“I didn’t see him come back, although I was up until three.” She rearranged Rose in her arms. “Venetia, he seems to be always popping out, and now Colonel Mallard is awkward around him. It does seem to indicate that he’s up to no good.”
“But everyone else in the village adores him. He put up the tables for the jumble sale last week—Mrs. Quail was in a complete state before he came. And he’s also been helping the Sewing Ladies transport their balaclavas to Litchfield in his car. And you know how he helped Silvie home after she came off her horse by Bullsend Brook. She thinks he’s wonderful.”
“But what was he was doing by Bullsend Brook in the middle of the afternoon? It simply doesn’t add up,” Hattie said.
“Maybe he’s just dabbling in the black market a little, saving himself a bit of money?”
“That would be fine, but he seems positively rolling in money, with the motorcar, the fine clothes, all the presents he gives you.”
“Maybe he’s selling his paintings?” I tried. “Mrs. B. has always been keen to get her hands on his works of art.”
“Are any of them gone?”
“No.” I shrugged, feeling the fight drain out of me. “He hasn’t sold so much as a sketch to Mrs. B., avoids her if he can. And all his paintings are still in his portfolio.” Except the one that David Tilling stole, I thought, and Lord knows where that is. “It doesn’t bode well, does it?”
“No, I’m sorry, Venetia,” Hattie said.
I sat feeling rather sorry for myself for a while, then pulled myself together. “Well, there’s nothing else for it then. I’ll have to follow him.”
“Oh, Venetia! It might be dangerous. Why don’t you see if you can find out other evidence before you do that?” Hattie asked.
We discussed it at length, and she persuaded me to ask some more questions, give it one last try. I promised I would, but it seems so hopeless. When I’m with him everything seems perfect and I feel such an idiot for even doubting him, but then when we’re apart, and all these strange things come up, I can’t help but wonder. Who is he?
I must be boring you senseless, dear Angie, so I’ll leave you there and write again soon with any more news. I know you think I should move on to my next victim, but Alastair is truly the man for me. Even though I’m not exactly sure what kind of man he is. I’ll write again as soon as there’s news.
Much love,
Venetia
Saturday, 13th July, 1940
Today I took the bus to Parnham to give Berkeley’s ring to Carrington. I’ve been putting it off for weeks, and honestly wish I hadn’t been so quick to promise I’d do it. I didn’t even know who Carrington would be, or indeed which Carrington should there happen to be more than one. But I knew I had to go, now that the Nazis have started bombing the ports. Dover was smashed last week, buildings in piles on the ground and people dead. It won’t be long before they’re upon us and we’ll be prisoners in our own country, not allowed to travel and forced to work incredibly long hours. I try not to think of it, as it scares me to death.
On the bus, I thought it all through. I’ve never known any homosexuals, apart from Berkeley, of course. I suppose I’ve always thought it’s a phase or something, some adolescent crush gone on too long. Harold used to say there was something wrong with them, and I wondered what kind of a man I was going to meet. How he would react. I hoped he wasn’t dangerous, as you can never tell, especially if there really was something wrong inside. What ridiculous situations this wretched war has put us in! What was I thinking agreeing to it?
I changed buses at Litchfield, heading out to Parnham, and found myself seated next to an extremely talkative lady who was clearly the village gossip. This was a terrific stroke of luck, if vaguely annoying, and I asked if she knew where I could find Carrington.
“Why, didn’t you know? He lives in Parnham House. Viscount Carrington, if you please,” she joked, putting on a posh accent.
“Oh, I didn’t know,” I said, not finding it the least bit funny. That’s all I needed. A viscount! “Is he a young man?”
“No, but there’s two sons. The eldest is away with the RAF, bit of an upper-class snob. Then there’s the younger one, leg wounded in France, at home recuperating. He’s a nice lad. Doesn’t seem to get on with the Viscount, though.”
“The Viscount is his father, right?”