‘Simeon has the vicarage,’ Michaela said. ‘I’m merely the vicar’s wife.’
‘So you went the whole hog,’ Ben said to Simeon. ‘I always thought you would.’
‘I’ve never been able to think of anything else I could do with myself except serve God in whatever small way I could offer,’ Simeon said.
‘He’s being modest,’ Michaela whispered behind her hand. ‘He’s quite the superstar.’
‘But tell us, Ben,’ Simeon said, blushing a little, ‘Where are you staying?’ When Ben told him the name of the bed and breakfast, he shook his head vehemently. ‘Not that Mrs Bold? She’s a terrible old battleaxe, God forgive me for saying it. And she overcharges.’
‘You must come and stay with us, Ben,’ Michaela said.
‘It’s a very kind offer, but-’
‘We absolutely insist,’ said Simeon. ‘It’ll be tremendous fun to chew the fat about old times. And you’ll meet Jude.’
‘Jude?’
‘Our son,’ Michaela said. ‘Only…’ She rolled her eyes up at Simeon. ‘Darling, I think Jude has other plans for the holidays.’
Simeon frowned slightly. ‘Never mind. So what do you say, Ben? We’d love to have you. Stay a day or two — stay for the whole of Christmas, why don’t you? If you’re still as fond of good wine and scotch as you used to be, I have some real treats in store.’
Ben hesitated, considering. It wasn’t as if he had anything else to do for the next few days. Nothing was scheduled at Le Val until January, and apart from the security guys and the guard dogs, the place would be deserted until Jeff and the team returned from their vacation. He’d have liked to spend time with his sister Ruth in Switzerland, but now that she’d become a high-flying company director she was attending conferences and summits all over the world — currently on a mission to greenify the Far East.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘You persuaded me. I’ll pick up my gear from Mrs Bold’s and come over sometime tomorrow.’
‘Nonsense, man,’ Simeon said. ‘You must come over tonight. We’re always up late anyway, so there’ll be plenty of time after the show.’
‘Speaking of which…’ Michaela said, glancing at her watch. The bell had sounded while they were talking, announcing the start of Act Two.
It was pushing midnight by the time Ben turned up at the village of Little Denton. Following the directions Simeon had given him, he turned off by the village pub, wound his way along a twisty lane running parallel to the Thames, and finally found the vicarage nestled behind a high stone wall and surrounded by trees. An owl hooted unseen as he stepped down from the Land Rover in the gravel driveway. The moon was out and shining down on the ivied facade of the old house. A dog barked from inside; Simeon’s voice called out ‘Quiet, Scruffy!’
The front door opened and the Reverend Arundel appeared in the entrance, looking less formal in jeans and a loose cardigan. He gripped Ben’s arm warmly. ‘Delighted you’re here. Really I am.’ He peered past Ben’s shoulder at the Land Rover and his eyebrows shot up. ‘Heavens, that’s seen some action, hasn’t it? Series IIa? Must be a ’73 vintage at least.’
‘Sixty-nine,’ Ben said. ‘Actually, it’s playing up a bit. Think a valve needs seeing to.’
‘Good grief, it’s the same age as I am. Even more ancient than the old Lotus.’
‘You still have that!’ Ben had fond memories of the many times the two of them had gone speeding round the Oxfordshire country pubs in Simeon’s 1972 Lotus Elan, in their quest to sample every real ale known to mankind. Back in those days, even at Oxford, it had seemed extremely exotic for a student to own a car, especially a bright red 2+2 sports that had been the envy of even the wealthier young gentlemen and given Simeon quite a dashing reputation among the girls.
‘I’d never sell her,’ Simeon said. ‘It’s till death us do part, I’m afraid.’
Michaela appeared in the open doorway, gripping onto the collar of a shaggy black-and-white mongrel that was scrabbling to get out and greet the visitor. Ben looked at the mutt and could see how he’d got his name.
‘Any chance you boys could tear yourselves away from your old bangers?’ Michaela said. ‘You’re letting the cold in.’
‘She drives a Mazda,’ Simeon whispered to Ben with a conspiratorial wink.
‘Is that all the luggage you have, Ben?’ Michaela said. ‘You certainly travel light.’
The inside of the vicarage was comfortable and warm, with the lived-in, ever-so-slightly frayed patina of a period house that had seen very little modernising. A log fire was crackling in the hearth, and a colourfully decorated Christmas tree stood in one corner opposite a baby grand piano covered in framed photos. Ben stopped to look at one that showed a tousle-haired and somewhat wild-looking young man of about twenty, posing on a beach somewhere hot and palmy. He was wearing a wetsuit and grinning from ear to ear as if completely in his element, clutching a surfboard under his arm.
‘This must be Jude?’ Ben said.
‘That’s our boy,’ Simeon replied. ‘The good looks come from his mother’s side.’
‘He seems to like the water.’
‘You can say that again. He’s studying marine biology at Portsmouth University. You can’t keep him out of the sea. In fact, he’s just spent two weeks cage diving with great white sharks in New Zealand. Completely mad, but he won’t be stopped once he’s set on something.’ Simeon sighed. ‘At least he still has all his arms and legs, as far as I know. That’s the main thing. Let me get you a drink, Ben. Single malt, no ice?’
‘You remembered,’ Ben said.
As Simeon busied himself fetching glasses and a bottle from a cabinet at the far end of the room, Michaela emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of mince pies. Setting the tray down on a table, she smiled at Ben and shot a sideways glance at her husband. ‘I’m so pleased you’re here,’ she whispered. ‘It’ll cheer him up no end. He’s been very down and upset the last few days.’
Simeon was too busy pottering about pouring drinks and putting on a CD of Gregorian chants to hear what she was saying. Lowering her voice further, Michaela added, ‘We recently had the most awful news about one of his colleagues… well, more of a close acquaintance, in the south of France.’
Ben winced sympathetically. ‘Illness?’
‘ Suicide.’ Michaela only mouthed the unmentionable word, drawing a straight finger like a knife across her throat for emphasis.
Now Ben understood why Simeon looked so uncharacteristically gaunt. Before he could muster a reply, the vicar was returning from the drinks cabinet holding two generously filled whisky glasses. He pressed one into Ben’s hand and clinked his own against it.
‘Here’s to old friends,’ said Simeon Arundel. ‘Welcome to our home, Ben.’
Chapter Five
The snow was spiralling down out of the night sky and lying thickly on the private road that led to Wesley Holland’s sprawling country residence, the Whitworth Mansion, two miles from the shores of Lake Ontario. Anyone who followed the sixty-seven-year-old billionaire philanthropist’s exploits in the media might have been surprised to see him driving alone in a seven-year-old Chrysler, but the fact was that despite his almost uncountable wealth, Wesley Holland was a man of relatively modest tastes. Even in his youth, when he’d inherited his gigantic fortune from his father, he’d had relatively little truck with the conventional trappings of wealth; just as he had little to do with the modern world, of which he disapproved more with each passing year.
Yet every man has his weaknesses, and Wesley Holland’s weakness for over five decades, despite his pacifist tendencies and abhorrence of cruelty, had been his all-consuming passion for antique instruments of war, weaponry and armour. If it hadn’t been for the vast, unique collection his riches had allowed him to accumulate, he’d have had no need whatsoever for such an enormous house. He sometimes thought he’d be perfectly content living in a one- bedroom apartment. It was just him, after all, apart from the live-in staff and Moses, his old tortoiseshell cat.
Wesley parked the car in front of the mansion and stepped out to be greeted by two of his staff. His longtime personal assistant, Coleman Nash, sheltered him from the falling snow with an umbrella while the other, Hubert
