Lying wakeful in Charity Cottage, reliving the trial and the dreary years in prison, Antonia felt again the ache of loss for Richard, and a wave of anger and bitterness that he had not lived to enjoy his music and his life. He had lost so much in the car crash that had killed their parents when he was eight and Antonia was eleven: he had lost the use of his legs because his spine had been irreparably damaged, and had lived the rest of his life in a wheelchair. One of the things Antonia had always found unbearably sad was that Richard would never know the closeness and the delight of being in bed with a lover. But he had clung tenaciously to optimism and had clung even more tenaciously to his music. He had worked hard, and so had Antonia, and after a few years–after she had qualified in psychiatric medicine and Richard had left the Royal College of Music–they had been able to buy the big comfortable bungalow. They liked living there, and they liked one another’s company. Richard had acquired some pupils and was making a modest name as a music researcher. Life had not been perfect but it had been very good.
One of the many tragedies in this entire mess of tragedies, was that they had had such a few short years to enjoy it all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Each evening after dinner George Lincoln sat in the comfortable drawing room of Toft House. He derived a deep satisfaction from looking about him, and knowing that this house, this big well-appointed house, belonged to him. Who would have thought the young man from such modest roots–his father had been vicar of a small parish adjoining Amberwood–would have done so well for himself?
On a dank autumn night he was not expecting anyone to call, but shortly after half past eight there was a rather timid plying of the door knocker, and since Mrs Plumtree would have retired to her own sitting room upstairs, George went along to answer it himself. Standing on the doorstep was Mrs Minching, the housekeeper from Quire House, looking deeply anxious.
‘Mr Lincoln, I’m that sorry to be knocking on your door, but I’m afraid there might be trouble up at Quire.’
‘Trouble? What kind of—Is it Maud?’ said George. ‘Has something happened to Maud?’ And then, belatedly aware of the chill night air, he said, ‘You’d better come inside, Mrs Minching, and sit down. What’s wrong?’
Mrs Minching, perched on the edge of the sofa, was inclined to be voluble. ‘I’d been to evensong, Mr Lincoln. I always go along of a Tuesday evening. Miss Thomasina knows, of course, and I leave a cold supper out.’
George repressed a strong desire to tell her to get on with it, because if something had happened to Maud…
‘Tonight it was getting on for eight o’clock when I got back, and that was when I found the kitchen door at Quire–the one I normally use–was locked. Not just locked, but bolted, Mr Lincoln. Well, I thought, that’s not usual. So I went round to the other doors–the garden door, the front door, and the French windows of the music room–but at every one it was the same story. Locked and bolted.’
‘Dear me,’ said George, not seeing where this was leading.
‘So then of course, I knocked. And without a word of a lie, I knocked until my hands were fair wore out, but no one came.’
‘But,’ said George, puzzled, ‘aren’t there two girls who work for you? Weren’t they there?’
‘One’s in Chester seeing her sister who’s just had a baby, and the other has the night off. I don’t ask questions as to where she goes,’ said Mrs Minching righteously.
‘What about Miss Thomasina?’
‘Miss Thomasina is away. And it’s not my place to question where she goes.’
‘No, but—’