2. No. 7 Mews terrace

The Mews house Pt 1. 

Agatha Gray pulled up to the gates of The Grange in her silver Range Rover. The concierge emerged from his hut, approaching the car with an air of quiet authority and old-world charm. “Can I help you, madam?” he asked. 

“Yes, I’m here to view the Mews house at 11:30,” Agatha replied. 

“Right you are, miss. Just pull up there on the left, and I’ll let them know you’ve arrived.” He doffed his polished hat in a brief, respectful gesture. Agatha nodded her thanks and drove through the barrier he raised for her. 

She parked and looked around, anticipation stirring within her. Old asylums had fascinated her all her life, and when this property came onto the market, she simply had to see it. Sliding out of the car, she made her way toward the reception hall. 

As Agatha climbed the steps, a man appeared to greet her. “Ah, Agatha Gray, isn’t it?” he said, extending his hand. 

She shook it. “I’m Mark Christie, general manager of The Grange. It’s a pleasure to have you here.” 

Agatha was taken aback by his warmth. “Oh, I’m just here to view the Mews property,” she replied. 

“Oh, you’ll love it here,” he assured her with a chuckle. “Everyone who comes to view ends up buying.” His confidence bordered on presumptuous, but she found him undeniably attractive. Tall, with neat brown hair and a hint of stubble, he wore a sharp blue three-piece suit and brown brogues—like a man straight out of a Hugo Boss ad. 

“So, shall we start with the amenities, or cut straight to the chase?” he asked, flashing a dazzling smile. 

“Straight to the viewing, please,” she said. 

“No problem. Follow me, Miss Gray—or is it Mrs?” He glanced back, curious about her marital status. 

“Actually, it’s Dr. Gray,” she said, a touch smugly. 

“A doctor! How intriguing. May I ask in what field?” he enquired. 

“I hold a doctorate in psychiatry,” she answered. 

Mark’s amused expression deepened. “So, you know this place used to be an insane asylum?” he teased. 

Agatha’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry, what?” 

“Well, it’s ironic, isn’t it? A psychiatrist coming to view an old nuthouse." He laughed but stopped when he caught her withering glare. Clearing his throat, he gestured forward. “Shall we?” 

They approached the Mews terrace. Agatha had researched the hospital’s history: Mews Row was formerly the women’s wing, now divided into several two-storey red-brick houses. At No. 7, Mark opened the door for her. 

Inside was a spacious, light-filled reception hall with a small cloakroom and downstairs toilet. Ahead, large glass double doors led to the living area, where three tall windows looked out to the rear. The pièce de résistance was a black wrought-iron spiral staircase on the far side of the room. 

Agatha’s eyes lingered on the staircase, but Mark interrupted. “The kitchen’s this way.” 

Reluctantly, she turned and stepped back into the reception hall. To the left were the kitchen and dining room, opening onto a private garden through French doors. She eyed the Aga longingly. She’d always wanted one but never cooked—her life had been takeout and restaurants. Now, planning to slow down her work, she hoped to find time for cooking. 

“Well? Do you love it?” Mark asked, spreading his hands. 

“Yes, it’s lovely. May I see upstairs now?” 

“Of course, after you,” he said, gesturing ahead. 

Agatha ascended the staircase, keenly aware of Mark watching her from below. 

At the top, the main bathroom faced her, with a small office to the right. To the left was the main bedroom, complete with an ensuite shower and closet, overlooking the forest behind the Mews. At the front was another large bedroom with views over the courtyard and private parking. 

She had to admit it was perfect. Down the hallway, she opened a door to reveal a long cupboard—once a corridor, now sealed off during conversion. “That’s where my Christmas tree and suitcases will go,” she thought. 

She was sold, just as Mark had predicted. 'Damn him,' she thought, catching his smug grin. 

A few months later, Agatha returned to The Grange, her worldly possessions packed in a van behind her. The concierge approached her car with a warm smile. “Good morning, madam. How can I help you today?” 

“I’m moving into No. 7 Mews Terrace,” she replied. 

His smile deepened. “Oh, how lovely. Nice to have you here.” He bowed slightly in greeting. 

“Thank you,” Agatha said, returning his gesture. 

He raised the barrier, and she watched him walk away. What a kind man, she thought. 

As she stepped out of the car, her phone rang. It was her best friend Jennifer, video calling. “Hey, are you there yet?” 

Agatha turned the phone to show Jennifer she had arrived. “Just got here. Haven’t even opened the door yet. I’ll call you back soon.” 

Jennifer sounded genuinely sorry. “I’m so sorry I can’t be there to help you.” 

“That’s okay, darling. That’s why I hired movers—I’ll just supervise,” Agatha laughed, feeling a warm glow. 

They had been friends since school, then university, and had even started a practice together. Jennifer had since found love, married, and had children—the godchildren 

Agatha adored. Agatha, meanwhile, was immersed in her work. She loved her career, but it often got in the way of relationships. She was either too busy or could read people’s body language too well, sizing them up in an instant. It was both a blessing and a curse. 

The movers were just leaving when Agatha stepped to the door with a coffee to thank them. She slipped the driver a small envelope of beer money and breathed a long sigh of relief. The quiet country surroundings would do her good. 

Closing her eyes, she listened to birdsong—peaceful and calming. The intercom rang, breaking the moment. “Yes, hello?” she answered, slightly irritated. 

“Afternoon, madam. Henry at the gatehouse here. Your shopping has arrived. Shall I send it through?” 

Agatha smiled. “Yes, please, thank you.” 

Within minutes, the Ocado van pulled up in front of her house. After unpacking, she wandered through the rooms with a glass of rum and coke. The fading light outside gave way to soft lamplight as she switched lamps on one by one, adjusting them to suit each room’s mood. 

A box near the bottom of the wrought-iron staircase caught her eye. Marked ‘handle with extreme care', she set down her drink and opened it. Inside was a Tiffany leaded glass and bronze turtleback table lamp—the last reminder of her parents. She had adored that lamp as a child, staring at it for hours. Now, with the perfect place for it, a small alcove with a half-shelf behind the stairs, the colours danced across the wall. “Perfect,” she whispered, stepping back to admire it. It looked as though it had always belonged there. 

Agatha decided the floating chair would be ideal in the first reception room, which flooded with natural light from the converging windows. She imagined herself sitting there, relaxed with a good book. Moving the glass bookcase into the room, she realised she was making a nest for herself and laughed aloud. 

Jennifer called again, and Agatha answered, smiling. “Hey, how’s it going?” 

“I have to show you the wallpaper in the downstairs loo; you’ll die,” Agatha said, opening the door. 

Jennifer gasped, “Oh my God, I love it! Is it original?” 

“No idea. It’s so gauche, I’m keeping it,” Agatha laughed. The wallpaper was dark Victorian green with golden swirls and peacocks. 

They both laughed heartily. 

“Show me around,” Jennifer urged. 

Agatha gave her a virtual tour, starting with the kitchen. “Look at this! Isn’t it fabulous?” 

Jennifer teased, “Yeah, but I bet you won’t use it. When have you ever cooked?” 

“Hey, I want to. I have more time now. Just wait—my dinner parties will be the talk of the town.” 

They laughed again. Jennifer knew Agatha was trying to be domesticated but had no clue about cooking. 

“And the dining area is just here, with French doors to the garden.” Agatha opened the doors and switched on the outside light. 

“That’s lovely, darling, but I can’t see a thing,” Jennifer said. 

“Listen, the kids aren’t in bed yet and are driving me crazy. I’ll call you back tomorrow for a proper tour.” 

“Okay, kids, say goodnight to Aunty Aggie.” 

“Night, Aggie.” 

“Okay, babe, talk tomorrow. Love you.” 

Jennifer waved goodbye; Agatha blew kisses. 

She paused in the night air, then closed the doors. 

Suddenly, she jumped—a figure appeared behind her in the window’s reflection. Then she laughed. 

The movers had left the ornate gold mirror leaning at a slant on the floor. The figure was her own reflection. 

“Note to self: don’t be a scaredy-cat. You chose to live in a converted asylum. The only thing scary here is your reflection.” 

Shaking her head, she walked into the kitchen, laughter bubbling inside her. She switched off the lamp and headed to the lounge. 

Had she looked back, she might have noticed a little girl standing quietly in the corner, arms outstretched, tears streaming down her face. Dressed in a white bedgown, stained dark with blood around the abdomen.

 

Part II

There were crisp white Egyptian cotton sheets on the king-size bed, invitingly arranged. Agatha had never been one for duvets; as a child, her parents had insisted on crisp white sheets and a blanket—a tradition she’d carried into adulthood. Though she had modernised the look with a large, loose knitted throw draped over the top, the bed retained its classic, clean appeal.

She lit her Jo Malone Peony & Blush Suede candle by the bedside and pulled the blinds down—not that there was anyone opposite to see in—but Agatha wasn’t fond of the dark. The vast, black void beyond the windows unnerved her slightly.

Blinds lowered, candles flickering, she paused. What was missing? She wondered.

Ah, fairy lights. Where did I put them? she mused quietly to herself.

Opposite the bed stood a large, ornate white mirror that stretched almost from floor to ceiling. With a gentle push, it clicked open to reveal a walk-in wardrobe behind it.

“Now then, where’s my light?” Agatha muttered, rummaging through boxes. 

She found what she was looking for: pale pink rose fairy lights. Since childhood, she had always strung lights around her bed to keep the bogeyman at bay. But now, as an adult, she decided to hang them over the mirror instead, doubling the spectacle of their soft glow. 

“Perfect,” she said, admiring the delicate lights from the bed. Just the right amount of light to keep the bogeyman away—or so she hoped. 

The East End of London was where Agatha grew up—Wanstead, to be precise. She attended a local grammar school, where she excelled academically and met her lifelong friend, Jennifer. In fact, Agatha practically grew up at Jennifer’s house.

Her relationship with her own parents had never been close. They were older than most other parents, for starters, and while they were not unkind, they showed little affection or warmth. Quiet and private, her father worked as an accountant, and her mother was a housewife. So, it came as quite a revelation when Agatha chose to pursue a career in psychiatry.

She had no other family to speak of. Both her parents claimed to have no living relatives and would clam up whenever asked about them. Agatha quickly learned not to ask.

At one point, Agatha wondered if she had been adopted. All her friends bore some resemblance to their parents—Jennifer’s mother, for example, had brunette hair and green eyes, just like Jen. Another friend had been born with a bright white streak in her hair, inherited from her father.

Agatha, however, was tall and willowy, with blonde hair and blue eyes—features that stood in stark contrast to her squat, brown-haired, brown-eyed parents. When she questioned them about it, she was swiftly brushed off.

Despite these oddities, Agatha was happy with her life. Even after her parents passed away, she had found family in Jennifer and her children, and that was enough.

Agatha woke early the next morning, having enjoyed a restful sleep. Excitement bubbled within her as she looked forward to arranging her belongings in her new home.

The view from the bedroom window was stunning—an endless stretch of forest, trees as far as the eye could see. The birdsong captivated her, and she threw open the window to let the melodies fill the room.

The window featured a low bay seat, and Agatha found herself curled up there, gazing out at the vista—much like the inmates before her must have done. The view was never wasted.

After some time, she realized how long she had been sitting and reluctantly pulled herself away. A cup of tea sounded perfect.

Unable to find her slippers and unwilling to suffer the cold wrought iron beneath her feet, she slipped on her trainers and headed down the stairs toward the kitchen.

She stopped halfway down the stairs to admire the view of the disappearing tree line. The lounge windows, nearly floor-to-ceiling, looked out over her private garden. She breathed a sigh of relief—no work to go to, no trains to catch, no stale air shared with strangers, no hustle or bustle. She could set her own hours now, working from the little home office she had yet to set up.

Her attention was drawn to the Tiffany lamp she had left on all night. Resting on the small shelf behind the stairs, it flickered erratically.

“Oh no, don’t tell me you’re about to die!” she murmured.

The light brightened, dimmed, then steadied.

Okay, she thought, probably just a power surge. The lamp had never behaved that way before. She switched it off and pushed the thought aside.

With a hot cup of tea in hand, Agatha made her way into the front reception room. She decided to call it the sunroom. Settling into her floating chair, she marveled at the peace and quiet that enveloped her.

She noticed the next-door neighbors heading out for a run or perhaps to the gym—something she had never found time for before.

“Who am I kidding? I’ve got time now and still have no inclination to do it!” she laughed at herself.

Finishing her tea, she returned to the kitchen and placed the cup in the sink. The view from the kitchen was equally charming. She stepped closer to the small pebbled courtyard outside.

Magnolias grew along the wall in front of the house, blocking any sight of the buildings beyond. It felt secluded and private—just the way she liked it.

Her last home had opened onto the street, with a view of the house opposite. This was a welcome change.

The birdsong was lovely, but Agatha wanted music. Her music pod was packed in the box marked must be in the kitchen. After rummaging for a few minutes, she pulled out the HomePod. She plugged it in and waited for it to connect, but after a moment, it flashed red and displayed a message: it couldn’t connect to the internet.

“Damn!” she exclaimed. She had forgotten to ask Mark for the estate Wi-Fi code.

“Well, I’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way,” she muttered, picking up her phone. It was tuned to a classical radio station. Yes, just the ticket, she thought.

She grabbed her charger from the box and plugged in the phone. But it didn’t ping like it usually did when charging. She unplugged and tried again—still no joy. Her battery was down to 15%, and she needed it charged.

Unplugging the charger, she took the phone to the lounge area. The TV was due to be mounted later that morning, so she placed the table below the spot where it would hang. This would serve as her console and candle table.

She plugged the charger in again, and this time the phone acknowledged the ping she was waiting for.

“Thank goodness for that,” she said.

Agatha headed upstairs to take a quick shower. Passing the level where the lamp sat, she noticed it flicker again.

She stopped again. “What the bloody hell?” she muttered. She had turned the lamp off earlier—so why was it flickering now? Deciding it must be faulty wiring, she resolved to call Mark, the estate manager, once she had gotten dressed.

Part III coming soon !