than his half-brother, always prepared to take a reasonable risk, but still with sound business instincts.
The two men seemed to be getting on a good deal better than Miss Tapsell had dared hope when Howard first returned to the firm; there had been moments when she had feared it had been a bad mistake. She liked to think that Matthew would have been pleased to see them together in the firm at last, on such easy, friendly terms.
Gavin went back into his office and Howard and Roche went out through a rear door into the car park. Howard made some comment on the mild weather and then went off to his car, a sleek, expensive saloon. He raised a hand as he moved out, past Roche stepping into his own vehicle, small and neat, nippy in traffic.
Roche drove out into the side-street and headed for the eastern edge of town. His house, Greenlawn, was a detached Edwardian villa standing in a large secluded garden that gave the property an air of rural tranquillity.
The afternoon was still washed over with pale sunshine as Roche halted the car and got out to open the gate. He ran the car up the sloping drive and brought it to rest by the front door. He took a suitcase and hand-grip from the boot and let himself into the house. He stood in the hall for a moment, listening.
No sound inside the house, no stir of movement. Only the echoes of this false spring, with its summer-seeming sounds, the far-off slam of a car door, voices calling, the cries and laughter of children in some distant park, the muted bark of a dog, the hum of traffic from a trunk road half a mile away.
He went up the stairs and paused by the landing window. He set down his cases and stood looking out at the rear garden. At the far end, on the edge of the shrubbery, he could see the tall slender figure of his mother-in-law, Mrs Sparrey. She held a wooden trug, she was looking down at Annette who was on her knees close by, digging up a clump of some early-flowering plant. Annette levered up the plant and reached up to put it in the trug, no doubt for her mother to carry back to her own garden ten miles away.
Annette began an attack on another plant. Her chestnut hair swung forward, gleaming in the sunlight. Mrs Sparrey turned her head and glanced back at the house. Roche could see the olive of her cheek, the carefully coiffured lines of her steel-grey hair, strikingly curled back from her face in an elaborate sweep that nothing, not even the most unruly wind, ever seemed able to disturb.
He picked up his cases and went along to the main bedroom. As he set the cases down he caught sight of himself in the dressing table mirror. A head of thick straight hair, very fair in childhood but now a commonplace brown. His eyes looked back at him with a detached gaze. He turned from the mirror and began to unbutton the jacket of his suit.
Sunday morning continued mild with a slight breeze. The air was very clear today with a brilliant, sparkling quality. In the garden at Claremont the birds darted about with manic frenzy, calling, challenging, swooping and dipping, snatching up broken twigs, old grass, downy feathers.
Inside the house activity was a good deal less frenetic. Howard and Judith were both up – it was almost eleven – and were making a languorous onslaught on the debris of last night’s dinner-party; Judith had made a start on the washing-up.
Howard was in the drawing-room. He confined his assistance to emptying ashtrays, plumping up cushions, picking up scattered petals from flowers that had failed to survive the evening. He paused by a window to twitch the long brocade curtains into place. Sunlight illumined distant stretches of farmland, wooded tracts still winter-dark. But he scarcely glanced at the view he had seen all his life.
He went along to the kitchen, fragrant now with the smell of freshly-made coffee. Judith was at the sink, rinsing a stack of plates under the tap. Howard poured the coffee, strong and reviving. Judith pulled off her rubber gloves and took an invigorating mouthful.
On a shelf near the kitchen door the telephone rang suddenly. Howard crossed the room and lifted the receiver. ‘Oh – hello,’ he said after a moment. ‘How are you now? Feeling better?’ He put a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Aunt Harriet,’ he said. Judith set down her cup. ‘That’s good,’ Howard said into the phone. ‘Yes, Judith’s here, I’ll hand you over.’
Aunt Harriet – Mrs Fiske – was Judith’s godmother, aunt merely by courtesy title. She lived in a village some sixty miles to the north of Cannonbridge; she was the widow of a wine importer. In a few days she would be celebrating her seventieth birthday. She had intended to give a dinner-party in honour of the occasion but two or three weeks ago she had taken to her bed with ‘flu, she had been very unwell. She had been forced to cancel the dinner-party, but now it seemed it was on again.
‘Yes, of course we’ll come,’ Judith told her. ‘We’ll be delighted.’ Howard pulled a face. ‘I’ll come over a day or two earlier,’ Judith added. ‘If that’s all right with you. Thursday morning?’ The dinner-party was on Saturday. ‘Howard can drive over after work on Friday.’ She glanced up at him and he moved his shoulders to signify grudging acquiescence.
By Tuesday evening it was beginning to turn cold again. The forecast was for overnight frost and an easterly wind in the morning. Gavin sat opposite Charlotte Neale in the well-appointed dining room of the Caprice, a restaurant renowned for its cooking, situated half a mile out of Cannonbridge.
‘Do have something else,’ Gavin urged her when she had finished a rich creamy dessert. ‘Some cheese? Fruit?’
She shook her head. ‘No, thanks, just some coffee.’ She glanced up at the clock. ‘I don’t want to be much later.’
As they drank their coffee she chatted about the friend she was going to stay with in Switzerland. She was looking forward to some skiing. ‘There’s still plenty of good snow,’ she said, smiling with pleased anticipation. She showed not the slightest sign that she would miss him.
He stirred his coffee, feeling a little melancholy. Don’t rush it, he warned himself again, don’t spoil it before it starts. He looked at her across the table; the lovely heart shaped face; thick flaxen hair, taken up this evening into a casual knot on top of her head; peach skin; eyes the soft deep blue of lobelias.
But it wasn’t just her looks, it was her attitude, her whole approach to life. Open and direct, no come-ons or put-offs, no airs and graces, no coquettish nonsense. No past, no complications.
He raised his cup to his lips. At the back of his throat he could feel an unpleasant roughness. He knew the feeling of old. Oh hell, he thought, I believe I’m getting Mrs Cutler’s cold. She had appeared at Eastwood as usual that morning but she had looked flushed and unwell. ‘I do feel pretty rotten,’ she said when he questioned her. ‘If I don’t come tomorrow it’ll mean I’ve decided to have a day or two in bed. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ As he’d left for work he’d heard her coughing and blowing her nose.
The air was sharp as he drove Charlotte back to Berrowhill. ‘I won’t ask you in,’ she said as she got out of the car. ‘They’ll only start talking to you, and I want to get to bed.’ The sky was thickly clustered with stars. From the stables came the stir of horses, the voice of a stable lad.
Gavin walked with her to the door. ‘Write to me,’ he said. ‘Let me know how you get on.’
She made a little face. ‘I hate writing letters.’
‘You could phone.’
She moved her shoulders.
‘Don’t forget
