She shook slightly, and I think she was laughing. “I can’t marry you,” she said after a while. “You’re just making a gesture.”
“Of course I’m making a gesture, you silly woman. I love you. For our honeymoon we’ll sail somewhere delicious.”
“John…” Again there was a sadness in her voice.
“Mind you,” I said, “I can’t marry you yet because I’ve got to find the two bastards who booby-trapped the boat, and when I do I’m going to kill them. I’ll bet Hans wouldn’t kill someone for you?”
“I don’t think he would, no.”
“That proves it, then. I’m a better man.”
“You’re a very impractical man. You’re just making a gesture because you pity me.”
“Balls. In fact I’m being very practical. I’m marrying an excessively rich girl, and it occurs to me that you’ll probably inherit the Van Gogh if we ever get it back, so I’m not really giving it away at all.” I smiled down at her. “Would you very much mind marrying me for your money?”
She paused. “You’ll hate me, John. I’ll be ugly.”
“I will love you” – I looked into her dark eyes – “and within a year you and I will be married, and two years from now we’ll have a child, and though I must confess I can’t stand the sound of a baby screaming, I will love him because he’s yours. So hold on, my love, because we have a lot of living to do.”
“Hold on,” she repeated my words. “You said that to me in the water.”
“You remember?”
“You were swearing,” she said, and I saw she was crying, and I was crying too, so I bent down and kissed one of her closed eyelids. Her tears tasted salty.
“You told me I was a pathetic bloody girl,” she said, “and that I was too feeble to live, and I thought I’ll show you. I’ll prove I’m not feeble.”
“Good for you,” I said. “So now prove that you can get better.”
She smiled, making the little gauze squares twitch. “I will, I promise. But it’s going to take a long time.”
“I’ll wait.”
The edge of the plastic tent shifted and I saw she was putting out her hand. I thought she wanted me to hold it, then I saw that her hand was nothing but black claws inside a plastic bag. She was watching me, and I sensed this was a test. She wanted to see if I’d flinch from the sight. Instead I bent down and, very gently, kissed the plastic bag. “It’s a bit difficult to put a ring on now,” I said, “but I will one day.”
“Maybe,” she said. She sounded tired so I placed the ring on the bedside table where she could see it. “I’ll come back,” I said.
“Please.” Her voice was a whisper.
I thought she was falling asleep so I tiptoed to the door. “John?” Her voice was very low.
I turned back. “My love?”
I waited a long time for her to speak, and when she did her voice was distorted because she was crying. “I love you,” she said, “but it all seems so bloody hopeless.”
“I love you too,” I replied, “and everything will be fine.” Then I left so she shouldn’t see my own tears.
I limped through dusty London streets. I was oblivious to the traffic or to the noise, oblivious to all the horrors of the city, blind to everything except the realisation that at last I had found someone to love, to cherish, but, first and most important of all, someone to avenge.
I reached Perilly House in the early evening. I had gone by train, bus, and foot, and my left ankle felt as if a white hot steel band was being slowly contracted about the bones. I wasn’t very sure how best to proceed for, despite my reputation, I was not a practised burglar, yet this evening I planned a burglary because, if Harry could not legally search Elizabeth’s house, then I would do it illegally. It was clear that I had arrived at an inopportune time for Elizabeth’s two stable girls were still busy giving riding lessons, and the presence of a car parked beside the Land Rover outside the front door suggested that Peter had a visitor, so I decided to wait till the house was either empty or Peter was alone and, presumably, drinking. I limped off the driveway to a copse of trees and settled down to wait.
By half past six the riding school pupils had been driven away by their mothers. Forty minutes later the stable girls locked up the yard and rode their bicycles down the tradesmen’s driveway. Peter’s visitor stayed another half- hour, then drove away. I stayed where I was, giving Peter time to start on his second or third bottle of the day, but it seemed my luck was in for, just a few moments after the visitor had left, Peter appeared at the front door, climbed into the Land Rover and accelerated down the drive.
I stood up, brushed the leaf mould off my jeans, and walked across the pastureland. I’d seen Peter lock the front door, so I went round the back where the house was an ugly clutter of gun room, dairy, sculleries, kitchen and coal stores. The doors were all locked, but I spotted a half-open window high up on the main scullery wall and, abandoning Charlie’s walking stick, I used an empty rain-butt to climb up to the window. It was a tight squeeze, and my left ankle threatened to spill me off the wobbly barrel, but I finally wriggled through the window on to a cobwebby shelf that creaked dangerously under my weight. There was a clatter of food tins hitting the floor as I pulled my legs through the window. I was proving to be a lousy burglar, but it was evident the house was deserted for no one came to investigate the noise.
I put the tins back on the shelf, wiped the cobwebs off my face, and opened the door. I knew the house from the old days. I was in the kitchen passage that was thickly hung with reins, bridles and whips. The kitchen was to the right and the family rooms to the left. I went left, through the baize-covered door, and paused in the hallway.
I knew Elizabeth had a small office behind the dining room, so I decided to begin there. I first unlocked the front door so that if anyone came home I could claim to have found the door open. The decor of the house had not been changed in the years I’d been barred from Perilly House. Peter’s gloomy pictures of long-forgotten battles and Elizabeth’s prints of spindly-legged racehorses jostled for position on the fading wallpaper. A dish of dusty cobnuts sat on the vast sideboard in the dining room. I opened one with the silver-gilt nutcrackers and ate it as I pushed open the unlocked door of Elizabeth’s office.
I knew within minutes that I would find nothing incriminating in the office. The only papers in the file drawers were records of her horses, receipts from the feed companies, vets’ bills, and details of forthcoming Pony Club events. It was plain that the stable girls also used the office, for Elizabeth had left them a message pinned to the top of the rolltop desk: ‘Mrs Peabody owes us ?16 so her wretched child is NOT to be given any rides until the bill is paid in FULL.’
I scouted the living room, but found no place where any papers might be hidden. I went upstairs. It was obvious that Lord and Lady Tredgarth slept apart, for the large bedroom was filled with Peter’s things and held nothing whatever of Elizabeth’s. His clothes were strewn on the floor, suggesting that the cleaning woman never reached this dismal domain. A half-empty bottle of whisky stood on a side table with a copy of the
I closed Peter’s door, then searched the four guest rooms and the two bathrooms, but they were all quite innocent. Which just left Elizabeth’s room. I tried the door, but as I’d feared, it was locked.
I had a choice now. So far, if I’d been found, I could righteously claim to be Lady Tredgarth’s brother who had come into an open house to wait for her, but if I broke down the door I would be committing an offence. I tested the lock by pushing on the door, but there was no play in it. It was an old-fashioned keyhole-type lock of the sort I had used to pick at Stowey, but I had no tools, nor did I know whether the skill was still with me.
I tried. I found some skewers in the kitchen, bent their tips, and tried to find the lock’s levers. After fifteen minutes I had achieved nothing other than a frayed temper. It also occurred to me that Peter might have gone no further than the local pub and could be home at any moment, so I gave up being delicate and just put my shoulder
