THE story, as told by Amelie, was bad. Very bad. Almost forty years had passed by, and the murder of Benjamin Mumford remained unsolved. The pub hotel changed hands many times since, but no one ever stayed for very long. The last owners left under something of a cloud. Talk of illicit affairs were rife, but the truth remained unclear, and nobody really cared anyway. That had been four years ago. And now the Cartwrights were the new owners.
Sarah felt numb. The horror that her home was the scene of a murder made her deeply uncomfortable. She shuddered involuntarily. Amelie gave a comforting squeeze of the wrist. “Don’t worry, there are no stories of ghosts linked with the ghastly deed.”
“Don’t joke,” Sarah said, not in the mood for brevity. “To think I’ve actually slept in that place with
