28

IT HAD BEEN a morning of departures at Swans’ Meadow: Maurice, soon after dawn, bound for New York; Emerson, somewhat later, travelling to Oxford for the day; Ursula, later still, destined for an appointment with her beautician in Maidenhead; and lastly Charlotte, setting off back to Tunbridge Wells shortly before noon.

Only Samantha was there to see her off and she did not supply a cheerful farewell. Charlotte found her consuming a laggardly breakfast, downcast and déshabillé, in the lounge.

‘Not dressed yet, Sam? Your mother will not approve.’

‘She doesn’t approve of very much at the moment, does she? Why should I be the exception?’

‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’

‘Haven’t you noticed the prickly atmosphere round here? Mum and Dad have been stalking each other for days like two alley-cats who can’t decide to strike first.’

‘You’re imagining it.’

‘No. You’re just too dazzled to have noticed.’

‘Dazzled? By what?’

‘By who, you mean. Did he take you somewhere swish last night?’

Charlotte leaned close to Samantha’s ear and whispered: ‘Mind your own business.’

Samantha blushed, then giggled. ‘I’m sorry, Charlie. You’re right. What’s it got to do with me? Emerson’s a gorgeous guy. I wish you luck.’

‘Thank you,’ said Charlotte with a sarcastic curtsy.

‘But tell me, do you know what’s gnawing at Mum and Dad? Something is.’

Charlotte could easily have guessed. Perhaps Ursula had told Maurice what was really in Beatrix’s letter. Or perhaps she had not. Either way, the fact of it could not be wished away. How they coped with that knowledge was their affair. One Charlotte was too preoccupied to concern herself with. ‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Sam. And now I must be going.’

Derek reached Tunbridge Wells in the middle of the afternoon. He was tired and dispirited, filled with a sense of his own inadequacy. To go home was as unthinkable as a late appearance at Fithyan & Co. He was a fugitive lacking direction as well as purpose. And so, with a kind of logic he thought Colin might applaud, he found himself at the Treasure Trove, repository for much else that was worthless and unwanted.

He let himself in with the key Colin had given him and gazed around at the dust that had settled on every horizontal surface. The place had always been somewhat down-at-heel. Now the stale air of neglect was there to compound the effect. The gilt-framed hunting scenes; the Hogarth prints; the antique maps; the horse-brasses; the bust of Cicero; the grandfather clock; the stuffed bear; the elephant’s foot; the chaise-longue; the cheval-glass; the pine chest; the sparsely filled cabinet of Tunbridge Ware: all bore the same grey blur in testimony to their owner’s absence.

Derek leaned back against a table and surveyed the scene. Beyond the window, no passers-by paused to peer into the shadowy interior. The Treasure Trove was closed and was not expected to open. Tomorrow, Colin Fairfax-Vane, proprietor, would be committed for trial on charges he could not hope to rebut. Tomorrow, the hollowness of his last pretence would be exposed. And his brother would watch it happen. There was nothing else he could do. Nothing, at all events, that a stuffed bear and a dead Roman could not match.

Charlotte had only been back at Ockham House a few minutes when the doorbell rang. Answering it, she found a girl standing on the step with an enormous bouquet of flowers: lilies, dahlias, carnations and chrysanthemums, riotously coloured and scented in a haze of gypsophila.

‘Miss Ladram?’

‘Yes. But there must be—’

‘For you.’ The girl lowered the bundle into Charlotte’s arms. ‘There’s a note attached.’ She smiled and turned to go, leaving Charlotte to close the door and carry the flowers to the kitchen before she could spare a hand to open the tiny envelope pinned to the cellophane.

There was nothing on the card save Emerson’s Christian name, signed with a flourish. But there did not need to be. Leaning back against the sink, Charlotte could fill her lungs with the heady aroma of a future she had never till these last few weeks anticipated. Out of Beatrix’s death might come her happiness. And the possibility dispelled all sense of irony, let alone of doubt. She raised the card to her lips and kissed it.