Hannah smiled. ‘You don’t have to sell it to me, Monica, I’ll be there.’
‘Good. Admission by ticket only, don’t forget. There’ll be someone on the door to keep out gatecrashers.’
‘A pity burglars can’t be kept out as easily,’ Hannah commented, glancing at Lady Ursula across the room.
Monica sobered. ‘I know. There’s no more news, I suppose?’
‘Not that I’ve heard. I feel so sorry for them.’
‘For whom, my dear?’ Sir Clifford himself had come up behind her and slipped an arm round her waist.
‘You, actually!’ Hannah confessed with a smile. ‘We were talking about the robbery.’
‘Ah yes, an infernal business. I think we must accept we’ll never see our wine-taster again.’
‘And now this Victorian miniature has disappeared,’ George Latimer commented. ‘How much would it be worth, Sir Clifford?’
The older man shrugged. ‘A couple of thousand, I suppose. George Richmond is very collectable; he was portrait painter in miniature by Royal Appointment, and the work was signed. Furthermore, being a collector herself, Her Majesty didn’t often part with such gifts.’
‘Would the frame add to the value?’ Hannah asked. ‘I read it was studded with diamonds.’
‘Yes, though some were missing. Separately, portrait and frame would each be worth a couple of thousand, but at auction you wouldn’t be likely to get more than that in total.’
‘Well, let’s hope the police catch them soon,’ Charles observed, having joined the group in time to hear the last comments. ‘For once, I’m glad I haven’t a country seat!’
The evening followed its usual smooth pattern. Delicious food was laid out on the extended dining-table, wine was plentiful and of excellent quality. Sir Clifford made his usual brief speech, and was cheered roundly by his guests.
Before stepping down from his elevated position on the staircase, he added: ‘And on a business note, may I take the opportunity of apologising for my absence at the next meeting? I’m conducting a two-day course at Melbray, and though I’ll be back on the Wednesday, it won’t, I’m afraid, be in time to join you.’
‘Will you go with him, Lady Ursula?’ Beatrice Templeton inquired.
‘No, no. He’ll be away only the one night, and I shall be quite content here.’
‘You won’t feel — ?’ Beatrice’s question tailed off as she belatedly doubted the wisdom of it.
Lady Ursula smiled. ‘Nervous? No, my dear, I shan’t. For one thing, the servants will be in the house with me. Anyway, one presumes the thieves now have what they want from us. They haven’t been known to strike twice at the same address.’
*
People were starting to drift away, and Hannah nodded in answer to Charles’s silent query. Minutes later they were gliding back down Lethbridge Road towards the town.
‘Usual high standard,’ he commented.
‘Yes; they seem very philosophical about their loss.’
‘It’s the only way to be, isn’t it? I think it’s shaken them, though. Lady Ursula looks more frail than last time I saw her.’
Hannah was silent, unwilling to think how Sir Clifford would cope should anything happen to his beloved wife.
They were known to be devoted to each other, possibly the more so since they had no children with whom to share their love.
Reading her thoughts, Charles said, ‘It will be lonely for the old boy if she goes first. A man alone is a knotless thread, as I know to my cost.’
The hint of depression in his voice was so unusual that Hannah was taken by surprise. To dispel it, she said with a light laugh, ‘Anyone less “knotless” than you would be hard to find!’
‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ he said quietly, and she dared say no more. She knew he had been lonely since his wife’s death, knew too that he still hoped she would rescue him from that loneliness.
And she was fond of him, she thought sadly. He was charming, thoughtful, and very attractive with that lean, clever face and easy smile. She enjoyed his company and they had many of the same interests. Also, and importantly, he understood how much her career meant to her, and his active interest in the school would be a positive advantage.
And yet — and yet — he just wasn’t David Webb, she admitted ruefully. As things stood, she had both Charles’s friendship and her relationship with David, and she was selfish enough to want that arrangement to continue.
All the same, at the doorway of Beechcroft Mansions she didn’t turn away when Charles bent to kiss her. It was a good kiss, like Charles himself. Fond, hinting at hidden depths but making no demands. She withdrew before it could deepen.
‘Good night, Charles. And thank you.’
He smiled crookedly. ‘For what?’
‘For the lift,’ Hannah said smilingly, and let herself into the house.
4
Andrew was whistling as he collected his golf bag from under the stairs the next morning. Helen watched him with a dry mouth. The moment had come.
‘Have a good game,’ she said, and as he nodded absently, added, ‘I shan’t be here when you get back.’
‘Where are you off to?’
‘Steeple Bayliss.’
He turned, frowning. ‘To see Pen? You never mentioned it.’
‘I hope to see her, but I’m going to attend a two-week course on antiques.’
‘Two-week?’
‘As you reminded me, I need something to do; this is the first step towards starting work again. Also,’ she continued above his protest, ‘it will do us both good to have some time apart.’
He was suddenly still. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh Andrew, why not admit it? Things haven’t been right for a while. As long as the children were here we could disguise it, but not any longer.’
He said tightly, ‘I get it: this is all because I blasted you about that phone-call.’ His voice rose. ‘Good God, Helen —’
‘You see?’ she said quietly, lifting her hands.
‘See what?’
‘How it is between us. We can’t discuss the least thing without your flying off the handle.’
‘You regard this as “the least thing”, announcing you’re going away to consider the state of our marriage?’
‘I’m right, though, aren’t I?’
‘OK, so I have a short fuse, but you can be bloody infuriating, you know.’
‘I’m not saying it’s all your fault; we must both change if we want to go on living together.’
He digested that for a moment, then said more quietly, ‘I wish you had let me know how you were thinking.’
‘Would it have made any difference? Anyway, let’s use the time apart to see how we feel.’
‘You’ll come home the middle weekend?’
‘No, it’s part of the course.’
‘But you are intending to come back, in two weeks?’
‘Of course.’
‘Can I phone you?’
‘It would be better not to, and see how we get on. I’ve stacked the freezer with one-portion meals; all you need to do is put them in the microwave. You won’t starve.’
‘You’re not — going with anyone?’
‘No, all by myself.’
‘When did you decide on this?’
She hesitated. If she told the truth, it would reinforce his idea that it was tit-for-tat. ‘A day or two ago. Now, you’d better go — the others will be waiting.’
He eyed her doubtfully. ‘So I’ll see you — when?’
‘A week on Saturday.’
‘What shall I tell everyone?’
‘That I’m on a two-week course. What else?’
He nodded. ‘All right,’ he said, and added, ‘Enjoy yourself.’
Awkwardly, he bent and kissed her cheek. ‘Goodbye, then.’
‘Goodbye, Andrew.’
She remained where she was until the sound of his car faded into the distance. The die was cast, her bridges burned, the Rub
icon crossed, and all the other metaphors she could think of. She just prayed she was doing the right thing.
*
Before leaving home, Helen phoned Penelope, asked if she was free for lunch, and arranged to pick her up about twelve-thirty.
‘But why are you coming up?’ she demanded, and then, fearfully, ‘Nothing’s wrong, is it?’
‘Nothing’s wrong. I’ll explain when I see you.’ And Helen firmly put down the phone.
Thankfully, last night’s mists had cleared, and although the day was not bright, it was clear and dry. Her spirits began to rise. She had the course to look forward to, and it would be pleasant staying at the Seven Stars. The four owners interested her; she’d like to know them better.
By the time she drove on to the campus, she was feeling more cheerful than she had for months. Penelope was waiting outside the halls of residence, looking, Helen thought, the archetypal student, with her long hair and faded jeans. She scrambled into the car and leaned over for a kiss.
‘This is a surprise! What’s it all about?’
Helen reversed on the gravel and headed back down the drive. ‘I’ve enrolled in a course on antiques and it’s to be held at Melbray Court, just outside town.’
‘I know it, we went there for a jazz concert. But what brought this on?’
‘Well, I’ve been at a loose end since Past Times closed. I’d really like to go back to what I was doing before I married, but I’m pretty rusty and decided I needed a brush-up before applying anywhere. The course lasts for two weeks, so it should give me a good grounding.’
‘How did you hear about it?’
‘It was in the local paper the day I brought you back. Remember I told you I stayed over because of the fog? In fact, I’ve booked in at the same place again.’
‘Well, good for you. What did Dad say about it?’
‘He was rather taken aback,’ Helen said lightly, ‘but he knows I’ve been restless lately.’
‘So you’ve left him to fend for himself?’
‘If you can call it that, with a freezer full of cooked meals.’ Her daughter laughed. ‘Bet he’ll be glad to see you back, all the same.’
Helen wished she could be equally sure.
They lunched at a pleasant wine bar in the High Street and Penelope chatted happily about the first ten days of term and the girl who was sharing her room. Then, pushing back her plate, she said, ‘Now, tell me more about this course.’
Helen reached in her bag for the prospectus. ‘The first week covers furniture, works of art, ceramics and so on, and the second’s devoted to paintings. During the weekend, apparently, we visit a local country house. It should be fun.’
Penelope glanced at the sheet. ‘Sir Clifford Rudge, no less. Remember how, wherever we’d been, we always had to be back in time for his programme?’
Helen laughed. ‘The days before videos!’
Penelope handed back the brochure. ‘It looks as though you’ll be busy.’
‘But apart from Saturday, the evenings are free and so is the whole of Sunday. I thought we might have a meal or go to the cinema, if it wouldn’t interfere with your work?’
‘Great; I’ve no essay deadlines at the moment.’
‘Say one evening, whichever week suits you, and next Sunday? Decide what you’d like to do and let me know; you can reach me on this number after about six.’
Penelope nodded and slipped the note in her shoulder bag. ‘Have you heard from Thomas?’
‘The usual request for funds.’
‘Already? I don’t know what he does with it,’ said the thrifty Pen smugly.
‘Tries to impress his girlfriend, no doubt.’
‘But we all go Dutch, that shouldn’t be a problem. Did Dad hit the roof?’
‘Actually, I didn’t tell him.’
Penelope shot her a swift glance. ‘Temper uncertain?’ Instantly Helen felt disloyal. ‘He has a lot on his mind at the moment.’
‘The Stately Homes business, you mean?’
Helen, who hadn’t known what she meant, seized on the suggestion gratefully. ‘They’re having no luck whatsoever. Each time it happens, the burglars and their loot disappear into thin air.’
‘They’re probably sitting on things till the hue and cry dies down.’
‘But it won’t die down if they keep doing more burglaries; and it’s almost two years now since the first one.’
‘Poor old Dad,’ Penelope said absently. She glanced at her watch. ‘Mum, I hope you don’t mind, but I’m due to play squash at three. I fixed it before I knew you were coming.’
‘That’s all right.’ Helen signalled the waiter for the bill. ‘I want to do some preparation anyway. I raided the library for books on antiques and paintings, so I could mug up a bit and not seem too ignorant!’
Having returned her daughter to the university, Helen set off, rather earlier than anticipated, for the Seven Stars.
Today, the High Street was practically deserted and, driving leisurely along, she was able to appreciate the charming haphazardness of its architecture, a reminder that this had once been a small market town.
Ancient Tudor buildings, their black ships’ timbers banding the white plaster, nestled against four-storey edifices with wrought-iron balconies and mullion windows in a companionable melding of the centuries. Some, Helen noted, bore the names of well-known chain stores, but, with their modern fashions hidden behind historic frontages, ancient and modern coexisted in a unique blend of individuality.
Once through the town, she settled back for the twenty-minute drive to the Seven Stars. The road she was following was fairly high, and to the right, rolling downlands fell away, giving glimpses of clusters of thatched roofs, a church spire, and, nearer at hand, barns stacked high with hay.
On the left, occasional farmhouses edged the road, steep-gabled and in Cotswold stone, with tall chimneys which looked as though they’d been stuck on as an afterthought and notices at the gates advertising potatoes and onions for sale. Far away behind them, Helen could see the wooded slopes of the Chantock Hills. Her quick dashes along the motorway, she reflected, had given no inkling of the attractive countryside which lay beyond.
Then the Seven Stars came into sight and, turning into the drive which led round to the courtyard, she parked in the same place as before.
Ahead of her was a shoulder-high stone wall which abutted at a right angle from the mews block to form the fourth side of the courtyard. Helen went to look over it. Beyond lay a sizeable garden, drab now in the dank January air, but, judging by its well-tended beds and neatly pruned shrubs, a pleasant place to wander in summer. Roughly a quarter of it was devoted to vegetables, which augured well for the cuisine, and at the far side of the lawn stood a wooden summerhouse.
Shivering suddenly in her thin jacket, she returned to the car, removed her suitcase, and walked round to the front door.
As before, it was Stella Cain who answered it. ‘Mrs Campbell — welcome back!’
‘Thank you. I’m sorry I’m a little early, but there’s some work I’d like to get down to.’
‘Of course. You can sit here by the fire, if the constant coming and going won’t disturb you, or in the television lounge if you prefer. There’s a fire in there, too.’
‘Thanks, but first I’ll unpack and have a cup of tea in my room. Is it the same one?’
‘Yes, I’ll —’
‘Don’t bother coming up, I can manage.’ Helen took the key from her.
‘Are you sure? Come down whenever you’re ready, then, and make yourself at home.’
Helen went up the wide staircase, thankful that her early arrival had been accepted; she was aware that in bed and breakfast establishments, guests were not expected to hang around during the day. In fact, she’d been hoping to spend longer with Penelope, but she had after all given her very little notice.
The cream and red bedroom awaited her and Helen looked round it with pleasure. This time, she thought with satisfaction, she had persona
l things with which to stamp it — her travelling clock, the tortoiseshell brush and comb.
She switched on the radio and started to unpack, laying underwear and sweaters neatly in the chest of drawers. Then she filled and plugged in the kettle and sat down in the red plush armchair to enjoy her cup of tea.
So here she was, she thought, looking about her with satisfaction and a sense of surprise that she had so far achieved her purpose. Andrew, albeit reluctantly, had accepted her two-week absence, and with it the prospect of a more serious work commitment. Admittedly he’d seemed less keen to contemplate the state of their marriage and so, for that matter, was she. Still, two whole weeks lay ahead of her. During that time a solution might present itself, but if it hadn’t by, say, the next weekend, she would set aside time to consider the position.
But not now. Finishing her tea, she collected an armful of books and went downstairs, opting for the privacy of the television lounge rather than the open hallway. As Stella had said, a well made-up fire burned in the grate, lighting the gloomy room. The glass door to the garden room was closed.
Helen seated herself in an easy chair by the fire and switched on the standard lamp that stood beside it. Then, opening the first of her books, she settled down to read.
*
DCI Webb leaned back and surveyed the canvas in front of him. He had spent most of the previous day sketching out in the hills, warmly wrapped against the January weather. Today, in considerably more comfort, he was attempting to develop the sketch into a watercolour, though not entirely to his satisfaction. Shades of green were notoriously difficult to reproduce, and he was debating whether to wash over them and try again when the doorbell rang.
He glanced at his watch as he went to answer it. Four o’clock on a Sunday afternoon: Hannah, keen to regale him with details of last night’s party?
But when he opened the door it was to find DI Ledbetter outside.
‘Chris! Come in. What are you doing in this neck of the woods?’
‘Hello, Dave. I thought you’d like to know we’ve found the hit-and-run car.’
‘That’s great — where?’
‘Your Duke Street multi-storey. It’s only been there since Friday, so they must have kept it hidden for ten days.’
The Seven Stars Page 5