House of Lies Read online

  About the Author

  TERRY LYNN THOMAS grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, which explains her love of foggy beaches and Gothic mysteries. When her husband promised to buy Terry a horse and the time to write if she moved to Mississippi with him, she jumped at the chance. Although she had written several novels and screenplays prior to 2006, after she relocated to the South she set out to write in earnest and has never looked back.

  Terry Lynn writes the Sarah Bennett Mysteries, set on the California coast during the 1940s, which feature a misunderstood medium in love with a spy. The Drowned Woman is a recipient of the IndieBRAG Medallion. She also writes the Cat Carlisle Mysteries, set in Britain during World War II. The first book in this series, The Silent Woman, came out in April 2018 and has since become a USA Today bestseller. When she’s not writing, you can find Terry Lynn riding her horse, walking in the woods with her dogs, or visiting old cemeteries in search of story ideas.

  PRAISE FOR TERRY LYNN THOMAS

  ‘I flew through the pages of this well-crafted historical thriller’

  ‘I am hooked on historical fiction, especially women in World War II. This book includes all the intrigue of espionage, secrets, German paperwork – and of course, murder. It was just what I was looking for!’

  ‘The Silent Woman will keep you turning pages long into the night, and eagerly awaiting the next instalment of Catherine Carlisle’s story’

  ‘I highly recommend this book to both lovers of historical fiction and those that have an interest in pre-war Europe as a whole’

  ‘This one is a page turner. Couldn’t put it down! I highly recommend this book, and I can’t wait until the next one’

  ‘You are transported to another time and lifestyle in such a way you feel you have lived it’

  ‘Will certainly read the next book with these characters’

  ‘I thoroughly enjoyed this historical novel’

  Also by Terry Lynn Thomas

  The Cat Carlisle Series

  The Silent Woman

  The Family Secret

  The Sarah Bennett series

  The Spirit of Grace

  The House of Secrets

  The Drowned Woman

  House of Lies

  TERRY LYNN THOMAS

  HQ

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

  Copyright © Terry Lynn Thomas

  Terry Lynn Thomas asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  E-book Edition © March 2020 ISBN: 9780008328870

  Version: 2020-02-13

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Praise for Terry Lynn Thomas

  Also by Terry Lynn Thomas

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  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

  Acknowledgements

  Extract

  Dear Reader …

  Keep Reading …

  About the Publisher

  This book is dedicated to all the brave souls who made the ultimate sacrifice so we didn’t have to. #NeverForget

  Prologue

  Rivenby, October 1941

  The waxing moonlight dappled the path as Cat crept along the trail leading to Thomas’s house. Leaves crunched beneath her feet, and her breath curled like dragon fire into the cold night air. The moon, although not yet full, was bright and crisp and stunningly beautiful. Tipping her head back, she allowed herself to get lost in the night sky for a moment, allowed her mind to envision an England not at war, an England with plenty of ham and oranges and unlimited butter and sugar. She said a silent prayer for those who were fighting and dying at this very minute, for those who would never see another moon again. Shivering, she continued on the path, stepping right into Thomas Charles’s arms.

  ‘Pay attention,’ he whispered in her ear as he pulled her close to him. ‘You never know who might be prowling in the woods at night.’

  ‘I was just looking at the moon,’ she said.

  ‘Soon we won’t have to meet in the woods under the dark of night,’ Thomas said.

  ‘I rather like these clandestine trysts. It’s exciting.’

  He laughed and took her hand. ‘Where shall we walk tonight?’

  ‘Back to your house? I’m freezing.’

  They walked through the woods, comfortable in the silence.

  ‘You’re very good at this, you know,’ Cat said.

  ‘At what?’

  ‘Creeping soundlessly through the woods.’ She pulled him to a stop. ‘You don’t make any noise. Do you miss the excitement?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The excitement of spying. Of participating in the war. I know you enjoy working at the constabulary, and god knows DCI Kent is glad to have you. But it’s not the same as your old life, is it? I just wondered if you missed the cloak and dagger intrigue and wished you were spying in France or someplace more exciting than Rivenby.’

  ‘No. I’m finished with all that.’ He put his hands on her shoulders. The moonlight danced across the planes of his cheeks. A slight wind ruffled his hair, which he wore longer than was fashionable. ‘I worry about our friends and find myself thinking of Jacque and Emile.’

  ‘Maybe they got out safely,’ Cat said. She thought of the kind French couple who had so graciously hosted them while they were working on their last book. Cat knew full well Thomas’s book writing was a guise for the real undercover work he did. He had offered her a job – and the accompanying much-needed sense of purpose – just when her life was at its lowest. The work had saved her.

  So many people opened their homes, their family archives and their libraries to Cat and Thomas. They had maintained those relationships until the war broke out, when by necessity they had rushed back to England. Some people had managed to stay in touch, and Thomas, by virtue of his connections, was able to help where he could, connecting this person with that person, who would in turn provide an exit visa or funds where needed. But as the war raged on and communication became more difficult, Cat and Thomas were left to speculate as to the safety of their friends. They wondered and worried, helpless to do anything from their remote village
in Northern England. Cat knew Thomas felt guilty at his inability to do much for the war effort, but a serious injury had left him sidelined, at least for now. She suspected at some point he would get involved. How could he not?

  Six months ago, Thomas and Cat had agreed to assist Stephen Templeton – a historian who had devoted his life to smuggling artefacts out of the destructive reach of the Reich – by safekeeping various religious relics, documents and other items. They reasoned since Rivenby was tucked away in the northern reaches of England, the relics could be safely stored without too much worry. Thomas’s house was secure, so he had readily agreed to help where he could.

  ‘When will the chalice be here?’ Cat asked.

  ‘Not quite sure,’ Thomas said.

  ‘It’s rather exciting, isn’t it? Us keeping a medieval relic stolen from a castle in France.’

  ‘Not a castle, love. A small family chapel which is now occupied by the Nazis,’ Thomas said.

  ‘You don’t think anyone will try to steal it, do you?’

  ‘Unlikely. It will be well protected in the safe. I owe Stephen Templeton a favour, so I’m happy to do this for him.’ Thomas pulled Cat close to him just as the outline of his house appeared in shadowy relief against the night sky.

  They walked arm in arm up to the front door, careful not to wake Beck and the missus as they crept up the stairs to Thomas’s bedroom.

  Chapter 1

  Scotland, October 1941

  Hugh Bettencourt thought how much easier his life would be if his wife was no longer a part of it. He stopped buttoning his pristine white shirt as he imagined his fingers wrapped around Margaret’s lily-white throat, squeezing until the life faded from her beautiful face. Passive by nature, on the rare occasions when Hugh’s pent-up anger broke through his otherwise calm mien, it was quickly tamped down by centuries of good breeding. Bettencourts did not show emotion. It was simply not done. There would be no murdering Margaret. Not today. Not ever. Hugh had cast his lot with her when he had married her.

  ‘Coward,’ he said out loud, his voice full of disgust. The sorry state of his relations with his wife paled when compared to the tricky situation with his finances. To make matters worse, his mother had finagled a weekend invitation to the party. Now she waited for him, ready to scold and issue ultimatums. He and Margaret, his errant wife, had been commanded to come to Hugh’s mother’s suite for a little chat.

  He turned away from the window, with its stunning view of the Scottish Highlands, and finished buttoning his shirt. While he buttoned the gold cufflinks, which had belonged to his father and his grandfather before him, Hugh forced his thoughts to his current situation. Surely his mother would see that Margaret’s relentless need for money had brought about his financial situation. When she laid eyes on Margaret, Lady Rosalind would realise just how out of control her daughter-in-law had become. As if the overdraft didn’t speak for itself. Hugh wondered if his wife was taking drugs, opium or even heroin. He remembered horror stories of fellow soldiers becoming addicted, and knew that drug use was fashionable in some circles.

  Hugh wanted a divorce. It would be so much easier if he had his mother’s backing. If he couldn’t divorce Margaret, he could at least lock her up in an asylum. He laughed out loud at that thought, taking pleasure in the image of Margaret being carted away, kicking and screaming all the while.

  Hugh put on his dinner jacket, remembering the days when he had a valet to tend to his dressing and ironing, remembering when he didn’t have to worry about his own meals. What he wouldn’t give for a simple life, with a simple wife who loved him. Alas, that was not to be. Hugh girded himself for battle. Time to face Lady Rosalind.

  The sun slipped down into the cold Scottish night as he made his way down the corridor to the suite of rooms that the Shorehams provided for his mother. Lady Rosalind Thackery Bettencourt required a corner suite, with plenty of firewood and comfortable arrangements for her own maid, the elderly Bettina, who should have retired long ago. Hugh paused outside his mother’s door, took a deep breath and knocked gently.

  ‘Come.’ There was no mistaking the icy intention in his mother’s tone.

  Hugh pushed open the door and stepped inside. For a moment, he was taken aback by the spacious splendour. Although he had spent summers at the Shorehams’ house as a child and had been a guest more than once over the years, never had he stayed in this particular room, which, if his recollection served, had belonged to Martin’s parents while they were alive. A good three times the size of Hugh’s tiny room, this suite was warmed by a blazing fire with chairs arranged around it, thick rugs, newer curtains and a high four-poster bed with two eiderdowns on top. His mother moved towards him, her beringed hands extended, a forced smile on her face.

  ‘Hugh, thank you for honouring me with your presence.’ They went through the motions of air-kissing each other’s cheeks. His mother was tall and had a patrician nose, piercing blue eyes and a no-nonsense manner that either put you off or made you love her. Hugh had always loved her. Lady Rosalind had rallied around Hugh when his brother James had died and he was forced to take on the mantle of his family responsibility, a job for which Hugh was ill-suited. And heaven knew, Lady Rosalind had done her best to forge a relationship with Margaret. A wave of sadness washed over him. What a disappointment he had been to his family.

  ‘Where’s Margaret?’

  Hugh sighed. ‘I haven’t seen her all day.’ In truth, Hugh and Margaret had probably spent a total of two nights together in the past six months. Margaret always had a string of lovers, who were beguiled by Margaret’s beauty and undeniable sexual prowess in the beginning. As time wore on and the men realised the woman they had so desired was unhinged and possibly on drugs, they sent her packing. When Margaret threw the inevitable tantrum and threatened to tell wives of the affair, a generous cheque and a bauble of fine jewellery would quiet her. At this time, Margaret would then slink home and try to seduce Hugh with promises of renewed devotion. For years he had believed her, had taken her back each time she crawled home, full of false remorse. Things would be good between them until Margaret got bored again, until she found a new lover to please her. Then Hugh would be left alone, stupidly wondering how he allowed himself to be played like a piano and hating himself for it.

  ‘Hugh? Are you listening to me? I said go find her. I must speak to you both at once,’ Lady Rosalind said.

  Just then Margaret stepped into the room in a cloud of perfume and alcohol, wearing a backless, form-fitting blue dress better suited for a jazz club than an elegant dinner in a country house. What was she thinking?

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ Hugh snapped.

  ‘Stop it, Hugh. I’m not going to be called to heel like an obedient herding dog. I’m here and I’m only three minutes late.’ She walked towards Hugh’s mother. ‘Lady Rosalind. You’re looking well.’

  ‘Nonsense. I’m looking every second of my years, thanks to you two.’ She turned her attention to Hugh. ‘Were you going to tell me you dipped into the money your father left you? You know full well the terms of your father’s will. That money was to provide you an income for life. You can’t just spend your capital, Hugh.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Hugh saw Margaret fidget with her necklace, a diamond and sapphire affair that he had never seen before.

  ‘What are you talking about, mother? I know there’s an overdraft, but I certainly don’t know anything about using Father’s money.’ A recollection of a morning last August popped into his mind. He had met Margaret coming out of the bank. She had been in such a hurry she almost didn’t see him. When he’d called her name, she had jumped, startled at his sudden appearance, and had surprised him with kind words and an invitation to lunch. Her actions were so out of character, he should have been suspicious. Now he saw the error of his ways in not demanding an explanation – for there was no reason in the world for Margaret to visit Hugh’s banker. He turned on her and snapped, ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Don’t
you dare take that tone with me,’ Margaret shouted. Hugh flinched, wondering if anyone else in the household was eavesdropping on this very embarrassing family row.

  Before Hugh could fire back, Lady Rosalind interrupted. ‘She forged your name, Hugh.’ Lady Rosalind sat down and beckoned to the two chairs across from her. Hugh and Margaret remained standing. ‘She spent what you had and then some. When the bank wouldn’t extend the overdraft, she forged your name and accessed the money your father left you. I’m not going to ask what she’s done with the money.’ She ran her eyes over Margaret’s body, before she stared hard at Margaret’s face. ‘Are you on drugs?’

  ‘How dare you,’ Margaret hissed. But she hesitated before she spoke, and Hugh noticed the startled flicker of shame. ‘You’ve no business involving yourself in our marriage, Lady Rosalind. You go too far.’

  ‘Since I’m supporting you both financially, I’ve every right.’

  Lady Rosalind sat back and surveyed Hugh and Margaret like they were errant schoolchildren. A cramp of fear formed in Hugh’s belly, as a sense of impending doom curled around him. He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. He hadn’t felt like this since the war, when he had spent months in the trenches waiting to die.

  Lady Rosalind addressed Margaret. ‘I hired an inquiry agent. I’ve been having you followed for months, Margaret. I am fully aware of your licentious ways, the men, the drugs, the parties. It seems your husband is unable to control you. I, on the other hand, am not so easily thwarted.’

  ‘I’m leaving. I don’t care what you’ve done or who you’ve hired. You’ve no right to speak to me that way.’ Margaret turned and headed to the door.

  ‘I could prosecute.’ Lady Rosalind’s words hung in the air.

  Margaret stopped and slowly turned around to face Hugh’s mother.

  ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  Lady Rosalind plastered a condescending smile on her face.

  ‘Of course I would. Surely you know how vindictive I can be, Margaret. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to see you held accountable for your immorality and criminal activity. After all, forgery is a crime. Lucky for you both, I’m feeling generous. I have an alternative proposition for both of you.’ Once again, she beckoned to the chairs across from her. ‘Now sit.’