The Mulberry Tree

  1. Into the Countryside

  2. Lavender Cottage

  3. The Mulberry Tree

  4. A Decision

  5. Whispers in the Night

  6. A Place to Call Home

  7. In the Garden

  8. The Village Green

  9. Jean Drops By

  10. Jean’s Warning

  11. At School

  12. Next in Line

  13. Waiting

  14. Lunchtime

  15. At the Pool

  16. The Allotment Club

  17. Under the Hedge

  18. Red-Hot Anger

  19. In the Stillness

  20. At the Library

  21. On and On

  22. Making the Best of Things

  23. Visitors and Visiting

  24. A True Fresh Start

  25. Balancing on Logs

  26. In the Middle of the Night

  27. A Good Day

  28. A Visitor in the Night

  29. Changes

  30. A Sighting

  31. Elizabeth

  32. Happy Birthday

  33. Out the Window

  34. A Different Tree

  35. . . . One, Two, Three

  36. A Plan

  37. New Friends

  Immy sat in between her parents and watched as the woman in the dark blue suit stacked a pile of folders on her desk.

  “You’ll love Hemingford D’Arcy,” the woman said. “I think you’re making a very wise decision choosing village life. I mean, it would be equally amazing to live here, in the heart of Cambridge, but village life is so lovely. All that space, the thatched cottages, and the tiny village school. . . . There’s a reason so many families move out of London and commute into the city for work, you know.”

  Immy, her mother, and her father blinked their dry, tired eyes and said nothing. The truth was, they didn’t know. They’d come all the way from Sydney so that Immy’s mother could work in a special hospital just outside Cambridge. None of them had even visited this city before. That’s why her parents had hired this relocation woman — to help them find the right house and the right school. All three family members were sleepy and cranky. All they could think about was that it was midnight back at home and they’d rather be tucked into bed. Immy couldn’t even remember what day it was. Wednesday? No, Thursday.

  “Right.” The woman stood, clutching her folders to her. One of them had a label on it that said HELEN, and Immy remembered this was the woman’s name. Helen smiled at them brightly. “I can see you’re exhausted. So let’s get you on the road and find you somewhere to live, shall we? We’ve four properties to see today, and I’m sure one of them will be just what you’re looking for.” Glancing down at her desk, her eyes fell on a folder that still lay there. “Ah, that was what I meant to double-check. How old are you now, Imogen?”

  “Almost eleven,” Immy answered.

  “But not eleven yet?”

  “No, not yet. In about a month’s time.”

  “I see.” Helen smiled again, but Immy thought it looked forced now. She patted the folder that remained on her desk and left it where it was. “Let’s go, shall we?”

  Helen’s black Mercedes whizzed around the lush green countryside as she showed Immy and her parents rental properties. After they’d visited two houses, Immy began to feel as if they might be acting out a strange version of “Goldilocks and the Three Bears.” Everything was too big, too small, too hot, too cold, except that in their version of the story, nothing, unfortunately, was just right. The first house was too dark and poky and smelled like mold. The second house — a converted barn — looked good from the outside, but when they got inside, it was obvious that something had gone very wrong with the decorating. Everything was too modern, with blue lights, ultra-white tiles, and a stainless-steel kitchen.

  “It reminds me of being in theater.” Immy’s mum, a heart surgeon, had stared around in horror.

  “It reminds me of Star Trek,” her dad had said. He’d walked over to stand behind the kitchen bench and spread his arms wide along the countertop, a serious expression falling over his face. “Captain’s log, stardate 2386.8. We have not yet located the house we are seeking. We will therefore continue our journey into the unknown Cambridgeshire countryside.”

  Immy had laughed, though she wasn’t entirely sure why — whether at her father’s joke or at him thinking he was captain of this trip. It hadn’t been her dad who had shuffled them off to the other side of the world after things had gone terribly wrong.

  Next up had been a very tidy, very neat little brick house in a row of very tidy, very neat little brick houses. Immy’s mother had been dubious because of its lack of character.

  “Do you think the Dursleys live on the left- or the right-hand side?” she’d whispered to Immy when Helen was out of earshot.

  So that one was a no as well. Helen hadn’t seemed all that upset. She’d herded the Watts family outside, the sky beginning to turn gray above. When Helen had started up the car once more, she’d taken a moment to turn around and look at Immy and her dad in the back seat.

  “I’ve saved the best till last. I think you’ll love the next place. It’s a very pretty three-bedroom apartment in a converted mill. It’s next to a lock — you know, like a water elevator for boats — so you’d be able to watch the canal boats coming and going all summer long. There’s a swan, and she has eight fluffy gray cygnets right now. And it’s less than a mile’s walk through the woods to school. It’s rather idyllic, actually.”

  “It sounds lovely,” Immy’s mum had replied, sounding hopeful.

  And it was. The old mill itself was amazing — a big, cookie-colored brick building. It squatted next to an old, skinny stone bridge that could take only one car at a time. The river flowed briskly underneath, and, as promised, the white swan and her fluffy gray cygnets swam leisurely up and down, completing the picture.

  But again, it wasn’t quite right. Good, but not quite right.

  “I’m not sure. . . . We’ve never lived in an apartment before. I’d really hoped for our own garden,” Immy’s mum said as they walked back to the car, the gravel crunching under their feet.

  “The complex does have a private flower meadow.” Helen gestured to a small wooden gate that led to a field beyond.

  “Can’t say I’ve ever had my own flower meadow before,” Immy’s dad said.

  “They’re hard to come by in inner-city Sydney,” her mum replied. She sighed and turned back to Helen. “If we’ve seen all the suitable properties you have, we’ll take tonight to think about this one. I suppose we knew we’d have to compromise on something. It might simply have to be the garden.”

  A sudden gust of wind sent their hair and coats whipping around them, and the foursome made their way quickly toward the car.

  Helen navigated the thin stone bridge that led from the converted mill back to the village, and soon enough, they turned right onto the village’s long main street with its quaint thatched cottages. Painted pink, yellow, white, and terra-cotta, they were so pretty they didn’t look quite real, but rather more like something from an old-fashioned Christmas card. From the back seat, Immy kept a close watch on her mother, who looked out the car window wistfully. This is what she’d really wanted. Immy had seen her mother looking night after night at the real estate sites on the internet. She wanted a perfect thatched cottage with a perfect garden to try to make them a perfect life in — to make things better again. Immy glanced over at her father, who noticed her stare and quickly rearranged his expression to something approximating a smile. He did that a lot lately. Immy hated it. Scowling, she turned to her window once more.

  Which is when she saw it.

  “Stop!” she said, reaching
out and thumping the back of Helen’s seat. “STOP!”

  Helen pulled the car over immediately and hit the curb with a bump. “What? What is it?” she said. “Are you feeling carsick?”

  Immy didn’t answer her. She’d already unbuckled her seat belt and opened the car door, and she was getting out. Her eyes were fixed upon a house of creamy white with the prettiest canary-yellow door. Thatch coated the roof like a thick icing and the cherry on top was a straw pigeon, who seemed to strut around on the roof as if he owned the place. The garden heaved with lavender that spilled out over the white wooden fence. Immy ran her hand along it and then sniffed her fingers, inhaling the bright scent. But what had really caught her eye sat right by the gate itself — a sign that read FOR LEASE. The exact same yellow-and-blue sign that had been on all the houses they’d visited today.

  By now, Immy’s mum had exited the car and was standing beside her. Her dad appeared on her other side only seconds later.

  It took Helen a moment or two longer to reach them. She said nothing, her jaw set in a hard line.

  “This looks ideal,” Immy’s mum said. “Can we see it?”

  “Ah . . .” was Helen’s only answer.

  Immy looked up to see disappointment written all over her mother’s face. “Oh, is it rented already?”

  “I . . .”

  Now Immy and her parents stared at Helen.

  Finally, Helen shook her head. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t the property for you.”

  Immy’s mum frowned, confused. “Why ever not?” she said. “It seems to tick so many of our boxes. It’s a character house. It’s close to the school. It has a beautiful garden. Is it out of our price range?”

  “No.” Helen looked up and down the street like she was checking to see if anyone was watching them. “It’s not about money.”

  “Then we’d like to see it, please.” Immy’s mum’s voice was firm. It was obvious that she was getting crankier by the minute. If Helen knew what was good for her, she’d open up the house immediately.

  Maybe Helen sensed this, because she headed back toward the car. “I left the folder with all the information back at the office.” She paused here as if she hoped Immy’s mum would change her mind. Immy remembered the folder that Helen had left on her desk.

  “That’s all right,” Immy’s mum said firmly. “We’d still like to view it. Do you have the keys?”

  Helen’s shoulders sagged. “Yes,” she answered, going over to open the trunk of the car. She fished around in a large metal box and pulled out some keys.

  The foursome approached the wooden gate that opened and shut with a friendly creak, the scent of the lavender enveloping them as they took the few steps to the front door. Among the bushes, large bumblebees buzzed busily, and wildflowers swayed here and there in the breeze, as if dancing to an unheard tune. By the door itself, a little hand-painted ceramic plaque read LAVENDER COTTAGE. Helen opened the front door.

  “Oh!” Immy’s mum said, the first one through the door. “It’s full of furniture. There’s still someone living here.”

  “No,” Helen replied. “The family is renting it furnished.”

  Following her father, Immy stepped forward to get a better look inside, and her eyes widened. She’d never seen anything like it. It was almost like being in a doll’s house. The minuscule slate-tiled entryway led directly into the living area. This was tiny — only big enough for a warm yellow sofa and two large matching armchairs in the same fabric, which faced the large brick fireplace. The walls were painted the same creamy white as the outside of the house, and, on all sides, heavy black wooden beams hugged the room tightly.

  Immy’s dad stepped into the living room itself. “Well?” He looked up at the low ceiling and then back at Immy. “Am I going to make it?”

  Immy watched as his head cleared a beam. “Just!”

  “Maybe it’s a sign.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

  But Immy’s mum wasn’t interested in any of this, her gaze focused hard on Helen. “The family is renting it furnished? But we specifically asked to look at furnished properties. I simply don’t understand why you didn’t show us this property first.”

  “I . . . because . . .” Helen stammered.

  But Immy didn’t wait to listen to Helen’s explanation. Her attention was fixed on the room behind them. She had the strangest feeling. Like she simply had to go in there. She passed by the three adults, crossed the entryway, and made her way through into the tiny dining room. It consisted mostly of a cupboard and a small, round wooden table with four chairs. The feeling that she had to keep going became stronger still. So much so that it made her feel light-headed. She continued through into the kitchen, which had pale wooden cabinets polished to a high sheen. The walls were painted a fresh, welcoming green, and, again, the black wooden beams felt heavy overhead.

  Outside.

  Another wave swept over her, and Immy spun on her heel. That was what she wanted — to go outside.

  Her eyes locked onto the other side of the dining area, where French doors led out to what must be the garden. Immy walked over to them as if in a trance. Her hand was already on the metal handle when she heard high heels clattering across the gray slate floor.

  “No!” Helen’s voice called out. “Imogen! Stop!”

  Immy jolted and turned to look at Helen just as her parents appeared behind the agent, questioning looks on both their faces.

  She realized the feeling had gone. She felt normal again.

  Helen’s hand flew to her chest, as if relieved to see that Immy was still inside. “You can’t go out there. You’re a girl, and you’re almost eleven. It’s simply not safe.”

  Silence fell over the small room.

  “I’m sorry, did I just hear you correctly?” Immy’s dad finally spoke. He and Immy’s mother entered the room and came to stand on either side of their daughter.

  Helen leaned against the door frame. “Yes, you heard me correctly.” She looked weary as she held up a hand. “You’re going to think what I’m about to say is ridiculous. Trust me, I don’t usually believe in things like this. Not at all. The truth is, people . . . well, they wouldn’t like it if they knew I’d brought your daughter here. The family who owns the house is still in the village, but they didn’t want to live here for the next few years, because they have a girl themselves. They’ve rented a furnished house a few streets away. Here, I’ll show you what I’m talking about, but please don’t go outside.”

  Helen made her way across the room and squeezed by Immy and her parents.

  She opened the French doors wide.

  Immy and her parents crowded around to look at what on earth could be outside. Immy honestly had no idea. A sinkhole? Maybe even a wormhole, the way Helen was carrying on.

  They were met with a view of a large garden, but unlike in the welcoming front of the house, no flowers bloomed and no bumblebees buzzed. Everything was dark and drenched in shadow because of what stood to the left — a gigantic tree that loomed over the entire garden and the house itself. Immy’s breath caught in her throat, and her heart began to race as her eyes slowly traveled up its thick, gnarled trunk. Halfway up, armlike branches began to shoot out threateningly, dividing into stout black fingers that poked and taunted the house cruelly. It was summer, yet the tree displayed no green. Not one leaf. Just inky blackness that blocked out the sky above. It was almost as if the tree were attempting to swallow the cottage whole.

  It was hideous. The most hideous, ugly, nasty-looking, bad-tempered tree that Immy had ever seen.

  She couldn’t take her eyes off it.

  “What a mulberry it is,” Immy’s dad said. “It must be ancient.”

  “It is,” Helen said. “At least five hundred years old, though the cottage itself dates from the seventeenth century.”

  “I’m surprised it’s lasted as long as it has,” Immy’s mother said. “It’s awful.”

  Maybe it was Immy’s imagination, but as soon as the words exited her
mother’s mouth, she felt as if the tree’s fingers reached out farther. Closing in on the house. On her. Taking a step backward, she bumped into her dad.

  “Don’t say that,” Helen said sharply.

  “Well, I don’t think it can hear me.” Immy’s mum gave Helen a look.

  “Can it?” Immy asked, the words coming before she could stop them. Up until now, she hadn’t believed trees could hear, but this one . . . she wasn’t so sure.

  Helen’s eyes met hers. “There are lots of people in the village who think it can — who believe the tree’s bewitched. The thing is, over the years, there have been two girls who’ve . . . well . . . simply disappeared from this house on the eve of their eleventh birthdays. That’s why I asked you about your own birthday.”

  Immy, her mum, and her dad all stared at Helen with open mouths.

  “Are you serious?” Immy’s dad said.

  But they could all see that she was.

  “It sounds to me like you’ve got a shady character in the village rather than a tree. I take it this was all investigated by the police?” Immy’s mum said.

  “There wasn’t a formal police force here until the mid–1800s or so, and the first girl was before then — in the late 1700s, I think. The second case must have been investigated, because she went missing in 1945, but as far as I know they never found out what happened to her. Do you see the two large knots in the trunk of the tree?”

  Immy and her parents all inspected the trunk as best as they could from afar. Just as Helen had said, there were two large knots that were visible — one higher up on the tree’s trunk and one lower down. Immy could see that there was some sort of flower lying directly below the bottom knot. It looked like a small white rose, which seemed strange, because there were no flowers in the garden.

  “They say a new knot appeared after each girl went missing — that the tree somehow captured their souls.”

  In the shadow of the tree, Immy shivered.

  “This is why the owners have moved out for a while. Their daughter’s eleventh birthday is coming up.”

  “Honestly, that’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. What superstitious nonsense!” Immy’s mum said, breaking the eerie mood. “Knots in trees are formed by all sorts of natural things — dead branches, pruning, disease. They’ve got nothing at all to do with little girls disappearing.”