‘So you think treatment for the cancer would change your personality?’
‘I’m damned sure it’d change my lifestyle. There seems to be some rather tedious conventional wisdom in the medical world that chemotherapy and chainsmoking don’t mix.’
Jude couldn’t help smiling. Laurence Hawker had always been a poseur, a lot of what he said was purely for effect, but its mischievous knowingness still made her laugh.
‘So you’re saying you’re not going to have any treatment? You’ll let the cancer run its course?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did the consultant say how long that course might be?’
Laurence Hawker shook his head, exhaling dubiously through pursed lips. ‘An inexact science, the prediction of longevity. But I get the impression that I should think in terms of short stories rather than novels. Certainly O. Henry rather than Proust.’
There was a long, peaceful silence between them. Each took a substantial sip from their glass. Laurence reached across and affectionately took hold of Jude’s hand.
‘One of the things I like about you,’ he said, ‘is your lack of knee-jerk reactions. Very few of the human species, after what I’ve just told you, could have resisted saying, “But you must have the treatment, you must!” Whether they meant it or not. It’s just one of those things people say instinctively, like “Bless you” after a sneeze. Thank you, Jude, for not saying it.’
She shrugged. ‘Not my place to say it. Your life. You’re grown-up. You make your own decisions.’
‘Thank you.’
The peaceful silence descended again. When Laurence next spoke, it was with greater briskness. ‘I’ll be off tomorrow. This has been an extraordinarily pleasant interlude. I’m very grateful.’
‘Where are you going?’ He shrugged. ‘To another of your women?’
‘I don’t think that’d be very fair. No, I’ll find a base somewhere, and meet them on a daily basis, for nice, long, self-indulgent lunches.’
‘There is an alternative,’ said Jude.
‘Sorry. I’m not going to sweat in a tepee, or only eat pulses, or have ginseng enemas. All those sound at least as undignified as the chemotherapy.’
‘That is not what I meant, Laurence. And you know full well that is not what I meant.’ He smiled acknowledgement of her percipience. ‘I meant you don’t have to go. You can stay here.’
He was silent for a moment. ‘Jude, I know you never make offers you don’t mean, but I think that’s too much for you to take on.’
‘My decision, I’d have thought.’
Another silence. ‘It’s tempting.’
‘You’ve never had any qualms about giving in to temptation before. Why suddenly get picky now?’
‘Hm.’ An even longer silence. ‘One thing . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘If I do accept your very generous offer . . .’
‘Hm?’
‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’
‘Won’t tell anyone you’re here? That’s going to be tricky. I’m afraid, amongst its many conveniences and amenities, Woodside Cottage doesn’t feature a Priest’s Hole.’
‘I meant don’t tell anyone why I’m here. Don’t tell anyone I’m ill.’
‘Oh,’ said Jude. ‘Not even Carole?’
‘Particularly not Carole.’
‘Why?’
‘Because, if ever I saw one of the “But you must have the treatment, you must!” brigade, Carole Seddon is it.’
Jude wasn’t sure that he was right about her neighbour, and foresaw problems ahead. She visualized a lot of misunderstandings, when she would have to spend time caring for Laurence, and Carole would regard her preoccupation as a personal slight. But it was his illness and his decision, so she just said, ‘All right. Any other terms and conditions?’
‘Just one other thing I’d like to clarify.’ A sardonic smile twitched his full lips. ‘If I am living here . . .’
‘Mm?’
‘ . . . will I still be able to go out and meet my other women for nice, long, self-indulgent lunches?’
‘Oh yes, Laurence. I wouldn’t dare try to change your personality. Don’t worry, I’m way beyond that kind of jealousy,’ Jude replied, with a grin.
‘Good. Both being grown-ups, eh? Two people who have been lovers and can still enjoy each other’s company.’
‘And bodies.’
‘Yes. And bodies.’ He mimicked a prim smile of political correctness. ‘But only, of course, by mutual agreement.’
‘Of course.’
‘No pretence, though, that we’re the great loves of each other’s life.’
Jude nodded firmly. ‘Fine by me.’
‘I think I need some more whisky,’ said Laurence Hawker.
After their talk, Jude rang Carole and got the answering machine. She didn’t leave a message. She’d go round to High Tor the following morning.
Then she rang Sandy Fairbarns’ number.
‘Just wondered if there was any more news about Mervyn.’
‘Well, they haven’t found him yet, if that’s what you mean.’
‘How hard are they looking?’
‘As hard as they would for any other escapee from an open prison.’
‘But not as hard as they would for a dangerous woman-killer who might strike again at any moment?’
‘No, Jude. As you know and I know, that stuff was all in his head.’
‘I wonder what made him suddenly jump now? The police know he had nothing to do with the skeleton at Bracketts.’
‘I thought you said he’d talked of reoffending so that he gets another prison sentence, so that he doesn’t have to face the real world so soon?’
‘He did.’
‘An escape could achieve that quite neatly, couldn’t it?’
‘Yes. Except that an escape takes him out into the very real world that he’s so scared of.’
‘Where he might be in danger of being alone with a woman, and the consequences he fears from that situation?’
‘Exactly, Sandy. Anything else you’ve found out about him?’
‘Only that he had another visitor.’
‘Oh? After me?’
‘Yes.’
‘But he said he never had visitors.’
‘Then his luck’s changed. He’s had two in a week. Second one the day before he absconded.’
‘Who was it, Sandy? Who came to see him?’
‘Someone from Bracketts . . . you know, the place where he was working.’
‘I know.’
‘It was a woman called Sheila Cartwright.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Having had the Emergency Trustees’ Meeting set up around his commitments, when it came to the event Lord Beniston couldn’t make it. A six-forty call to the Administrative Office from his secretary regretted that he’d been unavoidably delayed in London ‘by a business meeting that had overrun’. In fact, though no one at Bracketts ever knew, the meeting had been a lunch at the Garrick (where the rules of the club do not permit the discussion of business), which had run on through the afternoon into an evening drinking session. (In fact, Lord Beniston was beginning to have doubts about his involvement with Bracketts. The doubts had nothing to do with recent events at the house, but arose from the question he constantly posed to himself: ‘What am I actually getting out of this?’ Bracketts was a relatively obscure set-up, so few people were aware of the brownie points he should have been earning for his charity work. Also he did have to go there in person to chair the meetings. He felt sure he could lend his name to the letterheads of other organizations, which would raise his philanthropic profile higher and make less demands on him.)
Gina Locke, who had taken the call while Carole Seddon was in the office with her, immediately took the decision that, in the absence of Lord Beniston, she would chair the meeting herself. Though not a Trustee, as Director of Bracketts she would be the senior responsible person present, and she should be in charge.