Marianne into the room.
    ‘Good heavens!’ Marianne stood aghast.
    ‘We’re not supposed to come in here – not ever. Not even to sweep or dust or anything but she doesn’t know so how can it hurt?’
    The room was in semi-darkness because the heavy black curtains were almost closed but as Marianne’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she realized the room was some kind of shrine. Or else perhaps a private chapel.
    Lorna threw her arms wide to embrace the entire room, as though she had personally created it. She eyed Marianne with triumph in her eyes. ‘So – what do you make of it? Quite amazing! That’s what me and Cook think.’
    Lorna opened the curtains to give the room more light.
    Marianne’s shocked gaze took in the darkly striped wallpaper, the dark stained floorboards covered with dark rugs, and the chairs upholstered in black velvet.
    Lorna pointed a dramatic finger. ‘Look there. We think it’s an altar. Cook says there’s no two ways about it.’
    It seemed to be made up of a rectangular table with a raised portion in the centre. A white cloth covered it entirely and hung down on all sides, and a glass vase of white silk roses stood at each end. In the middle, on the raised portion, there was a model of Jesus on the cross. It looked expensive, thought Marianne – carved wood, exquisitely painted and decorated with gold leaf. To the left and right of the statue was a black candle.
    ‘But what is it in aid of?’ she asked, puzzled.
    ‘Her son Neil!’ Lorna watched her expression with satisfaction. She crossed herself and said, ‘God’s honour and hope to die!’
    ‘Good Lord!’ Marianne felt a rush of pity for her employer. Mrs Matlowe, who seemed so confident, so implacable , was in fact vulnerable where her son was concerned.
    ‘She started it as soon as he left the house and didn’t come back. Then she heard that he was dead. Things started to be delivered and brought up here but she didn’t allow us to see anything. And look at that!’
    Marianne saw the hassock in front of the altar.
    Lorna said, ‘She embroidered that herself – it’s got her son’s initials on it. To kneel on.’
    Marianne’s shock was giving way to sympathy. She said, ‘People deal with grief and loss in their own way. This must be hers. Losing your only child . . .’ She shrugged. ‘And in such dramatic circumstances. I don’t know how I would deal with something like that. Poor woman.’ She was struggling to reassess her opinion of Georgina Matlowe. Perhaps she had been too quick to judge her, she reflected guiltily. The claustrophobic room with its sombre undertones gave her pause for thought and she frowned. Was this room the early signs of paranoia? Had the events of Leonora’s defection and her son’s death turned her mind? She could imagine Mrs Matlowe on her knees before the altar, praying – her eyes closed, her hands clasped in prayer.
    Lorna pointed again. ‘Over there – all those photographs are of him – the son. Not one of Leonora and not one of the children. Cook thinks she’s got a guilty conscience.’
    ‘About what? She didn’t send Leonora away, did she? Leonora walked out.’
    ‘No, but Mrs Matlowe might have driven her away by hating her so much, thinking she was nothing but a gold-digger – as they call it in America. There were lots of quarrels. We think she was very jealous of her son. Maybe she hoped he would never marry but stay at home with her for ever.’
    ‘Some men do, that’s true.’ Marianne tried to make sense of it all. Possibly the son had blamed his mother for Leonora’s disappearance and could not forgive her. Then he