1

The following lunch time, the Crucible bar felt like a very pleasant and familiar haven.

She had returned to her office the previous afternoon wondering whether to tell Janet. But the phone had rung as soon as she got in and there had been no way not to.

Janet had been amazed, excited and endlessly speculative. Finally Trudi had cut her short with lies about work. She had rung her again that evening and renewed the game till Trudi had protested, ‘Jan, I know you mean well, but, look, it’s all a bit much for me. I want to forget about it if I can. For the time being anyway. I mean, there’s nothing I can do, is there?’

‘Nothing? You’ve got the card, you know the code, you can start taking the money out, that’s what you can do for starters! Is there a withdrawal limit, I wonder? Only one way to find out. Hit that dispenser till it cries enough! no more!’

‘Jan, I can’t do that,’ said Trudi. ‘I don’t know whose money it is. I don’t know where it’s come from. I suppose I ought to go to the police.’

‘What? Don’t be daft, girl. They’d all be off to the Costa del Crooko on the proceeds! No, if that’s the way you’re thinking, stick to your first plan. Try to forget it! For the time being anyway!’

Trudi had gone to bed and tried to forget it. It proved impossible and when she slept, she dreamt of Trent, only this time when he turned towards her and reached out, his hands were full of banknotes. As usual she woke in terror. The house was still. She lay in the dark and thought of her father, that kind, quiet, loving man who had never altogether lost his German accent. Had he lived to make old bones, she guessed she would never have left him, but grown old as his daughter, companion, friend, and finally nurse. She had placed an absolute trust in him. When he died she had transferred that trust wholly, blindly, to Trent.

It was not a fair burden to load him with, she told herself in the darkness of her bedroom. If in the end he had found it unbearable, that was not a betrayal, not in any real sense.

She was still pursuing her vain quest for comfort at dawn.

Janet had returned to the attack the following morning, wanting to come to Sheffield to talk things through, as she put it.

Trudi had said bluntly no, it was impossible, she had a lunch date with James Dacre and there was no way she was going to break it.

‘All right,’ said Janet rather waspishly. ‘But don’t tell him about the money, else you’ll never know whether it’s you he’s after or not, will you?’

In fact there were times during lunch when she had felt very tempted to confide in her companion.

They had gone to an Italian restaurant, simple and moderately priced. She guessed that if she hadn’t re-emphasized in the Crucible bar that they were going Dutch, they would have eaten somewhere rather more upmarket. Perhaps crystal glasses, discreet waiters and acres of white napery would have been better. The noisy, friendly informality of this place, plus the smallness of the tables and a bottle of Orvieto, quickly broke down a lot of barriers.

She found herself talking about Trent and their life abroad quite freely. With very little urging, she told him about the accident.

He said, ‘And this was, when? Five months ago?’

She put her glass down rather hard and said abruptly, ‘Yes. Not long, is it?’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean … please believe me …’

‘Probably you didn’t, but you must be thinking, she was pretty fast off the mark after twenty-five years of marriage!’

‘Why should I think that? I know how these things work. The closer you are to someone, the less other people matter, the bigger the gap when you lose them. After a full life, it’s hard to live with emptiness.’

It was a graciously romantic diagnosis. Trudi resisted the urge to deny it, to tell him savagely that her life had been full of nothing but pretence and torpor, and that the emptiness she wanted to fill stretched back for probably two decades. This was not the time or the place for such heart-barings, nor was she yet altogether certain he was the person.

But the temptation to lay the odd facts about Eric Blair before a neutral eye was strong. It was only the feeling that somehow this would be disloyal to Janet that held her back.

After lunch Dacre said, ‘In a hurry?’

‘Not really.’

‘Then what about a walk? Indoors or out. I can arrange both.’

‘Clever old you. That would be nice.’

He led her to his car which was parked nearby. Trudi studied it carefully, pre-empting Jan’s questions. It was a grey Sierra, about a year old, with GB plates and twenty thousand miles on the clock.

He drove swiftly and carefully the short distance to a large park which housed, according to the signs, the city’s art gallery and museum.

They walked in the park first. Dacre talked about his upbringing in a small farming community in the Cleveland Hills. Finally he paused, invitingly.

‘Not much to tell,’ said Trudi. ‘My father was an Austrian refugee. He got out not long after the Anschluss in 1938.’

‘Was he political?’

‘Not in any active sense. Just anti-Nazi. He was Jewish you see. Not orthodox. I never knew him go to any kind of religious ceremony. And my mother wasn’t Jewish. At least I don’t think so.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I mean, I didn’t know her. She died shortly after I was born. Complications of some kind, I don’t know. My father didn’t talk much about it. He couldn’t. It really broke him up. He was very reserved, very suspicious in many ways. He came to the promised land, you see, fled his own country, and he was interned here when the war began, and mother died, and when he was released, he had a hell of a job getting hold of me to bring me up. He taught me to tread very softly, to suspect people’s motives, never to answer the door after dark, keep myself to myself …’

‘He didn’t teach you all that well!’ laughed James Dacre.

‘Oh, I’m sorry! I’m going on a bit, aren’t I? It must be the wine …’

‘Don’t be sorry! It’s interesting. So your family came from Austria? You must have had an interesting time chasing up relatives when you lived in Vienna?’

‘No,’ said Trudi. ‘I had no contacts there. My father made no effort himself after the war. Perhaps he reckoned that everyone was dead, I don’t know. As for my mother’s family, all I ever gathered about them was that they disapproved of my father. That was enough to condemn them in my eyes. If he had felt it best to close the book as far as the past went, I could see no reason to re-open it.’

‘Simple curiosity, perhaps?’ murmured Dacre. ‘Look, it’s getting a bit chilly. Why don’t we go inside? If the art doesn’t appeal perhaps we can get a cup of tea.’

Trudi heard herself saying, ‘Why not come home with me? I’m not much of a cook, but I can brew a cup of tea!’

He did not hesitate but said, ‘Thanks. I’d like that. If you’re sure …’

‘Of course I’m sure. It’s only a cup of tea!’

Before they had got out of the car park, she realized she was far from sure, not about the tea but the wisdom of inviting him back. They performed the journey into the suburbs almost in silence. As they approached the house, Dacre said, ‘I think you’ve got visitors.’

Trudi did not know whether to be annoyed or relieved as she recognized Janet’s green Escort in the driveway. Dacre parked by the kerb and Janet got out of her car and came to the gateway to meet them.

‘Hello Trudi,’ she said. ‘I was in Sheffield so I thought I’d just look in on my way home, see how you are.’

Her sharp eyes were quartering James Dacre as she spoke. She probably knows more about him in a single glance than I’ve found out in three meetings, thought Trudi resignedly.

She performed the introductions. Janet and Dacre shook hands. Now there was a short hiatus.

Well, she’s not going to diplomatically retire, thought Trudi. This time her feelings came down heavily for annoyance rather than relief.

‘Let’s go in, shall we?’ she said rather stiffly. ‘And I’ll make us all some tea.’

‘No, look, I was only going to have time for a quick cup anyway. I really ought to be off,’ said James Dacre.

‘Don’t let me chase you,’ said Janet, solidly planted in the driveway.

Trudi gave her a hard look and at least she had the grace to withdraw a couple of yards towards the house.

‘There’s no need to go,’ said Trudi.

‘Of course there isn’t,’ smiled Dacre. ‘I mean, there’s no need here. But I’m telling the truth. I would have had to make my excuses soon in any case.’

‘Well, thanks a lot,’ said Trudi.

‘No need to thank me. We went Dutch, remember? But it’s my treat next time, I insist.’

‘Next time?’

‘If that’s OK? I’ll be in touch.’

As if the literal meaning of his words had suddenly struck him, he leaned forward, brushed her lips with his, climbed into his car and was gone.

‘Come on, beauty. The prince’s kiss is supposed to wake you up, not put you to sleep!’

Trudi turned and said wearily, ‘Oh Janet, you know I like to see you but …’

‘But you wish I’d run under a juggernaut on the motorway? I’m sorry. Mind you, it’s just as well I was here, if you ask me. At it on the pavement like a pair of pooches already, what would you have been like in the hallway? No, seriously, I am sorry to butt in, but I had to see you. I’ve got it, see? Eric Blair’s address! What do you think of that?’

‘Come inside and I’ll tell you what I think,’ said Trudi.

Inside Janet explained. ‘Frank was taking me out to lunch today, but when I got to his office he’d had to go out on a valuation. While I was waiting, I got this idea. I rang the two main Sheffield branches of our mystery man’s bank, said I had an enquiry and gave the account number from the cheque card. First one said it wasn’t theirs, so I laughed and said “silly me!”. But the second said, yes, what was the query? I knew they wouldn’t just dish out information ad lib, so I said that Mr Blair had been into the office of the estate agent where I was assistant manager and put down a deposit on a property he was interested in. Unhappily within hours of his being here, complications had arisen. We needed to contact him urgently, but the stupid junior who had dealt with him in my absence hadn’t got his address. His cheque was the only clue. Could the bank help? They asked for my number and said they’d get back to me. I guessed they were checking it really did belong to an estate agent’s office. They were back on in five minutes, someone rather more important-sounding, saying that they too were eager to get in touch with Mr Blair. Nothing wrong? I said, all upset like I would be if I found I was holding a dud cheque. Oh no, on the contrary, they said. Mr Blair was a customer in very good standing, only a trifle elusive. Should I contact him before they did, perhaps I could urge him to get in touch. And his last known address on their records was …’

Here Janet waved a piece of paper triumphantly.

‘… Well Cottage, near Eyam, Derbyshire.’

She sat back, clearly ready to be overwhelmed in congratulations.

‘Eyam? What’s that?’ said Trudi.

‘It’s a village, idiot. Quite famous, really. Don’t you know anything? It’s the Plague village.’

‘Sounds charming.’

‘Stupid! It was three hundred years ago. The Great Plague was ravaging London. Someone brought it north to Eyam, probably in fleas in a bale of cloth. When the villagers realized it had broken out, they went into voluntary quarantine, no one in or out till the epidemic was over. They died in droves; whole families were wiped out. All so it wouldn’t spread all over the county.’

‘That was noble,’ said Trudi sincerely.

‘Yes, wasn’t it? But from our point of view the interesting thing is it’s only a couple of miles from Grindleford and hardly any distance at all from where Trent had his accident. I rang the local post office and they gave me directions. Look, I’ve got it marked on the map here. It’s outside the village, above it to the north, nice and isolated, it seems.’

She spread out a newly purchased Ordnance Survey sheet and stabbed her finger down on it.

‘That’s great, Jan,’ said Trudi without much conviction. ‘You’ve been very clever. But you could have told me all this on the phone.’

‘Still moping over your lost date, are you?’ said Janet. ‘You’d better get your priorities right! Yes I could have told you over the phone, but I couldn’t take you there, could I?’

‘Take me there? You mean, now?’ said Trudi aghast.

‘When else? Let the thought be father to the deed, that’s my motto. So get upstairs and bring those keys of Trent’s. Yes, keys, girl. To unlock doors with, remember? And better put your green wellies on! We’re going for a walk in the country!’