I am not a mad woman, I am a wounded woman, she thought. ‘The Ritz Hotel,’ she told the cab driver. She sounded like one of those stuffy English dowagers now. It was some half an hour later and a map of Shropshire lay on her lap. She held up an imaginary lorgnette to her eyes. That was how she would set off in search of Chalfont Parva tomorrow morning, after some toast and a refreshing cup of Earl Grey tea. It all felt like a real adventure! ‘Soon at King’s, a mere lozenge to give – and Corinne should have just thirty minutes to live,’ Eleanor quoted from The Laboratory, substituting ‘Corinne’ for ‘Pauline’.
‘I don’t suppose you know your Browning, my good man?’ Eleanor said to the cab driver. The portly beturbanned Sikh looked at her in his mirror but said nothing. She clicked her tongue. ‘I thought not. I am so sorry I do not speak your beautiful language. I’d have loved to be able to recite Omar Khayyam in the original.’
If only Griff could have been with her now – how much he’d have enjoyed himself! The mixture of histrionics and high society jinks, a night at the Ritz, the trawl through Merrie England, plus the whiff of danger and the prospect of a police chase would have been to his taste. She could hear Griff say something on the lines of, ‘I do admire the English police. So stern and hardboiled. Quite a thrill, the whole business.’
Eleanor had a mental picture of the two of them, walking arm in arm in the formal gardens that surrounded Chalfont Park. She knew exactly what they would see. She thought she might be a bit psychic. .. Labyrinthine paths covered in sand as fine as gold dust that went courteously around and about. Geometric lawns that might have been designed by Pythagoras. Emerald-green bushes trimmed with clinical precision into cones, globes and pyramids. Maroon-veined marble balustrades. Slightly sinister statues in indecipherably enigmatic poses on colossal cubic plinths…
As the cab paused at traffic lights, she saw the god Abraxas, with his evil chanticleer’s head, the arms and torso of a man and the tail of an entwined serpent, cross the road slowly. He turned round and looked at her fixedly. She pretended she hadn’t seen him. That, she had discovered, was the right way to act. The last thing she wanted was to encourage Abraxas!
At least she’d had Griff cremated, not buried. She hadn’t been able to bear the thought of worms ravaging – feasting – on his poor body… Once more she saw the polished coffin sliding theatrically into the furnace… She missed Griff… If it had been possible, she’d have brought the urn with his ashes with her. On second thoughts, no, that would have been quite unnecessary.
Griff, after all, was coming back soon. It was only a question of time.
10
Those Who Walk Away
It was now five in the afternoon. Antonia had walked over to the french window and was standing there, looking out. The last week of March had been warm and sunny and the gardens at Chalfont were glowing squares of rich embroidery. She recalled Mrs Miniver’s extravagant words: a lavishly lovely spring. The ancient trees were rounded, cushiony and mustard-gold, the grass under the fruit trees was already scattered with petals. The chestnuts were still in tight bud, but were about to burst open. Underneath them on the ground she saw powdery-blue patches – dead beech leaves from last year, Antonia imagined – the sort of speckle an Impressionist painter would have made hay with. Clumps of pale orange crocuses and tiny scillas sparkling like blue gems were clustered around the base of the trees. As she glanced across the lawn, she saw an octagonal structure with glass panel walls – a greenhouse? Antonia felt like going out for a walk and picking some flowers for their bedroom, only she didn’t want to miss the private detective.
‘Where is he? I heard no car,’ Lady Grylls was saying. ‘I am not going deaf as well as blind, am I?’
‘Ah, the indignities of old age,’ Peverel murmured. ‘Blindness, deafness, muddle, fuddle.’ He turned to Payne.
‘D’you know what Aunt Nellie did last Christmas? Sent out-of-date printed cards that said, Season’s Greetings from Lord and Lady Grylls. Uncle Rory’s been dead these last thirteen years! I am sure you got one?’
‘I didn’t,’ Payne lied loyally.
‘Needed to get rid of the blasted things,’ Lady Grylls said, unperturbed. ‘Hate waste.’
Provost cleared his throat. ‘Mr Jonson is aware that he is a bit early and he was phoning on the off chance that you may agree to see him, m’lady, so he’s parked his car outside the gates. He called on his mobile phone, m‘lady. He doesn’t mind waiting, he said.’
‘Who is this man Jonson?’ Peverel asked. ‘Not from the National Trust, is he? Have the National Trust reconsidered their decision?’
‘Tell him to come in, Provost. We might as well see him now. The sooner he comes, the sooner he’ll go. I suppose we’ll have to give him tea.’ Lady Grylls sighed gustily. ‘Put the kettle on, will you?’
‘Yes, m’lady.’
‘Aunt Nellie, I forgot to tell you that I’m leaving for London early tomorrow morning,’ Peverel said.
‘Good,’ she said.
‘I am glad I’ll be spared the gross usurpation of Chalfont. I imagine Corinne Coreille will be the guest from hell… It will be like having Norma Desmond, Dorian Gray and the Phoenix bird rolled in one staying.’
‘Is that supposed to be clever? And must you eat all the cake?’ She regarded him balefully. ‘I don’t think there’ll be any left for Jonson.’
‘There’s a whole Madeira cake in the pantry.’
‘We can’t have a new one cut just for Jonson.’
‘Just for Jonson! Really, darling,’ Peverel said. ‘Listening to you, one might think you were some suburban housewife and not the relict of the tenth Baron Grylls.’
Lady Grylls said that sometimes she wished she were a suburban housewife. Life would have been so much easier. For one thing she wouldn’t have had an eccentric super-rich chanteuse for a god-daughter who’d want to hide in her house. ‘Do you know, Antonia, I am fed up with this whole business before it’s even started. Do tell me that I am being selfish. Do tell me.’
‘In the circumstances I’d feel pretty much the same myself. I’d be absolutely terrified. But then,’ Antonia smiled, ‘I’ve been a suburban housewife for quite a while.’
‘Just for Jonson,’ Major Payne murmured. ‘Sounds like the title of a ’30s musical comedy.’
Lady Grylls slumped down in an armchair, making it creak. She took the last cigarette from the pack. ‘Age asks ease, as the poet put it. I don’t feel like seeing anyone. What I’d like to do is put my feet up, ask Provost to mix me a gin-and-tonic and watch the box. I hope I won’t have to miss East Enders again. What happened last night?’ She shook her head. ‘Neither of you watches it, I keep forgetting. I don’t suppose Jonson watches it either. Private detectives are always busy following clues.’
‘Is Jonson a private detective? You can’t be serious.’ Peverel picked up a napkin and wiped his fingers. ‘Well, I hope he manages to rumble the author of the death threats before he carries them out.’
‘It may be a she,’ Antonia said, casting a covert glance at Lady Grylls and hating herself for it.
Peverel halted by the door. ‘Indeed it may… I don’t know why, but I have always had a weakness for the least likely suspect idea. Who is the least likely suspect in this affair? Do we know?’
‘We do… You,’ said Lady Grylls promptly. ‘The fact that you are going away just when the detective is about to appear and you don’t want to meet Corinne is damned suspicious.’
‘I am taking the Gothic prayer stool with me to London. You said I could, didn’t you, darling? The one with the unicorns?’
‘I did say you could, but I’ve changed my mind,’ Lady Grylls said. ‘You can’t take it with you. I need it here.’
‘Now be reasonable,’ Peverel drawled. ‘What do you need it for? It’s not as though you pray.’