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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