The Emerald Comb

Some secrets are best left buried

Researching her family tree had been little more than a hobby – until Katie stepped foot onto Kingsley House’s sprawling, ivy-strewn drive. The house may be crumbling today, but it was once the intimidatingly opulent residence of the St Clairs, Katie’s ancestors. Arriving here two hundred years later, emotion stirs in Katie, a strange nostalgia for a place she’s never seen before and when Kingsley House comes up for sale, Katie is determined that her family must buy it.

Surrounded by the mysteries of the past, Katie’s past-time becomes a darker obsession, as she searches through history to trace her heritage. But these walls house secrets more terrible than she could ever have imagined and when forgotten stories and hidden betrayals come to light, the past seems more alive than Katie could ever have imagined.

Moving between the 21^>st and 19^>th centuries, The Emerald Comb is a hauntingly evocative novel, perfect for fans of Kate Morton and Rachel Hore.

The Emerald Comb

Kathleen McGurl

KATHLEEN MCGURL

lives near the sea in Bournemouth, with her husband, sons and cats. She began her writing career creating short stories, and sold dozens to women’s magazines in the UK and Australia. Then she got side-tracked onto family history research – which led eventually to writing novels with genealogy themes. She has always been fascinated by the past, and the ways in which the past can influence the present, and enjoys exploring these links in her novels.

When not writing or working at her full-time job in IT, she likes to go out running or sea-swimming, both of which she does rather slowly. She is definitely quicker at writing.

You can find out more at her website (http://kathleenmcgurl.com/) or follow her on Twitter @KathMcGurl

My heartfelt thanks to Leigh Forbes, Helen Walters, Jean Buswell, Fionn McGurl, Kate Long and Della Galton, all of whom gave me invaluable feedback on early drafts of this novel. Thanks also to my editor Victoria Oundjian whose input helped shape the final product. And to my lovely husband, Ignatius McGurl, for his general support and words of wisdom. He said he’d read anything I managed to get published – that has spurred me onwards throughout. Finally, thanks as always to the wonderful Write Women, whose support, advice and encouragement over the last ten years mean more to me than I can find words for.

For Dad, who would have loved this book

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Endpages

Copyright

“To forget one’s ancestry is to be a brook without a source, a tree without a root.”

Chinese Proverb

“I don’t know who my grandfather was; I am much more concerned to know what his grandson will be.”

Abraham Lincoln

Prologue

Kingsley House

North Kingsley

Hants

November 1876

To my dearest son, Barty St Clair

This is my confession. I am the only soul still living who knows the truth. It will pain me to write this story, but write it I must, before I depart this life. I have not long to live, and I fear death – heaven will not be my final resting place. Dear Barty, when you have read this in its entirety you will understand why I know I am destined for that other, fiery place, to burn with guilt and shame for all eternity.

You must read this alone, sitting in the worn, red armchair by the fireside in the drawing room of Kingsley House. Or perhaps you will sit in my study, at my old walnut desk. Where ever you choose, have a glass of whiskey to hand to fortify yourself. You will need it.

Read this only after I am dead, after I am buried. Read this and understand why you must never sell Kingsley House. You must live in it until the end of your days, guarding its secrets, as I have.

Tell no one the contents of this confession. Not even your brother, William. Especially not your brother, William. It would grieve him, he who worshipped his mother and believed she could do no wrong, even more than it will grieve you. You will understand this when you have reached the end of my story.

Destroy this document when you have read it. You must carry the shameful secret within you, as I have done, but at least you will not also carry guilt.

There, I have written an introduction, but I must rest before I begin my story. Bear with me, my dearest son, while I recoup the strength I need to write this sorry tale.

Your ever loving, repentant father,

Bartholomew St Clair

Chapter One: Hampshire, November 2012

The weather matched my mood. A dark, low sky with a constant drizzle falling meant I needed both headlights and wipers on as I drove up the M3. Whenever I’d pictured myself making this trip I’d imagined myself singing along to the car radio beneath blue skies and sunshine. The reality, thanks to a row with my husband Simon, couldn’t have been more different. All I’d asked of him was to look after our kids for a single Saturday afternoon, while I went to take some photos of Kingsley House, where my ancestors had once lived. Not much to ask, was it? I’d planned it for weeks but of course he hadn’t listened, and had made his own plans to go to rugby training. Then when it was time for me to leave, he’d made such a fuss. I’d ended up grabbing my bag and storming out, leaving him no choice but to stay and be a parent for once, while the kids watched, wide-eyed. Perhaps that’s unfair of me. He’s a wonderful parent, and we have a strong marriage. Most of the time.