eyes had read it over her shoulder. Only after that had he said: ‘Let me drive you back, I’m staying there, too’. As he had certainly not been, it seemed; not until now.
But what could her name mean to him? It wasn’t Morris, it wasn’t identifiable, even to a keen archaeologist— not unless he happened to be all too well informed about the experts who had interested themselves in Aurae Phiala, and even in their heirs and heiresses, down to herself.
But why? What could he be after, where could he fit in, if this was true? No, she was imagining things. He had simply hesitated to take the plunge and stake on a worthwhile weekend with her, and it was pure chance that he had made up his mind just after he had learned her name. Logic argued the case for this theory, but instinct rejected it. Unless she was much mistaken in that young man, pure chance played very little part in his proceedings. His manipulation of impudence and deference was too assured for that. Whatever he was about, there was method in his madness.
Well, she thought, it won’t be difficult to judge how right I am, if I pay out a few yards of line for him. If he isn’t just amusing himself, then I can expect total siege. And I shan’t be making the mistake of attributing it to any charms of mine, either. And even if I’m wrong—well, I might find it quite amusing, too.
She had not intended changing for the evening, country inns being the right setting for good tweed suits; but now she took her time about dressing, and chose a very austere frock in a dark russet-orange shade that touched off the marmalade lights in her eyes. Why not use what armoury one has? If he was setting out to find out more about her, she could certainly do with knowing a little more about him, and her chances were at least as good as his.
He was sitting in the bar with a drink and the evening paper when she came down, and though he appeared not to notice her quiet descent until she was at the foot of the stairs, she had seen him shift his weight some seconds before he looked up, ready to spring to his feet and intercept her. The look of admiration and pleasure, she hoped, was at any rate partly genuine.
‘May I get you a drink? What would you like?’ No doubt about it, he meant to corner her for the evening. If he had been simply playing the girl game, she reasoned, he would be getting steadily more intimate, and here he is reverting to deference. Because I’m Uncle Alan’s niece? But she could not believe in him as that kind of reverent fan, whatever his enthusiasm for his subject.
‘Since we’re both alone here,’ said Gus, coming back from the bar with her sherry, ‘will you be kind enough to have dinner with me? It would be a pity to eat good food in silence, don’t you think?’
‘Thank you,’ she said gravely, ‘I’d like that very much.’ Not that she intended accepting any favours from him, but she knew he was booked in for two nights, which gave her time to return his hospitality if she could not manipulate tonight into a Dutch treat.
‘When you get bored with my conversation,’ he said, ‘I promise to shut up. There’s even a telly tucked away somewhere.’
Boredom, thought Charlotte, as she made her way before him across the small panelled dining-room, is one thing I don’t anticipate.
By the time they reached the coffee stage it had become clear that he was doing his best to pump her, though she hoped he had not yet realised how little result he was getting, or how assiduously she was trying, in her turn, to find out more about him. The process would have been entirely pleasant, if the puzzling implication had not lingered in her mind throughout, like a dark shadow without a substance. And his method had its own grace.
She saw fit to admit to her musical background. Why not, since some of her midland concerts would be advertised in the local press, and inevitably come to his notice? ‘I call that one of the supreme bits of luck in life,’ he said warmly,‘ to be able to make your living out of what you love doing.’
‘So do I. One you enjoy, too, surely? Don’t tell me you don’t love your archaeology. But how does one make a living at it? Apart from teaching? Are you attached to one of the universities?’ Her tone was one of friendly and candid interest, but she wasn’t getting many bites, either. We should both make better fish than fishermen, she thought.
‘There aren’t enough places to go round,’ he said ruefully, ‘and I’m not that good. Some of us have to make do with jobs on the fringe.’
‘Such as what? What
‘Such as acting as consultant and adviser on antiques generally—or in my case on one period. Valuer—research man—I even restore pieces sometimes.’
‘Freelance? It sounds a little risky. Supposing there weren’t enough clients?’
He smiled, rather engagingly, she admitted. ‘I’m retained by quite a big outfit. And there’s never any lack of clients.’
It was at that point that the stranger entered the dining-room, and stood for a moment looking round him as if in search of an acquaintance. Charlotte had seen him turn in the doorway to speak to Mrs Lane, whose placid smile indicated that she knew and welcomed him. He looked like a local man, at home and unobtrusive in this comfortable country room as he would have been in the border landscape outside. He was tall and thin, a leggy lightweight in a dark-grey suit, with a pleasant, long, cleanshaven face, and short hair greying at the temples and receding slightly from a weathered brown forehead. He was of an age to be able to wear his hair comfortably short and his chin shaven without eccentricity, probably around fifty. Middle age has its compensations.
There were only a few people left in the dining-room by that time, two elderly men earnestly swopping fishing stories over their brandy, a young couple holding hands fondly under the table, and a solitary ancient in a leather- elbowed tweed jacket, reading the evening paper. The newcomer scanned them all, and his glance settled upon Charlotte and her companion. He came threading his way between the tables, and halted beside them.
‘I beg your pardon! Miss Rossignol? And Mr Hambro? I’m sorry to intrude on you at this hour, but if you can give me a few minutes of your time you may be able to help me, and I’ll be very much obliged.’
Charlotte had assented to her name with a startled bow, but without words. Gus Hambro looked up with rounded brows and a good-natured smile, and said vaguely: ‘Anything we can do, of course! But are you sure it’s us you want? We’re just visitors around here.’
The stranger smiled, still rather gravely but with a warmth that Charlotte found reassuring. ‘If you weren’t, you probably wouldn’t come within my—strictly unofficial—brief. We locals don’t frequent Aurae Phiala much, we’ve lived with it all our lives, it doesn’t excite us. I gather from the visitors’ book that you were both there this afternoon,
