by Jessica Mann
Down towards the Rhône valley, and up again, over the pass into Italy. In a parking place where they could be hidden from the busloads of tourists roaring by, Rosamund drank coffee from Placidus’ Thermos flask and paid some attention to her appearance. They were nodded through the passport control by a smiling official; Placidus often went to discuss the business of water supplies with his colleagues over the border, and it was not unusual for him to be accompanied by a woman in dark glasses and a headscarf, for his wife enjoyed the outing, he said.
Milan airport was its usual chaotic and noisy self, but there was one seat to be had on a flight to London, and Rosamund’s credit card was acceptable to pay for it. All the students who were making their way home in time for the beginning of the university year gave good cover to a superannuated extra.
Rosamund hoped that Placidus recognised her farewell kiss for more than a routine social gesture.
Chapter Five
Kenneth Hardman had been the Sholto family’s solicitor ever since his father handed over the practice to him in Abdication year. Since then he had amalgamated his practice and done a stint as President of the Law Society, and received the knighthood that went with the job; at the age required in his partnership agreement he had retired. But neither sailing, rose-gardens, bee-keeping, or any of the other hobbies enjoyed by retired professional men attracted him at all, and he returned to the office regularly, and had retained control of the affairs of some of his clients of long standing.
His last sight of Phoebe Britton had been depressing. As the gaunt woman sat, facing the light but ignoring the panorama of London spread outside the window, he recalled the pretty little girl, and the charming debutante about whom he had felt avuncular years before. Perhaps if she had had a family, he thought; these modern young women … He tried to persuade Phoebe to alter her instructions. To leave all her property to Rosamund, when Rosamund had already rejected it once, was simply a waste of effort and time, and it would create many difficulties in the unhappy event – a very improbable one, he added hastily – of Phoebe’s predeceasing her husband.
On Sholto’s death, Rosamund had refused to accept any of the property which had been left jointly to her and Phoebe: Middlewood, the chalet, the farm in Wester Ross, and all the chattels and capital. Rosamund had been much too young to be supposed really to know her own mind. Phoebe had insisted that she would share it if Rosamund ever asked her to, but there had been no such request in twenty years. The National Trust for Scotland took the farm in lieu of death duties, and Lady Anne Sholto stayed on at Middlewood, technically as Phoebe’s guest. But Rosamund would have nothing, and even obliged Kenneth Hardman to convey the property formally into Phoebe’s sole name. So it really seemed pointless, he urged Phoebe, to leave it back again to her sister.
‘Never mind,’ Phoebe had replied. ‘She’ll understand.’
‘Your husband –’
‘I don’t want him to keep Middlewood and the chalet. I wish he’d never seen them.’
Hardman wiped his handkerchief over his forehead and scalp. ‘But Aidan Britton is the hope of the country. Of all the men in the British Isles he is surely the one …’
‘Yes, he does have a good image, doesn’t he,’ Phoebe agreed, unmoved. ‘Look, I have written down what I want you to do. Please put it into legal form. It isn’t at all complicated.’
He had tried to delay her. If she gave him a breathing space he might be able to think of an argument to change her mind, and perhaps to alter her attitude towards her husband. If it were to get out, if, perish the thought, she should ask him to arrange a divorce, the consequences would be disastrous for man, party and country. But Phoebe would not wait.
‘I hate to say it, dear Sir Kenneth,’ she said, smiling the old, sweet smile, ‘but if you won’t do it now I’ll have to go to a solicitor who will.’
He did not really like having his secretary type it. He was very careful that the clerks who witnessed Phoebe’s signature should read none of the clauses. And ever since, he had hoped that she would make an appointment with him to change it, and perhaps explain that she had been not quite herself at the time.
And now, Phoebe Britton was dead. And here was Aidan Britton’s messenger, apparently unwilling to believe it when Kenneth Hardman assured him that there was nothing but the simple testament. Of course, Hardman could well understand the problem. Phoebe’s untimely accident had left things in a pretty pickle. But there really were no other papers; no deedbox, no messages, no obscure references. The will had used exemplary textbook language for its simple provisions.
‘No, I tell you. No special envelopes or messages.’ He suddenly realised what this must be about. ‘There’s no question of the balance of her mind?’ he exclaimed. ‘The verdict was accident, surely? And she was certainly sane when I saw her. Sane, if nervy. I would have known if there were something grave amiss.’
No cryptic hints, no codes, no packages?
Nothing, Sir Kenneth Hardman insisted. Nothing at all.
It was only after the man had left that Hardman really wondered why he had come. Surely the Minister would not contest the will? A man as rich as he could hardly wish to attract the consequent scandal. In any case, most likely Rosamund would deed the chalet and Middlewood back to him at once. Sir Kenneth sighed at the thought of a client divesting herself capriciously of her fortune, but it would be a relief in a way. His heart almost failed him at the thought of executing Phoebe Britton’s will. He wondered whether he should pass it on to one of the younger men in the practice. Perhaps, he thought dejectedly, it was time to become no more than what he was called on the firm’s letter headings, a consultant. But today he would have to go up to town. There was an appointment to see Rosamund Sholto today.
The Hardmans lived in the Chilterns. He liked the walk through the lanes to the station. If it rained in the afternoon, Muriel would always come and meet his train; the 10.30 in the morning, the 3.30 in the afternoon, Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays without fail.
Sir Kenneth Hardman had followed fashion by giving up his hat, but he still swung his briefcase and umbrella in time, as he strolled between the beech hedges. This was a very quiet road, and he recognised most of the cars he passed. The milkman went by with a wave, and then the district nurse. He heard another van coming up behind; that would be the fishmonger, who usually met him further on; he was early today.
The van, a blue one which had been stolen in Oxford, and would be abandoned in Buckingham, knocked him over with its first charge. The driver then reversed over the old man’s body, and drove forwards again, and away, so that the fishmonger, who came along the road at exactly his usual time, found this victim of a hit-and-run driver, dead upon the road.
Chapter Six
There was a hold-up at passport control. Several holders of British passports were being put through the hoops. A crowd was waiting on the other side of the doors, with children jumping up to the windows and trying to attract their relatives’ attention. The woman in front of Rosamund told the immigration officer that he ought to be ashamed of himself. Why didn’t he interrogate her as he had the other passengers? Just because her skin was white? She would report him to the Home Office. Rosamund could see two men, hard-eyed, heads swivelling, outside among the spectators, and warned herself not to be neurotic.
A man in the slowly shuffling queue said loudly, ‘If Britton were running Britain we’d see some action.’ The dingy hall was decorated with a few advertisements; Britton’s best they proclaimed, about baked beans and jam and fizzy drinks. The organisation was technically in the name of Aidan’s cousin now, who could blazon their shared surname around without a thought to the Representation of the People Act.
‘No porters,’ an elderly woman moaned. ‘No porters again, and no trolleys.’
The signal men on the Southern Region railway were on twenty-four hour strike. Chalked notices on blackboards advised passengers where they would find buses, but there was a long queue. A weary official
kept repeating, ‘It’s a shuttle service, just wait.’
‘I’ve fixed a hire car,’ a man said to Rosamund. ‘Want a lift into town?’
The tall men she had seen outside the customs hall were coming towards her, their dark suits standing out from the crowd, their umbrellas swinging. This man wore denim and had an Australian accent. Rosamund thanked him, and went with him to the desk. The young woman behind the counter was lacquered and enamelled as though she had been assembled from the pieces in a craft-kit, and she checked driving licences and filled in forms like an automaton. The Australian’s licence was British. ‘Bruce Pilger. Sales representative. Lived here for years,’ he said. They walked side by side towards the row of matching Ford cars, and he asked, ‘Haven’t I seen your face somewhere before?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’ The two other men were following them out to the car park.
‘On television, maybe. You do ads or something?’
‘Not me.’
He drove fast, taking side roads. By the time they were crossing Vauxhall Bridge, the black saloon car which had been behind them since Gatwick was no longer to be seen.
‘You a stranger here?’
‘No,’ Rosamund said.
‘Just wondered. You didn’t seem to know the place. Looking round and that.’
‘I haven’t been here for a while.’
‘You’ll see a lot of changes. Where are you going?’
‘Anywhere in the middle of town will be fine.’
‘Harrods do you?’
Rosamund sat with her eyes closed, and when they were waiting at the St James’s Street traffic lights he said triumphantly, ‘Got it. Saw you on the news. You were at the Britton funeral, right?’ Rosamund nodded, and he went on, ‘A real man, that Britton. He’ll make a lot of difference to the old country once he takes over. Authority. Leadership. No nonsense about him.’
He pulled up in the Brompton Road to let Rosamund out, and she thanked him for the ride. ‘Anything for a friend of Britton’s,’ he said.
Harrods had changed since the days when Rosamund and her family regarded it as a kind of extension to their village shop, where the assistants knew them by name and the service was leisurely. As children Rosamund and Phoebe came here to get their hair cut and buy their school uniforms, their kilts for wear on Sundays, their grey flannel divided skirts for the beach. The ticket agency had supplied their entertainments, the haberdashery department matched their buttons. Aunt Anne used to spend hours here.
A young woman was puffing scent at those who entered the store, and the whole building was odorous of lilac and musk. Not many of the people crowding at every counter looked like the ‘Harrods’ ladies’ of Rosamund’s youth, those extinct creatures, in their tailored dark coats, their pale stockings and narrow shining shoes, who had chosen chocolate and library books with such superior confidence. Now much of the clientele wore clothes native to other continents, and the directional signs were in foreign languages and scripts. But clothes were still sold on the first floor. Rosamund used her credit card to buy herself a new skirt, shirt, jersey and coat; in lingerie she acquired underclothes far superior to those which she normally bought in chain stores. It all took a long time, as the assistant in each department laboriously verified Rosamund’s credit rating in a lengthy telephone procedure.
With her parcels, Rosamund went to the Ladies’ Powder Room, and in a lavatory cubicle changed into her new clothes. She put the old ones, dirty and torn as they were, into the carrier bag, and left it hanging on the back of the cubicle door. The reflection which approached her now in the pink tinted glass was irreproachably tidy and respectable, except for the incongruous shoes. She went down to buy a new pair, and left the old, she said, for repair. The bank used to be on the ground floor, with green leather armchairs. It was upstairs now, on the fourth floor, and there were no chairs. But pacing up and down, one parallel with the row of grilles, the other moving from the newspaper stall at one end, to the photographers’ studio at the other, were a couple of men whom the shop staff no doubt took for city gents.
Rosamund was out of the habit of carrying much more than the muggers’ twenty dollars. But she would need ready money now. There must be a bank in Knightsbridge.
At the door onto Hans Crescent a crowd of tourists and shoppers were jostling their way into the shop. Taxis drew up and rushed by, limousines deposited their passengers, the commissionaire in his green livery stepped backwards and forwards; and flanking the door stood two young men with watchful eyes. Here in SW3 their clothes were not peculiar, if old-fashioned, and they could plausibly be on the look-out for dilatory girlfriends, but the way they scanned each face, with acute stares under hat brims and through dark glasses, was far from casual.
‘Would you like to try the new perfume, madam?’ the demonstrator said, and absent mindedly Rosamund accepted a dab on her hand. The girl was masking her from the door.
Rosamund went back into the shop, along past dress fabrics and haberdashery, handbags and toiletries, to the other ground floor exit doors. All were similarly guarded.
Back through the cheeses and mouthwatering foods in their marble hall, to the bank of telephones. She dialled the number of Wootton, Hardman and Co, but Sir Kenneth Hardman was not in yet. There had been some delay, his appointment with Miss Sholto would have to be cancelled. It was lucky that she had rung to confirm. No, it was not possible to say when he would be available.
It was some years since Rosamund had last been in England; she had made her life on the other side of the Atlantic, and, though English acquaintances and former friends did turn up in New York, she could think of none in London who fulfilled the definition of a true friend, one who would help her out of a tight spot. She went to sit down, and watched as other people met their dates, and wondered whether they were true friends.
She sighed sharply as a picture of Aunt Anne on these same chairs came before her eyes, Aunt Anne as she had been years before, with dowager-blue hair and imposing hats. Now nobody wore hats, except women like the beautiful black in striped robes and turban who was sitting on the next chair. Rosamund tried to pull herself together. She must get in touch with somebody who would understand what was going on. Someone who had known them all, back when Aidan Britton first came into the Sholto family’s life. Rosamund’s first year at Cambridge. Rosamund and Sylvester Crawford, Thea Wade and a boy whose name she could not remember. Thea and Sylvester had later married, and theirs was a much more suitable partnership than his with Rosamund would have been. Sylvester was a crusading journalist, having served his time with tits and tat, later with international thinks and chat. He had gone dotty and done time in a mental hospital. Sylvester would help her. He had never been keen on Aidan though they had all gone round in a gang. Aidan Britton, and Gerald Greenfield, and Phoebe when she came down to Cambridge for weekends. Half a lifetime away; another life.
It turned out to be impossible to reach either Sylvester or Thea. No answer from their home, and Thea’s secretary said that Professor Crawford was out in the field, whatever that meant. Thea was an archaeologist, Head of Department now at Buriton University. Sylvester had been a freelance for years.
Gerald Greenfield, then. The Department of Health said that he had gone to the Department of Trade. Apparently he was now an assistant secretary, whatever that meant; presumably nothing too grand, since he was readily available on the telephone.
‘Your voice hasn’t changed a bit,’ she said.
‘Rosamund! Where are you? Are you in this country? I saw the pictures of you at poor Phoebe’s funeral. I’d met her only a few weeks ago, at an official reception.’
‘I thought you might have been at the funeral.’
‘I have no leave due, and the Brittons and I … we’d drifted apart.’
‘So you are not one of the Britton boys?’
Her tone of voice was its own message; he replied, ‘Hardly.’
Outside the phone booth girls were meeting for lunch, cheek t
ouching cheek. ‘Darling, lovely to see you, mmm, mm.’ She should have kept up with her English friends; what use in her present predicament were the architects with whom she discussed her profession, and the numerous men with whom she had slept and loved and parted?
It was not easy to persuade Gerald Greenfield to drop everything and come. An assistant secretary, it seemed, was both indispensable and under control from superiors, and Gerald’s voice had a pernickety, hidebound tone when he spoke of his work. Eventually he agreed to drop everything and meet Rosamund at the Knightsbridge entrance of Harrods in twenty minutes, and Rosamund wandered around the counters of goodies to fill in the time. What proportion of these objects, she wondered, were either necessary or pleasing? How many had been designed for no purpose other than for one person to give another but never buy for himself? Yet many customers were buying with apparent delight. Rosamund watched a teenager in all-American clothes pick out and embrace a fluffy bag intended to hold a hot water bottle. He had never heard of hot water bottles, he said, but wanted the bag. His companion explained to the equally un-English assistant that back home the temperature never dropped below sixty.
How had the Britton boys tracked her down, Rosamund wondered, and rubbed some magical new wrinkle cream absent-mindedly onto her wrist? She was sure that her Australian pick-up had, even if unintentionally, lost his tail from the airport. She painted her thumbnail purple, and wiped the colour off with tissue. ‘Perhaps you would prefer this, madam?’ Rosamund rejected the plum coloured bottle offered her and moved away to a stand of hairbrushes.
