MONDAY–TUESDAY
FIFTY-SIX
Lady Stanwood stood in a first-floor window and studied the driveway of Flitcham, impatient for the stranger’s arrival. The grounds she inspected looked far better than they had at the time of her husband’s passing. True, the death of old Tommy Turner had been a blow. Some said the old gardener should never have come back, once all the groundstaff had volunteered en masse to serve. That being out in the cold and wet with his gang of novices had taken him off. Lady Stanwood believed it had been the loss of his two grandsons within three days of each other at Ypres that had accelerated his end.
Oh, how she wanted this war to end. Then she could get on with her plans. As it was, she felt frozen into inertia by it. Like, she supposed, every other mother in the land, dreading that little red demon on the crimson bicycle, with his sackful of sorrows. Surely it couldn’t go on much longer?
Yet conscription had been announced, which suggested that there was some way to go yet before they defeated Germany. And now there was a request for her to hand over parts of the hall to the Canadians for the rehabilitation of the wounded. She could see no reason to refuse. The place was too large for her now, especially with a denuded staff.
The Albion turned tentatively into the driveway, brushing close to the gatehouse, and began making a stately, albeit somewhat jerky, progress between the limes. It was, she hoped, carrying providence. She moved back from the window, not wanting to be seen by her visitor.
The voice on the telephone had been tremulous, suggesting an older man. But the words had carried the force of youth. He had read the obituary of her husband in The Times, he had spoken to Dr Kibble – whom he stressed was the soul of discretion – and this man was convinced that Lord Stanwood had died what he called an ‘unnatural’ death.
She caught sight of herself in one of the gilded mirrors. Time and worry had blurred her features. The years of fretting over poor Bimmy, as she called her husband, slipping away into a terrifying dementia. And now the constant, gnawing concern over Robinson, the new Lord Stanwood. Would he ever get to take his seat in the Lords? Would he ever be half the man his father was?
An ‘unnatural’ death. It was certainly that. Which was why she had agreed to see this man.
She watched the chauffeur get out and limp round to open the rear door. The road accident that had broken Legge’s limbs and scarred his face had been a godsend. Nobody would ask about why he wasn’t serving now. It had saved his life. She waited for the newcomer to emerge from the vehicle. It was a shock when the person who emerged turned out to be a boy.
But no, there was another figure, struggling to get out. First came a stout walking stick, followed by the long, spindly fingers of the free hand, which the boy took. The man shuffled to the edge of the seat and, with assistance from Legge, struggled upright.
He stood for a few moments, the effort having taken something from him.
He was even older than she had imagined on the telephone. Stooped and frail. Who at that age gallivanted about the country in taxicabs and on trains? However, it suggested to her that whatever this man had to say, he believed it important. Why else put himself to what was clearly a great deal of trouble?
Lady Stanwood watched as he positioned himself between the boy and his stick and began a slow but stately progress towards the hall. It was his back that troubled him, she could tell from the tiny steps he took. After a few yards he stopped and used his walking stick to point at the oleanders. Legge nodded the answer to his question, whatever it was.
The man bent down, cautiously, and whispered something in the lad’s ear, then the strange entourage continued on its way towards the house. She had arranged for Mrs Talbot and Mr Steen the butler to greet him. She herself would be in the library when he entered. Time to take position.
She had misgivings now. Had she done the right thing? Bimmy’s death had been terrible to behold, but nothing this ancient crock could say would bring him back now. She would listen politely and send him on his way. After all, her primary concern – her only concern now – was to make sure Robinson de Griffon, Lord Stanwood, survived this war to enjoy his inheritance.