Sweet Poison
Page 32
‘I shall attend to the matter in the morning. Will it be Spain or the United States of America you intend to visit, my lord?’
‘Good God, Fenton!’ Edward expostulated. ‘If you are not careful I shall suspect you of exhibiting a sense of humour and that would be one shock too many in my weakened state. Before we go anywhere I have one final funeral to attend to, have I not?’
‘Yes, my lord. I am afraid the little dog is beginning to smell.’
‘“If you find him not within this month, you shall nose him as you go up the stairs into the lobby”?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Right, no time like the present. Give him to me and then fetch the Lagonda.’
Edward had, he knew, one other debt to pay: he had promised to go and see Celia Larmore and tell her of his last meeting with her husband. But that would have to wait. First he must fill his lungs with country air.
On the road, the wind in his face revivified him and the cares of the past two weeks slipped away. He put his foot on the accelerator and pushed it to the floor. He heard the sound of bells. At first he thought they were in his head. Then he looked in the mirror.
‘Blast it!’ It was a police car. He slowed and stopped by the side of the road. A large bovine policeman got slowly out of the car and came over to the Lagonda.
‘Good afternoon, sir. And where might you be going in so much of a hurry?’
‘I am going to a funeral,’ said Edward haughtily.
‘I see, sir. Well, it may be your own funeral if you drive at that speed. You must have been doing sixty-five at least.’
It was fortunate the policeman did not demand to look in the boot of the Lagonda where his suspicions might have been aroused by the spade and the corpse it contained.
‘Yes, I am sorry, officer,’ said Edward, suddenly contrite. ‘It was foolish of me but then I am foolish. I shall go more slowly in the future.’
The police officer looked at him, trying to gauge whether the young man was drunk or just fey. Deciding on the latter, he chose to be generous.
‘I have given you a warning, sir. Take heed of it. Next time you may not be so fortunate.’
‘Thank you, officer. I promise I will be good.’
Edward drove on slowly for another hour until he reached a stretch of woodland he had always liked, on the downs near Hungerford. He found a place in a circle of ancient trees and dug a hole deep enough to keep out the foxes and buried Max. When he had finished, he rolled a stone above the grave and then, perspiring, went to sit in the Lagonda to rest before setting off back to London. He tried to think of a prayer to say but nothing appropriate came to him. Then, faintly, above the rustling of the trees in the wind, he heard the tumbling skylarks choiring and he knew that their cries were all the prayers Max needed.