‘I don’t care where they came from. I’d love to have supper with you.’
As they sat round the table, Bryony had the absurd feeling that something was happening between the three of them–something very good and very strong, and something that might remain in the atmosphere of Charity Cottage for a very long time. It was probably ridiculously fanciful to think that somewhere in the future, someone would sit here and feel this good strong emotion, but she did think it.
There was a wheel of Stilton and a dish of crisp ripe apples to follow the game pie, and then some of Cormac’s whiskey to round it off. It was not until the glasses had been filled a second time that Daniel said, ‘There’s something more that I have to tell you.’
‘Ha,’ said Cormac. ‘I thought there was.’
‘When they went through the things inside Toft House,’ said Daniel, ‘they found a will. George Lincoln made it very recently indeed, and it’s simply drawn up, but apparently perfectly legal.’ He was looking at Cormac very directly now. ‘It seems, Sullivan, that at some time in the past you did George Lincoln a–a service that he never forgot.’
‘A man helps another man where he can,’ said Cormac offhandedly.
‘Well, whatever help you gave him must have been quite considerable,’ said Daniel, ‘because he’s left the Rosen money in a trust fund for Maud, but he’s left Toft House to you.’
There was a long silence. Bryony tried to think of something to say, and failed utterly.
‘Well now,’ said Cormac at last. ‘Isn’t that a fine thing for a man to be told,’ and Bryony heard that the Irish which to some extent he had lost since living in England, was strongly back in his voice.
‘Isn’t it just?’ said Daniel.
‘Yes, it’s a very fine thing, in fact–In fact, tell me now, Glass. Would you think a place like Toft House could be sold?’
‘Yes, certainly.’
‘And–I have no knowledge of property prices in England–but would you think it would fetch a fairly good sum of money?’
‘Yes,’ said Daniel. ‘I would think it would fetch a very good sum indeed.’
‘That’s very interesting,’ said Cormac softly. He looked across at Bryony and although he did not say anything, Bryony knew with incredulous delight they were sharing the same thought.
The tumbledown house in Ireland.
CHAPTER FORTY
Antonia had left the kiln door open, because she could not bear to lose the thin light that came down from above. She had no idea what she would do when the light started to dim, but for the moment at least she could see where she was. She managed not to look at the sad huddle of bones near the oven door, and was convincing herself that even when the light began to fade, there would be moonlight. She was not sure how she would manage to sit in the pitch dark with human remains so close, because she was afraid she would start to hear them creeping towards her…Stop it, Antonia!
She was not especially conscious of hunger, but she was by now very conscious of thirst which was what she had dreaded. Her watch said it was three o’clock. At this time of year that meant about two more hours of daylight, or maybe a bit less. Would anyone miss her? What about the police? And Jonathan–what about him? Had he arrived as promised, and was he instigating a search? Surely he would not just drive away when he found the cottage empty? But would a search come out here? Mightn’t they assume she had killed Greg Foster, and then run away? In which case, Amberwood was the last place they would search.
She had reached this point in her reasoning when she became aware of a shift in the rhythm of the clock’s beating. Had it slowed down? It had not stopped, that was for sure. Antonia could still hear it and she could still feel it, hammering relentlessly along its mechanism, like the beating of a fleshless fist on the inside of a kiln door…She glanced at the thing on the ground.