‘If you show us the door, we shall march back to it with complete submission,’ Payne said gravely.
‘Will you really?’ She hesitated. ‘No — I hate making scenes. I haven’t got the strength. I am afraid I don’t feel awfully well. I have this persistent, rather sickening sense of down-rushing ruin, as if I’ve been flung off a precipice … It’s loneliness that’s said to beget loquaciousness, though in my case it is nerves. I talk too much, don’t I?’
‘No, not at all,’ Antonia said. They wanted her to talk.
‘Would you like to sit down?’
‘Thank you,’ Payne said. ‘Most kind.’
They had decided to call on Hortense Tilling without giving her any notice. Always more effective than trying to make arrangements over the phone. Didn’t give her the chance to say no and put down the receiver.
‘I might as well offer you tea,’ Hortense said.
‘Tea would be lovely,’ Antonia said.
‘I must give you scones too. With Devonshire cream and seedless raspberry jam? Though let me calm down first. My nerves are in a bad state, you see.’
‘Perhaps you should sit down for a bit?’
‘No, no, my dear. I’d rather stand. It induces in me the feeling of being in control. It’s completely illusory. Could we pretend we have known each other for years and this is a social call?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ Payne said.
‘Perhaps we could talk about the weather first? It will make things easier, I think. I find talking about the weather relaxing, don’t you?’
She was a thin, birdlike woman in her sixties, wearing a silk dress in what Antonia thought were strong dead colours: dark red and old gold and purple. Her face was pale pink and gently wrinkled, her silver hair parted in the middle, and she wore round horn-rimmed spectacles which seemed to accentuate her oddly pious expression and made her look rather like a nun.
‘Isn’t it cold today?’ Antonia said.
‘There was a chill drizzle from the north-east as we set out.’ Payne glanced towards the window.
‘It feels more like autumn than spring,’ said Hortense.
‘Spring is late this year,’ Antonia said.
‘It is, isn’t it, my dear? Terribly late. I keep shivering, even with the central heating on. Well, that’s England for you. One shouldn’t wear silk. There! It’s done the trick. I already feel better.’ Hortense nodded. ‘Thank you.’
‘I imagine you are feeling the cold more acutely than us,’ Major Payne said. ‘Having returned from the Caribbean not so long ago? Did the Caribbean agree with you?’
‘It did, to start with.’ She clasped her hands before her. ‘Have you been to the Caribbean? No? Cobalt blue skies — cicadas — dragonflies with diamond wings. Fizzing hot days, as my father used to say. The endless susurrus of the sea. An easy life. La dolce vita. Used to be my idea of paradise. But then — then it all changed.’
‘Because of Lord Remnant’s death?’
‘Well, yes. The morning after he died, I took a walk round the island and I was struck by the amazing absence of meaningful ambulation. The idea depressed me. Oh how it depressed me. I’d never thought in those terms before, you see. Suddenly I felt faint-’
‘Was it very hot?’
‘Well, yes, but up till then I hadn’t minded the heat. It was the kind of heat that’s been described as “swooning” … Everybody on the beach was in a horizontal position, limp and languorous, fanning themselves. I had the odd sense people were horizontal in their very souls. What a silly thing to say! Do forgive me. Why am I standing here? I was going to do something, wasn’t I?’
‘You were going to make us tea,’ Antonia said brightly.
‘Tea, yes! Let’s have tea! The cup that cheereth!’
She disappeared into the kitchen.
The sofa was large and the colour of whipped cream. They sat among a proliferation of ancient tasselled cushions of petit-point. The wall above the sofa was covered with framed photographs, some of which had faded to so pale a brown that it was simply the pattern of the black rectangles of their frames on the pale cream walls that seemed to serve the purpose of decoration. But there were some good, clear ones …
It was the photograph of a stunningly beautiful dark-haired girl that drew their attention. The girl’s hair was done in the style of the early sixties, her shoulders bare, one hand held clasped under her chin. Round her wrist she wore a striking bracelet in the shape of a coiled snake, most probably a cobra, made from what looked like black pearls.
Payne raised a quizzical eyebrow at Antonia. ‘That our hostess? Can’t be.’
‘I think it’s her … many summers ago. She’s still got the same smile.’
‘Golly, yes.’
‘Isn’t time cruel?’
‘Merciless.’ Payne’s eyes had strayed towards the bookcase. ‘Books on adoption … Cuckoo in the Nest. I can’t help noticing people’s books, can you?’
‘I find myself instinctively disapproving of people who have no books in their houses. In a funny kind of way it puts me on guard,’ Antonia said. ‘I don’t think I can be friends with people who don’t read.’
‘I can’t be friends with people who read the wrong kind of books … Dan Brown, J. K. Rowling, Martina Cole, old McCall Smith, Jeffery Deaver — or is that unfair?’
‘Do you think she’s been considering adoption? A bit old for that,’ Antonia whispered.
‘The books are also old, which suggests she may have considered it when she was younger.’
‘I am worried about her. She is in a febrile state … She seems scared out of her wits.’
Payne’s eyes were back on the photograph. ‘What a magnificent bracelet that is … Now where-?’
There was a tinkling sound as Hortense Tilling reentered the room, a tea-tray in her hands. ‘In case you are wondering, that’s me, yes. You wouldn’t think it, would you? Vogue offered me a modelling contract, but my mother made me turn it down. My mother disapproved of models. She feared for my virtue. It all seems like a dream now. I was an altogether different person then.’ She hummed the tune of ‘Where Is The Life That Late I Led?’ She set the tea-tray on the coffee table.
‘I have been admiring your bracelet,’ Payne said.
‘Ah, the Keppel Clasp.’
‘The Keppel Clasp? Is that what it’s called? Exquisite craftsmanship. Is it Faberge?’
‘It is. You are a connoisseur, I see. As it happens, Mrs Keppel was a distant relation on my mother’s side. The clasp was a present to her from you-know-who.’ She picked up the silver pot and started pouring out tea.
‘Edward VII?’
‘Indeed. From Kingy. I believe that’s what she called him. The stout sceptred satyr … Sugar? No?’
‘It’s in the form of a snake,’ said Antonia.
‘Yes. Are you squeamish about snakes? I don’t blame you. Most people are. But snakes can be so beautiful … The snake’s head and the tail form a knot, did you notice?’
‘Yes. Most unusual. Exquisite craftsmanship,’ Payne said again.
‘The Keppel Clasp was quite unique.’ Hortense sighed.
‘Why the past tense? Haven’t you still got it?’ Antonia asked.
‘I am afraid not. I’d love to be able to show it to you, my dear, but it is no longer in my possession. The Keppel Clasp was stolen from me. A long time ago. I hadn’t even had it insured. Well, I believe I was punished for being a bad girl.’ A shadow passed across her face.
There was a pause.
‘Delicious scones,’ Antonia said. ‘I love raspberry jam.’
‘It’s home-made. I love making jam. Something comforting about jam-making.’ Hortense perched on the arm of an armchair. ‘How curious that you should have turned up. I was right. I mean I knew that sooner or later someone would ring my front door bell! I knew it was only a question of time, though of course I had no idea who it would be. The police? Private detectives? The intelligence service? Men in black? Anyhow, now that I have met you, the worst is over.’