“I hadn’t forgotten.”
She wondered how Matthew would react if she shaved the sides of her head, or dyed her hair blue. He had not put up much of a show of resentment at her spending Saturday with Strike. Her long days of effective house arrest, and her sympathy about the argument with Tom, seemed to have bought her credit.
Shortly after half past ten, they turned off the motorway onto a country road that wound down into the valley where the tiny village of Woolstone lay nestled. Robin parked beside a hedgerow full of Traveler’s Joy, so that Strike could reattach his prosthesis. Replacing her sunglasses in her handbag, Robin noticed two texts from Matthew. They had arrived two hours earlier, but the alert of her mobile must have been drowned out by the racket of the Land Rover.
The first read:
All day. What about Tom?
The second, which had been sent ten minutes later, said:
Ignore last, was meant for work.
Robin was rereading these when Strike said:
“Shit.”
He had already reattached his prosthesis, and was staring through his window at something she could not see.
“What?”
“Look at that.”
Strike pointed back up the hill down which they had just driven. Robin ducked her head so that she could see what had caught his attention.
A gigantic prehistoric white chalk figure had been cut into the hillside. To Robin, it resembled a stylised leopard, but the realization of what it was supposed to be had already hit her when Strike said: “‘Up by the horse. He strangled the kid, up by the horse.’”
42
In a family there is always something or other going awry…
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
A flaking wooden sign marked the turning to Chiswell House. The drive, which was overgrown and full of potholes, was bordered on the left by a dense patch of woodland and on the right, by a long field that had been separated into paddocks by electric fences, and contained a number of horses. As the Land Rover lurched and rumbled towards the out-of-sight house, two of the largest horses, spooked by the noisy and unfamiliar car, took off. A chain reaction then occurred, as most of their companions began to canter around, too, the original pair kicking out at each other as they went.
“Wow,” said Robin, watching the horses as the Land Rover swayed over the uneven ground. “She’s got stallions in together.”
“That’s bad, is it?” asked Strike, as a hairy creature the color of jet lashed out with teeth and back legs at an equally large animal he would have categorized as brown, though doubtless the coat color had some rarefied equine name.
“It’s not usually done,” said Robin, wincing as the black stallion’s rear legs made contact with its companion’s flank.
They turned a corner and saw a plain-faced neo-classical house of dirty yellow stone. The graveled forecourt, like the drive, had several potholes and was strewn with weeds, the windows were grubby and a large tub of horse feed sat incongruously beside the front door. Three cars were already sitting there: a red Audi Q3, a racing green Range Rover and an old and muddy Grand Vitara. To the right of the house lay a stable block and to the left, a wide croquet lawn that had long since been given over to the daisies. More dense woodland lay beyond.
As Robin braked, an overweight black Labrador and a rough-coated terrier came shooting out of the front door, both barking. The Labrador seemed keen to make friends but the Norfolk terrier, which had a face like a malevolent monkey, barked and growled until a fair-haired man, dressed in stripy shirt and mustard-colored corduroy trousers, appeared at the doorway and bellowed:
“SHUT UP, RATTENBURY!”
Cowed, the dog subsided into low growls, all directed at Strike.
“Torquil D’Amery,” drawled the fair-haired man, approaching Strike with his hand outstretched. There were deep pockets beneath his pale blue eyes and his shiny pink face looked as though it never needed a razor. “Ignore the dog, he’s a bloody menace.”
“Cormoran Strike. This is—”
Robin had just held out her hand when Kinvara erupted out of the house, wearing old jodhpurs and a washed-out T-shirt, her loose red hair falling everywhere.
“For God’s sake… don’t you know anything about horses?” she shrieked at Strike and Robin. “Why did you come up the drive so fast?”
“You should wear a hard hat if you’re going in there, Kinvara!” Torquil called at her retreating figure, but she stormed away giving no sign that she had heard him. “Not your fault,” he assured Strike and Robin, rolling his eyes. “Got to take the drive at speed or you’ll get stuck in one of the bloody holes, ha ha. Come on in—ah, here’s Izzy.”
Izzy emerged from the house, wearing a navy shirtdress, the sapphire cross still around her neck. To Robin’s slight surprise, she embraced Strike as though he was an old friend come to offer condolences.
“Hi, Izzy,” he said, taking half a step backwards to extricate himself from the embrace. “You know Robin, obviously.”
“Oh, yah, got to get used to calling you ‘Robin’ now,” said Izzy, smiling and kissing Robin on both cheeks. “Sorry if I slip up and call you Venetia—I’m bound to, that’s how I still think of you.
“Did you hear about the Winns?” she asked, in almost the same breath.
They nodded.
“Horrible, horrible little man,” said Izzy. “I’m delighted Della’s given him the push.
“Anyway, come along in… where’s Kinvara?” she asked her brother-in-law as she led them into the house, which seemed gloomy after the brightness outside.
“Bloody horses are upset again,” said Torquil, over the renewed barking of the Norfolk terrier. “No, fuck off, Rattenbury, you’re staying outside.”
He banged the front door closed on the terrier, which began to whine and scratch at it instead. The Labrador padded quietly in Izzy’s wake as she led them through a dingy hallway with wide stone stairs, into a drawing room on the right.
Long windows faced out over the croquet lawn and the woods. As they entered, three white-blond children raced through the overgrown grass outside with raucous cries, then passed out of sight. There was nothing of modernity about them. In their dress and their hairstyles they might have walked straight out of the 1940s.
“They’re Torquil and Fizzy’s,” said Izzy fondly.
“Guilty as charged,” said Torquil, proudly. “M’wife’s upstairs, I’ll go and get her.”
As Robin turned away from the window she caught a whiff of a strong, heady scent that gave her an unaccountable feeling of tension until she spotted the vase of stargazer lilies standing on a table behind a sofa. They matched the faded curtains, once scarlet and now a washed-out pale rose, and the frayed fabric on the walls, where two patches of darker crimson showed that pictures had been removed. Everything was threadbare and worn. Over the mantelpiece hung one of the few remaining paintings, which showed a stabled horse with a splashy brown and white coat, its nose touching a starkly white foal curled in the straw.
Beneath this painting, and standing so quietly that they had not immediately noticed him, was Raphael. With his back to the empty grate, hands in the pockets of his jeans, he appeared more Italian than ever in this very English room, with its faded tapestry cushions, its gardening books piled in a heap on a small table and its chipped Chinoiserie lamps.
“Hi, Raff,” said Robin.
“Hello, Robin,” he said, unsmiling.
“This is Cormoran Strike, Raff,” said Izzy. Raphael didn’t move, so Strike walked over to him to shake hands, which Raphael did reluctantly, returning his hand to his jeans immediately afterwards.
“Yah, so, Fizz and I were just talking about Winn,” said Izzy, who seemed greatly preoccupied with the news of the Winns’ split. “We just hope to God he’s going to keep his mouth shut, because now Papa’s gorn, he can say whatever he likes about him and get away with it, can’t he?”
“You’ve got the goods on Winn, if he tries,” Strike reminded her.