‘Because language changes,’ said Nell, thoughtfully.
‘Yes. Not just because we use different expressions. We don’t pronounce words as people did a hundred – even fifty – years ago.’
‘That’s true. You only have to watch one of those old 1930s or 1940s British films to hear that. Tell me some more about your essay.’
‘Well, the thing is that an author writing today might have a character mentioning a current murder trial that readers would recognize and know about. Even today if you say Ruth Ellis, most people know she was the last woman to be hanged.’
‘Or Fred and Rosemary West and the macabre patio in Gloucester.’
‘Yes. But those references in a book probably wouldn’t mean anything to somebody reading it in a hundred years’ time,’ said Benedict. ‘So it’s the lost cases of the 1890s I’m going for, then I’ll see if they’re mentioned in the fiction of the day.’
‘Weren’t there books that used to be termed the Newgate Novels?’ asked Nell.
‘Yes, there were,’ said Benedict, pleased. ‘They were a kind of fictional counterpart of some true stories of the era. Oliver Twist is regarded as a Newgate Novel.’
‘Yes, of course. Will you use the essay as the base for a PhD, later on?’
‘It’d be nice to think I could,’ said Benedict rather wistfully. ‘Only I’m not sure about even doing a PhD yet.’
‘Wouldn’t it be a good idea? And you’re so knowledgeable about that era.’
‘Am I?’ He frowned slightly.
‘Yes, you are,’ said Nell. ‘You convey such a sense of it. It’s extraordinary, but when you were talking about it – about the street sellers and the scents and the sounds and the river barges – I could see it all so vividly.’
She knew at once that she had said something wrong. Benedict’s expression changed – so markedly that Nell was reminded of still water that had suddenly rippled beneath the surface. She felt a shiver of apprehension.
In a soft voice, Benedict said, ‘I’m glad you came. I hoped you would, you know.’
It was an odd, slightly disconnected remark, and for a moment Nell could not think how to reply. But then Nina came back, and Benedict said in a completely normal, slightly tired-sounding, voice, ‘Nina, d’you mind if I skip coffee and head for bed?’
‘To make some notes on your essay while they’re still alive in your mind?’ said Nell, smiling at him, relieved that the brief disconcerting moment had passed. Perhaps it had been something to do with the illness he had – she had been enjoying talking to him so much she had almost forgotten about that.
‘Well, yes, sort of,’ said Benedict. He stood up. ‘I expect I’ll see you before you set off for Holly Lodge tomorrow though.’
Nina began to fuss about the sleeping arrangements, wanting Nell to have her own room, because it would be no trouble at all, she had put clean sheets on just that very morning, and it was not right that a guest should sleep on a futon fold-out thing, because what if it collapsed halfway through the night and precipitated Nell on to the floor—
‘I’ll have the futon,’ offered Benedict. ‘Then Nell can have my room. I don’t mind being collapsed on to the floor.’
Nell said, ‘For heaven’s sake, both of you, I’ll be fine, and the bed won’t collapse and I’ll even get my own duvet from the airing cupboard. Stop fussing.’
‘OK,’ said Benedict, but he still hesitated, and Nell suddenly thought he might be wondering if he should come with her to Holly Lodge tomorrow. Please don’t let him suggest it, she thought, then felt deeply guilty, because Holly Lodge was his house after all, and he would be paying her for the work. But he merely smiled, wished her good luck with the bed, nodded to Nina, and went quietly to his own room.
Later, in the narrow but perfectly comfortable bed, Nell thought how much Michael would have enjoyed the conversation this evening. He would have been deeply interested in Benedict’s proposed essay-cum-thesis, and his eyes would have smiled in gentle and amused appreciation of Nina’s pelting conversation. It was nice to think of having supper with him tomorrow evening, and telling him about tonight. And by tomorrow, thought Nell, I’ll have seen that man at Holly Lodge, and I’ll have got him cleared from my mind. This struck her as a peculiar way to think.
She felt a bit guilty about telling Michael there had been a prowler at Quire Court, although she had not precisely lied, because she had certainly heard something peculiar the night she had photographed the chess piece. But it had not really been very frightening – all she had heard were footsteps, it was important to remember that was all it had been.
And that sinisterly small hand, said her mind. Don’t forget that. Oh shut up, said Nell, and pulled the duvet over her head.
She set off for the tube straight after breakfast the next morning, leaving Nina pitting half a kilo of cherries for duck á la Montmorency.
‘You’d think, wouldn’t you, that they could have duck with orange, or apple stuffing for their Silver Wedding party, but no, it has to be bloody Montmorency, and no thought for how long it takes to stone cherries for sixteen people. It’s been lovely having you, Nell, darling, we won’t kiss or anything, on account of me being covered in cherry juice and duck fat. Let Benedict have the inventory for Holly Lodge when you can – there’s no frantic rush, but it’ll be interesting to know how you get on and what you find.’
‘Is Benedict still in bed?’
‘He got up early and went out to get the papers. He does that most mornings, but it’s only at the end of the road, so you might meet him on the way back, unless he’s called at the second-hand bookstore, which he often does, and once he’s in there, he loses track of time.’