22

When Clover Harrison had returned to Charleston, he did what he could to put his rooms into order. The lock of the front door had been smashed, the contents of every cupboard emptied on to the floor and the locked drawer in the desk forced. But little if anything appeared to have been stolen.

Before he had gone away, Mr Rogers had been scrupulous to settle up with Clover Harrison for his time and expenses, and now at the drug-store there was an envelope waiting for him. It had been posted in Atlanta. In it were three one hundred dollar bills. But Clover Harrison didn’t use the money on his rooms; he spent most of it on his ancient car. He reckoned wheels were more important, even though he’d been told that the sandy-haired Englishman had left Charleston for South America.

He was not long home, however, before he learnt something which he knew he must pass on to Mr Rogers. He had been given a London number through which, Mr Rogers had said, he could always be reached. It was Oliver Goodbody’s flat in Kensington. Harrison called London and spoke to Oliver. Then, as later he learnt that the sandy-haired Englishman was back in Charleston, he left town, relieved that the Chevrolet was purring so happily as he drove north along US Highway 95.

Mr Rogers himself was in Milan. It was not until well after Sarah Wilson, as she had been calling herself, had been seen off at Charleston airport by Judge Jed Blaker on a flight for London escorted by Richard Jameson, that Mr Rogers learnt of her visit to Charleston. The young woman, Clover Harrison had reported to Oliver, had gone about the country in and around the parish of St John’s visiting places and talking to people – until Judge Blaker and Richard Jameson had finally caught up with her.

*   *   *

It was in the early morning after an all-night flight that Fleur was reunited with Willoughby Blake in the sitting-room of the Kensington hotel.

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why?’

‘I needed to go back.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I needed to see the places again and I wanted to do it alone.’

He looked at her. ‘Had you forgotten what you call the places?’

‘I left there a long time ago. I was a child. When Stevens said he needed details, I had to remind myself.’

‘Why did you need to remind yourself? Why did you not tell me you needed to go back?’

‘I said, I wanted to do it on my own.’

‘You mean you didn’t want to confess that you needed to remind yourself, is that it?’ He flung himself into a chair.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! I need space. Can’t you see I need space?’

‘I thought you trusted me.’

‘I do.’

‘Then you should have told me. What do you think I’ve been through when I was told you had disappeared?’

‘I didn’t tell you as I thought you’d stop me, or make someone come with me.’ She paused. ‘Or come with me yourself.’

‘Would that have been so terrible?’

‘Yes it would. I needed to do this by myself, to see the places again where I was raised.’

‘You could have left a note, you could have called from the airport –’

‘I didn’t think you’d be so upset.’

He pushed back his silver hair. ‘Of course I was upset. I was worried.’

‘Worried it was all over, worried you’d lost the money you’ve spent on me.’

‘Don’t be absurd. Worried about you. You and I are partners, Fleur.’

‘Are we?’ she said. She turned away. ‘I’ve a headache. I must get to bed.’

As she was walking to the bedroom door, he said, ‘How did you get the money?’

‘From a friend.’

‘The Australian?’

‘Yes.’

‘His name’s not Proctor, is it?’

‘No, it isn’t. I’ve promised to pay him back.’

Next morning at his flat in Fulham, Greg opened an envelope. It contained a bundle of banknotes. There was no message.