I WAS lonely. Papa was a preacher and we lived and travelled in a painted wooden wagon, pulled by Jessie, a large and docile shire horse. We had few possessions; there was no room for what Papa called

Clare had theories about her friend’s disappearance. Could she prove them to be true?

IRIS walked slowly to the front door of her Victorian villa in Fairley, a sleepy Sussex village. It had begun, she fumed silently – the “invasion” of her home. Of course, she’d been expecting it. Her

SECOND violins, from bar thirty-two – again, please.” Maggie Holloway blinked at the sheet music in front of her, the notes swimming slightly as she adjusted her glasses. Her bow hovered uncertainly a

BONFIRE Night. Roslyn inhaled deeply, relishing the scents drifting on the air. No other time smelled quite like it. Woodsmoke predominated, but sweetened by the competing aromas of toffee apples and

ISOBEL had known that living in her old childhood home would bring back memories. However, she never expected so many, or for them to be so vivid. Sometimes, in the last minutes before waking, she ima