The Malcontenta

13

Brock crunched through the snow after Grace Carrington, all the way to the front steps of the temple, and saw where she’d kicked her boots clean at the threshold. The tall glass-panelled doors, their timber frames slightly twisted through years of neglect, creaked complainingly as Brock pulled them open, and he heard the sound echo within. There was no sign of her in the upper chamber and, as his eyes grew more accustomed to the dim light, Brock moved forward, his boots clumping on the marble floor panels until he reached the swastika grille. Still.no indication that she was there, except perhaps the faintest trace of soap or perfume in the dank air.

He found the small spiral staircase leading to the lower chamber and made his way awkwardly down, his clumsy rubber boots too large for the triangular stone treads. When he reached the bottom he didn’t notice her at first. She was standing motionless in front of the organ console below the grille, exactly where Alex Petrou had been found. In the shadow of the recess her face was very pale, a hand raised to her mouth, her eyes wide with fright, and she looked as if she were about to scream.

‘Good lord!’ Brock said. ‘You gave me a start.’

‘Who are you?’ she whispered.

‘Brock, David Brock. I’m new here. Only arrived yesterday. I was just exploring. Are you all right?’

She took in his orange anorak and Wellington boots, just like hers.

‘Yes.’ He heard her take a deep breath. ‘You scared me. I heard the sound of the front door, then your footsteps and the tapping of your stick. And then I heard you coming down the stairs. I suddenly felt very frightened. Stupid…’

‘Oh no, I can imagine exactly what it must have sounded like. This is a very spooky sort of place. Mind you, I’m finding everything a bit strange at the moment.’

‘I’m sorry — ’ she stepped out of the darkness towards him ‘- my name is Grace Carrington.’ They shook hands formally. ‘Actually, I have seen you. I think your room is close to mine.’ She sounded faint, a wraith that might fade away at any moment.

‘Ah. I was in the library after lunch,’ Brock said, trying to fill the chill space around them with the confidence of his voice, ‘and I found a history of the house and the estate. It mentioned this place, so I thought I’d take a look. The Temple of Apollo.’ He gave a snort, as if to dispel any lingering miasmas with his scepticism.

‘He was the god of music,’ she said, indicating the organ console behind her.

‘Yes, and of the healing art — appropriate for a clinic, I suppose. Identified also with the sun, both as the giver of life and the destroyer. It’s amazing how many jobs they were able to hold down in those days.’

She managed a smile. ‘You’re finding it a bit strange here, you said.’

‘Yes. It’s my first time. It all seems quite odd.’

‘You’ll soon get used to it. And when you come to leave, you’ll find that the world outside seems equally strange at first.’

‘In what way?’

‘I found I’d become … detached from it.’ ‘So you’ve done this a few times?’

Grace shivered suddenly. ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ she said, and made for the foot of the stairs. ‘This is my third visit. I’m not as much a regular as Martha or Sidney — I saw you talking to them at lunch-time today.’

‘Yes.’ Brock’s voice became muffled as he climbed the spiral staircase. ‘I think Martha decided to take me under her wing.’

Grace was standing at the top, waiting for him, and smiled again at the expression on his face. ‘She has a habit of doing that with new people. She’ll let you go after a bit.’

‘I think I may have already exhausted her patience. I got her a bit upset today.’

‘Did you? How did you manage that?’ They began walking slowly back up the nave.

‘I recalled seeing something that was reported in the papers last year, about one of the staff here who was found hanged. In this building.’

Grace stopped and turned towards him, looking carefully at his face. ‘Yes. What did you say?’

‘I was just trying to find out what she thought really happened. I’m afraid she was offended, thought I was casting aspersions on the man.’

Grace turned away, saying nothing at first. Then, ‘I was here, too.’

Brock waited for her to say more, and when nothing came he spoke carefully, pitching his voice lower. ‘Just now, Grace, when I came upon you down there, it occurred to me that you must be standing in the actual place where he was found.’

She didn’t acknowledge his comment for a long while. Eventually she turned towards him again and said, ‘I think many of us … would like to know what happened.’

‘Martha said drugs.’

‘That’s what they said at the inquest. But you’ve seen what it’s like down there … Knowing him, it’s hard to believe.’

They paused for a moment outside the doors, in the space behind the four Ionic columns of the temple front.

‘These columns were here for a hundred years before the temple was built,’ Grace said, resting her hand on the fluted surface of one of them, picking at some lichen with her nail. ‘They were meant to be a ruin, you see, something to be contemplated from the house, or while strolling in the gardens. To remind you of the passage of time, of your mortality.’

‘Yes, that was mentioned in the book I was reading in the library,’ Brock said. ‘And you know about the other things, too?’

‘No. What other things?’

‘The ruin was just one of a series of mementi mori — is that the plural? According to the book, the others should still be around somewhere in the grounds. I thought I might mount an expedition at some point to try and track them down.’

She smiled. ‘That’s a nice idea. You must tell me what you find.’

‘Why not join me? In this weather it might be safer to explore in pairs in case one of us gets lost in the drifts.’

She didn’t answer and they set off towards the house, the silence broken only by the sound of their footsteps until Brock said, ‘I met someone else today who said he was here last October when that chap died. Norman de Loynes. Did you meet him then?’

‘Yes, I do remember him. He made himself unpopular with some of the staff. A cleaner, I think. He was quite arrogant about something, as far as I remember — he’s not a friend of yours, is he?’

‘No, no.’ Brock’s eyes had been studying their original footprints as they retraced their steps, the deep grip of the soles of their boots showing up as two different patterns. He noticed that there was also a third pattern of footprints, with a distinctive diamond-shaped heel mark, heading towards the temple and in some places obliterating the tracks which Brock and Grace had left. Brock stopped and stared back towards the knoll, but he couldn’t see anyone. As they approached the door to the west wing, this third set of tracks could be seen curving in towards them from the direction of the car park, its origins lost in the slush of the roadway.

‘All right,’ Grace said as they closed the door behind them and started pulling off their outdoor clothes. She was quicker than Brock and finished while he was still wrestling with his anorak. ‘I’ll come on your expedition. When do you want to go?’

‘What about tomorrow afternoon?’

She nodded. ‘I’ll meet you down here,’ and she walked quickly away down the corridor.

After dinner that evening a video, On Golden Pond, was shown in the drawing room for the patients. Brock skipped both dinner and video and, tucking into yet another glass of water, forced himself to do some work on his paper.

The following morning’s treatment sessions were a repeat of the previous day’s, with hydrotherapy followed by physiotherapy and massage. He had little opportunity to talk to the staff involved, and saw no sign of Rose, whom he had been hoping to meet again.

At two, after the lunch hour, the patients dispersed, some to their rooms to rest, others to the drawing room to read the morning papers or to the games room to play a hand of cards. Brock went to the reception desk to keep his appointment with Ben Bromley. The receptionist lifted the counter flap for him and led him to a door at the back of her office, knocked and showed him in. Expecting the converted store-cupboard that Kathy had described, Brock was surprised by a generous office, with a large window overlooking the gravelled terrace at the front of the house. The furniture and fittings appeared to be recently delivered and, unlike everywhere else in the building, were coordinated with each other. There was a pungent smell of new carpet, and another smell as well, elusive and enticing, which Brock couldn’t quite identify until he saw, incongruous in the middle of the large executive desk, a hot meat pie and a bottle of beer.

The receptionist, taking no notice of them, said, ‘Have a seat, Mr Brock. Mr Bromley has just stepped out. He’ll be back in a sec’

Brock sat down, mesmerized by the shockingly blatant display on the desk. He wondered if this was some kind of test, if Beamish-Newell might be watching him on a hidden camera, waiting to see if he would break down and hurl himself at the forbidden fruit.

Bromley bustled in after a while, cheerfully shook Brock’s hand and went round to sit in the large, pneumatically operated chair behind the desk. His aftershave was powerful. ‘Sorry about this,’ he said, gesturing towards the pie and beer. ‘I got held up in town, negotiating with the stoats and weasels at the bank. Went on much longer than I’d expected, and I missed my lunch. You’ve had yours, I suppose?’

Brock nodded. ‘Please, go ahead. Don’t let it get cold.’ He tried to drag his eyes away.

‘Well, if you really don’t mind, I might just do that. I’m ravenous, as a matter of fact. Always does that to me, talking about money.’ Bromley grinned and bit a large chunk out of the pie. While he chewed, he carried on talking. ‘Well now, David, mmm, mmm, what can I do for you?’

Brock coughed, clearing the saliva in his throat. ‘Well … it was Dr Beamish-Newell who suggested I might speak to you. About the possibility of investing in the clinic. Then I was speaking to Norman de Loynes, and he suggested the same thing.’

‘Mmm, mmm.’ Bromley nodded vigorously, licked his lips and took another bite of pie. Gravy oozed down his chin. ‘Good idea. Stephen did mention you to me. This is your first visit, I understand.’

‘Yes. I must admit I’m pretty new to all this. I really don’t know a lot about it. I only arrived on Monday.’

‘Mmm. Well, I imagine the Director has been painting the picture, mmm, of the health side of things. Obviously, what Stanhope has to offer in that respect is a very superior product. Maybe unique. What has probably also become apparent to you is that Stanhope is a community of like-minded people. That’s a very important part of the philosophy, mmm; it’s not just some sort of sterile out-patient facility or a commercial fat-farm.’

Bromley nodded at his own words and paused briefly to take a swig from the beer bottle and another bite from the remains of the pie. ‘But the third aspect of Stanhope, mmm, mmm, which may not be so apparent up front, David, is that it is also a very sound business enterprise. I’ll show you figures in a tick. Three things, you see — health, community and enterprise. Together they create a really special investment context.’

He let that sink in while he finished the pie, screwed up the foil tray and tossed it into his waste-paper basket. ‘Smashing,’ he said.

Brock regretfully tore his eyes away from the piece of foil and returned his attention to the man swallowing beer behind the desk. He noticed that Bromley had some kind of skin trouble around his nose and eyebrows, which gave his chubby face a slightly inflamed look. ‘But isn’t the clinic a charity? Can you invest in a charity?’

Bromley wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and gave Brock a cunning smile. ‘Good point, David. Good point. The Stanhope Foundation is a registered charity, yes. The Stanhope Naturopathic Clinic and the Stanhope Trust are not. It’s a matter of allowing people to participate in the affairs of Stanhope in many different tax-effective ways, according to their needs and inclinations — as patient, trustee, donor, shareholder or Friend.’

‘Friend?’

‘I imagine that may be what Stephen and Norman had in mind when they suggested you speak to me, David. We have a limited class of membership of the Stanhope community which we call “Friends of Stanhope”. You might say they are all the other categories rolled into one. They pay an annual fee, which makes them shareholders in the enterprise, and also partly goes to support the charitable work of the Foundation. In return, the Friends have access to the range of Stanhope facilities on a privileged basis. They can come here for short stays, for example, at discount rates, and have access to the therapeutic treatments they require, on a one-off basis or not, as they wish. It’s like a club, David. They can drop in for a weekend, unwind, meet their pals. That might suit you quite well, a single man — a retreat from the stresses and strains of the city? They have their own lounge upstairs,’ he chuckled and winked at Brock. ‘The dumb waiter that serves the dining room from the kitchen downstairs goes on up to the Friends’ lounge, you see. They make their own arrangements with the kitchen.’

‘Ah, yes, I can see the merit in that. Well … as I said, Ben, I’m still finding my feet here at the moment, but it certainly sounds an interesting concept. I think I should find out a bit more.’

Bromley nodded. ‘Health, community and enterprise, David. It combines the three essential ingredients of Stanhope in a unique way.’

‘I would have thought the business enterprise side might have been at odds with the other two aspects, though? I mean, I didn’t get the impression from Dr Beamish-Newell that making money was a priority.’

‘What did you think of him?’ Bromley tilted back in his chair and eyed Brock over the neck of the bottle with a mischievous, and maybe slightly sly, grin.

‘He was very impressive, from the one meeting we had. “Charismatic” is probably the word.’

‘Charismatic’ Bromley nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, you’re right there, David. He’s a brilliant man in his field, a wonderful asset to the clinic. That’s his role. The money side isn’t of great concern to him. That’s left to drones like me. But we’re all part of a team, some of us more visible than others, but all with our roles to play.’

‘Ye-es.’ Brock sounded doubtful. ‘I’m sure you do. But in the end, this place really is Dr Beamish-Newell, isn’t it? I just wondered about that, when the idea of investing came up.’

‘How do you mean, David?’

‘Well, what would happen if something happened to him? I mean, supposing it turned out one day that he’d killed someone, Ben?’

‘Eh?’ Ben froze, and then came upright, as if his chair were ejecting him, but in slow motion. He stared at Brock, and, when Brock didn’t offer anything more, said, ‘What the hell does that mean, David?’

‘Well, that sort of thing can happen to doctors, can’t it? Some unfortunate accident, a patient with a weak heart and aggrieved, litigious relatives. It happens all the time these days, doesn’t it?’

‘Oh … yes, I get your drift. I thought for a moment there you were suggesting …’ He leaned back and his seat sighed under him. i take your point, David. As a potential investor, you would naturally be worried about a one-man organization that could fall apart overnight if that one man got fed up with the whole thing, ran off with the milkman’s wife or, as you say, had some kind of accident. Am I reading your mind?’

He wasn’t, but Brock nodded anyway.

‘That would have been the case until five or six years ago, David. I certainly wouldn’t have been interested in throwing any of my hard-earned cash into this place before that.’ Bromley gave a knowing smile, rotated the beer bottle to make sure it was quite empty, then sent it flying into the basket.

‘Absolutely no financial control,’ he continued. ‘What passed for books were a joke. I’m saying this in a spirit of openness, David, not by way of criticism of Stephen. That just wasn’t his forte. His strengths lay elsewhere, and he had the good fortune to meet up with Sir Peter Maples at just the time when he most needed him. Sir Peter was able to harness his business acumen to the good doctor’s vision and set the clinic up on a sound, long-term footing, one that others can feel comfortable about participating in. Dr Beamish-Newell is part of a team now — an important part, of course, responsible for the health programmes, just as I’m responsible for implementing the business plan and for the ongoing financial management. But not an indispensable part.

‘That’s what I meant just now about the team,’ Bromley went on, staring up at the ceiling pensively. ‘I’ve learned, from my experience of many different kinds of businesses, large and small, that charismatic people, essential as they may be to provide the initial dynamic, in the end are only as strong as the team they are able to form around them. And we have a very strong team here, David.’

Bromley frowned. ‘In any organization, after a certain stage is reached, the enterprise can do without the charismatic leader, but the charismatic leader cannot do without the team. That’s my point, David. Believe me, it’s true what they say about no one being indispensable. I’ve learned that the hard way.’

‘True enough,’ Brock remarked sadly. ‘Well, is there a prospectus for the Friends, Ben?’

‘Not exactly, David, but I do have some information on the financial side.’ He swung his stocky figure out of the chair, went over to a filing cabinet and extracted a file. He passed Brock a single sheet of paper. ‘That’s the current figure for this year.’

Brock read the top line and blinked. The annual fee appeared to be about equivalent to what he earned in two months.

‘Part of the fee can be designated contributions to a charity and so attracts tax relief, David, and part is a share purchase, attracting future dividends. The calculations give an illustration of the bottom line for a typical contributor, but you’d want to go through that yourself with your accountant.’

‘Yes, yes. That’s interesting. And how does one apply?’

‘As I said, it’s like a club. An existing member has to nominate you, and the membership as a whole has to accept you. It’s a small group, like-minded.’

‘Do you have a list of members?’

Bromley smiled. ‘Only for members’ eyes, David. But I think you can take it that you’ve already met one of them.’

‘Aha. What about women? I got the impression when you were talking just now that the Friends were predominantly men?’

‘They are all men, as it happens. No reason why there shouldn’t be a woman, of course. Just haven’t been any nominated so far. Stephen mentioned you work in the Home Office, David.’

Brock nodded. ‘You’ve given me plenty to think about, Ben. I’d better get off to my afternoon therapy session now and let you get on with your work.’

Bromley relaxed in his chair. ‘What’s the torture this afternoon, David?’

‘Yoga.’

Bromley grinned. ‘Did you hear what happened to the india-rubber woman who went out with the pencil salesman?’

‘No, I can’t say — ’

Brock was spared by the receptionist, who put her head round the door to remind Bromley of his next appointment. They shook hands and Brock was given another folder of brochures on his way out.

When the afternoon session was finished, Brock collected his overcoat, gloves and scarf from his room in preparation for his walk with Grace Carrington. She was waiting by the basement door and laughed when she saw his gear.

‘I did the same.’ She showed him her woollen mittens, scarf and hat, all striped in bright rainbow colours. ‘I hope you’ve got a map or something.’

When they had pulled on their boots, Brock produced a piece of paper from his coat pocket with a flourish. ‘Copied it myself. The locations are marked by the crosses and numbers.’

‘Very impressive. Come on, then.’

She pushed the door open. Cold air caught their nostrils and turned their breath to steam.

‘Oh, it’s wonderful!’ Grace called back over her shoulder to him. Sunlight came pouring out of a blue sky and was reflected blindingly from every snow-covered surface. Brock pulled the door shut behind him and crunched after her.

They walked round to the front of the house, where the drive broadened into a forecourt in front of the entrance steps. On the far side of this area, two rows of cypress trees formed a narrow avenue, now unused and overgrown, leading to the east.

‘Along this avenue somewhere,’ Brock called, puffing to keep up with her, ‘there should be some fragments.’

They found them half-way down on the left: several large stone capitals tilted at odd angles, partly buried in snowdrifts.

‘Looks as if the builders of the house had a few left over,’ Brock said, but Grace shook her head.

‘Wrong type. These are Corinthian, whereas the ones on the columns of the house and the temple are Ionic. They’re too big, as well. It’s disturbing, seeing them scattered on the ground like that,’ she added, ‘knowing that they belong high up on top of columns. You feel as if some catastrophe has happened.’

They walked on to the end of the avenue, where a stone pyramid, about the height of a man, blocked their route.

‘Well, this one seems clear enough,’ Brock said. ‘Egyptian monument to the dead.’

‘Or Roman: the Pyramid of Cestius, for example.’

‘You’re good at this.’

‘I used to teach art history. Long ago.’

There seemed only one way forward, through a gap in a hedge, and they found themselves in a garden of overgrown shrubs whose snow-laden branches barely gave them room to pass through. The bushes thinned out, and they came to a clearing with a stone bench facing an old sprawling yew tree. Beneath it stood a large block of stone, tilting slightly where the roots of the tree had unsettled it.

Grace brushed the snow off the bench and sat down while Brock went forward to examine the monument. ‘It looks a bit like an altar,’ he said, ducking his head under the branches of the yew to get closer to it. Then, noticing that in fact it wasn’t a solid block but had a heavy stone lid, he said, ‘No, it’s more like a sarcophagus. There’s some lettering carved into the front.’

‘What does it say?’ Grace called to him.

‘Et in Arcadia ego: Brock spelled it out to her. ‘And in Arcadia I. What is that supposed to mean? I can’t believe that anyone actually ever spoke this language. It’s like trying to decipher a crossword puzzle. This doesn’t even have a verb.’

‘That’s the point.’ Grace’s voice came softly from behind him. ‘The ambiguity adds to the meaning.’

Something in her tone made him pause and look back at her. Through the branches of the yew he saw tears streaming down her cheeks. He hurried back and sat beside her on the bench. ‘Grace, whatever is the matter?’

She shook her head and quickly brushed her face with her glove. After a while she took a deep breath and spoke. ‘My first visit to Paris was with my husband, before we were married. It was a wonderful trip, just the way it should be — it was spring, we were in love, you know … Anyway, in the Louvre we saw a famous painting by Poussin. It shows a group of shepherds in Arcady standing around a tomb which they’ve just discovered, like us. On the tomb are the words Et in Arcadia ego:

She shrugged and her voice became more businesslike, matter-of-fact. ‘You could imagine the verb in the past tense, And I was in Arcady, as if the person in the tomb was speaking to us from the past, you know, Think of me; I used to live here too, just like you. On the other hand, the verb could be in the present tense, in which case it isn’t the dead person talking, but death itself. Remember, even in Arcady, I am here.’

‘Yes, I see,’ Brock nodded. ‘You are good at this. But why does it upset you?’

She said nothing for a while, and he watched her stubborn profile staring fixedly at the snow at her feet.

‘I’m going to die,’ she whispered at last.

He was stunned. ‘What do you mean?’

She struggled to compose herself. ‘Everyone’s going to die, of course, we all know that. Only we don’t, not really. We just don’t believe it’s ever really going to happen. But I know it’s going to happen to me. I’ve been picked.’

‘Picked?’ Brock was conscious of how tense and still their bodies were.

‘When I was a girl, a teenager,’ she whispered, and she suddenly sounded very weary, ‘I remember reading about a village in Spain during the Civil War. Was it in Hemingway? I don’t know, I was reading him about then, I think … Anyway, this village was high up on the side of a mountain, and there was a sheer cliff on one side of the village square. When one side won control of the village, all the people who had supported the other side were picked out, and one by one they were carried to the edge of the cliff and thrown over.’

She paused as if watching the scene projected on to the white surface of the ground.

‘I was horrified, imagining what it must have been like, waiting for your turn, watching the others lifted up, struggling and begging and screaming, and then disappearing over the edge. And then seeing the eyes turning on you, realizing it’s you now, feeling their hands on you, carrying you towards the void.’

Grace stopped for breath, trembling, and Brock waited, silently.

Another deep breath, like an immense sigh. ‘I have cancer, David. That’s it. I have cancer.’ ‘Oh, Grace, I’m …’

‘They first detected it last June. A tumour in my side. I had chemotherapy through the summer and it seemed to work. I lost all my hair and felt like a wet rag, but I was in the clear. I knew it was going to be all right. I came here a couple of times to help with the recuperation.

‘Then last month I went for a check-up. My hair had been growing back and I had more energy, though I still kept feeling exhausted. In a way I enjoyed that. It reminded me of what I had overcome, and made me feel that my body was recovering. But they discovered that the cancer had survived after all, and it had spread all over, deep, malignant. And I began to realize, from what they said and the way they said it, that it wasn’t going to be all right after all.’

She half turned her head and looked into his eyes. ‘I shan’t be here for summer. I shall be gone, into the void.’

Brock turned away, unable for a moment to meet her gaze. ‘Grace … I’m so sorry.’

‘The thing that really brought it home to me, that really made me feel so terrified, was the way Winston and the boys took it. Winston is my husband.’

She took another deep breath. ‘We have two boys — Richard, who’s eighteen, and Arthur, who’s sixteen. Anyway, they were very sympathetic and caring and everything, just like the first time. Only … I began to see that they were taking it in their stride. They’d already had a dress rehearsal, thinking they were going to lose me, and now they knew how to deal with it. It was as if they just went straight to the recovery stage, as if they’d already gone through denial, grieving and all the rest, and didn’t need to do it again.

‘For me it was the complete opposite of the first time, when I’d been distracted from worrying about myself by worrying about how they would cope without me. That first time I’d told Winston he mustn’t feel guilty about marrying again when I was gone, because I didn’t see how he’d manage on his own. He told me not to say things like that, but now I realize that he did think about it, and now I don’t think I like it any more. Oh, it’s not that he wants me to die or anything. I’m sure he’d do anything to save me, if he could — it was he who suggested I come here. It’s just that in his mind he’s already moved ahead to when he’ll be a single man again, and I think he doesn’t find the idea all that unbearable. I find it difficult to face my women friends now, especially the single ones, without wondering if their being so solicitous has something to do with the fact that there’ll be an attractive spare man in my house in a month or two who’ll need helping out.’

She sighed. ‘Doesn’t that sound dreadful? I even imagine them asking me if I’ll leave him to one of them in my will. It isn’t really jealousy exactly. I feel as if I were sitting in a train in the station, and Winston and the boys are alongside me in another train, and we can talk to each other through the open windows, just as if we were all together. But pretty soon our trains will leave the station and continue their journeys, and we all know that the tracks will separate and go off in different directions. I have a terrible sense of panic, of loss, that I won’t be with them any more, that they will go their way without me. Maybe that’s what jealousy is, really, the thing that makes it hurt so much. It’s also fear. I’m absolutely terrified, David. It wasn’t like this the first time at all. I was brave, or at least I seemed to be able to act bravely. Perhaps I was just in shock. Now I seem to have completely lost my nerve. And the calmer and more considerate they become, the more I panic. That’s why I had to get away from them for a while.’

It occurred to Brock that, for someone who had spent half his life investigating sudden death, supposedly an expert in the subject, he had absolutely nothing useful to say to her.

‘Grace, I feel so stupid suggesting we come out here …’ He waved his arm at the sarcophagus.

‘No,’ she put her hand on his arm. ‘I’m glad you suggested it. It isn’t morbid. I really want to come to terms with it. That’s why I was in the temple yesterday. I wanted to try to understand what had been in Alex Petrou’s mind.’

Brock had originally planned to turn the conversation to this. It was the reason why he had suggested their walk. Now he no longer wanted to pursue it with her. Yet it took them on to slightly easier ground, away from the impossibly oppressive facts of Grace’s story. ‘Do you feel he could have known what he might be facing?’ he asked.

‘That’s what I’ve been trying to decide. Did he know? He had such style! He made everyone else seem timid, tongue-tied, rather provincial, as if he belonged to a wider, more expansive, more exciting world. I’ve been trying to imagine, if he had known that he was at risk in some way, would he have behaved differently? Or would he have gone on being the same, risking everything, daring the fates?’

‘You felt he was a risk-taker?’

‘Oh yes, I’m sure he was! I remember some old dears driving back to the clinic one day and arriving in a terrible state because they’d met Alex on the road on his motor bike. He drove like a bat out of hell — that was his expression. He’d picked it up from someone and it appealed to him. “I am the bat out of hell,” he would say. He’d had several speeding tickets.’

‘Well … maybe that’s the best way to go.’ Brock muttered the words before he could stop himself, then immediately bit his tongue. But Grace didn’t appear to have heard. She was staring past his shoulder, eyes wide, her expression rather as he had seen it first in the lower chamber of the temple.

Brock turned in the direction of her stare and saw a dark, hooded figure standing motionless, watching them, about thirty yards away towards the high hedges which surrounded the north lawn of the house. They remained immobile, the three of them, for a long second, and then the figure turned abruptly and disappeared behind the nearest hedge.

‘Stay here,’ Brock said. He ran as fast as he could towards the other end of the hedge, jumping over flower-beds and clumps of dead foliage. He threw himself around the end of the hedge and slithered to a stop. There was no sign of anyone else. Chest heaving from the sudden exertion in his heavy boots and coat, he trotted along the hedge, back towards the spot where the figure had been standing. Before he reached the place, he saw the footprints and recognized the diamond heel pattern. The track came a few paces down the line of the hedge, then crossed back through a gap and headed towards the clearing where he’d left Grace.

‘Shit!’ he muttered, and pushed through the gap, his eyes fixed on the footprints. They detoured round a cluster of bushes, and looking up he caught a glimpse of the dark figure through an opening in the shrubbery ahead. Whoever it was had reached Grace, was standing over her, and Brock could see her pale face turned upwards.

He decided to cut directly through to them rather than follow the path, and found himself floundering up to his thighs in deceptively deep mounds of pristine snow. The two motionless figures seemed unaware of his approach as he struggled towards them. Finally, Grace nodded and turned her face towards Brock, and he realized she had known he was coming but had been listening to something the other figure had been saying. It, too, turned, and Brock saw a peaked cap projecting under the hood of the black parka, and beneath the cap a male face.

‘David! You’ll give yourself a heart attack,’ Grace said, with genuine concern.

It took him an embarrassingly long time to bring his heaving lungs under sufficient control to speak. ‘Who …? Who …?’

‘This is Geoffrey Parsons, David. He’s the Estates Manager.’

Parsons offered his hand and Brock was obliged to pull his glove off and shake it.

‘What were you doing, lurking over there?’ he asked truculently.

‘I saw you, but I didn’t want to interrupt …’ Parsons sounded anxious. And looking at him close up, at the wisps of sandy hair falling untidily across his eyes, and listening to his weak voice, Brock felt foolish at having expended so much effort pursuing him.

‘What about yesterday? You followed us up to the temple, didn’t you?’

Parsons nodded. ‘I’ve been wanting to ask Mrs Carrington something. Sorry, I didn’t want to disturb you.’ He smiled wanly at Grace, then nervously at Brock, and turned and walked away.

‘What did he want?’ Brock asked.

‘He’s worried about his girlfriend, Rose. Wanted to know if she had been speaking to me. She works here too, and we got quite friendly the last time I was here.’ She sighed. ‘Perhaps I should speak to her, try to find out what’s wrong. It’s the last thing I want to do, but of course he doesn’t know about …’ She looked up at Brock sharply. ‘You won’t say anything to anyone, David, will you? I didn’t mean to tell anyone.’

‘Of course not. Can I help in any way — with Rose, I mean?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m not even sure that he wants me to approach her. He’s so tense. I wonder if her problem is him: