Murray Shaw has bought his dream home - the imposing St Margaret's House in the exclusive Edinburgh district of Corstorphine. However, for his wife Rowan his dream is about to become her nightmare.

Because St Margaret's House has a dark past. And, unknown to Rowan, that's exactly why Murray bought it.

Forty years earlier Murray's school friend Angus lived in the house - until his shocking death in an unexplained arson attack. So what has drawn Murray back to the scene of such terrible memories? Why has his behaviour become so furtive of late?

And why is the Reverend Shelagh Kerr, minister of the nearby St Margaret's Church, so terrified to learn that Murray has returned?

Funeral Days

There are so many kinds of funerals.
Raw funerals. Calm funerals. Empty funerals.
I don’t like funerals.
My fifi rst one was my grandmother’s.
I’ve always remembered the coffifi n being lowered,
And the bright brass nameplate on the lid.
It shone so brightly in the winter sunshine, almost
blinding me.
I was very young but old enough to remember.
To remember how I felt.
I imagined my name being on that brass plate.
I still do, at every funeral I attend.
And I’ve attended one or two.
Not surprising really.
Since I cause the funerals.

Prologue

London, June
FOR SALE: UNIQUE OPPORTUNITY.
EARLY VIEWING RECOMMENDED.

St Margaret’s House is a six-bedroomed family villa
in the Scots Baronial style, dating from 1860. Thought
to have been designed by the renowned architect
David Bryce, the house is situated in the heart of
ancient Corstorphine, one of Edinburgh’s most
sought-after ‘village’ locations, only three miles from
the city centre. The property comes with additional
attic rooms and a large secluded garden. Set on a
quiet lane with a few other select properties, it
enjoys the benefit of being near the popular Dovecot
School. The historic medieval parish church of St
Margaret’s stands opposite the property.

‘Is that the post?’
Murray Shaw looked up quickly. His wife, Rowan,
was standing at the top of the stairs, a bath towel
wrapped tightly round her slim torso. She was frowning
down at him, her dark hair trailing over the banister
as she waited for an answer.
He offered her a weak smile to hide his mild
irritation. Much of her mail was still arriving bearing
her unmarried name. ‘Oh, just junk mail for
recycling,’ he said. ‘Nothing for either of us today.’
He kept his smile frozen in place until she moved
away and he could hear the pad of her fading footsteps
retreating to the bedroom. Then, silently, he
eased open the envelope. He knew the scribble of
handwriting on the front only too well.

Dear Murray,
As discussed on the phone, here’s the blurb I’ve
put together on the house sale. By the way, are you
absolutely sure you don’t mind living in a house with
such – how can I put it – dark connections? If you’re
sure, then I’ll let you know more when we meet.
Hope it won’t put you off when it comes to it – it
was all a long time ago. The house will be yours, I’m
sure. You’re a determined man. When can you make
it up from London?
Best,
Ian

Murray edged the letter carefully back into its envelope
and looked up again. He could hear the rattle of
the wardrobe door upstairs – Rowan selecting her outfit
for the day. In half an hour his wife would be out
the door and off to work. Then he could get to work.
To beg, borrow or steal that house. It was going to be
his. And the estate agent’s concern was unnecessary.
Of course he didn’t care that St Margaret’s House had
dark connections.
That was why he wanted it.

Murray waited until his wife was on the street and
walking towards her car. He tracked her tall figure,
elegant in a thin summer dress, her hair billowing out
in the breeze. As she paused at the car, he thought for
a moment that she was going to glance up at the flat.
Instinctively, he stepped away from the window. When
he looked back, the car was gone. He was alone.
He wandered into his tiny windowless office and
fumbled in the pocket of his jeans. The filing cabinet
key fell from his grasp. Don’t be nervous today. There’s so
much to do. He unlocked the cabinet. The drawer slid
open with a metallic rumble and he reached deep
inside, pulling out an envelope. Staring at it, he moved
to his desk, switching on the nearby lamp. With trembling
fingers, he pulled out the pages and began scanning
the fine script written in blue ink. His eyes settled
on the familiar, pleading passage:

I don’t know what answer, if any, lies in that house. But,
for my sake, for your sake, if you can find out, then all our
minds, more importantly all our souls, will be at rest. Or in
perpetual torment.