The Soul of Discretion

by Susan Hill

  They walked across the lawn and along paths between magnificent borders, through a laburnum tunnel and up towards a ha-ha, on the other side of which a field of sheep were dotted about as if they had been scattered like confetti. Here they turned left and Rachel saw the gazebo, white, Edwardian in style, and overlooking the valley through a wide opening in a high hedge. As they went towards it they were overtaken by a golf buggy which stopped at the gazebo. A young man took out a container and went inside. As Rachel and Rupert followed, he was setting out coffee in a Thermos, china mugs, milk, and a tin which they found full of shortbread.

  She looked out to the valley beyond. Lafferton Cathedral tower rose out of a haze in the distance. The rest of the town was hidden.

  ‘Goodness.’

  ‘I know.’

  He let her pour her coffee. The gazebo had basket chairs but they sat at the table, looking out. A mower hummed in the distance.

  ‘You are not going to believe this, Rachel, but I have a pretty big business and I don’t always have every bit of it in my head, just the overall picture. I’m good at the overall picture. But one of the business managers was here yesterday going over various things and he brought up Lafferton. Of course I knew I owned some property in Lafferton – the old cinema, for instance … we’re still trying to decide what to do with that. We have some apartments converted from the old ribbon factory. A couple of small blocks – mixed residential and shops. And half of one side of the street in the Lanes which includes the bookshop. Believe it or not.’

  Rachel’s spurt of alarm must have shown on her face.

  ‘But I swear that has nothing to do with wanting to take it on with you. Genuinely, I didn’t realise. Does it mean you would rather not continue?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Surely the quarterly rent –’

  ‘Will be paid to one of the holding companies. There are several. It’s quite normal in property business. I think the rent for the Lafferton buildings goes through Pendulum Estates but I can check. You can check, come to that. The lawyers and agents deal with the day-to-day stuff.’

  ‘It sounds as if you have a lot of properties.’

  ‘I do – or rather, my companies do. I started with three shops and a house that I inherited when I was eighteen. I expanded from there.’

  He sat forward and put down his cup.

  ‘If you want me to pull out at this point, Rachel, I will.’

  ‘Of course not. I don’t see how it can make any difference who owns the bricks and mortar. That isn’t why you became involved.’

  ‘Indeed it isn’t. But thank you. Now – one thing I’ve discovered that goes along with all this. The antique jeweller next door to the bookshop …’

  ‘I don’t understand how he makes a living. He has some nice things but they’re very overpriced and I never see people going into the shop.’

  ‘Which is probably why he’s closing down. He wants to retire anyway.’

  ‘I hope something good takes it over.’

  ‘I think it may. You’ll need to look at it carefully and see if you agree but it would make a wonderful extension to the bookshop. We’ll need to talk to builders but if we opened up the wall between the two we could have a children’s section all to itself … and that part would adapt very well to events and the coffee bar … there would be much more room to breathe.’

  Rachel leaned back and looked at Rupert with approval. ‘You are the perfect business partner.’

  ‘Or just the perfect partner,’ someone said in a heavily accented voice.

  The man who came into the gazebo was slim, tall, with a large nose, classically Venetian colouring and features, a face seen in paintings and frescoes in churches all over the city.

  ‘This is Guido.’ For some reason, Rupert looked slightly impatient at the interruption.

  The Italian took Rachel’s hand and kissed it lightly. It was difficult to tell his age. His skin was smooth, his hair thick and glossy, worn slightly longer than was now fashionable but it suited him, and it was beautifully cut.

  ‘We’re having a business meeting and the coffee pot is empty,’ Rupert said.

  Guido laughed. ‘Fine, I only came to say I am going to London after lunch now, not tonight, and back not till Thursday.’

  ‘OK, I’ll see you before you go.’

  ‘So nice to meet you. But only the first time. We shall meet much more often.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘I know so.’ He lifted his hand to them both as he left.

  For the next hour and a half they mapped out plans, swapped ideas, made notes. Rupert did not want to be identified as landlord of the bookshop or the adjacent jeweller’s but would ask someone at the property company to arrange for Rachel to look round. There was no harm in her telling the jeweller she was interested in taking it over. And although she and Rupert did not plan to make the new venture public until everything was formalised and all the work done, it would not actually be a secret.

  ‘If word spreads like a nice piece of gossip, all the better.’

  Rachel laughed. ‘If all goes according to plan and we get the financial side sorted out, when do you think we might be ready to reopen?’

  ‘Grand launch? September – but that’s a good time. Holidays over, schools settled back.’

  ‘Christmas in sight.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘It’s a tight schedule, Rupert.’

  ‘I like a challenge. So do you, I can tell.’

  ‘I’ve never had one like this. But I’m excited.’

  She was. And it would give her something to fill her mind and time, whether Simon was still absent or had returned. She had to stop making him the centre of her world.

  Forty-five

  Andrew Morson, QC, lived in a seventeenth-century rectory. If Serrailler had been in any other mood he would have walked round to the front and spent some minutes admiring the rose-coloured brick, the barley-sugar chimneys, the grassy path that led through a yew hedge to the side gate of the small church, whose tower had four golden angels flying from each corner, now catching the late-evening sunlight to flare and flash like beacons across the meadows beyond. It was everything he could have guessed it would be, the home of a privileged, high-earning, hard-working barrister whose cases involved shipping, commerce and company rights rather than petty crime.

  Will Fernley led him round to the back door. They were filthy, hot, exhausted, footsore, and suffering from a surfeit of one another’s company. Whatever the architecture of the Grade II listed house, Serrailler could not have cared less about it.

  ‘One look at us and the housekeeper will press the alarm.’

  ‘She knows me. I’ve been here.’

  ‘Not in your present state you haven’t.’

  ‘Mr Morson said you might arrive any time.’ The housekeeper was younger than Simon had expected and welcomed them as pleasantly as if they were dressed in black tie. She asked no questions, chatted about the beautiful weather and led them up to spacious rooms on the second floor.

  ‘There are some clothes if you need them … though –’ she looked Simon up and down – ‘they might be a bit on the small size for a man of your height. I’ll see if I can do better but it will be tomorrow now. Mr Fernley, you know your way around the house. It’s getting on for half past eight, so if you’d like supper in an hour I’ll see to that. My husband’s about too.’

  ‘Frankie,’ Will said when she had gone. ‘What Lynn doesn’t do, Frankie does. There’s the odd other person helping in the garden or the house but these two are the linchpins.’

  ‘Whose is the Audi at the back?’

  ‘Theirs. Andrew looks after them very, very well. That way they stay loyal and there’s no gossip around the countryside.’

  ‘What sort of gossip?’

  Will looked at him. ‘You know,’ he said.

  The bathwater was scalding and after soaking in it for twenty minutes, and then showering to wash his hair and cool off, Simon tried on
the underclothes, shirt, cotton drill trousers and light pullover left out on his bed. Lynn had been right – the trousers were a few inches short of his ankles and the pullover only came to his waist, so he left it behind. The rest were not a bad fit and he went downstairs, following Will, in loose jeans, a polo shirt and yellow trainers. Simon wore navy-blue deck shoes which would give him blisters if he walked more than fifty yards.

  The drinks cupboard was well stocked and the supper straightforward – T-bone steaks, apple pie, cheese. They cleared everything, plus a bottle and a half of burgundy. By the time they were sprawled on sofas waiting for the late-night news they were mellow and drowsy and both had kicked off their footwear.

  There was no mention of the breakout from Stitchford, on any channel, or on the local station.

  ‘Odd or what?’ Will looked across the room at Simon, who had his eyes half closed.

  ‘Odd. I think maybe they don’t want to put the wind up everyone. Doesn’t help.’

  Will said nothing.

  ‘Do you want this left on, watch a film or something?’

  ‘Do you?’

  Simon shook his head and pressed the remote. The room was lit by a couple of lamps, and the windows were open, letting in the grassy night air. Will poured himself another measure of Laphroaig and offered the bottle to Simon, who poured a larger one.

  ‘It’s beginning to fade,’ Will said, plumping the sofa cushions noisily before lying back on them. ‘The ditch. The thistles.’

  ‘The thirst.’ ‘The sweat.’ ‘The smell.’

  ‘Before long, it will be as if –’

  ‘– it was all a dream.’

  ‘Nightmare.’

  ‘What’s your plan, Will?’

  ‘Another malt. Sleep.’

  ‘Long run.’

  ‘Not sure. Hole up here for a bit. Can’t go home – they’ll be watching the place.’

  ‘Where is home?’

  Will looked at him between half-closed eyes. ‘I told you.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Countryside about ten miles from Lafferton. Know it?’ ‘Yup.’

  ‘Friends there?’

  ‘Nearby.’

  Don’t push it, Simon thought. ‘You like it there?’

  ‘I do actually. So long as I get right away from time to time.’ ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Oh, you know …’ He gave Will a look. ‘Somewhere hot and exotic.’

  ‘Thailand.’

  ‘Thailand. Bali. Singapore.’

  ‘Nice. But you don’t always have to go so far to find what you want.’

  ‘Safer though.’

  Will shook his head. ‘What’s your username?’ he asked quickly.

  Simon’s heart gave a thump. ‘As if …’

  ‘No, you’re right. All right, name of the group.’

  ‘You heard me. Anyway, why do you need to know? Thought you had your own arrangements.’

  ‘Yup.’ He took another mouthful of whisky. ‘Andrew’s got cigars here somewhere.’

  ‘No thanks, make me wheeze.’

  ‘What, asthma?’

  Simon nodded and pretended to sip his malt but took only a little. He was drowsy, the drink had gone to his head faster than usual. That was a state in which he would either let his own guard down or miss something when Fernley did.

  ‘Very, very pleasant,’ Will said sleepily.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Nice to have a very rich hospitable friend.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘Hospitable?’

  ‘Rich.’

  ‘Family is.’

  ‘There you go then.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘So-so.’

  ‘Thing is, Johnno …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Forgotten.’

  ‘Sleep.’

  It was just after midnight by the time Simon was in bed. He had the curtains and windows open onto the garden, because of the sweetness of the air but also because he could see the reflection of Will’s lamp. He waited for twenty minutes after it had gone out, and then took the precaution of locking his door, although that would take some explaining away if Will did come round.

  Simon had found an old but freshly laundered T-shirt and boxers on his bed. He put them on, then went back to the door and listened. He turned the key and opened the door a chink. Listened again. Nothing so much as creaked. The old house and all its wooden staircases and floors must have finished its settling for the night.

  Another ten minutes and he sent an ‘AM OK’ message via the watch then he went to lean on the windowsill and looked out onto the moonlit garden, the old trees beyond, a bank climbing up into the darkness. The smell of the cool night earth was soothing. He had the feeling that another day or two with Fernley would get him some serious information, names, venues, even something about the security technology behind their very sophisticated Internet ring, and in any case, his senses were alert to the vibes of this house. He would pick up what he could here, too, and from Morson when he eventually arrived. Morson … He picked up the watch again. Sent another message. ‘Check Andrew Morson QC.’

  The church clock chimed. His watch was slow. It was clearly not designed primarily as a timepiece. He adjusted it to a minute past the hour, got into bed, and did not wake until eleven the next morning.

  Forty-six

  Cat found Elaine Dacre on a reclining chair in the garden. The chair had a canvas canopy so that her head was out of the sun and she had a small table beside her with a jug of iced lemon tea, medicines, her Kindle, a radio and phone, a notepad and pen, tissues …

  ‘Jack thinks of everything and Lou is at home revising for her exams so if I need anything I’ve got her on speed dial.’ She smiled at Cat. ‘It’s lovely to see you again, Doctor. You are good.’

  ‘I finished surgery early – amazing how people find they’re not feeling so unwell after all when the sun’s shining. And please call me Cat.’

  ‘Would you like some of this lemon tea? I’m afraid you’d have to get a glass from the kitchen …’

  Cat went. The sun shone onto gleaming work surfaces and floor, and there was a faint smell of pine. The glasses in the cupboard sparkled.

  ‘Your kitchen is out of a showroom,’ she said, unfolding a deckchair and sitting down next to Elaine.

  ‘That’s Jack. It used to worry me when he was a boy. His room was always immaculate. His drawers were laid out like the ones in the outfitters, his books and toys had to be just so. It seemed a bit obsessive to me but now I think he just likes neatness and order.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that.’ Cat sat back and sipped her tea. It was a quiet garden, but she could hear a small child chattering next door and the whine of a hedge trimmer further down.

  Elaine’s face had become thinner, even in the few days since Cat had seen her last, and there was a parchment dryness to her skin. The bones of her hands showed through.

  ‘How have you been?’

  Elaine shook her head. ‘Tired. Just so tired. But it’s odd … I feel as if I know something. I can’t explain exactly.’ She frowned in concentration. ‘A lot of your life, you wonder how it will end, don’t you? And you pray it won’t be in terrible pain or when you’re a long way from home. It’s – well – it’s one of the unknowns. But now, I know. I know how. Not when and not every detail but all the other avenues are closed off. I’m not going to die in a plane crash or driving my car or in childbirth … does this sound crazy?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘And because I know now … I feel something very important is settled and I don’t have to worry about it any more.’

  ‘Not knowing is often the worst … I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said to me last time I came … I don’t mean physical things, pain or whatever, I mean spiritual experiences – it doesn’t necessarily have to do with religion but I think “spiritual” is the right word. Like your experience when your grandmother died. These things ar
e quite common. I had a patient a couple of years ago who came out of a coma, sat up in bed and held her arms out to someone she could see in the doorway … and her face just shone with surprise and joy. The nurse saw it, I saw it, her son saw it … but when that nurse asked some of her colleagues about it and if they’d had the same sort of experience, they shut her up, or discovered an urgent job they had to do, they were embarrassed. One even said, “If you’re going all spooky, you’d be better off on a different ward.”’

  Elaine leaned forward, trying to reach the jug, but took a deep breath and sat back. Cat jumped up.

  ‘So silly. I can’t even do a little thing like that sometimes. Is this how it’s going to be from now on?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Cat handed her a glass. ‘You’ll have better days and worse days … but you will get more tired, yes.’

  ‘If it’s only tiredness …’

  ‘We have good pain and symptom control now and you’ll get it, I’ll make sure, but there’s not a lot to be done about tiredness. It’s natural. It’s part of the process.’

  ‘Well, it’s annoying but I can just sleep can’t I? I thought there was so much I wanted to do, but you know, I’m not sure there is now. I don’t mean things like wanting to watch Lou grow up and so on, I’m sad that I won’t be here for that, won’t know what career she goes for and who she marries and if there’ll be any great-grandchildren. But I find I’m not really interested in climbing Mount Kilimanjaro or going to Disney World.’

  ‘I think it helps being able to accept.’

  ‘Is there any alternative?’

  ‘Some people never can. They fight, they struggle, they go down every medical byway and every alternative one, they don’t hear what you tell them, they won’t believe they’re mortal at all … and I can understand that, I really can. But it makes it harder and it means even if there were someone who would talk with them, they can’t do it because they’re in full denial. I’ve been asked for referral to specialists in Australia and how many more courses of chemo before it starts to work and they’ll be cured, when they’ve had the maximum already and it’s ravaged them – but if they were told they could have a terrible treatment that would make them live another day, they’d go for it.’