‘A newspaper?’ Anthony seemed bemused at the idea of his garden being of such general interest.
‘Well, no, possibly some magazine or other,’ he replied airily after a moment. ‘If they’ll have it.’ He ran a hand through his curls, dishevelling them even more, and laughed. ‘Perhaps you’ll spare me some of your time, sir, and share your knowledge with me?’
‘How long is all this likely to take?’
‘Oh, some time, I should think,’ Paddy said, waving a vague hand. ‘One mustn’t rush these things.’
‘Then you must stay with us until you’ve finished.’
‘I say, that’s awfully good of you. Are you sure?’ He looked suitably astonished, but pleased, and Anthony smiled.
People liked this delightful young man on sight. He took very little, including himself, seriously. This was fun, and lightened the atmosphere of Leysmorton House considerably. Much of his youth had been spent with his footloose father, who had abandoned his sickly wife in Ireland while he roamed the Continent as it pleased him. Paddy, after leaving school, had roamed it with him until, two years ago, when Daniel on a whim had taken himself off to India and the Far East. Since then, Paddy had chosen to go his own route.
Emily liked him, and especially the way he made her laugh. Conversation with him was refreshingly different from that with most other young men she’d met. Even Anthony smiled more as Paddy went about the garden with him, taking notes.
‘But words are poor things to convey all this,’ the young man confessed to Emily as they wandered the paths through the sweetly scented herb garden. He bent and plucked a stem of lad’s love, sniffed at it then reached for her hand and tucked the aromatic sprig into the bracelet on her wrist. ‘I wish I were an artist, and then I could sketch it.’ Struck with an idea, he paused, still holding her hand. ‘Would your sister happen to have any sketches I might perhaps use?’
Emily did not think she – or Paddy – should ask Clare. It was evident that she was the only one who was not prepared to be charmed by him, having met him at their aunt’s and not been impressed. She had trained that clear, sharp gaze of hers onto him when he arrived, and remarked acidly, ‘Well, I never expected to see you here, Mr Fitzallan. Out of your milieu, are you not?’
‘You never mentioned you lived in a house with such a beautiful garden, Miss Vavasour – but when Mrs Arbuthnot spoke of it in such glowing terms, I knew I had to write about it.’
Clare pressed her lips together and made no further comment until she and Emily were alone. ‘Don’t trust him, Emily. I’ve seen quite a lot of him one way or another at Aunt Lottie’s, but I only needed to speak ten words to him before I knew he was bad. Dangerous, too, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Emily wanted to laugh. ‘Dangerous? Bad? Are you sure you don’t mean mad as well?’
There was nothing brooding and Byronic about this slight young man, except perhaps his good looks and artless curls. Something different, exciting, yes . . . but dangerous? Holding her hand and talking nonsense might be thought a little flirtatious perhaps, but hardly dangerous.
Despite his work on the garden, Paddy managed to be able to spend a good deal of his time with Emily. One day, they had ridden out to the Downs, to the very edge of the high chalk bluff overlooking the wide expanse of the flat lands below. Reaching the summit, they had reigned in their mounts, thrown themselves down on the turf, with the wide landscape below stretching out towards Netherley, the huddle of its roofs, the church spire and Our Lady’s convent, square, red-brick and alien. ‘What would Clare say if she knew I was riding her horse?’
‘She can’t object. He’s been eating his head off for too long. She seems to have lost interest, and he needs exercise.’ Emily often rode Jupiter, a spirited two-year-old, herself, for just this reason.
‘I’m not so sure.’ He paused. ‘She doesn’t like me, I’m afraid.’
This was so patently true it would have been ridiculous to deny it. And though it didn’t take a clairvoyant to see that he wasn’t much enamoured of her either, that was obviously not the point.
‘I wonder why?’ he went on plaintively, and added with a self-deprecatory little smile, ‘Most people do, you know – like me, I mean.’
Emily smiled in return – one couldn’t help it, this childlike desire to be liked was disarming – but she had no idea why Clare had taken against him. She was generally very clear-sighted about most things, but also given to making snap judgments about people, and although Paddy attempted to make himself agreeable to her, she responded only with cool politeness. With a jolt Emily heard him continue, ‘Well, at any rate, she – none of you, if it comes to that – will be bothered with me much longer. I’m ready to leave Leysmorton.’
‘But – what about your article? You haven’t finished it yet, have you?’
He waved aside the last few weeks’ work as if it had been of no consequence. ‘True, but it’s not coming up to scratch, I’m afraid. It isn’t as if it was commissioned, though, so it doesn’t matter in the least. I don’t actually think I’m cut out for doing that kind of hack work.’ He pulled a stem of grass and began chewing it. ‘It isn’t really what I want to do, anyway. I’m off to India.’
‘India?’ She tried to keep the dismay from her voice, though in a way it was no great surprise: he made no attempt to hide his insatiable wanderlust from anyone.
‘Yes, I’m going to join my father. Something different,’ he went on animatedly, ‘that’s it. I want—’ He stopped.
‘You want what, Paddy?’
‘Who knows? The whole world, I shouldn’t wonder.’ He was joking, but looking at him it did not seem too high an ambition. It made you feel Paddy could have anything he chose: his eyes shining, the light crisping his hair, his mouth curling in a confident smile as he looked at his future, the world at his feet, surely.
‘But why India?’
‘My father’s taken up tea planting there.’
‘You want to be a tea planter?’
‘I could do worse, I suppose. But there are other things, too . . . there’s a great deal that’s wrong out there, you know,’ he went on, ‘injustices that people here are totally ignorant about. Trouble’s always brewing in India, has been ever since the Mutiny—’ She must have looked as blank as she felt. ‘You have heard of the Mutiny? It’s recent history, after all.’
It might have been in the Dark Ages for all Emily could recollect – if it had featured at all in her education, which she doubted.
The Mutiny had happened not twenty years before, he reminded her, though before she was born, of course. The hitherto loyal sepoys employed by the army of the British East India Company – until then the virtual governors of India, he further enlightened her – had turned their guns on their officers. Terrible massacres had occurred, which in the end had resulted in the government of India being taken over by the British Crown. The company’s legacy was still there: there were injustices, there was fighting. The Indians needed help.
‘Paddy! You’re not thinking of going out there as some sort of – mercenary – are you?’
‘A mercenary? Where do you get these ideas from, Emily?’ He laughed. ‘No. I’m not a fighter, not in that sense, but if I was out there, I could write about what’s happening and let the world know the truth. Somebody should do it, and I know I can,’ he said, his face alight.
A flicker of doubt momentarily ran through her, but this was an astonishing and much better side to him than she had seen before, and her recognition of it was reflected in the eager face she turned to him. He looked, as if seeing her for the first time, and at once became very still. And then he said an amazing thing: ‘Come with me. Marry me and come with me, Emily.’
She was almost literally knocked breathless with the suddenness, the daring of it, and at the same time filled with a wild excitement and delight. The breeze fanned her blazing cheeks. She dared not look at him. Her heart fluttered madly with the impossibility of it . . . she would never be allowed to marr
y him, she thought, as she followed the flight of a large bird sailing into the valley below, free and graceful. Although he liked Paddy well enough, her father would never agree to it.
Below, in that wide, flat landscape, a farm cart lumbered along the winding road towards Kingsworth. The slow river wound alongside. In the distance the sails of a windmill stirred lazily.
And from then on, his eyes were only for her. There were secret kisses, notes under her door, poems, sweet glances exchanged over the candlelit table in the evenings . . . and slipping out to meet him in the summer-scented darkness.
Ten
Now
Try as she would to forget it, for the last two months a ghoulish picture of that wretched skull had kept reappearing, dancing before Rosie’s eyes, just when she least expected it. But now, at last, the image seemed to have gone, or at least slid away to lie curled up at the edges of her mind.
This morning’s post had brought a letter from Dee, inviting her to stay for a week or two with her in her new house in London. Rosie reread it doubtfully. She didn’t know whether she was awfully keen on the idea – and if it had been her, just returned from honeymooning with her new husband in Italy, a gawky younger sister butting in was the last thing she would have wanted. It must be frightfully dull for you down there, too dreary all on your ownio, my poor lamb, Dee had finished, and the wretched firm takes up so much of Hamish’s time—
Was this brilliant marriage of Dee’s beginning to drag already?
It wasn’t that Rosie objected to what would be included in the visit: buying new clothes – as long as Dee didn’t try to force her into primrose yellow – getting one’s hair waved, learning to smoke and use make-up, the latest dance steps, jazz music. As Dee said, it would be fun. To be modern, that was the thing, but – to be like Dee and her friends! Rosie made a face. That meant she’d also have to stay awake until dawn, drinking dubious-tasting cocktails and – oh horrors! – making the sort of bright, silly conversation Dee’s set used all the time, and which she was jolly sure she wouldn’t be much good at – or even like. And anyway, she suspected the invitation had been prompted by Mother, mainly as an introduction to finding some young chap who’d be willing to take on such unpromising material as Rosie for life. As always, Rosie’s mouth set when she thought about Stella.
She put the letter aside to be answered later, when she’d had more time to get used to the idea. First, there was her morning ride, without which the day always seemed more pointless than usual, and with the rest of it empty before her, she might wander over to Leysmorton to see if Lady Fitzallan needed any help in the garden. That is, if Emily wasn’t absorbed in the brisk plans she was making for the house itself, in particular what must be done to give back to the library what she called its sense of self-respect.
Rosie was spending quite a lot of time over at the big house with Emily. She wasn’t at all the person Rosie had grown up hearing stories about: the wild young woman who had married in haste and run off to India with an unsuitable man called Paddy Fitzallan and led a wicked life. These stories had mostly come from Aunt Dorothy, Lady Dedington, that pillar of rectitude, and Rosie had begun to wonder whether they might not have been coloured by exaggeration, if not downright jealousy . . . Paddy Fitzallan must have been a great deal more fun than old Uncle Dedington, who never spoke a word that wasn’t necessary. Although she was no longer young, Lady F was friendly and approachable – and she didn’t seem to mind Rosie’s company, despite the difference in their ages. Rosie sort of thought of her as the grandmother she had never known, though she was not at all grandmotherly, and she liked the hint of mystery about her past, and the exotic life she’d led. It was a pity she couldn’t be persuaded to talk about it much, though Rosie had tried questioning her in a casual sort of way, in between being shown how to cut and prune, dead-head and plant. She was learning a lot in that direction, and was keen to learn more. That was of course why she went over to Leysmorton so often. It had nothing to do with the fact that Valentine Drummond had been working with Dirk Stronglove for two or three weeks now, and that there was always the chance that he might see her out there in the garden, and when he did, take time off from his duties and come out to speak to her.
Some time later that same morning, after visiting a small house on the edge of Netherley village, making the duty call which every police officer dreads, Inspector Novak was dropped off at Steadings, while the motor went on to Leysmorton. Within a few moments he was speaking to Hugh Markham, informing him there had been a breakthrough in the case of the murdered soldier found on their neighbouring property.
‘Glad to hear it. Taken enough time, hasn’t it?’
‘That’s the army for you, sir.’ Novak didn’t offer any further information, but added that he thought Hugh might like to come over to Leysmorton with him and hear what he had to say – ‘and maybe your granddaughter, too, if you can both spare the time.’
‘Rosie?’
‘She found the body, Mr Markham.’
‘Hmm, so she did. I’ll get them to find her. I think she’s in the stables.’
He went into the house, and returned after a minute or two, soon followed by Rosie, dressed in a blue Aertex shirt and breeches, her skin glowing and her red-gold hair curled damply on her forehead. Although she caught her breath when she saw the inspector and heard the purpose of his call, she made no objection to accompanying them, and the three of them walked across to Leysmorton, not speaking much, avoiding the subject of his visit. He saw Rosie cast several nervous glances at him, but not being the sort of policeman who wasted time on small talk, he let the silence continue until they arrived at the big house. The police motor was now parked on the gravel outside the front door, and waiting beside it stood his sergeant, Willard, who’d driven them down. No Sergeant Chinnery today. Large, middle-aged and bowler-hatted, Willard nodded and accompanied them to the terrace at the back of the house that overlooked the gardens, where a few canvas chairs and a table stood.
Dirk Stronglove was lounging in one of the chairs, not doing anything obvious, but a notebook and pencil nearby suggested he might be deep in thought over his latest book. He proposed they went indoors, where there were more comfortable seats, but Novak politely declined, recalling how the interior of Leysmorton House had discomfited him previously. He liked it better out here on the terrace. Though he was indifferent to gardens as a rule, he could see why this was said to be exceptional – and even he could appreciate the scent of flowers rising to the terrace. Gardens like this were not much in evidence in Stoke Newington, though plenty of small back plots were lovingly tended. Not theirs. Hannah kept their small terrace house neat as a pin, but the garden at the back was a mess. He was always promising her, and himself, that he would find time to sort it out, but he never did.
They waited in silence while Marta Heeren and Lady Fitzallan were sent for. Marta arrived last, pulling on the same hideous green cardigan she had worn previously, breathlessly apologetic: she had been in the far reaches of the garden, gathering berries from the elder bushes that were allowed to grow there.
When they were all assembled, Willard licked his pencil, adjusted the elastic band around his notebook and prepared to take notes. For such a large man, he was adept at making himself unobtrusive. He sat a little to one side, four-square on a stone bench set just outside the window, his stout legs planted firmly on the flagstones, the pencil between his thick fingers poised to fly across the pages. He could do a hundred and eighty words a minute and never had difficulty in transcribing his notes. He was a bachelor, and a dahlia-fancier in what spare time he had, and when they were at their best, there was always a fresh, eye-dazzling bunch of plate-size blooms for Novak to take home to Hannah. Presents for Novak’s children at birthdays and Christmas as well.
Novak got straight down to business and told them that enquiries had revealed that the dead man was, or had been, a private soldier in the Bedfordshire Regiment, that his name was Peter Sholto, and that his father
had been informed.
The stunned silence from everyone but Lady Fitzallan made it clear she was the only one to whom the name meant nothing. ‘Peter Sholto?’ she enquired. ‘Who was he?’
‘A young chap from the village, who worked for me for a time,’ Stronglove answered after a moment. His face had blanched, and he fished about on the table for his spectacles. Presumably those thick lenses magnified or brought the people and objects around him into better focus, but when he chose to put them on, they also obscured his expression.
‘But Peter Sholto’s dead!’ Rosie protested. ‘I mean, killed in the war, just before it ended.’
‘Not so, I’m afraid. It appears he came right through the fighting.’
‘That needs a bit of explaining,’ Hugh said.
‘He was in fact waiting for his discharge when he disappeared, just a couple of days before he was due to be given his demobilization papers. It was still desertion, technically speaking, though the war had been over for five months. Some men still hadn’t got their release. Bureaucracy, disorganized chaos, whatever you might choose to call it. Everybody was fed up – I can vouch for that, I was one of them, we were all desperate to get back to Civvy Street – and refusal to stick to the rules wasn’t as uncommon as you might think.’
He spoke as if he knew what he was talking about, and Hugh wondered what sort of soldier he had been. Something about him suggested a resistance to obeying orders, an independence that wouldn’t go down well with authority; slightly careless of his appearance, without the spit and polish of an ex-soldier, or even a policeman, come to that. Or perhaps it was simply that he was wearing plain clothes, the lack of a uniform, which gave that impression.
‘Didn’t the army go after him?’ he asked.
‘The usual enquiries were made but in the end nothing came of it, seems he slipped through the net.’
‘But why did his father tell everyone he had been killed?’ Rosie was still disbelieving.
After Clare Page 8
