“Don’t bother. It’s not far away.” He heaved the suitcase into the car and left fast. He was low on petrol, he didn’t have a map, but someone must be able to tell him how to find the bloody silly house.
He drove around this part of Lincolnshire for forty minutes until he was grim with failure and sick of repeating the same question to people whose eyes immediately went as blank as old pennies. The needle on his fuel gauge was tapping empty. And then, finally, he met a policeman on a bicycle who said he knew for certain there was no Goodrich House in the county. On the other hand there was a Richards Court, big house, just bought by a lady MP, not far off.
“I may have to walk,” Silk said. “I’m running on fumes.”
The policeman mounted his bike and led the way to a petrol station, which was shut, but he got the owner to leave his TV and unlock his pumps.
“You’re a prince,” Silk said. The policeman aimed a finger at Silk’s medal ribbons. “You did your bit, too,” he said.
Richards Court sat in its own grounds, half a mile from the road, hidden by woodland, an early Victorian country house with a stable block and a dairy, plus a few smaller buildings which stood in the background, minding their manners.
The east side of the house was flanked by a broad terrace. A pair of peacocks was in residence. “Good evening,” Silk said. “You must be Abbot and Costello.” One bird slowly displayed its tail feathers. “I stand corrected. Rodgers and Hammerstein.”
French windows opened, and a man in black trousers and a dove-grey waistcoat appeared. “May I help you, sir?”
“That depends. Who are you?”
“I am Stevens, sir. The under-butler.”
“Well, I’m Silk, the under-husband. Is my wife here?”
“Her ladyship is in conference, sir. In the library.”
“In conference? Who with? Never mind. Tell her I’m here. Tell her I’ve brought Rumpty and Tumpty with me and we’d all like the pleasure of her company.”
“Rumpty and Tumpty.” Stevens didn’t even blink. “Very good, sir. Drinks are in the Music Room, if you would like to wait there.”
Silk was on his second Scotch-and-water when Zoë hurried in, kissed him, hugged him, and awoke long-forgotten tremors in his loins. “Darling, how gorgeous to see you, and looking so well, you should have telephoned, we’re frantically busy here, isn’t it a dreadful dump? But big.”
“I’ve been trying to find Something Court. I’ve driven all over –”
“Damn, damn. I meant to tell you. Frantically busy, you’ve no idea. The thing is, I knew a man called Richards, centuries ago, complete shit, I couldn’t live anywhere called Richards Court, so I changed it to The Grange… Anyway, you’re here. We’ll put you in the Red Room. Lovely views.”
“The only view I want is you, starkers.”
She kissed him again and backed away, towards the door. “Poor Rumpty and Tumpty… This thing I’m chairing will go on all night…”
“I can wait. Tell you what: I’ll stand behind you and look staunch. That’ll speed things up.”
Zoë shuddered, purely for effect. “Blow things up, more likely.”
“Really? What’s it all about?”
“Can’t say, Silko. Politics. You know.”
“All I know is I’ve been flying all week and driving all evening, and…” He heard the grate of bitterness in his voice and let that sentence die. “How about tomorrow?”
“No, tomorrow’s hopeless. Hordes of people coming, absolute hordes.” She wrinkled her brow. “Perhaps Tuesday?”
“I’ll be flying. I’ve been posted to Kindrick. Remember? My last base, in ’44. Twenty miles away.”
“Kindrick, how nice for you. You’ll meet all your chums again.” She blew a kiss and was gone.
“All my fucking chums from fucking Kindrick are fucking dead,” Silk said. He opened the lid of a grand piano and ran his forefinger down the keys. “Not Freddy Redman. He’s in the Air Ministry, but that’s a living death, isn’t it?”
He left the piano and stood in the middle of the room, sipping his whisky and thinking about dead aircrew, something he had managed to avoid doing for ten, fifteen years. Then a tall, lithe young man came in and introduced himself as Charles Ferris, Zoë’s personal assistant. “I look after her appointments book,” he said. “She thought we might liaise.”
“I don’t want to bloody liaise. Liaise about what?”
“Mutually convenient dates,” Ferris said. Silk stared, frowning as if the light hurt his eyes. “Oh well,” Ferris said. “Not such a good idea, after all.”
“Here’s a much better idea,” Silk said. “Where’s the nearest pub?”
When he opened the Citroën’s door he saw the big leather suitcase on the back seat, and on impulse he dragged it out and flung it away. He got in and started the car and knew how childish he’d been, so he got out and carried the suitcase into the house and dumped it. Stevens, the under-butler, came in sight. “Not mine,” Silk said. “Tell her ladyship it was found in the attic. Bloody heavy. Don’t herniate yourself.” Then he went to the pub. They had ham sandwiches two inches thick and best bitter that washed away the sins of the world. When he got back to The Grange only Stevens was still up.
He slept late. By the time he reached the breakfast room, all the guests had eaten and moved on. He had a kipper and bacon and eggs and read a copy of The Times that had coffee stains on the Parliamentary News.
It was a mild, sunny morning. He went for a stroll around The Grange. The place was even bigger than he thought: he identified an ice-house, a laundry and a sprawling garage, once a coach-house. Under a Scots pine he found a cemetery for pets. He scraped the moss from a small tombstone. Tommy, a Good Pal, in flowery letters. Another stone was for Jessy, Gone But Not Forgotten. “Not true,” Silk said. “Jessy’s gone and forgotten and so are you.”
He looked around. It must take a platoon of servants to run The Grange. Obviously Zoë had more money than God. And she spent it hand over fist. Well, so what? He wasn’t being asked to do any work. Then why did the sight of this place depress him?
At the back of the house was a walled garden. Inside it, dirty smoke was boiling up. He found a doorway. An elderly man in overalls was poking the fire with a spade. As Silk got closer he saw that what the man was burning was the leather suitcase.
“I guess you’re the gardener,” Silk said.
“I’m Ted, sir.” He took off his cap.
“And that’s a suitcase.”
“Her ladyship’s orders, sir.”
Silk took Ted’s spade and chopped at the locks until the suitcase sprang open. It was full of clothing. On top was an RAF officer’s uniform, neatly folded. The smoke made Silk cough, but he used the edge of the spade to lift out a tunic. “Pilot,” he said. “See? Flight lieutenant.” The smoke swirled and went for his eyes, so he let the tunic fall. “Damn. Damn.”
“Someone you knew, sir?”
“Chap called Langham. Tony Langham. Good type.” He gave back the spade. “Rather a long time ago. Keep up the good work, Ted.”
Silk collected his things from the Red Room and drove to RAF Kindrick. Tony had been her first husband, she owned his clothes, she had a perfect right to destroy them, nobody should live in the past. Still, it was a hell of a way for Tony’s kit to end up. First he went down in flames, then his best uniform went up in flames. Silk put his foot to the floor and made the Citroën charge so hard that it left Tony in its slipstream. Speed cures all.
PART TWO