His flat had a view over Quire’s grounds. They were nothing elaborate, they were not in the Capability Brown or Gertrude Jekyll league, but Godfrey enjoyed them. The Trust kept everywhere in immaculate order, and visitors to the museum were very good about observing the ‘Do Not Leave Litter’ signs, although you still got the odd sprinkling of picnic wrappings, and occasionally there were other kinds of detritus which Godfrey preferred not to put a name to. (He could never understand people choosing somewhere so public for that kind of carrying-on.)
The letting agent had told him that a single lady had taken Charity Cottage. No, they said, in response to Godfrey’s anxious questioning, they did not know anything about her. They did not need to know anything, they added, except that she had paid two months’ rent in advance and the cheque had been cleared. She was a Miss Weston, and had given a London address. All entirely in order and Quire Trust might think itself fortunate to have a tenant for the place during November and December. And so Godfrey, who did think the Trust fortunate to have a tenant in the cottage for November and December, and who was pleased at the thought of a possible new friend, had put together what he thought of as a welcome-to-Quire box, and had felt guiltily relieved that Professor Remus was away because he would have been a bit scathing about it. An unnecessary gesture, he would have said, in the tone he always used when Godfrey gave way to an impulse. If he had seen the contents of the box he would have said, with sarcasm, ‘Good God, foie gras and smoked salmon, how very luxurious!’
So it was better that Oliver was currently away on a book-buying expedition–there had been the promise of a very nice early copy of Marlowe’s Jew of Malta in an old house where someone had lately died, and a rumour of some warmly romantic letters from Bernard Shaw to Mrs Patrick Campbell which one of the theatrical museums might like. Godfrey was hopeful that both possibilities would materialize. He would enjoy seeing the professor’s discoveries.
He was glad he had taken the little gift to the cottage. The unknown Miss Weston might find it bleak coming to a strange place on her own, and the first night in a new place was always lonely. Godfrey had said as much that afternoon to the young work-experience boy they had at Quire, and the boy had stared at him with what Godfrey felt to be quite unwarranted scorn. But that was youth for you. They had no romance in their souls. They stared at you with that curled-lip contempt, and sometimes they said things like, ‘What is your problem?’ or, ‘What part of “I won’t do that” didn’t you understand?’, which Godfrey never knew how to answer.
He closed the curtains, hoping Charity Cottage’s new tenant had liked his little gift, and hoping she was able to sleep on her first night there.
CHAPTER THREE
Either the memory of that well of terror in the cottage’s kitchen, or the recurring image of the dark blue car, or possibly a combination of the two had prevented Antonia from sleeping.
At half past midnight she gave up the struggle, and went downstairs to make a cup of tea. The kitchen was shadowy and cool, but if the clutching fear still lurked, it lurked very quietly. Good.
She paused to look out of the window for a moment, remembering how, not so long ago, she had been deeply afraid to look out of her own window in the middle of the night. But nothing stirred, and the parkland was a smooth stretch of unbroken sward, the trees bland and unthreatening. A large, dark-furred cat appeared from their shadows, considered the night landscape with the unhurried arrogance of its kind, and then padded gracefully across the park, vanishing into the night on some ploy of its own. The kettle boiled, and Antonia made her cup of tea and took it back upstairs.
It was probably madness to unlock the small suitcase, and take the five-and six-year-old sheaf of curling newspaper cuttings from their envelope, but there were times when you needed to confront your own madness. Sometimes you could even pretend to relive the past and sidestep the mistakes.