The Key

The Key Sarah Sheridan Copyright © 2023 Sarah Sheridan The right of Sarah Sheridan to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published in 2023 by Bloodhound Books. Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. www.bloodhoundbooks.com Print ISBN: 978-1-5040-8629-5 Contents Love best-selling fiction? Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Three days later… Also by Sarah Sheridan You will also enjoy: A note from the publisher Love best-selling fiction? Love best-selling fiction? Sign up today to be the first to hear about new releases and exclusive offers, including free and discounted ebooks! Why not like us or follow us on social media to stay up to date with the latest news from your favourite authors? Facebook Twitter Instagram For Diane, Here's to many more cocktail evenings Chapter One I only went to Godwyne Castle to write a book. I had no way of knowing – as I parked my car on the expansive gravel drive – that my mere presence at the Trengrouse family seat would set off such a series of murderous events. And to think, the whole project had started off so promisingly… * * * I peered along the dimly lit corridor. I was pretty sure I was in the right place. I’d followed the instructions of Godwyne Castle’s manager, Mr Derek Brentwood, to the best of my abilities, weaving my way through the labyrinth of rooms and passages until I was somewhere on the second floor of the east wing of the vast, run-down building. ‘You’ll find the Upper Library behind the last door at the end of the Green Corridor, Miss Haythorpe,’ Mr Brentwood had said in his dry tones. Walking along, I passed rows of closed doors on either side. There was a cold, dusty feel to this part of the building, and I had the sense that it had been barely used for centuries. I reached the very last door and the sign on its front indicated that I’d found what I was looking for. I placed my hand on the doorknob and turned it; expectant and excited. This room was going to become my second home for the foreseeable future. I was desperately hoping that it would hold all the material that I needed for the research for my next book. As a writer of non-fiction books I loved it when my creations did well; adored it when they rose up the Amazon rankings shortly after publication, and most of all relished browsing reviews from readers who’d really enjoyed what I’d written. But this time I had an even more pressing desire for this next work to do well. My ten-year-old niece, Gabrielle, had been born with cystic fibrosis and had recently become very ill. My sister Penny knew that Gabby’s best chance for treatment lay in America, where a new triple combination therapy for the mutation that her daughter had was being trialled. I’d spent most of my last advance on rent for my house – before Gabby became so poorly – and had just enough left to survive on for the foreseeable future. Penny was a single mother who worked part time as a teaching assistant, there was no way she could afford the cost of such a trip. But I would never be able to forget the desperation in her voice as she told me about the treatment that Gabby so badly needed, but that she had no way to pay for. ‘I just don’t know what to do, Grace,’ she kept saying through sobs. ‘What will happen to Gabby if I can’t get her over there?’ Both our parents had – sadly – passed away years before from different types of cancer, and although Penny would never ask me directly, I knew that I was her best bet for funding Gabby’s treatment. The only way I could really help Penny and Gabby was to write such a stunning book about early twentieth century aristocracy – with the Trengrouse family from Godwyne Castle in the wilds of southernmost Cornwall as my case studies – that I could secure a big enough advance to help fund Gabby’s treatment. At my career stage this was not an impossible plan. For the last ten years, since the age of twenty-six, I’d been immersed in writing about various historical subjects, managing to garner a rather wonderful group of readers who were loyal to my books. Over the last four years each new release had sold especially well, in part thanks to my wonderful journalist friend – Kim Ulrich – writing glowing articles about them. I had to admit though, that being a writer was a tenuous way to live, as I’d feel flush when the advances and royalties came in, and rather poor and struggling when they’d run out. But that was all part of my job, and it was one that I absolutely loved to do – I wouldn’t have it any other way. Although all the hours I spent bent over my laptop did have an