Текст книги "What a cave up!"

Автор книги: Джонатан Коу

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

‘That’s quite all right. I was expecting Miss Barton,’ he said, and held out his hand, which Phoebe shook. ‘Roderick Winshaw. Now why don’t you bring those things through here, and I can have a proper look at them.’ He turned to the receptionist. ‘That’ll be all, Lucy. You can go to lunch.’

Inside his office, Roddy gave the transparencies an even more cursory inspection. He had already decided what he wanted from this tantalizing new arrival.

‘Harry’s told me about your work,’ he lied, after a brief struggle to remember the first name of the old acquaintance he had done everything in his power to avoid for the last twenty years. ‘But I’m glad to have the opportunity to meet you in person. Establishing a rapport is very important.’

As part of the process of establishing this rapport, he invited Phoebe out to lunch. She did her best to pretend that she knew her way around the menu, and managed to refrain from commenting on the prices, which at first she thought were misprinted. He was paying, after all.

‘In today’s market, you see,’ said Roddy, his mouth full of smoked salmon blinis, ‘it’s naïve to suppose that you can promote an artist’s work in isolation from his personality. There has to be an image, something you can market through the newspapers and magazines. It doesn’t matter how wonderful the pictures are: if you’ve got nothing interesting to say about yourself when the woman from the Independent comes round for an interview, then you’re in trouble.’

Phoebe listened in silence. For all his avowed interest in her personality, this seemed to be what he wanted.

‘It’s also important, of course, that you photograph well.’ He smirked. ‘I can’t imagine that you’d have any problems in that department.’

Roddy seemed strangely restless. Although he was obviously trying to impress Phoebe with his charm and attentiveness, the restaurant appeared to be full of people he knew, and he spent much of the time looking over her shoulder to make sure that he made eye contact with the more important diners. Whenever she raised the subject of painting, which she assumed was at least one interest that they had in common, he would immediately start talking about something completely different.

Roddy called for the bill after about forty minutes, before they’d had time for either dessert or coffee. He had another appointment at two o’clock.

‘Bloody nuisance, really. Some journalist doing a feature on promising young artists: wants me to give him a few names, I suppose. I wouldn’t bother, only you have to cooperate with these people or the gallery never gets good write-ups. You can’t think of anybody, can you?’

Phoebe shook her head.

‘Look, I’m sorry this has been such a rush,’ said Roddy, lowering his gaze and modulating his tone to one of bashful sincerity. ‘I feel that I’ve hardly got to know you.’

She thought this a ridiculous remark, given that they had run out of things to say to each other after about five minutes, but found herself saying, ‘Yes, that’s true.’

‘Where are you staying in London?’ he asked.

‘I’m going home tonight,’ said Phoebe.

‘Is that really necessary? I was just thinking that you could stay at my flat if you liked. There’s plenty of room.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Phoebe, immediately suspicious. ‘But I have to be at work tomorrow.’

‘Of course. But look, we must meet again soon. I want to have a really good look at these pictures of yours. You must talk me through them.’

‘Well, I don’t come down very often, what with work, and the train fare …’

‘Yes, I can see, it must be very difficult for you. But I do find myself in Leeds occasionally. My family have got a place up in that part of the world.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Damn this meeting. I’ll tell you what, though – why don’t you pop round to my flat now? It’s only just round the corner, and I could come and join you in about an hour or so. We could – sort of, pick up where we left off, and there’d be plenty of time for you to catch a train this evening.’

Phoebe stood up. ‘Nice try. If rather lacking in subtlety.’ She put her bag over her shoulder and said: ‘If I’d known that was the sort of rapport you had in mind, I could have saved you the cost of an expensive meal. Could I have my slides back now, please?’

‘I’ll put them in the post, if you really want me to,’ said Roddy, and he watched, fascinated, as she turned on her heel and marched wordlessly out of the restaurant. This was going to be more fun than he’d thought.

∗

‘He was a creep,’ Phoebe told her flatmate, Kim, over a disconsolate cup of coffee in their kitchen that evening.

‘Aren’t they all,’ said Kim. ‘The question is, was he a good-looking creep?’

‘That’s hardly relevant,’ said Phoebe. (To her own annoyance, she had found him rather handsome, although much too aware of it for his own good.)

She thought no more about Roddy until the weekend, when there was an excited phone call from her father, who asked if she’d seen Saturday’s Times. Phoebe went out and bought it, and found that she was mentioned as one of a handful of young painters whose careers looked likely to blossom in the coming decade.

‘I’m very wary of making prophecies: history can so easily prove you wrong,’ says top London dealer Roderick Winshaw, ‘but of all the new artists I’ve seen recently, I’ve been most impressed by Phoebe Barton, a young woman from Leeds who promises great things for the future.’

Kim thought that she should telephone Roddy and thank him, but Phoebe, who was trying hard to conceal her pleasure, didn’t bother, even though the first thing she said to him when he phoned a few nights later was, ‘I saw what you said in the paper. It was very nice of you.’

‘Oh, that thing,’ said Roddy dismissively. ‘I wouldn’t set too much store by that. I’ve had a few inquiries about you since it came out, but it’s early days yet.’

Phoebe’s heart was racing. ‘Inquiries?’ she said.

‘The reason I was phoning,’ said Roddy, ‘was to find out if you were doing anything this weekend. I’m going up to the old family seat and I wondered if you might care to join me: then we could have a good look at your work. I thought I might pick you up in Leeds on the Saturday afternoon, and we’d drive up from there.’

Phoebe thought about this. A whole weekend alone with Roderick Winshaw? Just having lunch with him had been bad enough. It was a terrible idea.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘That would be lovely.’

2

Roddy took one look at the council estate and decided there was no way he was going to park the Mercedes Sports on it. He didn’t much like leaving it parked on the hillside, either, outside what seemed to be some sort of school or community centre: the two young thugs who watched him getting out and locking the doors looked as though they’d cheerfully smash the windows or let the tyres down the minute his back was turned. He hoped Phoebe would be ready and he wouldn’t have to hang around in this godforsaken spot a minute longer than necessary.

Outside the front door of her tower block he pressed a button and announced himself over the intercom system. There was no reply, only the abrupt sound of the door buzzing open. Roddy took a last look at the estate – kids playing noisily in a sunbaked recreation area, young mothers pushing prams up the hill from the centre of town, weighed down by bags of shopping – and then stepped into the hallway. It was damp and evil-smelling, and the lift looked especially gruesome; but walking all the way up to the eleventh floor would have meant arriving bedraggled and out of breath, and he was determined to make the best possible impression. So he gritted his teeth, blocked his nose and was relieved to find the ride relatively quick and painless. Next he had to negotiate a gloomy corridor, lit only by a series of feeble 40-watt bulbs which gave no hint of the brilliant Saturday afternoon sunshine he had left behind; but just as he was on the point of getting lost, the door to one of the flats opened and Phoebe herself appeared, beckoning. At once his spirits rose: against these surroundings she looked more ravishing than ever, and the doubts he had been entertaining all day on the drive up from London evaporated in a haze of desire.

‘Come on in,’ she said. ‘I’m almost ready. Kim’s just made a pot of tea.’

Roddy followed her inside and was surprised to find himself being led into a light and spacious sitting room. A young man in T-shirt and frayed jeans was slumped on the sofa watching television, flicking channels between Grandstand and a black-and-white comedy film on BBC2. He didn’t look up.

‘This is Darren,’ said Phoebe. ‘Darren, this is Roderick Winshaw.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Roddy.

Darren grunted.

‘He’s driven all the way up from London,’ said Phoebe, reaching for the off button on the television. ‘I’m sure he’d like to relax.’

‘Oy, I’m watching that!’

The television stayed on, and Phoebe retreated to her room to finish packing. Roddy drifted into the kitchen, where a tidy, sandy-haired woman was pouring out four cups of tea.

‘You must be Roddy,’ she said, and handed him a cup. ‘I’m Kim. Phoebe and I share this flat together. For our sins.’ She giggled. ‘Do you take sugar?’

Roddy shook his head.

‘We’re all so excited that she’s finally got someone important on her side,’ said Kim, helping herself to three spoonfuls. ‘It’s just the break she needs.’

‘Well, I certainly intend to … do whatever I can,’ said Roddy, thrown off balance.

Phoebe reappeared from her bedroom, carrying a large folio under her arm. ‘Will there be room for this in the car?’

Roddy drew in his breath. ‘Might be a bit of a squash.’

‘Well …’ Phoebe looked doubtful. ‘You did say you wanted to see them. That’s why you came, isn’t it?’

‘I thought they were all on slides.’

‘Not all of them.’ She brightened. ‘We could look at them now, if you like. It would only take an hour or two.’

This, of course, was the last thing he wanted.

‘Actually I’m sure it’ll fit in. We’ll just have to put the seats forward a bit.’

‘Thanks.’ Phoebe flashed him a smile. ‘I’ll get my bag.’

Darren shuffled in from the sitting room. ‘Where’s my tea?’

‘I thought you were going to Sainsbury’s,’ said Kim, spooning sugar into his cup.

‘It doesn’t close till six.’

‘Yes, but there won’t be any stuff left by then.’

‘The rugby starts in a minute.’

‘Darren, what are your weights doing in my room?’ Phoebe was standing in the hallway, ready to leave.

‘There’s more space for them there. Why, are they in the way?’

‘Of course they’re in the bloody way. I want them out when I get back, OK?’

‘Fine, if you want to make a big deal out of it.’

‘Well, thanks for the tea,’ said Roddy, who hadn’t drunk any. ‘We seem to be off.’

‘Nice jacket,’ said Darren, as Roddy brushed past him in the kitchen doorway. ‘Looks like it’s from Next or somewhere, is it?’

The jacket in question, a sporty, cream linen number, had been tailor-made and had cost more than five hundred pounds.

‘It’s from Charles of Jermyn Street,’ said Roddy.

‘Oh. Yes, I thought so. I thought it was probably one of those places.’

Phoebe blew him a contemptuous kiss, and said: ‘Goodbye, Kim. I’ll give you a call when I’m coming back.’

‘All right, take care. Have a good time, and don’t do anything … don’t do anything you’ll regret.’

Roddy, fortunately, was out of earshot.

∗

‘He’s an idiot, that guy,’ said Phoebe, as they drove up the A1 towards Thirsk. ‘And he’s round at the flat all the time nowadays. It’s really beginning to depress me.’

‘Your flatmate seemed very nice.’

‘Don’t you think it’s upsetting, though, when your friends choose totally unsuitable partners?’

Roddy accelerated to within ten feet of the car in front and flashed his headlights impatiently. So far he had been averaging about ninety-five miles an hour.

‘I know what you mean, actually,’ he said. ‘Take this friend of mine. He was engaged to this woman for two years – cousin of the Duchess of –, as it happens. Not much of a looker but she had the most fabulous contacts. He was hoping to get into opera, you see. Anyway, suddenly, without a word of warning, he breaks the whole thing off and shacks up with this complete stranger: a primary school teacher, if you please. Nobody, but nobody had ever heard of her. Next thing you know, they’re married. Come to think of it they seem very happy, but I still think he should have bitten the bullet and stuck with Mariella. Probably be running the ENO by now. D’you get my point?’

‘I don’t think we’re talking about quite the same thing,’ said Phoebe.

They drove in silence for several minutes.

‘Seems pretty similar to me,’ said Roddy.

∗

It was getting on for six o’clock when they drove through Helmsley and then struck out in the direction of the North York Moors. The sunshine was still bright and Phoebe found that the moors themselves, which she had visited many times before and had always considered overpoweringly bleak, today seemed cheery and welcoming.

‘You’re so lucky,’ she said, ‘having a home out here. It must have been a wonderful place to grow up.’

‘Oh, I didn’t spend much time here when I was a kid. Thank God. This is the dreariest place on earth, if you ask me. Never come here now if I can avoid it.’

‘So who lives in the house at the moment?’

‘No one, really. There’s a minimal staff – a couple of cooks and gardeners, and this old butler who’s been with the family for about five hundred years, and that’s about it. So the place is pretty much empty.’ He took out another cigarette for himself and gave it Phoebe to light. ‘Oh, apart from my father, of course.’

‘I didn’t realize he was still alive.’

Roddy smiled. ‘Well, as far as anyone can tell.’

Not knowing quite what to make of this, Phoebe said: ‘Do you know that John Bellany portrait of his father? I love that painting: it’s so rich and detailed – it tells you so much about the man, and at the same time it’s done with such warmth and affection. It positively glows.’

‘I know his work, yes. I’m not sure I’d recommend it to anyone as an investment these days. Look,’ he said, fixing Phoebe with a half-humorous, half-admonitory stare, ‘I hope you’re not going to want to talk about painting all weekend. I get enough of that down in London.’

‘What else are we here to talk about?’

‘Anything.’

‘ “I live and breathe art”,’ said Phoebe. ‘ “What other people refer to as ‘the real world’ has always seemed pale and insipid by comparison”.’

‘Well, that’s as may be. Personally I find that sort of attitude rather affected.’

‘Yes, but I didn’t say it: you did. Observer magazine, April 1987.’

‘Ah. Well, that’s the sort of thing you’re expected to say to journalists, in my line of business. You’re supposed to take it with a pinch of salt.’ Still puffing away on his cigarette, an edgier, more dangerous tone entering his voice, he said: ‘Do you know what I’d planned to be doing this evening? I’d been invited to dinner with the Marquis of –, at his flat in Knightsbridge. Also on the guest list were one of the most powerful theatrical producers in London, a member of the royal family, and an incredibly beautiful American actress, currently starring in a film being screened all over the country, who was flying over from Hollywood especially for the occasion.’

‘And what am I supposed to say to that? You must obviously be bored with these people, if you’d rather spend the time up here with me, in the back of beyond.’

‘Not necessarily. I look on this as a working weekend. After all, my livelihood depends on the cultivation of talented young people: and I do regard you as talented.’ The compliment, he thought, was well calculated, and gave him the courage to add: ‘What I’m saying, my dear, is that I’m expecting something a little more exciting from this weekend than a few hours in the drawing room discussing the influence of Velazquez on Francis Bacon.’ And then, before Phoebe could reply, he caught sight of something on the distant horizon. ‘Hello, there it is. The beloved homestead.’

∗

Phoebe’s first impression of Winshaw Towers was not encouraging. Perched almost on the crest of a vast, forbidding ridge, it cast deep dark shadows over the grounds beneath it. The gardens were not yet visible; but she could already make out a dense area of woodland which screened off the approach to the house, and at the foot of the hill lay a large expanse of dismal and featureless water. As for the mad conglomeration of gothic, neo-gothic, sub-gothic and pseudo-gothic towers which gave the house its name, they resembled nothing so much as a giant black hand, gnarled and deformed: its fingers clawed at the heavens, as if to snatch down the setting sun which shone like a burnished penny and would soon, it seemed, have descended inexorably into its grasp.

‘Not exactly a holiday camp, is it?’ said Roddy.

‘Aren’t there any other houses around here?’

‘There’s a little village about five miles away, on the other side of the hill. That’s about it.’

‘Why would anyone want to live in such a lonely spot?’

‘God knows. The main body of the house was built in 1625, so they say. It didn’t come into my family for another fifty years or so. One of my ancestors, Alexander, bought it up – for reasons best known to himself – and then started adding to it, which is why there’s hardly any of the original brickwork left. Now this trumped-up duckpond’ – he gestured out of the window, for the road was now running parallel to the water’s edge – ‘goes by the name of Cavendish Tarn. It isn’t really a tarn, of course, because it’s man-made. Cavendish Winshaw was my great-great-uncle, and he had the whole thing dug out and filled with water about a hundred and twenty years ago. I think he must have envisaged hours of happy pleasure-boating and trout-fishing. Well, just look at it! You’d catch your death of pneumonia if you tried to stay out there for more than five minutes. I’ve always suspected that Cavendish – and Alexander too, if it comes to that – must have belonged to the … well, the eccentric side of the family.’

‘And what does that mean, exactly?’

‘Oh, didn’t you know? The Winshaws have a long and honourable history of insanity. It continues right up to the present day, as a matter of fact.’

‘How fascinating,’ said Phoebe. ‘Somebody should write a book about you all.’ There was a knowing, mischievous undertone to this remark which a more alert listener than Roddy might have registered.

‘Somebody was writing a book about us, now you come to mention it,’ he said blithely. ‘I even met up with him once: gave him an interview a few years ago. Inquisitive sort, I must say. Anyway, all that’s gone very quiet. Good job too.’

They had arrived at the main driveway. He swung the car in and they were at once plunged into a dark tunnel of foliage. In days long past, perhaps, it might have been broad enough to admit a fair-sized vehicle, but now their windscreen and roof were under constant attack from vines, ivy, creepers and overhanging branches of every description. And when they finally emerged into what was left of the daylight, the same neglect was evident on every side: the lawns were overgrown and choked with weeds, the location of paths and flowerbeds could only be guessed at, and most of the outbuildings seemed in a state of near-collapse, with cracked windows, crumbling masonry and doors hanging off rusty hinges. Roddy seemed impervious to all of this: he drove with inscrutable single-mindedness right up to the front door, and the car pulled to a halt on the pebbled forecourt.

They got out of the car and Phoebe looked around her, silenced by awe but also by a strange, unaccustomed apprehension. She realized, now, that Roddy had managed to lure her into a situation of peculiar loneliness and vulnerability, and she began to shiver. And then, while he was taking their cases out of the boot, she glanced up at the second storey and a movement behind one of the mullioned windows caught her eye. She saw it for only a brief moment: a pale, drawn and crooked face, surmounted by a wild tangle of grey hair, staring down at the new arrivals with a look of lunatic malevolence which was enough to freeze the blood.

∗

Roddy sank down on to the bed and dabbed with a silk handkerchief at his now beetroot-coloured face.

‘Phew. I wasn’t expecting that, I must say.’

‘Well, I did offer to carry them for you,’ said Phoebe, walking over to the bay window.

A prolonged bout of bell-ringing and hammering on the front door had failed to produce any response, so Roddy had been obliged to use his own keys, and had then insisted on taking both their cases upstairs himself, with Phoebe’s folio wedged precariously beneath his arm. She had followed him in silence, amazed at the atmosphere of gloom and decay which permeated the whole house. The tapestries which hung from the walls were threadbare and tattered; the heavy velvet curtains on the landings were already drawn, admitting nothing of the dying sunlight; two suits of armour, standing precariously to attention in opposite alcoves, seemed about to fall apart from rust; and even the heads of the various unfortunate species of wildlife which had ended their days adorning the walls wore expressions of the utmost despondency.

‘Pyles is around, but he’s sure to be dead drunk by now,’ Roddy explained, between gasps for breath. ‘Here, let’s see if this does the trick.’

He took hold of a bell-rope hanging above the bed and pulled on it violently six or seven times. From the distant bowels of the house they could hear a far-off ringing. ‘That ought to do it,’ he said, panting heavily and lying flat out on the bed, and after about five minutes the approach of footsteps along the corridor could be heard: their tread irregular and unbelievably slow, with one step much heavier than the other. As they came closer, they were accompanied by a dreadful wheezing. Then the footsteps came to an abrupt stop outside their door, the wheezing continued, and a few seconds later there was a loud knock.

‘Come in!’ said Roddy, and the door creaked open to reveal a shabby, cadaverous figure whose eyes, set off by thick, beetling brows, flickered suspiciously about the room before coming to rest on Phoebe, seated at the bay window, who stared back in astonishment. The smell of alcohol overwhelmed her: she thought she would get drunk just by breathing.

‘Young Master Winshaw,’ the butler rasped, his voice hoarse and expressionless, his gaze still fixed on the female visitor. ‘What a pleasure to have you with us again.’

‘You got my message, I take it.’

‘I did, sir. Your room was prepared this morning. However, I was not aware – that is, I do not recall being informed – that you would be bringing a …’ (he coughed a dry cough, and moistened his lips) ‘… companion.’

Roddy sat up. ‘This is Miss Barton, Pyles, a young artist who I hope to be representing in a professional capacity in the very near future. She’ll be staying a day or two. I thought this room might be the most comfortable for her.’

‘As you wish, sir. I’ll go down and tell Cook that we shall be four for dinner.’

‘Four? Why, who else is coming?’

‘I received a telephone call earlier this afternoon, sir, from Miss Hilary. She’s flying up this evening, it seems, and she also intends to bring a …’ (clearing his throat once again, and licking the cracked corners of his mouth) ‘… companion.’

‘I see.’ Roddy seemed none too pleased with this information. ‘Well in that case surely we shall be five for dinner? I assume my father will be eating with us.’

‘I’m afraid not, sir. Your father suffered a slight misfortune this afternoon, and has already retired. The doctor has advised him not to exert himself any further today.’

‘Misfortune? What sort of misfortune?’

‘A most regrettable accident, sir. My fault entirely. I was taking him out for his afternoon constitutional, when I – most carelessly – lost control of his chair, and sent it hurtling down a slope, where it crashed. Crashed into the hen coop.’

‘My God – was there … was there any injury?’

‘A chicken was decapitated, sir.’

Roddy eyed him narrowly, as if trying to decide whether this was a joke. ‘All right, Pyles,’ he said at last. ‘I’m sure Miss Barton would like to freshen up after her journey. You may tell Cook that we shall be four for dinner.’

‘Very good, sir,’ he said, shambling towards the door.

‘What are we having, anyway?’

‘Chicken,’ said Pyles, without turning round.

Phoebe and Roddy were alone again. There was a difficult pause, and then Roddy said, with an awkward laugh: ‘He should really be put out to grass. Mind you, I don’t know who else they could find to look after a place like this.’

‘Should I go and see your father, do you think? There might be something I could do.’

‘No, no, the doctor will have seen to all that. Best not to get involved.’

‘Your butler seems to have a dreadful limp.’

‘Yes, poor soul.’ He got up from the bed and began to pace the room aimlessly. ‘That goes back about ten or fifteen years, when my uncle, Lawrence, still lived here. They were having a lot of trouble with poachers at the time and some man traps were put down. Seems that old Pyles got caught in one – late in the evening, as I understand it. Poor devil, they didn’t find him till the morning. The pain must have been shocking. That’s when he turned to drink, apparently. They even say that it … you know, turned his head a bit. Made him a bit strange – mentally, I mean.’

Phoebe said nothing.

‘Well, I did warn you what this place was like.’

‘Am I expected to dress for dinner?’ she asked.

‘Good Lord, no. Not on my account: and certainly not on account of my dear sister and her so-called companion. Which reminds me, I’d better go down and put the landing lights on for them. Pyles is bound to forget. Why don’t I come back up for you in about ten minutes or so, and we could perhaps do a quick guided tour before it gets dark?’

‘What about your father?’

Roddy’s smile was a perfect blank.

‘What about him?’

∗

It was dusk. Roddy and Phoebe stood on the terrace overlooking Cavendish Tarn, drinking a Château-Lafite 1970, newly brought up from the cellar. They had been on a cursory tour of the house, during which Roddy had proved himself wearily knowledgeable on the subject of Ionic columns and basket arches, and Phoebe had done her dutiful best to admire the brick diapers and the flush quoins and the close carving on the spandrels. Now it appeared that Roddy had other things on his mind. While Phoebe stared out at the two parallel rows of landing lights which stretched across the lake and seemed to converge only at its furthest shore, Roddy’s eyes were turned intently on her profile. She knew that he was about to say something unwelcome, and steeled herself for it.

‘You’re very beautiful,’ he said at last.

‘I don’t really see,’ she answered – slowly, and not without a smile – ‘what that’s got to do with anything.’

‘It’s why you’re here, and we both know it,’ said Roddy. He shifted a few inches closer. ‘There’s a cousin of mine called Thomas. A fair bit older than me – getting on for seventy, now, I should think. He’s quite big in the city. When he was younger – back in the late fifties, early sixties – he lent money to some film companies and got to know a few people in the business. Used to hang around the studios, and so on.’

‘Is there a point to all this?’

‘Hang on, I’m just coming to it. You see, I was only about eight or nine at the time, and Thomas – well, Thomas was, you know … a bit of a lad. A bit of an old rake. He used to bring me these photographs.’

‘Photographs?’

‘Pretty run of the mill stuff, most of them. Scenes from nudist films that he’d been involved with, that sort of thing. But there was one photograph – just an ordinary portrait shot, head and shoulders – of an actress: she was called Shirley Eaton. And I was really smitten with it for a while. Used to sleep with it under my pillow, if you can believe that. Of course, I was very young. But the funny thing is –’

‘– that I look exactly like her?’

‘Well, you do, actually.’ He frowned. ‘Why, has somebody told you that before?’

‘No, but I could see it coming. And now I’m to have the honour of helping you to live out your childhood fantasies, I suppose.’ Roddy didn’t answer that, and she continued to stare ahead, relishing the silence, until she noticed a red light winking in the night sky. ‘Look, there’s something up there.’

‘Sister dearest, I expect.’ He left his wineglass on the balustrade, and said: ‘Come on, let’s get down to the jetty and give her a proper welcome.’

The descent to the lake involved crossing three more lawns – all of them thick with wild, unkempt grass – linked steeply by walkways which had to be negotiated with care, for many of the slabs were loose, or concealed cracks which were big enough to trap the unwary foot. Finally, a set of rotting wooden steps led down to the water itself. They arrived just in time to see the plane skim down on to the tarn’s moonlit surface, and then taxi towards them, sending out shockwaves of foam as it came to a graceful if noisy halt at the edge of the jetty. Seconds later a door opened and the ash-blonde tresses of Britain’s most highly paid columnist popped into view.

‘Roddy?’ she said, peering out into the semi-dark. ‘You couldn’t be a love and take this case for me, could you?’

She handed him her case and squeezed herself through the doorway, to be followed by a square-shouldered, chisel-jawed, very bronzed and muscular figure who leapt out behind her and swung the door shut in one lithe, athletic movement.

‘Have you met Conrad, my pilot?’

‘A pleasure,’ said Roddy, shaking his hand and almost getting his fingers broken in the process.

‘And I don’t believe …’ Hilary prompted, having glimpsed Phoebe lurking in the shadows.

‘Phoebe Barton,’ said Roddy, as she stepped forward shyly. ‘Phoebe is my guest this weekend. She’s a most gifted young painter.’

‘Of course.’ Hilary appraised her coolly. ‘They always are. Is this your first time at the house of horrors, my dear?’

Phoebe had the sense that a clever answer was expected of her; but all she could manage was: ‘Yes.’