The Turn of the Key

But he was shifting the washing machine aside, grunting a little with the effort, the castors screeching on the tiled floor.

“Jack? Did you hear me? I said I already—”

He ignored me, leaning over the counter, one long arm stretched down the back of unit.

“Jack—” There was real irritation in my voice now, but he interrupted me.

“Got it.”

He straightened, triumphantly, a dusty brass key in his fingers. I let my mouth snap shut.

I had looked. I had looked. I had a clear memory of peering under that washing machine and seeing nothing but dust.

“But—”

He came across, dropped it into my palm.

“But . . . I looked.”

“It was tucked behind the wheel. I expect you wouldn’t have seen. Probably fell out when the door slammed shut and skidded under there. All’s well that ends well, isn’t that what they say?”

I let my hand close around the key, feeling the brass ridges bite into my palm. I had looked. I had looked carefully. Wheel or no wheel, how could I have missed a three-inch brass key, when that was exactly what I was looking for?

There was no way I could have missed seeing that key if it was there. Which meant that maybe . . . it wasn’t there. Until someone dropped it down there.

I looked up and met Jack’s guileless hazel eyes, smiling down at me. But it couldn’t be. He was so nice.

Maybe . . . a bit too nice?

You went straight to the washing machine, I wanted to say. How did you know?

But I could not bring myself to voice my suspicions aloud.

What I actually said was, “Thank you.” But my voice in my own ears sounded subdued.

Jack didn’t reply; he was already dusting off his hands and turning for the door, the dogs wheeling and yelping around his feet.

“See you in an hour or so?” he said, but this time, when he smiled, it no longer made my heart leap a little. Instead, I noticed the tendons in the back of his hands, the way he kept the dogs leashes very short, pulled in against his heel, dominating them.

“Sure,” I said quietly.

“Oh, and I nearly forgot—today’s Jean’s day off. She won’t be coming up, so no point in leaving the dishes for her.”

“No problem,” I said.

As he turned and made his way across the courtyard, dogs firmly at heel, I watched him go, turning the sequence of events over in my mind, trying to figure out what had happened.

Although I’d suggested Jean’s name to Jack, I didn’t honestly believe she was responsible. I remembered putting the key on the frame after she had gone. So unless she’d come back—which didn’t seem likely—then she couldn’t be to blame.

What had happened after that . . . Jack had come in by that door, I recalled, but had I unlocked it? No . . . I was pretty sure I’d just opened it—presumably Jack must have unlocked it with his own set of keys. Or had I unlocked it then? It was hard to remember.

Either way, it was technically possible that he had pocketed the key at some point during his visit, and dropped it down there just now. But why? To freak me out? It seemed unlikely. What could he possibly gain by engineering another nanny’s departure?

Jean, I could have believed more easily. She had plainly disliked me. But even there—setting aside the likelihood of her creeping back to the house after she’d departed, which seemed more and more implausible the more I thought about it, she seemed to have a genuine affection for the children, and I couldn’t believe she would deliberately leave the house unsafe and unsecured while they were asleep.

Because that was the final, unnerving possibility. That someone had taken it to ensure access to the house in the night. Not Jean or Jack, who had their own sets of keys but . . . someone else.

But no—that was crazy, I was beginning to talk myself into hysteria. Maybe it had been there all along. Tucked behind the wheel, Jack had said. Was it possible I just hadn’t looked hard enough?

I was still thinking myself round in circles when there was an impatient noise from the kitchen, and I turned to see Petra kicking irritably against her high chair. I hurried back into the room, undid her straps, and dumped her into the playpen in the corner of the kitchen. Then I pulled my ponytail tighter, plastered on my best smile, and began looking for Maddie and Ellie.

They were in the playroom, huddled in a corner, whispering something, but both heads turned when I clapped my hands.

“Right! Come on, girls, we’re going to go for a picnic. We can take sandwiches, crisps, rice cakes . . .”

I had more than half expected them to refuse, but to my surprise Maddie got up, dusting down her leggings.

“Where are we going?”

“Just the grounds. Will you show me around? I heard from Jack you have a secret den.” That was completely untrue—he hadn’t said anything at all, but I’d never met a child who didn’t have some kind of hidey-hole or cache.

“You can’t see our den,” Ellie said instantly. “It’s secret. I mean—” She stopped at a glaring, furious look from Maddie. “I mean, we don’t have one,” she added miserably.

“Oh, what a shame,” I said breezily. “Well, never mind, I’m sure there’s lots of other interesting places. Put your Wellies on. I’m going to put Petra in the pushchair so she doesn’t wander off, but then let’s set off. You can show me all the best picnic spots.”