The Aga was reassuringly warm. The old man busied himself while Mark went to look out of the window. He couldn’t see much of the garden; it looked bricked over, or churned up in the search for archaeological treasures. Stark branches slapped and snagged at the dirty panes.
“I’m Simmonds,” the man said at last, having, with some effort, slid the heavy teapot onto the ring. The scraping noise went right through Mark. “I’ve got some fruitcake somewhere.”
“That’s all right,” Mark said.
“Yes, fruitcake, somewhere. I think it’s dry.”
“Tea will be fine.”
“No, I shall find it for you. I shall.”
“Do you have a phone?” Mark asked suddenly, and in that moment noticed the fifties-style phone at the other end of the table. He had to get in touch with Peggy and Iris, though he wasn’t sure what there was to tell them yet.
Simmons thrust an opened cake tin in his face. “There.” The smell of stale cake assailed him. “You’ll have some.”
“Would Tony mind if I phoned someone?”
Simmonds shrugged, looking for a plate in a pile of pale-blue saucers. Now he could barely bring himself to look at Mark; it was all or nothing with him. “It’s his phone.”
“Is he here?”
“Take it up with him. He pays the phone bill. Nothing to do with me any more. Here.” He thrust at Mark a saucer with the whole half-finished cake upturned on it. Mark took a bite and found it was dried through. The boiling kettle distracted Simmonds.
“It’ll be tea then,” said Simmonds vaguely, staring at the teapots.
Suddenly Mark felt something clutch at his gut. Where the fuck was Sally in all this? He felt hoodwinked; this wasn’t what he had expected at all. But then the kitchen door screeched open and black freezing air rushed in. A bulky Labrador stampeded into the kitchen, pulling on his lead at a young man in a leather jacket. And behind the dog owner, clutching his cold-reddened hand, Sally, looking breathless, laughing, exhilarated by snow.
Mark grabbed at her. He had time to register the alarm in her eyes, the change from laughter to shock, before he had her lifted to his chest, his face buried in her hair, and he was sobbing with relief.
“Cups,” Simmonds muttered, rattling through a cracked multitude.
“Sally, Sally,” Mark whispered. He had shocked her into tears of her own and now he had to console her. “It’s all right, pet. All right.” He looked up over her shoulder; on her coat snowflakes were just turning to drops of water from the heat of the Aga. A fine haze of steam was rising from her, the young man and the dog. The young man was giving Mark a slow, appraising look, removing his jacket and putting on an apron. He was younger than Mark had at first thought, white-haired and grinning laconically. Tony’s houseboy, Mark thought; it had to be. Christ, he’s got what he said we’d have at fourteen. The dog lay beneath the table, growling good-naturedly, head between its paws.
“The dog’s Duke,” Sally said at last, between heaves.
“I’m Richard,” said the young man in the apron. “I work for Tony. I have to get dinner on.”
“Where’s Tony?” Mark asked.
“Richard’s nice, Dad,” Sally said.
“He won’t be in till late,” Richard said.
It was a relief to talk to someone who seemed to be sensible.
“He’s out working a market somewhere.”
Simmonds had his head in a tall, narrow fridge, sniffing cartons of milk suspiciously. “Antiques,” he murmured.
“I guessed,” Mark said. He and Richard exchanged glance. “What’s happening?” Mark asked impulsively. He couldn’t now imagine calling the police.
Richard shrugged. He said, almost whispering, “I thought you knew Sally was here. The first I knew different was when Tony phoned you today. I overheard. We fought about it. But, hey—I’m only an employee.”
Mark hated anyone who slipped ‘but, hey’ into conversation, yet he decided that Richard was all right, really. He turned instead to Simmonds, who was pouring tea, and who had been evasive enough earlier to deserve Mark’s asking, “And are you an employee too?”
Immediately Mark saw Richard cringe, he knew he had made a mistake. Simmonds looked up very slowly. “I built this business. Tony helped a bit, later on. Bit by bit he took it off me. I’d’ve given him everything at one time. We bought things for this house together. He had a half share. Eight hundred thousand he’s had off me. I totted it up all last night. At least he’s still here. At least he’s not gone yet. At least he’s still selling things with me. Even if he’s giving it away to somebody else.”
Richard gave a breezy, overplayed chuckle, and said, “Shouldn’t you be going now? Remember what Tony said?”
Simmonds slammed a cup and saucer down on the table. He had been about to pass it to Mark. Enunciating very clearly, he said, “I’ll leave when I decide, miss. You’ve not got this place over my dead body yet. I’m making tea for our guests. Then I’ll go.”
“I can make tea,” Richard said, entirely reasonably.
“Yes,” Simmonds said. “I know.” He examined his knuckles thankfully for a moment, and reached a decision. “Make your fucking tea, then.” He turned and walked out of the kitchen. He stopped in the low doorway and hissed, “Queens!”
Sally was playing with the dog under the table by then, and Richard has happily fetching the sugar. “What was that about?” Mark asked.
“Mad as a bloody hatter.” Richard shook his head. “You saw. Resents me, Tony, whatever Tony does. But he’s the man with the money. Or he used to be. Jesus!” He wiped his sugared fingers down his apron after spilling the packet into a bowl. He’s rattled, Mark thought, worse then he’s letting on. “You’ll get used to our ways here. I know it looks
