‘As you wish, sir. I’ll go down and tell Cook that we shall be four for dinner.’
‘Four? Why, who else is coming?’
‘I received a telephone call earlier this afternoon, sir, from Miss Hilary. She’s flying up this evening, it seems, and she also intends to bring a …’ (clearing his throat once again, and licking the cracked corners of his mouth) ‘… companion.’
‘I see.’ Roddy seemed none too pleased with this information. ‘Well in that case surely we shall be five for dinner? I assume my father will be eating with us.’
‘I’m afraid not, sir. Your father suffered a slight misfortune this afternoon, and has already retired. The doctor has advised him not to exert himself any further today.’
‘Misfortune? What sort of misfortune?’
‘A most regrettable accident, sir. My fault entirely. I was taking him out for his afternoon constitutional, when I – most carelessly – lost control of his chair, and sent it hurtling down a slope, where it crashed. Crashed into the hen coop.’
‘My God – was there … was there any injury?’
‘A chicken was decapitated, sir.’
Roddy eyed him narrowly, as if trying to decide whether this was a joke. ‘All right, Pyles,’ he said at last. ‘I’m sure Miss Barton would like to freshen up after her journey. You may tell Cook that we shall be four for dinner.’
‘Very good, sir,’ he said, shambling towards the door.
‘What are we having, anyway?’
‘Chicken,’ said Pyles, without turning round.
Phoebe and Roddy were alone again. There was a difficult pause, and then Roddy said, with an awkward laugh: ‘He should really be put out to grass. Mind you, I don’t know who else they could find to look after a place like this.’
‘Should I go and see your father, do you think? There might be something I could do.’
‘No, no, the doctor will have seen to all that. Best not to get involved.’
‘Your butler seems to have a dreadful limp.’
‘Yes, poor soul.’ He got up from the bed and began to pace the room aimlessly. ‘That goes back about ten or fifteen years, when my uncle, Lawrence, still lived here. They were having a lot of trouble with poachers at the time and some man traps were put down. Seems that old Pyles got caught in one – late in the evening, as I understand it. Poor devil, they didn’t find him till the morning. The pain must have been shocking. That’s when he turned to drink, apparently. They even say that it … you know, turned his head a bit. Made him a bit strange – mentally, I mean.’
Phoebe said nothing.
‘Well, I did warn you what this place was like.’
‘Am I expected to dress for dinner?’ she asked.
‘Good Lord, no. Not on my account: and certainly not on account of my dear sister and her so-called companion. Which reminds me, I’d better go down and put the landing lights on for them. Pyles is bound to forget. Why don’t I come back up for you in about ten minutes or so, and we could perhaps do a quick guided tour before it gets dark?’
‘What about your father?’
Roddy’s smile was a perfect blank.
‘What about him?’
∗
It was dusk. Roddy and Phoebe stood on the terrace overlooking Cavendish Tarn, drinking a Château-Lafite 1970, newly brought up from the cellar. They had been on a cursory tour of the house, during which Roddy had proved himself wearily knowledgeable on the subject of Ionic columns and basket arches, and Phoebe had done her dutiful best to admire the brick diapers and the flush quoins and the close carving on the spandrels. Now it appeared that Roddy had other things on his mind. While Phoebe stared out at the two parallel rows of landing lights which stretched across the lake and seemed to converge only at its furthest shore, Roddy’s eyes were turned intently on her profile. She knew that he was about to say something unwelcome, and steeled herself for it.
‘You’re very beautiful,’ he said at last.
‘I don’t really see,’ she answered – slowly, and not without a smile – ‘what that’s got to do with anything.’
‘It’s why you’re here, and we both know it,’ said Roddy. He shifted a few inches closer. ‘There’s a cousin of mine called Thomas. A fair bit older than me – getting on for seventy, now, I should think. He’s quite big in the city. When he was younger – back in the late fifties, early sixties – he lent money to some film companies and got to know a few people in the business. Used to hang around the studios, and so on.’
‘Is there a point to all this?’
‘Hang on, I’m just coming to it. You see, I was only about eight or nine at the time, and Thomas – well, Thomas was, you know … a bit of a lad. A bit of an old rake. He used to bring me these photographs.’
‘Photographs?’
‘Pretty run of the mill stuff, most of them. Scenes from nudist films that he’d been involved with, that sort of thing. But there was one photograph – just an ordinary portrait shot, head and shoulders – of an actress: she was called Shirley Eaton. And I was really smitten with it for a while. Used to sleep with it under my pillow, if you can believe that. Of course, I was very young. But the funny thing is –’
‘– that I look exactly like her?’
‘Well, you do, actually.’ He frowned. ‘Why, has somebody told you that before?’
‘No, but I could see it coming. And now I’m to have the honour of helping you to live out your childhood fantasies, I suppose.’ Roddy didn’t answer that, and she continued to stare ahead, relishing the silence, until she noticed a red light winking in the night sky. ‘Look, there’s something up there.’
‘Sister dearest, I expect.’ He left his wineglass on the balustrade, and said: ‘Come on, let’s get down to the jetty and give her a proper welcome.’
The descent to the lake involved crossing three more lawns – all of them thick with wild, unkempt grass – linked steeply by walkways which had to be negotiated with care, for many of the slabs were loose, or concealed cracks which were big enough to trap the unwary foot. Finally, a set of rotting wooden steps led down to the water itself. They arrived just in time to see the plane skim down on to the tarn’s moonlit surface, and then taxi towards them, sending out shockwaves of foam as it came to a graceful if noisy halt at the edge of the jetty. Seconds later a door opened and the ash-blonde tresses of Britain’s most highly paid columnist popped into view.
‘Roddy?’ she said, peering out into the semi-dark. ‘You couldn’t be a love and take this case for me, could you?’
She handed him her case and squeezed herself through the doorway, to be followed by a square-shouldered, chisel-jawed, very bronzed and muscular figure who leapt out behind her and swung the door shut in one lithe, athletic movement.
‘Have you met Conrad, my pilot?’
‘A pleasure,’ said Roddy, shaking his hand and almost getting his fingers broken in the process.
‘And I don’t believe …’ Hilary prompted, having glimpsed Phoebe lurking in the shadows.
‘Phoebe Barton,’ said Roddy, as she stepped forward shyly. ‘Phoebe is my guest this weekend. She’s a most gifted young painter.’
‘Of course.’ Hilary appraised her coolly. ‘They always are. Is this your first time at the house of horrors, my dear?’
Phoebe had the sense that a clever answer was expected of her; but all she could manage was: ‘Yes.’
‘In that case, welcome,’ said Hilary, leading the way up the steps, ‘to Baskerville Hall. Come on, everybody, I’m famished. We had the most loathsome flight.’
3
The dining table could comfortably have seated twenty. The four of them huddled together at one end, and beneath the arches of that cavernous, overblown chamber, their voices sounded puny and faint. Not that Phoebe and Conrad had much to say in any case: for the first twenty minutes or so, brother and sister conducted an exclusive and (despite all the disparaging remarks Roddy had been making about Hilary before her arrival) affectionate conversation which consisted entirely of salacious gossip about mutual friends. Phoebe occasionally read the review pages of the national papers and watched arts programmes on the television, so she recognized most of the names as belonging to that small, self-elected and mutually supporting circle which seemed – for better or worse – to be at the heart of what passed for cultural life down in London. What she couldn’t quite understand was the odd, persistent note of reverence which underpinned even the sleaziest or most trivial of the anecdotes: the sense that Roddy and Hilary did, in fact, ascribe real importance to everything said and done by these people; that they did believe them, at heart, to be something like colossi bestriding the national stage, even though Phoebe could easily have gone through the entire roster of her friends, colleagues, neighbours and patients and not found a single person in whom their names would have produced even the dimmest flicker of recognition. None the less, the flow of private jokes and inside stories showed no sign of abating until Roddy moved things on to an altogether more personal level, by asking after the health of his brother-in-law.