than half a mile away, while poor Mr Battle had burned to death.
She picked up the receiver sharply.
It was Dr Grainger; he came straight to the point.
'Verity, I've been thinking about this a good deal. Also discussing it, in confidence, with my partner, the psychotherapist Eloise Castell. Bottom line is, if you are going to gain any benefits from our work together, we need to get around to some corrective therapy for the house itself.'
'Yes, but Dr Grainger, I don't…' He was suddenly a runaway force in Glastonbury. The publication of his book. Embracing the Dark, had been brought forward to coincide with the Winter Solstice, the shortest, darkest day, and the Sunday Times had done an article on him for its colour magazine.
But she really couldn't have him tampering with the fabric of Meadwell.
'I would like to check this out soonest. Verity. Specifically the old well itself.'
'But you can't get to the well. It's sealed up, Dr Grainger. Concreted over. Because of contamination. There was a… a health risk.'
'Precisely. The sealing of the well put the house into a state of denial. What you have there is a vital subterranean artery you can no longer access. I say vital, because this was the reason for the house being built in this location. Could we say tomorrow? Eleven a.m.?'
'Oh, but I…' Verity frantically fingering her wooden beads. 'I would need to consult the Trust.'
And I'm afraid to. Because I don't know who controls the Trust ant more or to what extent it still honours the Colonel's wishes.
'Verity,' he said with heavy patience 'I ran into Oliver Pixhill last night. We discussed the problem at some length. Oliver is concerned about your situation. He wants to help you. He said to me, go ahead.'
'Go ahead?'
'And unblock the Meadwell.'
Afterwards, Verity, who had not been down to the old well in years, felt so jittery that she was obliged to take a measure of Dr Bach's Rescue Remedy before she was even able to leave the oppressive kitchen.
Archer stood in the doorway exuding Presence; Diane wondered if this was something they taught you at Conservative Central Office, how to walk into a room and dominate everybody or perhaps he'd just had lessons from Father.
'Councillor Woolaston.' Archer smiled, managing to make Diane feel as though he'd discovered her and Woolly dancing in the nude.
Woolly shoved roughly folded maps under his arm to shake hands. Archer said, 'I suspect we'll be seeing a good deal of each other in the years to come. Or perhaps not.'
'If you get elected,' Woolly said. Diane glanced at him; wasn't like Woolly to be so abrasive. He must have been very startled.
She saw Archer's full mouth develop a petulant twist, swiftly straightened. Too swiftly – as if he'd been studying his less appealing expressions on video, with a view to strangling them at birth.
'Quite,' Archer said pleasantly. 'Look, I don't want to intrude on you, Diane, if…'
''s OK,' Woolly said hurriedly. 'I was just off. Got this site-meeting out at Meare in half an hour. Catch you again, Diane.'
'Interesting to meet you. Councillor.' Archer watched him go, shaking his head almost kindly. 'Quaint little person. Surely the last of a dying breed.'
'He's a nice man, Archer.' Diane moved defensively behind the counter.
'I'm sure he is. Diane, reason I called. Father's been trying to reach you – with a conspicuous lack of success – to find out what you were doing for Christmas.'
'If you remember,' Diane said icily, 'the last time I saw Father was when he had me kidnapped.'
'Oh Diane…' Archer twitching off his gloves. 'What can one say? The old man was thinking of me. A trifle embarrassing if the news of one's election had appeared next to the arrest of one's sister, along with two dozen smelly hippies, for public order offences. But you're quite right, an overreaction Educated people make allowances for you now.'
Archer smiled his vulpine smile She noticed he'd developed lady Thatcher's mannerism of finishing a sentence by putting the head on one side and exposing the teeth.
'Archer…' Diane stopped suddenly, realising she was being given a chance to mention what the Rankins had done to Headlice. Archer was watching her, unblinking, and Diane felt a stillness come upon the room. The colours of the books on the display stands seemed to be neutralising before her eyes.
She let her arms fall to her sides in defeat. 'It… it's just you can't do that, you know, that… that sort of thing.'
The words mushy and inexact, not quite aware of what she was saying. 'I mean I'm twenty-seven, which… which makes me a… grown-up person, you know?' Blinking to clear her vision. 'I mean, what… what was he going to do, lock me in the attic?'
Archer retracted his smile If he was relieved she hadn't mentioned the Headlice business he wasn't showing it.
'Diane, believe me, when Juanita Carey arrived to collect you, we couldn't have been more happy. A responsible woman, in spite of…'
Archer gesticulated at the books with a certain nosewrinkling contempt.
'Really 'palling tragedy, though. Wondering if I ought to pop in and see her in hospital. Take a bunch of flaaahs.'
'Perhaps not,' Diane said carefully. She felt as if she were standing in a pool of grey water, its temperature just above her body heat.
'Whatever you think best. Anyway, we're all jolly happy to see you apparently settled and working on this little… ah… periodical… pamphlet thing.'
Diane let it go. They weren't making a great secret of The Avalonian, but the less Archer knew the better. She didn't want to talk about the new road either. And certainly not the Tor; Archer was its enemy. And her…
'So.' He beamed, 'What are you doing for Christmas? Because, Father and I thought you might like to join us – family, friends, neighbours. Party people – at Bowermead. The usual Christmas Day gathering and then the hunt, of course, on Boxing Day. We couldn't possibly think of you being so close and not joining in the festive fun.'
Diane could almost feel the bloody dampness on her thighs as she remembered Archer's idea of festive fun. She could hardly see him now, the shop was so dark, its window and door clouded with fog. She heard her own voice say, 'Tell Father it's terribly kind of him, but I think Juanita's going to be out of hospital for Christmas. And she won't be able to use her hands much, you see. Not properly. Not for some time.'
'Ah, yes. How good you are, Diane. I shall try and explain it to Father.'
Diane felt a movement in the pool of mist at her side.
'Of course it was his original intention…' Archer's little smile was almost coy, '… to invite Patrick and his family.'
She clutched at the counter, feeling sick with hatred, the loathing solid and real inside her and also, somehow, existing separately, in the room
'If you'd then refused to come, he'd doubtless have sent Patrick to fetch you and it would all have been horribly embarrassing. Tact, diplomacy and forethought never being Father's middle names. Don't worry, my dear, I've talked him out of it.'
'Thank you,' Diane said on a long, volcanic breath. 'Thank you, Archer.'
'I'll be on my way then.' Archer slipped a glove over his hand, paused in the doorway. 'And when is this little paper of yours to be published?'
'Er… er, next year perhaps.'
'Oh, nothing imminent then?'
'We want to get it right.'
'Absolutely. I'm sure Father will be delighted to see you deploying your, ah, new-found journalistic skills.'
She saw how cold his eyes were.
'Even if it is in our backyard, as it were,' Archer said.
'Even if it scorns all our best endeavours.'
