both sides. It felt cosy – a pleasant mushroomy smell – like being inside a hollow, or inside a womb. Eleanor felt the irresistible urge to lie on the ground, curl up among the heaps of dry leaves, shut her eyes and have a little sleep…
The instant Eleanor emerged from the grove, the rain stopped. She saw that as a sign that all would be well, that her mission would be a great success. ‘Thank you,’ she said, looking up and blowing a kiss off the palm of her right hand… Griff was guiding her… And there, no more than ten minutes away, was the house! Chalfont Park. Not as grand as she had expected it to be – quite unlike the way she had seen it in her mind’s eye. She took out the binoculars and held them to her eyes. A once graceful residence fallen on hard times – paint peeling – the lawn was shockingly overgrown. No statues. No splashing fountains. No grandiloquent gates either. There had been a wall once, but it was in ruins now. Both house and garden had the dismal condition known as ‘reduced circumstances’ written all over them. ‘The superannuations of sunk realms,’ Eleanor murmured.
She started walking round, crab-like, keeping her distance, and eventually caught sight of the back of the house. Through her binoculars she saw a stone terrace and french windows. She looked in the opposite direction. What was that octagonal building made of wrought iron and glass? A disused air about it… A greenhouse?
‘The first requisite of any invading army is a base,’ she said and, without a moment’s hesitation, she made for the greenhouse. She walked carefully, warily, trying to make her feet kiss the ground, no more – she didn’t want to broadcast her presence! On reaching the greenhouse, she turned the door handle down. Unlocked – another sign! ‘Goody,’ she said.
She marched into the dim arboreal light, switched on the torch and stood looking round… Plants. Some in rather poor condition. They were still recognizable as what they had once been, but just about. Roses in urns on plinths, various creepers climbing up a trellis obelisk, ivy, ferns with curling fronds… There was a sweetish putrid smell in the air, but she didn’t mind. It was warm enough, dry too… Garden furniture. Two wooden chairs and benches painted battleship grey. An old tartan blanket. Some empty sacks on a stand in the corner. A bamboo table with a book and a magazine on it. Who’s Who in EastEnders and last August’s Vogue. The latter’s cover showed one of those super-thin female models, her golden hair matching her golden tan, cuddling an over-bred, absolutely vile-looking Siamese cat with a diamond choker around its neck. ‘Miaow,’ Eleanor said. Then she made an angry hissing noise. Beside the table stood a large glazed pot of a classical design – empty but for a number of cigarette ends. She picked one up – Sullivan Powell. She sniffed at it. Somebody had been smoking good quality cigarettes… The baroness? At one time Eleanor had smoked Sullivan Powell cigarettes herself. A rich tarry taste…
Eleanor came to a decision. She had no doubt in her mind it was the right decision. She wouldn’t go back to the motel. She would stay in the greenhouse and watch out for Corinne. She could sleep here tonight – on one of the benches. Those sacks would make a good pillow
… There was the blanket and her fur stole to cover herself with. It was far from the comfort and luxury she was used to, Sparta rather than the Savoy, but she would survive… She took out a scone and bit into it. No jam or cream, and the Marmite proved to taste foul, so some of it stuck in her throat. A frugal Calvinistic feast. She had bought a small bottle of mineral water but she must drink sparingly, she reminded herself.
Standing beside the glass-panelled wall, she held the binoculars to her eyes once more. She saw a fox standing among the laurel and rhododendron on the left of the lawn – tall and grey-coated – what they called a dog-fox, Eleanor imagined. The fox looked back at her unblinkingly… She wondered if the fox would like a scone… The fox couldn’t be Corinne, could it? Lady into Fox. Corinne was a witch and witches could transform themselves into anything they liked. Should she go and cut the fox’s throat? It wasn’t against British law to kill foxes, was it – though it might provoke the ire of the Society of Suppression of Savage Severances… Eleanor giggled… They had quaint things like that in England. Well, they need never know! As though reading her mind, the fox disappeared into the shrubbery.
Keeping the binoculars close to her eyes Eleanor gazed in the direction of the house, at the french windows on the ground floor. No light, even though it was such a dark morning. She saw that on the outside the windows were festooned with climbers…
Her attention was suddenly drawn to a window on the first floor of the house. Somebody had entered the room and turned on the electric light. The curtains weren’t drawn across that window and she could see perfectly. A woman. Late forties? An oval face, short brown hair – olive-green dress – pleasant, intelligent – keen look – rather a flushed face. The woman stood there, as if on an illuminated stage. How easy it would have been to take a shot at her, if one had a gun and felt the inclination. One couldn’t possibly miss. Eleanor twisted her head to one side, shut her left eye and pretended to take aim. She made a popping sound with her lips.
The woman had started moving around the room. Something furtive and guilty about her manner. What was it she felt so guilty about? It wasn’t her room. Of course. Eleanor’s interest increased greatly with this discovery. The woman was a stranger but Eleanor could identify with her – she knew how she must feel. We are both trespassers, she thought – we’d be in trouble were we to get caught… It felt as though she were in a box at the theatre, watching a play. She brought the binoculars closer to her eyes. Would the woman see Eleanor’s white blob of a face staring up at her if she were to glance out of the window? Unlikely… At any rate the woman was walking away from the window – in the direction of a desk in the corner… She was opening the briefcase that lay on top of the desk. She took out a folder, then another one – she seemed to be looking for something.
Quick, quick, Eleanor urged her, beating her palm against the glass panel, infected by the woman’s frenzy. She trembled with excitement and dread. Make haste, girl, or they’ll catch you! Somebody may come in any moment! Eleanor felt the urge to cross over to the house, throw a pebble at the window, draw the woman’s attention, talk to her, confide in her, seek her counsel – feminine counsel had its special place in times of turmoil – impossible of course -
The woman seemed to have found what she was looking for. Eleanor saw her lips part. An object inside the case – what was it? Some document? A letter? No, a photograph – yes. The woman was looking down at a photograph. Eleanor saw her eyes widen in recognition. (She was sure it was recognition.) What a shame she couldn’t see what was in the photograph! How frustrating! Eleanor beat the pane with her fist
…
It must be something quite astonishing.
17
The Fool of Love
Antonia entered the billiard room, doing her best to appear as calm and normal as possible. She watched her husband play a shot and miss rather an easy cannon off the red. Major Payne made an impatient gesture and grumbled that it was too damned hot in the room, didn’t they think? Impossible to concentrate. His face was very red and he had an expression like thunder. Antonia guessed that he had been losing game after game to Jonson… Hugh was not a particularly gracious loser. The squabbles they had over Scrabble! He seemed bent on revenge. Both men were in their shirtsleeves, facing each other across the billiard table, holding up their cues, scowling – like duellists en garde, Antonia thought.
Lady Grylls was sunk in one of the two dark leather button-backed chairs by the fireplace. She had a black silk Chinese shawl embroidered with dragons around her shoulders. She was eating chocolates out of a circular box embellished with mauve orchids and lavender silk ribbons, sipping brandy from a balloon glass and smoking through a long jet-black holder. A gold ribbed cigarette case with pave sapphires lay on the round table beside her chair. She had a stately and somewhat decadent air about her – rather as if she taught etiquette on a pirate ship, Antonia thought.
Lady Grylls had been telling her nephew and Jonson how she could have become Princess Philip of Greece. That was back in 1946, the year before Philip had married the Queen. Lady Grylls hadn’t been married either – she’d been a mere Hon. They had met during an extremely dull shooting party. Philip had been jolly keen, but she hadn’t reciprocated his ardour. Still, she had been fascinated by his turbulent family history and strange genetic heritage. His grandfather had been assassinated, his father exiled, his mother had become a nun and had then been consigned to a lunatic asylum, at least one of his sisters had married a Nazi. ‘When we met again a couple of years ago he thought I was somebody else.’ Lady Grylls sighed.
It was quarter past eleven. They had been having coffee – a tray with three ultra-thin porcelain cups, red
