“There are steps going down to the sea. Right down there, see?”
Melrose turned away from the stark display, which had suited his mood far more than the voice of Esther Laburnum. “Yes, I saw them.”
“You have to be careful on them. The rocks are slippery.”
“I hadn’t intended to go down there.” He picked up a thin stone and pitched it over, as people will do when they come upon water. He wondered why and picked up another.
“They must have slipped; that’s what I heard.”
His pitching arm froze and he looked at her. “Who slipped?”
“Didn’t I tell you? The children. They found them down there.” She sighed. “Isn’t it terrible? Can you imagine such a thing?”
“I cannot. No.” He stood on the edge of the cliff and tried to. He tried to fathom the grief of the mother and father. Having no children, he found it difficult; still, he could imagine himself receiving such news about a friend-say Vivian, say Richard Jury-and imagine trying to live in a world where they no longer were. Even though all of this was indeed his imagining, he was surprised that the sense of loss could cause him pain. But it did. “How old were they when this happened?”
“I’m not sure.”
Nor did she seem moved to guess. Esther Laburnum, who at the beginning of their voyage round this house had been talkative enough to be annoying, seemed to have decided to clam up completely. Melrose sighed. That was always the way of it: people holding forth until you could have swooned in boredom and then stitching their lips shut when it came to something so fascinating it could hold a deaf man in thrall. Well, perhaps she thought the tragic accidents would jeopardize a sale. Or perhaps her silence was owing to her growing desire to leave and show others round other properties.
“Was that why the owners left?”
“It might have been.”
Blood out of a stone. Melrose wanted to shake her. “How long has the house been empty?”
“Four years, about.” She had her day-planner open, consulting something. “No, I’m wrong. There was somebody rented the place about two years ago. Decorators, they called themselves.”
Esther Laburnum sniffed and Melrose smiled and turned his attention back to the sea. Standing there, looking down, he could have slipped into a fugue state. It was too much, wasn’t it? The house, the sea, the rocks, the stairs, the boy, the girl. Too much. He disliked the thought, but he couldn’t help it: The place was irresistible. Had he not been set on taking it, at least renting it, the story of the family would have hooked him for certain. He looked back at the house again, gray and windswept, and thought he’d been right before: It was like a film set. The girl in the white dress could come rushing out across the grass straight to the cliff’s edge. Ah, it was all too movie perfect.
They stood, staring down at the rocks. Or at least he stared; a glance in the agent’s direction showed him she was looking at her watch. There was always a clock or a watch. Melrose wanted to see the inside again, the photographs, the portraits. He suggested they return to the house.
As if on cue, the sky darkened; the rain, which had stopped, now began to drizzle. Given the house, Melrose wondered if it should be seen in any weather but wind and rain.
“Melrose!”
If anyone could drag one from the haunts of memory and romance, it was that voice. He turned to see Agatha timorously making her way toward him. He had better get away from the cliff’s edge before she got any closer. But she had stopped; he, naturally, was to breech the gap; she would walk no farther; if he wanted to speak to her, he must take the lead. Well, of course, he didn’t want to speak to her, but he moved forward in spite of that, being a gentleman.
“Melrose!” she called again, as if they were on opposite ends of King’s Cross Station.
The car she had come in was Cornwall Cabs, driven-much to his surprise-by the same lad who had served them in the tearoom. Melrose wondered how many times the boy changed hats in a day. Right now the one he wore was a cap pushed back slightly at a jaunty angle. He was leaning against the car, and when he looked at Melrose, he smiled ruefully and gave a dramatic shrug. What could I do, mate?
Agatha demanded, “Melrose, what on earth do you think you’re doing?”
He didn’t bother asking how she knew he was here. All roads led to Rome except for hers, which led to Melrose. Maybe she’d planted some sort of electronic bug on him so she could track his movements. Melrose introduced Agatha to Esther Laburnum, who was put to the task of answering Agatha’s questions. The agent told Melrose she had an appointment in Bletchley and had to leave. She handed over one of her cards. Then the two women, of nearly the same age, moved down the gravel, talking all the while.
It surprised Melrose that she’d leave without securing his signature on a lease or other document, given his clear interest in the place.
Agatha turned and started back to where Melrose stood with her driver. The lad stood up straight and pulled his cap down, snapped it down, really, in the manner of a chauffeur presenting himself to his employer.
“You pop up everywhere.” Melrose smiled at the boy. “Your finding me was, I take it, part of your act?”
The lad opened his mouth to answer, but Agatha did it for him. “What are you talking about? I told him you’d driven off with someone in a car belonging to an estate agency-who else would be driving people around in a Jaguar but an estate agent? I stopped in at the agency and asked where their agent-Esther there-was headed.”
“I see,” said Melrose. “It was part of your act. Richard Jury could use a good profiler.”
“What is this place? Why are you here?”
He let her question rest on bated breath as he manufactured an answer. He said, “It’s a family seat, Agatha. Haven’t I ever mentioned it? Pure chance led me to it.”
“Fate, like.”
Melrose looked at the driver in surprise.
Agatha said, “Family seat? What family? Whose family?”
“Mine, obviously. It’s a branch Uncle Robert probably declined to mention, given we were never proud of the Ushers.” Melrose dug his hands into his trouser pockets and gazed back, over his shoulder, at the great gray pile of stone. “Imagine my surprise to see the place was up for sale.”
Agatha twitched her light coat farther up on her shoulders. “You’re making it up. Well, you can stay for all I care. Esther has offered to drive me back to Bletchley.”
A first-name basis already. That was quick, even for Agatha.
Forgetting the lad who’d driven her here (probably assuming Melrose would pay for her ride), she turned and walked toward the agent’s car.
“Apparently,” said Melrose, “we’re exchanging rides.”
The boy smiled broadly. “Okay with me.”
“I don’t know your name. Mine’s Melrose Plant.”
The boy put out his hand. “Johnny Wells. Are you ready to leave?”
As the Jaguar shot down the drive, Esther Laburnum put her arm out of the driver’s side window and waved to Melrose, who waved back. Agatha, naturally, made no sign.
“I’d like to have another quick look round, unaccompanied.”
Johnny smiled. “Can’t say as I blame you. Take your time.”
“And I’ll certainly pay you for yours.”
“It’s okay. I’ll sit in the car and read. Never seem to get enough reading time.”
Melrose walked back up the steps prepared to savor the house. He had not seen the kitchen, so he walked to the rear, through a butler’s pantry, with wine racks still stocked with Madeira and port. The kitchen was very large, very gloomy, and yet very habitable. Like the rest of the house, it bore signs of recent habitation. Cooking utensils lay on the island in the center of the room and a large pot sat on the stove.