She took his hand in a firm, dry clasp. “How do you do?”
With her straight, gray, pudding-bowl hair, her mannish, waterproof jacket and her uncompromising expression, she reminded Kincaid of his sixth-form master. Her only ornament was the pair of binoculars slung from her heavy neck. The sisters Prim and Grim, he dubbed them, then felt rather shamefaced.
“I’m sure Mr. Kincaid doesn’t want to hear all our family history, Penny. And we must go if we’re to change for the party.” Emma nodded at him and herded her sister away with all the delicacy of a school chaperon.
“Miss MacKenzie,” he called out, as they were almost through the door, “it was nice to meet you. Perhaps I’ll see you at the party.” He was rewarded by a radiant smile.
A loud knocking on the sitting-room door roused Kincaid and he realized that the air on the balcony had grown chilly. He slipped inside and opened the front door to find Sebastian Wade raising his fist to knock again.
“Sorry,” Wade said, “sometimes my enthusiasm gets the better of me. I came to offer myself as escort to the little get-together, and to show you around the house, if Cassie hasn’t already done the honors.”
“She did promise me a tour, but it never materialized. I’d like to see the house.”
“Ah, what a treat you have in store. Manufactured gentility, with all the mod cons. Are you going as is, the weekend gentleman’s casual look?” He eyed Kincaid’s open-necked shirt and cords.
“No, let me get my jacket,” Kincaid answered, and he saw that for all his deliberation his decision had been made for him. He was carried along as easily as a shell in a wave.
“Your suite,” said Sebastian in his most facetious tour guide manner, “is called the Sutton Suite, because you have a view of Sutton Bank from your balcony. Clever, yes? They all have the most wonderfully inventive names. So much more personal, the homey touch, like naming one’s suburban semi-detached ‘Wayside Cottage.’ Directly below you is the Thirsk Suite, currently possessed by our rising young M.P., Patrick Rennie, and his wife, Marta, of the perpetual ponytail and black velvet bow. Very county. They own several weeks, spaced out over the year.”
Kincaid finished tying his tie in the sitting-room mirror, slipped into his jacket and patted his pockets for wallet and keys.
“Now,” continued Sebastian, as they closed the front door and descended the three steps to the main hall, “the suite next to yours on this floor, the Richmond, was taken this morning by Hannah Alcock, a scientist of some sort who looks very professional and efficient. Attractive, too, in a sleek, bony way, if one cares for women who look intelligent.” He darted a bright, malicious glance toward Kincaid.
“And you don’t?”
“Oh yes, I find a lot of women aesthetically pleasing,” answered Sebastian, with the sly ambiguity Kincaid was coming to expect. “Now, the door on your immediate right leads to the pool balcony.” He opened it, gesturing Kincaid through first.
Moisture and the odor of chlorine assaulted Kincaid’s senses, and his first impression of the small balcony was that he had fallen into a budget Mediterranean fantasy. The floor was covered with glazed red brick, green plants filled every available space, and a black wrought-iron railing overlooked the water below.
“Most ingenious, don’t you think? A vantage point from which we can view our guests cavorting merrily in the pool, that most upmarket of all our assets. Works well in the sales tours, I can tell you. Unless, of course, the guest weighs two hundred pounds and is wearing a string bikini.”
Kincaid laughed. “You seem not to consider me a very viable prospect.”
Sebastian considered him, his voice for once without its biting edge. “No. I’d say you’re not easily seduced by respectability. You have other weaknesses, perhaps? But you wouldn’t choose this, would you, if the holiday weren’t given to you as a gift?”
Kincaid thought about it. “No, you’re right, as pleasant as it is, I probably wouldn’t. Too structured. Too cozy. I feel a bit like a child sent to day camp.”
“Pudding after supper if you’re a good boy. Come on, then. You’d better make the most of the experience if you’re not likely to repeat it.” Sebastian returned to his professional patter. “There are stairs at the back of this first-floor hall,” he noted, gesturing to the side opposite Kincaid’s, “that lead down to the rear pool entrance. There is also a spa section of the pool, just beneath us. It’s kept heated and you can turn on the jets when you want to use it. I do like it myself; one of the perks of the job.”
Kincaid imagined that Sebastian Wade, engaged in a continuous game of one-up-manship with the management, took advantage of any and every perk the job offered as a matter of principle.
They moved across the balcony and through the door into the cooler air of the opposite hall. “The layout’s not symmetrical.” Sebastian pointed toward the back of the house. “That suite is occupied by the Lyles, from Hertfordshire or somewhere equally dreary. Fussy little man, ex-army, though you wouldn’t think it-he looks a perfect twit. He bent my ear this afternoon for what seemed like hours, all about his experiences in Ireland. You’d think he conquered the IRA singlehandedly. For my part, I doubt he tackled anything more dangerous than the Corps of Engineers.”
Kincaid grinned at the idea of Sebastian, with his minute and indiscreet attention to detail, describing someone else as fussy.
“This one in the middle is an up-and-down studio affair. That’s the Hunsingers, Maureen and John. Retrograde hippies who own a natural foods store in Manchester, arrived last week with their eminently healthy kids.” Sebastian looked inquiringly at Kincaid. “You understand that not all the guests arrive and leave at the same time?”
They moved down the hall toward the front landing. “The Frazers, for instance, in the front suite, have been here a week as well. Father and daughter.” Kincaid waited for the quip, but none came. Sebastian pushed open the door to the front landing, his face averted.
“What are they like?” asked Kincaid, his curiosity aroused.
“I’ll let you form your own opinion,” said Sebastian a little shortly. After a moment’s awkward silence, he relented. “Nasty divorce. Angela’s just fifteen and she’s the prize of war. Neither of them really want her and she knows it.” The camouflage manner had dropped away, and the light voice was bitter.
Kincaid had the feeling that for the second time that evening he had glimpsed beneath the brittle shell. A glimpse, however, seemed to be all he was going to get, for Sebastian started down the wide stairs to the entry hall and continued his monologue over his shoulder.
“That leaves the ground floor. The front suite is empty this week. It’s called the Herriot, by the way. Just luck we didn’t get the Siegfried and Tristan as well. We do like to capitalize on our local celebrities whenever we can. The Rennies we mentioned, and the rear suite on the other side holds the week’s treasures, the MacKenzie sisters from Dedham Vale. The dear ladies have enjoyed the first week of their visit immensely-it warms my heart.” Seeing Kincaid’s smile of recognition, he continued, “I see you’ve encountered them. But don’t let appearances fool you. Emma might be more likely to have been painted by Munnings than Constable, but I don’t believe she’s quite the battle-ax she’d like you to think, nor the fair Penny quite so dim.”
They had reached the entry, and paused. “And the cottages?” asked Kincaid.
“Empty. Except Cassie’s.” Another closed subject, Kincaid presumed from the abruptness of Sebastian’s answer. “The reception room you’ve seen. Beyond that is the sitting room, which leads into the White Rose Bar. Encourages convivial meetings among the owners. It’s supposed to work on an honor system, but you can always tell the ones who don’t pay. It’s that furtive survey of the room after they’ve poured a drink, to see if anyone will notice whether they’ve put money in the bowl.”
Sebastian studied himself in the hall mirror, flicked a pale strand of hair into place with his fingertips, then adjusted the fit of his pleated, linen trousers around his narrow waist. “Well, fun and games time. Shall I lead you to the slaughter?” His glance, as conspiratorial as a wink, left Kincaid the uncomfortable impression that he was as transparent to Sebastian Wade as the rest of the world’s poor mugs.
The air of the sitting room was pungent with smoke, the throat-catching stuffiness exacerbated by the electric bars glowing red in the fireplace. The guests stood huddled in self-protective groups on the red-and-green patterned carpet, their voices rising in an indistinguishable chorus.
Sebastian led him to the bar and poured him a lager. While he waited, Kincaid noticed a room behind the bar that Sebastian hadn’t mentioned. Unlike the polished and uncluttered reception room where Cassie had received him, this was a working office. A gray metal desk and filing cabinet, a sturdy secretarial chair, and a scarred wooden coatrack replaced Queen Anne elegance. Papers partially covered the adding machine and spilled from the desk on to the typewriter. This must be Cassie’s domain, the nerve center of the house. No wonder Sebastian had
