The Silver Ring

THE SILVER RINGJane Holland Copyright © Jane Holland 2023All rights reserved.Jane Holland has asserted her right under Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.No part of this book can be reproduced in part or in whole or transferred by any means without the express written permission of the author.The moral right of the author has been asserted.No part of this book can be reproduced or transferred by any means without the express written permission of the author.All characters in this story have no existence whatsoever outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to any person or persons coincidentally bearing the same or a similar name or being employed in the same profession or living in the same area. Everything in this story without exception has been conceived in the imagination of the author and no person or event in the story is even remotely inspired by real life. Published by Thimblerig Books*Other novels by Jane HollandContemporary ThrillersGIRL NUMBER ONE (#1 UK Kindle Chart Bestseller)LOCK THE DOORFORGET HER NAMEALL YOUR SECRETSLAST BIRD SINGINGTHE HIVEDEAD SISKEEP ME CLOSETAKE MY PLACE (a short story)SNIP SNAPCozy MysteriesUNDER AN EVIL STAR (Stella Penhaligon Thrillers 1)THE TENTH HOUSE MURDERS (Stella Penhaligon Thrillers 2)THE PART OF DEATH (Stella Penhaligon Thrillers 3)Historical SuspenseMIRANDA (WHY SHE RAN)THE MANOR HOUSETHE SILVER RINGJane Holland also writes bestselling women’s fiction as BETTY WALKERWartime Sagas (RNA Award-nominated Cornish Girls series)WARTIME WITH THE CORNISH GIRLSCHRISTMAS WITH THE CORNISH GIRLSCOURAGE FOR THE CORNISH GIRLSA MOTHER’S HOPE FOR THE CORNISH GIRLSA WEDDING FOR THE CORNISH GIRLS Jane Holland also writes charming contemporary romance as BETH GOOD, both full-length standalone romantic fiction and the Oddest Little Shop romcom series – try her festive Cornish-set stories!‘I love Beth Good’s quirky style!’ – Katie Fforde, bestselling author CHAPTER ONEStoke Newington, London, September, present dayStella was looking for something but couldn’t put her finger on what exactly. More power? Greater emotional depth, perhaps? Or vivacissimo, faster and more lively? Mentally, she went through the opening chords of the music one by one, testing each phrase for robustness, nuance, resonance; considering how and where to place more emphasis without destabilising the whole. The piece had to work as a unit, to remain true to its form. Yet there should still be freedom within that structure to interpret each individual note in her own way, to allow her identity to shine through. Yes, that was it. Freedom. That was what she was looking for. The train roared and rattled through the dark, snaking underworld of the London Tube network. Strip lighting flickered, casting a sickly sheen over the heads of the other commuters, bent over devices or reading material. Hunched over the mobile phone, she sat staring at her reflection opposite. She looked tense. Dark-haired, wide-eyed, thinner than she used to be too, her face almost gaunt. But that was hardly surprising. The world had changed; grown harder, less forgiving. It had been a difficult few years, not just for her but for everyone. Her phone buzzed and she glanced down at the screen.I’m at the flat. Where are you?She swiped the message away, pretending she hadn’t seen it. Out of sight, out of mind. One of her late grandmother’s favourite sayings.Gripping her violin case between her knees, on her way to a private pupil, Stella flicked through a few tunes on her music app until she found the track she wanted. A recording of herself from last summer, playing Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D Major, Op 35, part of a music festival at a small London venue. It had been one of the most exhilarating and yet mentally and emotionally exhausting performances of her life. She’d been playing well last year, and practising hard too, many hours a day, but she suspected her form had dropped off in recent months, so was hunting for ways to retrieve that magic. Perhaps her bowing was no longer so bold and expressive…But as she listened, her mind kept flicking uneasily back to that message.I’m at the flat. Where are you?She imagined Bruno waiting outside her front door, leaning against the wall, arms folded, ticking off the minutes until she came home. Her skin prickled. She ought to report him to the police. They’d only dated briefly yet he couldn’t accept that it was over. His obsession with her had to be verging on harassment now.She’d consulted a friend of hers who worked for a law firm, but he’d shaken his head. ‘Nothing the police can do unless he makes a real nuisance of himself. I’m talking verbal intimidation, entering the flat without permission, physical assault. Has Bruno done anything like that?’ he’d asked.Of course not.Bruno could be a little creepy but he was essentially harmless. He would send her texts or slip cryptic little notes under her door while she was out. Sometimes he hung about outside the flat, waiting for her to come home, but always left promptly and without protest when asked.‘Then there’s nothing you can do,’ her lawyer friend had said, shrugging. ‘Not unless it escalates.’Stella felt sure it wouldn’t escalate, whatever that meant in real terms. The whole thing made her uncomfortable though. Bruno still had a key to her front door, despite claiming to have posted it back through the letterbox weeks ago. Ideally, she ought to get the locks changed. Yet when she’d asked for a quote from a locksmith, the price had been so exorbitant, she’d given up on the idea.Bruno wasn’t dangerous, and he would get over her eventually. Because what other choice did he have? She had to believe that.Besides, her money issues were a more serious cause for concern. She’d lost several long-term private pupils in recent months, all citing money troubles of their own when cancelling their lessons. Everybody was cutting back these days. She either needed to find better-heeled clientele or another orchestra post, which were like gold dust and would mean having to audition, something