She reached the station and bought a ticket from the man in the kiosk. Already a thought was taking shape in her mind. Joy was a modest girl. She had been brought up in a very close and (despite her father’s politics) conservative family. The step that she was now considering shocked her but she could see no other way. She had to protect Robert. She had to protect their life together. Nothing was more important than that.
Before the tube train had arrived she knew exactly what she was going to do.
4
In a restaurant on the other side of London, Frances Pye cast a careless eye over the menu and ordered grilled sardines, a salad, a glass of white wine. Carlotta’s was one of those Italian family restaurants behind Harrods: the manager was married to the chef and the waiters included a son and a nephew. The order was taken, the menus removed. She lit a cigarette and leant back in her chair.
‘You should leave him,’ her lunch companion said.
Jack Dartford, five years her junior, was a darkly handsome man with a moustache and an easy smile, dressed in a double-fronted blazer and cravat. He was looking at her with concern. From the moment they had met, he had noticed something strained about her. Even the way she was sitting now seemed nervous, defensive, one hand stroking the other arm. She had not taken off her sunglasses. He wondered if she had a black eye.
‘He’d kill me,’ she replied. She smiled curiously. ‘Actually, he did try to kill me in a way – after our last row.’
‘You’re not serious!’
‘Don’t worry, Jack. He didn’t hurt me. It was all bluster. He knows something’s up. All those telephone calls, days off in London, the letters … I told you not to write to me.’
‘Does he read them?’
‘No. But he’s not stupid. And he talks to the postman. Every time I’ve received a handwritten letter from London, he’s probably heard about it. Anyway, it all came to the fore over dinner last night. He more or less accused me of seeing someone else.’
‘You didn’t tell him about me!’
‘Afraid he’ll come after you with a horsewhip? I wouldn’t put it past him. But no, Jack, I didn’t tell him about you.’
‘Did he hurt you?’
‘No.’ She took off her sunglasses. She looked tired but there were no bruises around her eyes. ‘It was just unpleasant. It’s always unpleasant where Magnus is concerned.’
‘Why won’t you leave him?’
‘Because I have no money. You have to understand that Magnus has a vindictive streak the size of the Panama Canal. If I tried to walk out on him, he’d surround himself with lawyers. He’d make sure that I left Pye Hall with nothing more than the clothes I was wearing.’
‘I have money.’
‘I don’t think so, darling. Certainly not enough.’
It was true. Dartford worked in the money market, which in the true sense wasn’t really work at all. He dabbled. He made investments. But recently he’d had an unlucky streak and he very much hoped that Frances Pye had no idea how close he was to rock bottom. He couldn’t afford to marry her. He couldn’t afford to run away with her. The way things were going, he could barely afford lunch.
‘How was the South of France?’ he asked, changing the subject. That was where they had met, playing tennis together.
‘It was boring. I’d have much preferred it if you’d been there.’
‘I’m sure. Did you get in any tennis?’
‘Not really. To be honest, I was quite glad to leave. We got a letter in the middle of the week. A woman at Pye Hall had tripped on a wire, fallen down the stairs and broken her neck.’
‘My God! Was Freddy there?’
‘No. He was staying with friends down in Hastings. He’s still there, as a matter of fact. He doesn’t seem to want to come home.’
‘I don’t blame him. So who was she?’
‘The housekeeper. A woman called Mary Blakiston. She’d been with us for years and she’s going to be almost impossible to replace. And that wasn’t the end of it. When we finally got back last Saturday we discovered we’d been burgled.’
‘No!’
‘I’m telling you. It was the groundsman’s fault – at least, that’s what the police think. He’d smashed a pane of glass at the back of the house. He had to do it, to let the doctor in.’
‘Why did you need a doctor?’
‘Pay attention, Jack. It was for the dead woman. Brent, the groundsman, had seen her through the window, just lying there. He called the doctor and the two of them broke into the house to see if they could help. Well, obviously there wasn’t anything they could do. But after that, he just left the door with its broken pane. He didn’t even bother to get it boarded up. It was an open invitation to burglars and the burglars accepted it, thank you very much.’
‘Did you lose very much?’
‘Not personally, no. Magnus keeps most of his valuables in a safe and they couldn’t open that. But they marauded through the place. Did quite a bit of damage. Pulled open drawers and scattered the contents – that sort of thing. It took all of Sunday and yesterday to clear it up.’ She reached out with the cigarette and Dartford slid an ashtray in front of her. ‘I’d left some jewellery beside the bed and I lost that. It makes you feel uneasy, thinking you’ve had strangers in the bedroom.’
‘I’ll say.’
‘And Magnus lost his precious treasure trove. He wasn’t at all happy about that.’
‘What treasure was that?’
‘It’s Roman, mainly silver. It’s been in the family for generations, ever since they dug it up on their land. It came from some sort of burial site. There were rings, armlets, some decorative boxes, coins. We had it in a display case in the dining room. Of course, he’d never had it insured even though it was meant to be worth a fortune. Well, it’s a bit late now …’
‘Were the police helpful?’
‘Of course not. We had some chap come over from Bath. He sniffed around, wasted a lot of fingerprint powder, asked impertinent questions and then disappeared. Completely useless.’
The waiter arrived with the glass of wine. Dartford had been drinking Campari and soda. He ordered another. ‘It’s a shame it wasn’t Magnus,’ he remarked, once the waiter had gone.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The lady who fell down the stairs. It’s a shame it wasn’t him.’
‘That’s a dreadful thing to say.’
‘I’m only saying what you’re thinking, darling. I know you well enough. I assume you’d inherit the whole caboodle if Magnus popped his clogs.’
Frances blew out cigarette smoke and looked curiously at her companion. ‘As a matter of fact, the house and the grounds would all go to Freddy. There’s some sort of entail on the estate. It’s been that way for generations.’
‘But you’d be all right.’
‘Oh yes. And of course, I’d get a lifetime interest in Pye Hall. The only thing I couldn’t do is sell the place. But it’s not going to happen. Magnus is in perfect health, certainly for his age.’
‘Yes, Frances. But a big house like that. A wire stretched out across the stairs. You never know what might happen. Maybe those burglars of yours could return and finish him off.’
‘You’re not serious!’
‘It’s just a thought.’
Frances Pye fell silent. This wasn’t the sort of conversation to be having, particularly in a crowded restaurant. But she had to admit that Jack was right. Life without Magnus would be considerably simpler and a great deal more enjoyable. It was just a shame that lightning didn’t have the habit of striking twice.
On the other hand, though, why not?
5
Dr Emilia Redwing tried to see her father once a week although it wasn’t always possible. If the surgery were busy, if she had home or hospital calls to make, if there was too much paperwork on her d
esk, then she would be forced to put it off. Somehow, it was always easy to make an excuse. There was always a good reason not to go.
She derived very little pleasure from the visits. Dr Edgar Rennard had been eighty years old when his wife had died and although he had continued living in his home in nearby King’s Abbott, he had never really been the same. Emilia had soon got used to the telephone calls from the neighbours. He had been found wandering in the street. He wasn’t feeding himself properly. He was confused. At first, she had tried to persuade herself that he was simply suffering from chronic grief and loneliness but as the symptoms had presented themselves, she had been forced to make the obvious diagnosis. Her father had senile dementia. He wasn’t going to get any better. In fact the prognosis was a great deal worse. She had briefly considered taking him in with her at Saxby-on-Avon but that wouldn’t have been fair to Arthur and anyway she couldn’t possibly become an old man’s full-time carer. She still remembered the guilt, the sense of failure, that she had felt the first time she had taken him to Ashton House, a residential home converted from a hospital in the Bath valley just after the war. Curiously though, it had been easier to persuade her father than it had been to persuade herself.
This wasn’t a good day to have made the fifteen-minute drive to Bath. Joy Sanderling was in London, seeing someone on what she had described as a personal matter. Mary Blakiston’s funeral had taken place just five days ago and there was a sense of disquiet in the village that was hard to define but which, she knew from experience, might well lead to further calls on her time. Unhappiness had a way of affecting people in just the same way as the flu and even the burglary at Pye Hall struck her as being part of that general infection. But she couldn’t put off the visit any longer. On Tuesday, Edgar Rennard had taken a tumble. He had been seen by a local doctor and she had been assured that there was no serious damage. Even so, he was asking for her. He was off his food. The matron at Ashton House had telephoned her and asked her to come.
She was with him now. They had got him out of bed but only as far as the chair beside the window and he was sitting there in his dressing gown, so thin and crumpled that Emilia almost wanted to cry. He had always been strong, robust. As a little girl, she had thought the entire world rested on his shoulders. Today it had taken him five minutes before he had even recognised her. She had seen this creeping up on them. It wasn’t so much that her father was dying. It was more that he had lost the desire to live.
‘I have to tell her …’ he said. His voice was husky. His lips had difficulty shaping the words. He had said this twice before but he still hadn’t made himself understood.
‘Who are you talking about, Papa? What is it you have to tell?’
‘She has to know what happened … what I did.’
‘What do you mean? What are you talking about? Is this something to do with Mama?’
‘Where is she? Where is your mother?’
‘She’s not here.’ Emilia was annoyed with herself. She should never have mentioned her mother. It would only confuse the old man. ‘What do you want to tell me, Daddy?’ she said, more gently.
‘It’s important. I don’t have very long.’
‘That’s nonsense. You’re going to be fine. You just have to try and eat something. I could ask the matron for a sandwich, if you like. I can stay here with you while you have it.’
‘Magnus Pye …’
How extraordinary that he should have spoken that name. Of course he would have known Sir Magnus when he worked at Saxby-on-Avon. He would have treated the whole family. But why mention him now? Was Sir Magnus in some way connected with what had happened, whatever it was that her father wanted to explain? The trouble with dementia was that, as well as leaving huge gaps in the memory, it also jumbled things together. He might be thinking of something that had happened five years ago or five days ago. To him, they were the same.
‘What about Sir Magnus?’ she asked.
‘Who?’
‘Sir Magnus Pye. You mentioned him. There was something you wanted to tell me.’
But the vacant stare was back in his eyes. He had retreated into whatever world it was that he inhabited. Dr Emilia Redwing stayed with him for another twenty minutes but he barely noticed she was there. After that, she exchanged a few words with the matron and left.
She drove home with a nagging sense of worry but by the time she had parked the car, she had put her father out of her mind. Arthur had said that he would cook the supper that night. The two of them would probably watch Life With the Lyons on television and go to bed early. Dr Redwing had already seen the surgery appointments list for the following day and knew that she was going to be busy.
She opened the door and smelled burning. For a moment she was concerned but there was no smoke and the smell was somehow distant, more a memory of a fire than an actual one. She went into the kitchen and found Arthur sitting at the table – slumped there, actually – drinking whisky. He hadn’t even begun to cook the dinner and she knew at once that something was wrong. Arthur did not deal well with disappointment. Without meaning to, he somehow celebrated it. So what had happened? Dr Redwing looked past him and saw a painting, leaning against the wall, the wooden frame charred, the canvas largely eaten away. It was a portrait of a woman. He had clearly painted it – she recognised his style immediately – but it took her a moment or two longer to realise who it was.
‘Lady Pye,’ he muttered, answering her question before she had time to ask it.
‘What’s happened? Where did you find it?’
‘It was on a bonfire near the rose garden … at Pye Hall.’
‘What were you doing there?’
‘I was just walking. I cut through Dingle Dell and there was no one around so I thought I’d stroll through the gardens down to the main road. I don’t know what drew me to it. Maybe it was meant to be.’ He drank some more. He wasn’t drunk. He was using the whisky as a sort of prop. ‘Brent wasn’t around. There was no sign of anyone. Just the bloody painting thrown out with the rest of the trash.’
‘Arthur …’
‘Well, it’s their property. They paid for it. I suppose they can do with it as they want.’
Dr Redwing remembered. Sir Magnus had commissioned the portrait for his wife’s fortieth birthday and she had been grateful at the time, even when she discovered how little Sir Magnus intended to pay. It was a commission. It meant so much to Arthur’s self-esteem and he had set about the work with enthusiasm. He had painted Frances Pye over three sittings in the garden – with Dingle Dell in the background. He hadn’t been given nearly enough time and to begin with Lady Pye had been a reluctant sitter. But even she had been impressed by the result; a portrait that brought out everything that was good in her and which showed her relaxed, half-smiling, in command. Arthur had been quietly satisfied with the result and at the time so had Sir Magnus, hanging it prominently in his great hall.
‘It must be a mistake,’ she said. ‘Why would they want to throw it out?’
‘They were burning it,’ Arthur replied, heavily. He gestured vaguely at the canvas. ‘He seems to have cut it to pieces first.’
‘Can you save it? Is there anything you can do with it?’
She knew the answer. The woman’s imperious eyes had survived; the dark, sweeping hair, part of one shoulder. But most of the painting was blackened. The canvas had been slashed and burned. She didn’t even want it in the house.
‘I’m sorry,’ Arthur said. ‘I haven’t done the supper.’
He emptied his glass and walked out of the room.
6
‘Have you seen this?’
Robin Osborne was reading a copy of the Bath Weekly Chronicle and Henrietta had never seen him look so angry. There really was something quite Old Testament about him, she thought, with his black hair falling to the collar, his white face, his bright, angry eyes. Moses would have looke
d much the same with the golden calf. Or Joshua storming the walls of Jericho. ‘They’re going to cut down Dingle Dell!’
‘What are you talking about?’ Henrietta had made two cups of tea. She put them down and moved further into the room.
‘Sir Magnus Pye has sold it for development. They’re going to build a new road and eight new houses.’
‘Where?’
‘Right here!’ The vicar gestured at the window. ‘Right at the bottom of our garden! That’s going to be our view from now on – a row of modern houses! He won’t see them, of course. He’ll be on the other side of the lake and I’m sure he’ll leave enough trees to form a screen. But you and me …’
‘He can’t do it, can he?’ Henrietta went round so that she could read the headline. NEW HOMES FOR SAXBY-ON-AVON. It seemed to be a remarkably up-beat interpretation of such an act of vandalism. Her husband’s hands were visibly shaking as he held the paper. ‘The land’s protected!’ she went on.
‘It doesn’t matter if it’s protected or not. It seems he’s got permission. The same thing’s been going on all over the country. It says here that work will begin before the end of the summer. That means next month or the month after. And there’s nothing we can do.’
‘We can write to the bishop.’
‘The bishop won’t help. Nobody will.’
‘We can try.’
‘No, Henrietta. It’s too late.’
Later that evening, as they stood together preparing the supper, he was still upset.
‘This dreadful, dreadful man. He sits there, in that big house of his, looking down at the rest of us – and it wasn’t even as if he did anything to deserve it. He just inherited it from his father and his father before him. This is 1955, for heaven’s sake. Not the Middle Ages! Of course, it doesn’t help having the bloody Tories still in power but you’d have thought we’d have moved away from the days when people were given wealth and power simply because of an accident of birth.
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