She turned the pages eagerly. ‘There never seems to have been one family in the house for any length of time,’ she said at last. She glanced up at him. ‘From the letters and diaries I’ve been studying and the family Bible there seem to be so many names, although they are related.’
‘Female descent.’ Andrews reached for another biscuit. ‘It happens. If you look you will find the house was nearly always inherited by daughters, so of course the surname changes generation after generation. Not every time. There were years when it stood empty and when it had tenants, but it seems always to have come back in the end to some relation or other. It’s had a longer history in one family than you might think.’
‘Really?’ She looked up at him eagerly. ‘We’re not descended from the de Veres?’
‘Oh almost certainly. That was something which intrigued me, as I was telling Dr Tregarron. The trouble is I didn’t have enough time to follow it through in detail – you could get a genealogist to do it, I suppose, if you were interested. Matrilineal descent is a fascinating phenomenon. Strange to us but a matter of course to some people. In this case obviously it wasn’t a policy decision, it just worked out that way. No sons.’ He stuffed his biscuit into his mouth and glanced at his watch. ‘I hate to seem too eager, Mrs Grant, but you said I might glance at some of the main rooms.’
‘Of course.’ Reluctantly Joss put down the book. ‘I’ll show you round.’
In the course of the next hour Joss was given a potted, breathless and ecstatic history of the English manor house, taking in pargetting, chamfering, stopping, plasterwork, the art of the fresco (‘Almost certainly, under this panelling. The panelling would protect it, you know,’) staircases, solars, bedchambers and the great hall as centre of the house. Her head reeling, Joss followed in his wake, wishing again and again she had a tape recorder with her to take down this man’s encyclopaedic knowledge. He laughed when she told him as much. ‘I’ll come again, if you let me. We can make notes. Now, the cellar.’ They were standing at the foot of the main staircase and his nose was quivering like a dog’s scenting a rabbit. ‘There we may see traces of early vaulting.’
Joss pointed at the door. ‘Down there. Do you mind if I don’t come down? I get claustrophobia.’ She laughed deprecatingly, aware of his sudden shrewd gaze.
‘Am I tiring you, Mrs Grant? I know I go on and on. I used to drive my wife mad. The trouble is I get so excited about things.’ Already he had fumbled awkwardly with the key, swung open the door and found the light switch. She watched as he disappeared, hampered by his stiffness, down the steep stairs, then she turned away into the study. She waited by the window, staring out across the lawn. Hours seemed to pass. Frowning she glanced at her watch. Wafting across the great hall from the kitchen she could smell onions and garlic. Lyn must be putting on the lunch while Tom would be watching Sesame Street on the TV. There was no sound from the cellar. She walked across to the door and peered down the stairs anxiously. ‘Mr Andrews?’ There was no answer. ‘Mr Andrews?’ There was a sudden tightness in her chest. ‘Are you all right?’
She could feel the cold air rising. It smelled musty and damp and somehow very old. With a shiver she put her hand on the splintery banister and leaned forward, trying to see into the first cellar. ‘Mr Andrews?’ The stairs were very steep, the old worn wood split and pitted. Reluctantly she put her foot on the first step. ‘Mr Andrews are you all right?’ The unshaded bulb was very bright. It threw the shadows of the winebins, black wedges across the floor. ‘Mr Andrews?’ Her voice was shaking now, threaded with panic. Clutching the rail she crept down another two steps. This was where Georgie had fallen, his small body hurtling down the steps to lie in a crumpled heap at the bottom. Shaking the thought out of her head she stepped down again, forcing herself down the steps one by one. There was a sudden movement on the wall near her. She froze with terror, staring, and her eyes focused at last on a small brown lizard, clinging to the stone. It stared back at her and then with a flick of its tail it ran up the wall and disappeared through a crack into the darkness behind the wall.
‘Mrs Grant, look at this!’ The voice, so loud and excited, right behind her, made Joss jump round with a small cry. ‘Oh, my dear, I’m sorry. Did I startle you?’ Gerald Andrews appeared through the arch which led into the next cellar. ‘Come and see. There is the most perfect medieval vaulting through here. Very early. Oh, I wish I’d known about this when I wrote the book. It takes the date of the original house back I should say to the thirteenth or fourteenth century …’ Already he had disappeared through the arch again, beckoning her to follow.
Taking a deep breath Joss made her way past the gleaming ranks of bottles, awaiting the visit and tasting next week from the wine expert from Sotheby’s, and found herself staring up at the stone arches of the second cellar.
‘You see, under the great hall. A flint undercroft, built of the same stuff as the church.’ He was spluttering with excitement. ‘And the carving, here, on the key stone and the corbels, see?’ He beamed at her. ‘You have a treasure here, Mrs Grant, a real treasure. This vault has been here if I’m right for six or seven hundred years.’
‘Seven hundred?’ Joss stared at him, her fear subsiding as his enthusiasm increased. She hugged herself against the chill.
He nodded, patting the wall. ‘May I bring a colleague to see this? And someone from the Historic Buildings department? It is quite wonderful. And here, all along!’