Regina was at her desk in one of the large windows, ploughing her way remorselessly through her morning’s correspondence without Annet’s aid. She saw the car sweep round the wide curve of the drive to halt on the apron of gravel, and waved a hand and rose at once to come out to George on the doorstep.
‘Mr Felse, I’m so glad to see you. I’ve been longing to telephone Mrs Beck again, but it seems cruel to pester the poor woman.’ The alert, commanding blue eyes looked a little startled behind the distorting lenses of her reading glasses. The briskness and decision of her movements and words, undaunted by death, suspicion or suffering, sprang to meet him almost roughly; no wonder those on whom she conferred her quite genuine visitations of sympathy often reacted with bristling hackles and tongue-tied offence. And yet she was a kind, sincere woman, and the one thing she would not do for those in distress or need was leave them gently, self-sacrificingly alone.
‘Do tell me about Annet. This is such a terrible business, I don’t understand how she could have become involved. We were always so careful of her. And she isn’t a deceitful child by nature, I’m sure she isn’t, there were never any signs. How could we have failed to see that there was someone on her mind? How is the poor girl now?’
‘Physically,’ said George, bracing himself and digging in his heels against the force of her energy, ‘she’s well enough.’
‘You don’t want us to see her yet? I don’t want to make things more difficult for you in any way, but do let us know as soon as we can go to her. We’re very concerned. If there’s anything we can do in the meantime, please do ask, we should be very glad if we could help her.’
So would a great many people, thought George, remembering Tom Kenyon and Miles Mallindine eyeing each other across his rug in an anguish bitterly antagonistic and helplessly shared. Some with better rights even than yours.
‘Do you want to talk to Peter? He’s down in the stable-yard with Stockwood, I think, working on one of the cars.’
‘It’s with Stockwood I wanted to have a word, as a matter of fact.’
‘Oh!’ she said, drawing back a step to measure him with blue eyes wide and wary. ‘I thought he’d already satisfied you about his moves. One of your men was here yesterday afternoon to talk to him.’
‘I know. Just a detail I’d like to check with him myself. If you’ve no objection?’
‘I have no objection, of course. But I think I should tell you that I feel every confidence in this young man. I haven’t had him long, that’s true, but I can usually make up my mind fairly soon about people. I see,’ she said with authority, ‘why you must consider him as a possibility. But I’m sure you’ll be wasting your time.’
‘He’s simply one man who at least has been in occasional contact with Annet. You must take my word for it that that’s enough to make this necessary.’
‘And personable,’ said Regina, suddenly running her fingers deep into the orderly waves of her short red hair, and clenching them there for a moment. ‘And young!’
The faint, astonished tang of bitterness the word had for her made her mouth twist. Had she looked too often and too closely at the chauffeur herself? It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened to a busy, self-confident, indulgent woman suddenly shocked into awareness that youth had left her. If so, she had surely never done more than look; she was too certain of herself to sacrifice a part of her personality to an employee, whatever the momentary temptations.
‘How much more do you know about him? He came to you with references, of course?’
‘One,’ she said, ‘from his last employer, a business man down in Richmond. But of course you can see the letter if you want to. Before that he says he was in Canada for a year, driving or doing any job he could get. So far we’ve found him completely satisfactory.’ It was a royal ‘we,’ and George recognised it as such; Peter had no use for a chauffeur, and no interest in this one provided Regina was happy.
‘Oh, I don’t doubt that. And he lives in Braidie’s old quarters?’
‘In the south lodge.’ It was behind the house, and hidden from it by the older plantations Peter had brought to such excellent growth and condition.
‘Alone? Or is he a married man?’
‘He has been married. His wife got a divorce from him – at least, it won’t be absolute for a month or so yet. Over an incident with another woman. You see, he was very frank with me about his circumstances when he applied for the job.’
‘So he does live alone?’ In that minor lodge on a very quiet road, out of sight of the house, where coming and going would be easy. ‘And does for himself?’
‘Yes, very economically and neatly, so I’m told.’ She smiled for an instant, but wryly. ‘Our head gardener has a rather forward daughter who has made it her business to offer her services, but she hasn’t got anywhere so far. He doesn’t seem to have any use for women, by all the signs.’
No, maybe not. But then he wouldn’t, for other women, if he had Annet in his sights.
‘I’ll go round and join them, if I may.’
‘Do, of course. You know your way.’
George walked round the wing of the house and down the slope of grass. The eighteenth century stable block sat four-square about a large courtyard, two-storeyed, many-windowed, like a mansion in itself. There were still three riding-horses on the place, but the cars had nearly elbowed them out of their own yard. Peter Blacklock, in slacks and an old polo-necked sweater, was bending into the bonnet of the E-type Jaguar that was credibly reputed to be Regina’s last birthday present to him. Stockwood, in overalls, was washing down the Bentley. He turned his head at the hollow sound of footsteps under the stable archway, and showed that proud, dark face of his, withdrawn and defensive as a Romany. For a moment he was motionless. Water streamed from his rubber brush down the flanks of the car, and flowed away into the drain.
Peter Blacklock took his head out of the car’s innards, and shook back the lank fair hair from his forehead with a nervous toss of his head.
‘Oh, hallo, Felse!’ Something of consternation, something of resignation, showed in his long, hypersensitive features for an instant, and then was gone as suddenly, leaving only his usual faintly weary but beautifully modulated politeness. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come. Were you looking for me?’
He leaned into the car and switched off the purring engine, and stood wiping his hands on a tangle of cotton-waste. ‘Am I allowed to ask about Annet? We’ve been – we are terribly anxious about her. There’s nothing new?’
‘No, nothing new.’ He didn’t want to talk to anyone about Annet, he didn’t want to show to anyone else even a part of what she had made him experience. ‘We’re still filling in details wherever and however we can – about all the people we can. Do you mind if I ask Stockwood a few questions?’
‘If you must,’ said Peter, frowning. ‘But I thought you’d already done with him. He accounted for himself to one of your fellows yesterday. Something the matter with the liaison, or what?’
‘Nothing the matter with the liaison. Just a double check for safety’s sake. And you might fill in the timing of the week-end for me yourself first, if you will. Mrs Blacklock went off to Gloucester on the Thursday afternoon. Stockwood drove her down and brought back the car, because she was meeting a friend there who could run her about locally. You then gave him the whole long week-end off, I understand. Exactly when did he leave here, and when did he return?’
In the very brief moment of quietness Stockwood leaned and turned off the tap. He laid down the brush and took a step towards them, waiting in readiness, dark colour mounting in his face and blanching again to pallor.