For the first time in that long and painful day, there was a glint of tears in Jessica’s eyes. She took the small gold heart from Maud and impulsively threw her arms around her and kissed her on the cheek.
“Couldn’t you and Uncle Eric stay here a while with me at Easter Hill?”
“What a very sweet child you are.” Maud smiled mistily at Eric and Angus Ryan and touched a handkerchief to the corner of her eye.
Christ, it would soon be slopping over at this rate, Eric thought. Trust Maud for the maudlin... At least she hadn’t forgot to remove the price tag from the locket, which they’d bought in a Philadelphia pawn shop on their way to the airport.
In the following few days, the Griffiths settled easily into the unhurried existence at Easter Hill, with breakfast trays in the morning, luncheons on the terrace overlooking Capability Brown’s gardens, and dinners at night in the large dining room with its inlaid ceiling of harps and shamrocks and — a deference to older customs — the small choir-loft, which, Jessica had explained to them, was used only for holiday programs and pantomimes.
Eric kept a tight rein on his drinking. It required discipline to listen with attention, to stroll as a guest through rooms and gardens, which he was convinced, if there were any justice at all, belonged just as much to him as they did to his preposterously lucky little niece.
The complexity of the plans were a healthy therapy against his resentments, however, and he spent the first few days at Easter Hill unobtrusively photographing furniture and objects of art in the gardens and in the rooms of the house he had access to — the great hall, the library, the drawing room, and various of the upstairs suites.
For the benefit of the staff, he played the part of the amiable American tourist and uncle, compiling a family album, taking many shots of Jessica walking in the orchards and gardens or posed in front of statues and highboys. And late in the evening, using a night-time lens and flash, he compiled a pictorial record of French chairs and sofas, a Louis XV Bombay commode, an Ormolu-mounted tulip-wood bureau, a Henri II desk chair, a choice collection of Chinese porcelain figurines, Directoire settees, antique Aubusson tapestries and Chinese rugs, many small bronzes, animals studded with precious stones and, in the formal fruit arbor, a pair of garden seats enameled with peacocks and flowers and, at the fountain, a reclining horse in bisque-fired clay and a pair of brass and ivory dolphins.
When the list was as complete as he could make it without arousing the suspicions of the maids or old Flynn, Eric excused himself on a fine, clear morning and drove into the village of Ballytone.
Lunching at the Hannibal Arms, he struck up an acquaintance with two American tourists. One of them had the ridged forehead of a prize fighter, and the other, dark-haired and swarthy, wore several bright rings on his fingers. Both men wore sport shirts and sunglasses and carried cameras. The new acquaintances stood each other rounds of Guinness at the fireplace in front of a low table which was supported by a pair of thick and wrinkled elephant hooves two feet high and trimmed with brass.
After a discussion of prices in Ireland as opposed to New Jersey and the common afflictions created by jet lag, the man with the rings cleared his throat and looked at Eric.
“When do you see Ryan?” Tony Saxe asked him.
“At the end of the week. I have an appointment with him in Dublin.” Eric took several rolls of film from his pocket and placed them on the table. “I’d like you to get those developed for our next meeting, Benny. Also, you can make the reservation at the Dorchester in London for Maud and Princess Jessica...”
“The Dorchester!” Benny Stiff grinned at Tony Saxe. “In the old days, Tony, Maud could make do with a motel and a coffee machine on the Jersey Pike.”
Eric said pleasantly, “Benny, it’s that kind of birdbrain thinking that’s made you a loser all these years.”
“Now listen, Eric, don’t—”
“I’m not interested in your comments,” Eric looked evenly from Benny Stiff to Tony Saxe. “I don’t intend to economize on accommodations for Jessica Mallory in London or for my wife, Maud, the child’s only living aunt. Have you both got that straight?”
“Well, sure, Eric,” Tony Saxe said, shrugging and glancing at Benny who nodded and looked impassively at the backs of his powerful hands.
There had been a subtle change in the relationship of these three men since they had learned what Eric had done on that sunny morning in Chester County, the small, blue car smashed and broken at the bottom of a mica pit, the rose-hip jelly blending with the blood on the windshield.
It had been the kind of absolute gesture they had not truly believed Eric was capable of. But, as was always the case in such surrenders of control or innocence, there was forever-after the ominous and constant implication that such surrenders would only be easier the next time... And it was this awareness that was evident now in Stiff’s and Saxe’s reluctant acceptance of Eric’s authority.
“Well, all Benny meant,” Tony Saxe said, “was that we should take it a little easy on the bankroll. But you’re right, we can’t be chintzy with the kid and Maud.”
“Not to worry,” Eric said, and for the benefit of the publican, Tige Wicks, he said with a wide smile, “Always good to run into one’s countrymen like this. Here, Mr. Saxe, take my number. Perhaps you’d care to come up to the house for cocktails one night.”
The following morning Eric asked Jessica to show him some of her favorite views, and while they were walking the horses in the meadows below Skyhead, Eric introduced phase three of his plan.
“Jessica, I wonder if you could do me a small but special favor...”
“What is it, Uncle Eric?”
“It’s your aunt. That is to say, it is something you can do for her. She’s been more than a bit depressed by the circumstances here. She was just a young girl herself when her own parents died.”
“She didn’t say anything about that to me...”
Eric nodded gravely, “Of course she wouldn’t, Jessica. That’s like Maud. But she needs a change; a week or two in London would be ideal. The trouble is, I can’t get away from here. There’s a Mr. Saxe, a business associate of mine from America, who’s turned up unexpectedly. And I’ve promised to help him with some breeding stock up north.”
“Would she mind awfully going alone, Uncle Eric?”
“I’m afraid she would, dear. She needs a companion. You have probably noticed, Auntie Maud is not too strong.”
“And is that the favor, Uncle Eric?” Jessica waited quietly, watching her uncle’s face thoughtfully.
“Yes. I think it would be a fine trip for both of you. But there’s just one more thing.” Eric regarded the young girl with one of his quizzical smiles, the kind that older women so many years ago had savored as ‘boyish.’ “Knowing Maud, she would be reluctant to ask you herself, Jessica. She’s quite shy and formal in some ways. So I wonder if we could just pretend it was all your idea?”
Eric sighed and raised his eyes to the towering peaks of Skyhead. The faint, salty breezes stirred his fine hair. “How proud my sister would have been of her little girl,” Eric said, the words soft and muted by the winds from the sea.
Chapter Eighteen
Angus Ryan’s offices were on the second floor of a Georgian building, whose narrow windows faced the Liffey and the central streets of Dublin.
The reception rooms were done in brown leather and honest oak, pictures of race meets and the Dublin dog show brightening the panelled walls. The offices of the senior partners, Angus Ryan and the late Dermod Maloney, had been done less somberly and more functionally — refectory tables in place of desks, built-in filing cabinets, and silver tea sets. This had been the original scheme, but since his death some years before, the quarters of Dermod Maloney had been converted into book-lined rooms to house the firm’s legal library.