She slipped down the lengthy landing, passing closed doors on either side of her. Winnie figured that Thaddeus must be sleeping behind one of them, and not knowing which one, she dared not to enter any of them. He had asked her not to disturb him for any reason. After tiptoeing down the wide staircase, Winnie found herself once again in the vast hall she had stood in the night before. The light was better now, and she crossed to the portraits which hung on the walls. The wall before her was decorated with oil paintings of men. She couldn’t be sure, but they appeared to be very old, if not hundreds of years old. The last picture hanging from the wall didn’t look so dated. It was a beautifully crafted painting of Thaddeus himself. He stared out of the picture with its silver frame. His dark eyes, scruffy dark hair enclosing his pale face, and his broad mouth set in a nonchalant pose reminded Winnie of how strangely attractive Thaddeus was. He wasn’t the typical good-looking guy, but there was something about him, she thought. Something different, but she hadn’t quite figured out what.

Winnie passed back along the row, and two things puzzled her. None of the paintings had been signed by the artists, and the men in each painting bore a striking resemblance to Thaddeus himself. Their faces had subtle differences in shape, their hair fashioned in different styles to suit the particular period in time, but all of them had those dark, powerful eyes. Studying the paintings, Winnie decided that they must be his ancestors. She turned on the balls of her feet and crossed to the paintings hanging on the opposite wall. These were paintings of women. Again, all of which appeared to be extremely old. As in the male portraits, the women all bore a striking resemblance to each other. All had a fountain of fiery auburn hair, pale skin, the softest of pink mouths, and green eyes that shone out of the paintings like blazing emeralds. Again, these hadn't been signed.

Winnie crossed to the centre of the hall and looked from one set of paintings to the other. As she passed between them, she noticed that they sat exactly opposite each other, so that their eyes were locked on one another’s. She stood in the vast hall, looking up at the paintings. Then when her neck began to ache, she clasped the handle of one of the doors which led from the hallway and eased it open. Peering around the edge of the door, she stepped inside. Winnie found herself in a large dining room. Hazy subdued light spilled in through tall bay windows that stood at the far end of the room and lightened her surroundings. There was a long mahogany table which could have seated at least twenty people comfortably down each side. Bookcases lined the remaining walls from floor to ceiling, with a ladder on wheels propped against the shelves at the far end. She noticed that each book was leather-bound in blues, greens, and deep reds. Their spines were adorned with impressive gold binding, as were the edges of the pages. Winnie closed the door behind her and crossed the hall to the door set into the opposite wall. She pushed it open and stepped into the lounge.

There was another bay window spilling more grey light into the room. Dust moats danced in the slices of grey light. The rain continued to hurl itself against the windows and she wrapped her arms about her shoulders, shivering, and glad to be in the warmth. Squat, leather-backed armchairs and two-seater sofas furnished the room. There was an open fireplace, and Winnie could only imagine how beautiful it would look ablaze on a cold winter’s night. In the far corner was the biggest television set she had ever seen, and she went over and switched it on. Sinking down into one of the luxuriant sofas, the TV screen flickered to life.

The midday news was just beginning, and she was surprised that it had gotten so late. She sat before the television more bemused by its size than the World events that were being read by the newscaster. The first story was about the failing economy, and how many more months the country was going to be in a double-dip recession. Winnie had never before concerned herself with such troubles, the life she had led on the streets of London were where her own survival had been her main concern. The second story did grab her attention, as the newsreader began to recount the details of the brutal murder of a student in London. The body had been found in a bedsit, not too far from King’s Cross Railway Station. She remembered too well the bitter nights she had spent huddled up there, begging for money so that she could buy food. Winnie listened to how the police were appealing for witnesses. The story cut to a police press conference, where a balding police officer sat behind a large table crammed with microphones. The shoulders of his smart black tunic were covered in crowns, Winnie noticed. He didn’t look like the average copper who would hassle her to move on or arrest her for begging; he looked way more important than that.

The police officer had a stern look on his face, and Winnie thought he looked uncomfortable sitting in front of the press before him. As he started to make his statement, Winnie understood why he looked so gaunt and stressed. He started by explaining that he had over twenty-five years of service within the police, but never in that time had he come across such a vicious and horrific crime.

“What is the victim’s name?” one of the reporters shouted off-camera.

“That is information I need to withhold at this time, until we have confirmed the identity of the victim.”

“So you still don’t know who the victim is?” another reporter asked.

“We believe it is the woman who rented that particular room, but we don’t want to commit to anything until we have carried out DNA tests on members of the victim’s family, to confirm or deny if it is indeed the woman who rented the room.”

“The murder took place two nights ago,” another reporter reminded him. “How is it you are still yet to identify the victim?”

The police officer, in his neatly-pressed tunic and blazing crowns on his shoulders, looked sombrely at the reporters. He took a moment as if preparing himself for what he had to say next. When he was ready, he said, “The attack was so ferocious that it has as of yet, not been possible to properly identify the victim,” the officer explained.

A buzz of excitement swept over the news-hungry reporters, the TV flickered with white light as a burst of cameras all went off at the same time. The officer blinked in the sudden glare of flashing lights.

“So what are the injuries?” a reporter asked.

The officer sat quietly for a moment, his Adam’s apple rising slowly in his throat as he swallowed. Then looking at the reporters gathered before him, he said, “It would appear that the perpetrator performed cannibalism on the victim. Either that, or the deceased was attacked by a pack of wild animals.”

Hearing this, the horde of photographers and reporters couldn’t contain themselves any longer as they hailed a wave of questions at the now-dazed officer. Winnie lent forward and snapped off the television. She didn’t want to hear about what was going on in London. She was away from that place now and didn’t want to be reminded of it. More than that - she didn’t ever want to go back. Maybe she had done the right thing by coming down to Cornwall with Thaddeus. It couldn’t be any more dangerous than the risks she had taken to survive over the last few years. As she sat and wondered on the life she had led, and how she had never known what dangers each day might have brought, Winnie slowly gazed up where Thaddeus now slept in one of the rooms above her. As her thoughts turned to the man who had offered her a new start, she knew in her heart that she had taken another big risk.

Chapter Seven

Scaring herself with the news bulletin, and filling her head with paranoid thoughts about Thaddeus's motives for bringing her to his secluded home on the coast, Winnie knew she had to break the destructive train of thoughts which were now gnawing away inside of her. If she didn’t stop listening to them - shut them out - she would go mad for sure. So switching the TV back on, she sat for the next hour and watched Sesame Street, trying to unburden her troubled mind with the company of Big Bird, Bert, and Ernie, Elmo, and the Cookie Monster. It wasn’t a programme she had watched since being very small, and she enjoyed feeling like a little kid again.

By the end of the show she had counted to ten with the Count and discovered the letter 'E'. Winnie was in a much brighter mood. As the end credits rolled, she switched off the TV again, and passed through the lounge to the kitchen. It was huge, and like most of the other rooms in the house, it was furnished with all the modern appliances which were assured to make your life easier. A wooden table sat in the centre of the room surrounded by four chairs. Winnie crossed to it and found fifty pounds. Under the money, Winnie discovered a note. Scribbled across it were the words, Buy something nice for dinner - Thad.

Winnie had spent the rest of the day preparing Thaddeus's and her own evening meal. She had found little in the cupboards or freezer, so after cladding herself in a waterproof coat she had found hanging on the back of the kitchen door, she ventured out of the house in search of some shops. On her journey down from the house, she discovered that it occupied land which led down to a jagged-looking coastline and the sea. Looking out over the edge of the cliffs, with icy rain driving into her face, Winnie knew she had been correct the night before. The house was set high on a hill, surrounded by a dense crop of trees. As she looked out at the waves which crashed against the cliffs, she could see St. Ives stretched out before her and the continuing rugged coastline. Although the new world she found herself in was bleak and cold, she couldn’t help but see its beauty. With the wind nagging at her hair, and rain running the length of her face like tears, Winnie followed the narrow coastal path below. In town, she came across a small supermarket. With some of the money Thaddeus had left on the table, she bought their dinner and made her way back up the hill to the house.

Winnie stood in the kitchen as the night soaked up the remainder of the day. She laid two places at the kitchen table, a knife, fork, and a spoon for each of them. A vase stood in the centre of the table filled with heather, which she had gathered on her return journey from the store. The meal was cooked and warming under the grill. Pleased with herself, she waited for Thaddeus to wake.

Her wait wasn't a long one as she heard movement from above, then the sound of his footfalls on the stairs. For the first time since arriving at the house, Winnie began to feel nervous. Not of the man himself, but of the little things. Like would they find enough to talk about, and were there going to be any of those agonising drawn-out silences? What would he be like to work for? Would he be an arsehole? She wondered.