to be drowsing in the sunlight. But Zanna sensed, all the same, that from behind the discreetly curtained windows of the clustering cottages her arrival had been noted.
She decided, for reasons she could barely explain to herself, not to pinpoint Church House immediately. She’d behave like any other tourist who’d stumbled in off the beaten track. She was here, ostensibly, to look at an art exhibition, and that was what she would do.
The green was bordered on three sides, she saw, by more houses, a shop-cum-post office, a pub—whose sign announced it as the Black Bull and offered real ale, meals and accommodation—and the church, rising like a stately and benign presence behind its tall yew hedge. Apart from a narrow track beside the churchyard, which presumably led to the farm mentioned by her persecutor, there was no other visible egress.
The village hall stood on the opposite side of the green to the church, a wooden board fixed to its railings advertising the exhibition.
Zanna found herself in a small vestibule, where a woman in a flowered dress, seated behind a table, paused in her knitting to sell her an exhibition catalogue for fifty pence.
‘You’re just in time.’ Her smile was friendly. ‘The show ends today and we’ll soon be clearing the hall for tonight’s dance.’
‘Dance?’ Zanna’s brows lifted. Far from being asleep, Emplesham seemed to be the Las Vegas of the neigh bourhood, she thought caustically.
‘Oh, yes,’ the woman said cheerfully. ‘It’s become an annual event. We combine the art club’s exhibition with the church’s spring flower festival and make it a real celebration.’ She nodded towards the double doors leading into the hall. ‘I hope you enjoy the show—although there isn’t a great deal left for sale, I’m afraid.’
‘It really doesn’t matter,’ Zanna assured her politely. ‘I’ll just enjoy looking round,’ she added, not altogether truthfully.
Nothing, however, could have prepared her for the riot of colour and vibrancy which assaulted her senses inside the hall. Every possible hanging space was filled, and by work which was a thousand miles from the pallid water colours and stolidly amateurish still-lifes she’d been expecting.
Landscapes in storm and sunlight seemed to leap off their canvases at her as she trod cautiously round. She could almost imagine she could smell the scent of the grass and trees, feel on her face the wind that drove the heavy clouds.
There was a life section too, depicted robustly and without sentimentality, and, of course, the paintings of fruit and flowers which she’d been anticipating. But even here she was surprised, realising that she could almost taste the sharpness of the green apples arranged on that copper dish, that if she reached out a hand she might draw blood on the thorns of the full-blown roses spilling out of that jug. She would, she realised, have bought either of them—only they were already sold.
How in the world, she asked herself bewilderedly, could people in this small country district have learned to paint with such passionate exuberance? She found herself, absurdly, wanting to cheer.
One canvas stood alone on an easel towards the rear of the hall, as if deliberately set apart from the rest.
As she approached it the breath caught in Zanna’s throat. She thought, I don’t believe this—I don’t...
But she knew she wasn’t mistaken. The long, low house, hung with wisteria, bathed in sunlight, looked serenely back at her, just as it did in her precious photographs. Only the child playing in the garden was missing.
But her imagination could supply that, Zanna thought, exultantly noting that there was no red dot to say the painting was sold. In spite of everything, she’d been meant to come here. It was going to be a perfect day after all.
‘Do you need any help?’ The woman in the flowered dress had come up behind her.
‘I was looking at this.’ Zanna tried to sound casual. ‘I can’t find it in the catalogue, but I suppose it’s a local scene?’
The woman laughed. ‘Very much so. It’s the house across the green, next to the church. And it hasn’t been listed because it’s only on loan, I’m afraid.’
‘On loan.’ Zanna felt sick with disappointment.
The woman nodded. ‘It belongs to Mr Gordon, who actually owns Church House.’
‘I see.’ Zanna heard the despondency in her own voice and rallied, biting her lip.
What’s the matter with you? You bought Zolto Electronics this morning, she scolded herself. Why be so easily put off over an oil painting? Everything’s ultimately for sale, if the price is right.
Her mouth stretched in a smile Henry Walton might have recognized. ‘Well, perhaps he might consider a private offer.’
‘I hardly think so.’ The woman gave her an astonished look.
‘All the same, I’ll call round and ask,’ Zanna said with a shrug. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’
‘But Mr Gordon isn’t here.’ A swift frown drew the woman’s brows together. ‘He spends most of the year abroad.’ She spread her hands in a gesture that was half-helpless, half-affronted. ‘You’d really be wasting your time in pursuing this.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Zanna said quickly as the woman turned away. ‘It’s just such a beautiful house. Has this Mr Gordon had it long? Do you know anything about the previous owners?’
There was a brief silence, then, ‘I believe the house passed through a number of hands before the present purchase was completed.’ the woman returned frostily. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of more assistance.’ And she walked away.
Visitors to Emplesham were apparently tolerated but not encouraged to push their luck by asking too many questions, Zanna thought ruefully as she followed the stiff figure out of the hall.
With a brief word of thanks, curtly acknowledged, she went out into the sunshine.
Occupied or not, Church House drew her across the green like a magnet. And this time she didn’t care who might be watching.
The gate opened noiselessly under her hand. A mossy path led between smoothly trimmed lawns to the front door. Apart from pigeons cooing in the neighbouring churchyard, and the hum of a bee roving in the flowering tub beside the door, everything was still.
It was as if the house were waiting for her, she thought, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. As if all she had to do was lift the heavy wrought-iron knocker and the door would open and she would be drawn inside.
But to find what? She didn’t even know, she acknowledged with a sigh.
Besides, all that really lay behind the half-closed curtains was someone else’s home. And a very elegant home too, from what she could glimpse, with expensive chintz, oak beams and the gleam of well-polished furniture not from this century.
He might be an absentee, but Mr Gordon was a careful owner, she thought. The house and garden were both being maintained in pristine condition, which gave their emptiness almost an air of pathos. Or was that simply what she wanted to think?
Sharply aware that she had no right to be prying in
