Set in stone, p.5
Set in Stone, page 5
part #10 of Robert Goddard Series
Garvey was not content, of course. Nor is he to this day. Old-fashioned patriot that he is, he would very much like to pin something on Cedric Milner. But he is unlikely to be able to. Back in 1939, Daisy Temple, logical candidate for the role of ‘person most clearly entitled’, denied receiving any kind of confessional account from her brother-in-law. And today she refuses, politely but firmly, to say anything at all.
She still lives in the house she was born in, within easy reach of the churchyard at Hambleton where her sister lies buried. James Milner rests in a prison grave 20 miles away. Cedric Milner, meanwhile, moves in very different circles, teaching physics to Russian students at the University of Moscow. He presumably neither knows nor cares that the sunken garden at Otherways has vanished. It is in another country, his long-since abandoned past. He probably would not wish to revisit it even if he could. And he almost certainly would not wish to reveal what really took place there on the evening of 2 September 1939. Even, perhaps especially, if he knows.
I lay awake till well past midnight, thinking about what Fisher had written and what it implied. That, at least, was clear enough. He was suggesting that Cedric had murdered Ann and that James had taken the blame. But why should he have murdered her? And why should James have sacrificed himself to save him? As a theory, it was less satisfactory than the original conclusion. Anyway, it was a cheap shot, because Cedric was never going to answer the challenge. It had the merit of explaining why Daisy might have broken off their engagement. Maybe she suspected something. But she could just as easily have broken it off because she feared there was some justification for James’s jealousy. I had no intention of trying to discover what her reasons had been. They were none of my business. If Daisy had secrets to keep, she was welcome to them. They didn’t concern me. How could they?
I was never much of a dreamer, was I? Asleep or awake. You always said I was too logical. You chided me for my realism. And you couldn’t credit how dreamless my memories of the night almost always were, whereas yours fairly teemed with surreal fantasies. You kept a diary of them for a while. You bought a special dictionary to interpret them. A waste of time and money, I said. Dreams are meaningless. That’s the point of them. But I never believed that, even then. I just reckoned it was safer to tell myself it’s what I believed. We spend a quarter of our lives asleep, our minds free to roam without restraint. Small wonder they roam where they’re happiest. After your death, I dreamed of you constantly. It was wish fulfilment. Of course it was. At Otherways I began to dream of other things. But whether they were my darkest wishes or my worst fears, I didn’t want to find out.
The dream I had that night, like those that followed, was set at Otherways. It was dark and I was walking round the moat, looking in through the brightly lit windows of empty rooms. Then, as I reached the drawing room, a figure appeared inside. It was Lucy. She was dressed in black, in the clothes she’d worn at your funeral. But there was one difference. At her throat hung the sapphire pendant I gave you for your thirtieth birthday. She walked round the room, switching off the lights until only one remained: the standard lamp by the fireplace. She sat down in an armchair beneath it and looked towards me. Her face was in shadow. I couldn’t see her expression. Then I noticed another figure in the room, standing close to the window and looking out. It was me. Not a reflection, but a separate, other self. And that me was smiling, though out in the garden, beyond the moat, I wasn’t smiling. I was frightened. I grew more frightened still as my smiling self turned and walked away across the room towards the fireplace—and Lucy. His shadow, my shadow, fell across her. Everything was suddenly dark, nothing was visible. There was a scream.
The scream was mine; nothing more than a whimper in reality. I was wide awake, heart thumping and brain numbed by a kind of shameful fright. I felt stupid for a second, then relieved it had been nothing but a dream.
I was hot and horribly alert. Finding the glass beside the bed empty, I scrambled out and stumbled to the bathroom to refill it. On my way back, I walked over to the window, across which I’d only half drawn the curtains, and looked down into the garden as I drank the water.
To my surprise, there was lamplight spilling out from the windows of the drawing room beneath me. Matt couldn’t still be up; it was gone two. Maybe he’d left a light on; several, to judge by the glare. It splashed out across the moat and the lawns beyond to the edge of the rhododendrons.
Something moved where the lawn and rhododendrons met, a figure slipping into the bushes at the borders of my vision. All I could see when I focused on the spot was a stirring of leaves and branches. Whatever it was, animal or human, it was gone—if it had ever been there at all. I was in no state to be sure of anything.
I lay on the bed, wondering if I should go down and check for intruders. But the house was fitted with a sophisticated alarm system. It didn’t need checking. And gooning around the garden with a torch wouldn’t achieve a lot. It had probably been a fox. As for the lights still being on in the drawing room, I put that down to forgetfulness on Matt’s part. What else could it be? There was nothing wrong, I told myself, nothing at all. Eventually, I almost believed it. And, eventually, I slept. This time without dreaming.
THREE
The memory of the dream was still with me next morning, vivid and undiminished. I tried to shrug it off, but it wouldn’t let go, clinging to my thoughts, waiting to surprise me whenever I let down my guard. It would have helped to be able to discuss Fisher’s article with Lucy. That might have taken my mind off the figure at the edge of the lawn and the figure of myself, moving of its own accord—troubling visions that refused to leave me. But it was no go where Lucy was concerned. It was the weekend, so Matt was with us for the day, and he showed no inclination to take himself off for a ride. It didn’t look as if it was going to be easy to get Lucy on her own.
I went for a walk after breakfast, along the fishermen’s track that ran round the peninsula. It was a grey morning, cool and moist, with a hint of rain. I should have found it refreshing, but the sunless solitude and the listless lap of the water in the creeks only depressed me. I so much wanted you to be walking beside me, or running ahead, laughing and beckoning. But it was becoming difficult now even to imagine what that would be like. You were slipping away so fast, so very fast.
I entered a spinney near the eastern tip of the peninsula, intending to take the quick way back along the lane into Hambleton as soon as I came to it. The path was narrow through the woods and muddy into the bargain. I was looking down, choosing my steps carefully, when I rounded a tree and nearly walked straight into a man on the path in front of me. He must have been standing there, waiting for something, otherwise I’d have heard his approach. I jumped back in surprise, but he didn’t seem surprised at all.
It was Rainbird, Daisy’s less-than-universally-popular lodger, kitted out in gumboots and a Barbour, with a pair of binoculars strung round his neck. He gave me a cautious smile.
“Mr Sheridan. Pleased to meet you.” The accent sounded as if he hailed from rather further north than Rutland. “Daisy told me who you were and where you’re staying. I wondered if I might bump into you on one of my lakeside forays. I didn’t think it would be quite so literally.”
“Mr Rainbird, right?”
“Norman Rainbird, yes.” He put out a hand and I shook it. “I’m quite a regular round these shores.”
“Birdwatching?”
“Principally. There’s always plenty to see on the water. Or from it. I keep a little boat over at Edith Weston. You must come out in it one day.”
“Interesting idea.” I smiled as slightly as I could without actually insulting him. We’d only just met, but already I was sure I didn’t want to be out in a small boat with him for company. “Well, I must get back.”
“To Otherways? If you’re walking that way, perhaps I could accompany you.”
“Why not?” I could hardly refuse.
We were soon out of the spinney and on the lane that traced the spine of the peninsula. I set a deliberately stiff pace, which Rainbird matched with some difficulty, panting along beside me like an overweight Labrador. “Interesting house, Other ways,” he said, just when it had begun to seem we might walk in silence.
“You think so?”
“Fascinating, I’d say. Virtually unique. I’m something of an expert on architectural history.”
“Really?” It didn’t seem at all likely.
“Yes. On a purely amateur basis, of course. Otherways is the only extant work of Emile Posnan.”
“So I believe.”
“You’d think it might have led to other commissions. Purely on grounds of eccentricity.”
“But it didn’t.”
“On the contrary, it did. But Posnan refused them all. He closed down his practice and left the country.”
“For Portugal.” I saw Rainbird smile at that. It was a welcome sign to him, I suppose, that I too was interested in Emile Posnan, albeit against my better judgement. “So Lucy said.”
“I didn’t know she was so well informed. That being the case, I wonder if I could ask you a favour. I’d very much like to…visit the house.”
“Why?”
“To test my theory.”
“Which is?”
“That somewhere at Otherways is the answer to the riddle of Posnan’s abandoned career.”
“Unlikely.”
“Its abandonment was unlikely. Wouldn’t you agree?”
It was hard to disagree, but I felt obliged to. “Maybe he planned to continue practising as an architect in Portugal but something else cropped up. Things do.”
“Not in Emile Posnan’s life. He lived alone in a succession of rented rooms in Lisbon, a recluse, drinking himself to death, though it took more than forty years to do it. A sort of very slow suicide.”
“He can’t have been that much of a recluse.” I was thinking of the fact that, according to Fisher, Sir Clarence Milner had been inspired to buy Otherways by an encounter with Posnan in Lisbon. But suddenly I didn’t want to reveal the extent of my curiosity on the point to Rainbird. I’m not sure why. Something in his darting looks and hesitant, high-pitched voice suggested that I’d regret revealing the smallest thing to him. “What I mean is…you can’t be sure.”
“Perhaps not. But still, I would be grateful if you’d ask Mrs Prior whether I could…take a look round.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t asked her yourself before now.”
“I have.” We’d come to the entrance to the drive leading to Otherways and stopped there. The house was out of sight, thanks to the lie of the land, but Rainbird was looking towards it with a hopeful tilt of the head, as if he might catch sight of it if he craned his neck sufficiently. He’d have cut a pitiful figure if it hadn’t been for the fact that I didn’t quite swallow the act. There was something too calculating about it. And his enthusiasm for eccentric Edwardian architecture rang as true as a cracked bell. “But I think I caught her at a bad time.”
“She has just lost her sister.”
“And you your wife. Yes. Daisy told me that much. He offered no condolences. Strangely, I was grateful. It seemed oddly sensitive of him to understand how unwelcome such condolences would have been. Or maybe I was just the beneficiary of his complete sensitivity.”
“Actually, I think Mrs Prior may doubt the sincerity of my interest in architecture.” I reckoned he was right there. “I had the same problem with the previous owner. Major Strathallan. But it was perhaps more understandable in his case.”
“Why?”
“Well, architecture and personal tragedy have a habit of colliding at Otherways, don’t they? Major Strathallan had good cause to know that. Has good cause, I should say, remote in his Scottish fastness though he may be.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Murder, Mr Sheridan. And treason.”
“You mean James and Cedric Milner.”
“Ah, you know about all that, do you?”
“It’s no secret.”
“The facts aren’t, no. But they arrange themselves oddly, nevertheless. I was reading a book about Cedric the spy only recently and a very odd arrangement emerged from that, I must say. It’s a book about several spies, actually, of whom Cedric Milner is merely one. Seven Faces of Treason. You know it?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“Not surprising. It’s long out of print. I came across a copy at Goldmark’s in Uppingham. An excellent bookshop. I can warmly recommend it. But look, if you’re interested, I could lend you the book.”
“There’s no need.”
“Least I can do. In return for you putting in a good word for me with Mrs Prior.”
“I didn’t say I would.”
“True.” He winked at me. “But I’ll trust you to.” With that he turned and headed off along the lane, the heels of his gum boots scuffing the tarmac as he went. “I’ll drop the book in next time I’m passing,” he called back to me over his shoulder, waving cheerily. “It’ll be my pleasure.”
First Lucy, now Rainbird. Everyone was suddenly keen to satisfy my curiosity about the former inhabitants of Other- ways. I’d have thought it suspicious if it hadn’t been so difficult to see any harm in delving into the past.
At the house, another surprise was waiting. Nesta broke off from a round of vacuuming to tell me that Matt was in the garage, checking over his car in preparation for a long journey, and that Lucy was upstairs, packing with the same in mind. “I was coming in this evening to cook for the three of you. Do you want a slap-up feed just for yourself?”
I said I’d probably go out for dinner and headed up to Matt and Lucy’s bedroom, where Lucy was throwing toiletries into an overnight bag. She looked faintly harassed and more than faintly displeased.
“Sorry about this, Tony. Duty calls. Wifely duty, that is. Has Matt mentioned Dick Sindermann to you?”
“No. Who is he?”
“A possible backer for taking Pizza Prego to the States.”
“I didn’t know Matt was considering such a move.”
“Neither did I.” She flung open the wardrobe and flicked through a choice of outfits. “But why should I? Matt only needs me to look decorative over dinner while he prises the dollars out of Sindermann. The guy flew in from New York this morning and phoned to propose a powwow. Tonight, at Cliveden. He clearly does have dollars to spare. We’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Well…have a nice time.”
“I won’t.”
“About the magazine article—”
“I retrieved it while you were out. Let’s talk about it when I get back. Monday, maybe.” When Matt was safely out of the way, she meant. “I’m really sorry to be dashing off when you’ve only just arrived.”
“I’ll cope.”
“I’d much rather stay here myself. Then you wouldn’t have to cope.” She tossed the selected outfit onto the bed. “Don’t you sometimes long not to?”
“Is there a choice?”
“Oh yes.” She grew thoughtful, almost sombre. “I’m sure there is.”
I found Matt in the garage, topping up the windscreen wash in his car. The rest of us would just take off with soft tyres and a low reservoir, but not Matt. He always was a walking safety manual. Stateside entrepreneur was a different matter, however.
“Is this a realistic possibility?” I asked him.
“That depends on Sindermann.”
“But as far as you’re concerned?”
“Yes. Lucy’s been complaining that we’re in a mid-life rut. This might get us out of it. And stop her brooding. In fact—” He stopped and stepped back from the bonnet, frowning over something. Then he said, “Well, we’ll see.”
“Best of luck.” It was all I could manage to say. It didn’t seem the right time to point out how unenthusiastic Lucy was about the idea. Maybe he already knew. Or maybe he didn’t want to.
They left straight after lunch. By then Nesta was long gone. It meant, as I watched the car take off down the drive, that I was alone at Otherways, and would be for the next twenty- four hours. I walked round the moat, gazing up at the house as afternoon stillness reclaimed it in the sunshine that had broken through the clouds. All the things I could have done, and would have done, if you’d been with me lay heavy and redundant in my mind, coalescing into the leaden certainty that there was nothing I wanted to do without you.
But I could find something worth doing, if I looked hard enough. A leaf through Seven Faces of Treason held some appeal, even though I’d done my best to let Rainbird think it wouldn’t. I washed the car and drove down to Uppingham, a few miles south of Oakham. It’s a quiet little market town, strong on bookshops and tearooms. You’d have enjoyed wandering round. But all I did was search in vain for a book it seemed Rainbird had snaffled the last copy of. Not knowing the author’s name didn’t help, of course. I left empty-handed.
I’d only been back at Otherways for ten minutes or so when I heard a car draw up outside. Glancing out of the window, I saw Rainbird bundling out of his Morris Minor, clutching a book in his hand.
“I didn’t think you’d be passing this way quite so soon,” I said, opening the door to him.
“To be honest, I wasn’t.” He grinned broadly. “I happened to overhear a telephone conversation earlier, quite by chance, between Daisy and Mrs Prior, indicating that you’d be alone here for the weekend.”
“Did you indeed?”
“Pure chance, as I say. But a happy one, don’t you think? It occurred to me that you might…let me have a look inside…without troubling Mrs Prior at all.”
