Tea with Mr Geoffrey Archer of Chippendale House, Cherry Hinton, was one of the most unpleasant experiences of my entire life.

It all began decently enough. A trim little maid brought in a carefully prepared, well-laden tea-tray, and Mr Archer told her to go, and to make sure that no one entered the drawing room on any pretext unless explicitly called for. He then invited me to pour, and asked for four sugars. This was exactly what I had been hoping for and counting on, for to tell the complete truth, fearing that the situation might get out of hand, I had taken the precaution of bringing a small dose of laudanum with me from home; Arthur takes some now and again when his mathematical ponderings keep him awake. This I managed to slip quietly into his cup, after which I stirred it carefully and handed it to him with an engaging smile.

There were small iced cakes and biscuits, and the teacups were of egg-shell thin porcelain, white with a fine gold border. I admired how the light glowed through them, and Mr Archer told me that they had been in the family for four generations and virtually none of the pieces had ever been broken. I led the talk to his family, and displayed the greatest interest in the mad Spaniardess and her son. It was easy to see that Mr Archer took pride in his ancestry. This was understandable, for the story was quite fascinating, and the quantity of old diaries and papers preserved through the generations quite unusual.

‘Day by day for twenty years, the old gentleman wrote down his son’s misdeeds,’ he told me. ‘I should like to show you the book, but the trustees insist upon its being kept in the bank, of all places, together with a number of other family heirlooms. My wife was allowed to keep her jewellery in the house when she was alive, but she passed away many years ago, and the trustees took back the entire collection and put it in the bank vault as well. Do you realise that the entire house is inventoried regularly?’

‘Goodness,’ I said sympathetically, ‘you can’t call your soul your own.’

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘It’s the price we Archers pay for having a colourful ancestor behind us. If I wish to make any significant purchase, I must submit it to their approval. They are not unreasonable, of course. I was allowed to offer some most beautiful gifts to my wife. However, they were all then inscribed in the estate book and I am no longer allowed to sell or dispose of them freely.’

‘James Oliver must have been a dreadful spendthrift,’ I said.

‘Oh, he was a spendthrift and worse. It’s hard to imagine a misdemeanour, or even a crime that he didn’t at least participate in.’

‘Not any crime?’ I said, opening my eyes very wide. ‘Surely he was not – a murderer!’

‘Not openly, otherwise his life would have terminated at the end of a rope, rather than in his bed, as it did – a nasty old man, I’ve no doubt, with a miserable wife and a large number of legitimate and illegitimate children. But it wouldn’t surprise me if he were the one responsible for a certain number of rather peculiar deaths that his father noted down in the diary. You see, his father kept him on such a tight rein financially that in order to satisfy his depraved tastes, he simply had to get money elsewhere.’

‘How did he do it?’ I asked, hoping to lead him on. For apart from its historical interest, I felt that Mr Archer took an intense though secret delight in identifying himself with his amoral forebear, and I felt I was coming closer to his real nature.

‘Women were his weakness,’ he told me, his wolfish smile appearing. ‘He couldn’t seem to see a girl or woman who didn’t stimulate some ancient reflex of possession within him. Yet he was no Apollo, unfortunately. Women were repelled by him, and that led him into an infinity of trouble.’

‘How do you know what he looked like?’ I asked, surprised.

‘Why, there’s a portrait of him in the study. Every Archer heir is painted. Come, I’ll show it to you.’

He took my arm, and I allowed him to do so, although his touch displeased me strongly, and the pressure of his fingers through my sleeve struck me as being firmer than absolutely necessary. We crossed the room, went through a plush-covered door, and found ourselves in the study, a large room equipped with a burnished oak desk covered with glass, upon which were a lamp, an inkstand and other articles for office-work. The panelled walls were divided by oaken mouldings into sections, and in each section hung a portrait.

‘That’s James’ father,’ he said, and I found myself staring into the eyes of a bust portrait, darkened with age, of a gentleman with an enormous quantity of facial hair and the kind of look of fanatical intensity that I have always imagined on the faces of Protestant preachers such as John Knox, inflamed with exacerbated morality.

‘And there’s James,’ went on Mr Archer, now pointing to a full-length portrait. I stared at it; it showed little or no resemblance to the present Mr Archer, but much inheritance from the Spanish mother. Black hair and sharply marked black eyebrows in the shape of an inverted V; black eyes with an intense gaze, as though to a specific point or goal, and thin lips pressed together, surmounted by a moustache not very different in shape and style from the eyebrows. While not positively ugly, the face was rendered disagreeable by an insufficiently pronounced chin. Such chins are usually associated with weakness of character, but in this case the weakness appeared to have taken the form of an incapacity to resist yielding to lust or whim rather than a problem of indecisiveness. In his hand he held a whip, the cord dangling negligently from the handle, and at his hip was a short dagger.

‘Yes, women were his downfall,’ Mr Archer mused, gazing upon his ancestor. ‘He couldn’t see one but he had to have her. He was the terror of the countryside. A dozen times or more, his father found himself confronted with peasant families of the neighbourhood whose daughter’s life and future had been destroyed by his son. He remarks once, bitterly enough, that he was turning into a matchmaker among the farming families of the area, for once James had finished with them, the girls were only fit for marrying old widowers or invalids, and even that was possible only thanks to the dowry the old man provided out of a feeling of moral rectitude. The entire area around here lived in terror of James; if he found out that a young man was courting the girl he had his eyes on at the moment, he’d go out and flog him within an inch of his life. Every month a scandal broke out during the time he was growing up. Yes, he had a streak of evil in him, all right.’

These words were pronounced in a tone of such intense satisfaction that I glanced up at him; the egotistic smile on his lips revealed his thoughts as though his head were made of glass. This was all to the good, I supposed, in view of the fact that my purpose here was to make him talk about Ivy.

‘Where is your portrait?’ I asked flatteringly. He was pleased at the question, and led me to a vividly coloured painting in which he, as quite a young man, posed in hunting costume with one foot on a stool, a hound at his feet and – a whip in his hand.

‘Is the whip a family heirloom as well?’ I asked, pointing to it.

‘No,’ he laughed. ‘Not an heirloom, but a family symbol. Archer men like to dominate.’

My dislike of the man was intensifying by the minute, but for some inexplicable psychological reason, this feeling gave me the strength to play my role all the better. I fluttered my eyelids to signify admiration of masculine domination. I have always possessed a certain talent for acting, but it is something I feel to be a bit shameful and unworthy, like a talent for lying. Not good…but occasionally extremely useful.

‘I recognise that one,’ I said, noticing the portrait hanging next to Mr Archer’s. It was a painting of Julian Archer, also a full-length portrait, in an interesting pose. The subject was standing with his two hands on a table, leaning a little forward, and looking straight into the viewer’s eyes with a twinkle of amusement. It was an excellent painting. I was making some comment to the sitter’s father about the likeness between them, when my eyes were momentarily arrested by another bust portrait hanging nearby, showing a pale, rather long face, markedly different in aspect and expression from all the surrounding portraits, sorrowful, melancholy, burdened, perhaps, with the weight of the Archer evil. I was about to ask who he was, when Mr Archer yawned prodigiously, covering his mouth politely with his hand and turning away from me, and I perceived that the draught was beginning to take effect, and began to feel in a hurry to lead the conversation to the point where I wanted it.

‘I have a nice little flat in London, where I go whenever I need a little change of air,’ he remarked, moving back in the direction of the sitting room and glancing at me significantly. ‘I travel to the Continent quite regularly as well.’

‘Oh, how exciting!’ I said. ‘Do you go to Paris and Rome? The women must be so beautiful there.’

He smiled vainly. ‘Women are beautiful everywhere,’ he said, ‘but different everywhere. Every flavour is worth trying. The fresh, home-grown product is just as delicious as the hothouse import.’

The already plain meaning of this sentence became much plainer as he placed his hands on my shoulders and bent his face down to mine with an intention that was perfectly clear. Thoughts rushed through my mind. He repelled me. I did not want his touch. But if I played my game carefully enough, I should tempt him sufficiently to keep him talking, and defend myself enough to keep out of danger. I knew that my whole strategy with this man was a risky one – how long could it be before he discovered that I was a married woman with children, living in a cottage not so very far from his own manor? If I wanted to find out anything from him, it would have to be in a very short time.

His lips were already on mine. I repressed a shudder, and allowed him a judiciously calculated moment before twisting away with a purposely artificial look of shock.

‘Oh, Mr Archer,’ I gasped, ‘how can you?’ I sent him a look which meant, as clearly as I could make it, that he might obtain what he desired from me, but that he should have to fight for it. That self-satisfied little smile played over his lips again. He relished the combat.

‘Why, you can’t do that, Mr Archer!’ I cried. ‘You mustn’t!’

‘And why not?’

‘Because you don’t love me – do you?’

‘I do,’ he replied, entering into the game at once. ‘I’m in love with you, upon my word, Miss Duncan. It’s struck me all of a heap.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ I pouted, stepping back from him, and moving through the door into the sitting room, I scooped up my fan which I had left on the sofa, and fluttered it. ‘It’s too quick.’

‘Love at first sight is the Archer way,’ he purred.

‘Then you must be in love once a week,’ I said.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘we Archers have susceptible hearts. You heard what I told you about James.’

‘Goodness, I hope you’re not too much like him!’ I cried.

‘Oh, no. I’ve inherited that fiery streak, but I respect women,’ he said. ‘I’m dearly fond of the creatures, and would never mistreat them.’ He sat down on the sofa next to me, and put his hand on my knee. I took it off.

‘You must tell me about everyone you’ve been in love with before me,’ I said.

He burst out laughing.

‘No, I can’t do that! There are far too many!’ he said.

‘Oh, you wicked man,’ I flirted, feeling thoroughly ashamed of myself, and behaving all the more brazenly in compensation. ‘Tell me about the last girl you loved before me, then.’

‘You don’t want to know about other girls,’ he coaxed, leaning into me.

‘No, I do, I do. Where is she now? Why aren’t you in love with her any more? I shall be fearfully jealous if you don’t tell me it’s all over with her,’ I said with mock severity, ‘and if you don’t explain to me exactly why you don’t love her any more, I’ll be frightened that you’ll treat me the same way.’

‘Oh, you silly creature,’ he said. ‘There was a very lovely young girl, but…she is dead.’ And for a moment he looked extremely sorry.

‘Dead!’ I leapt away from him, feigning a great fear. ‘Why – that’s just like your ancestor James! Why did she die? How did she die? Of love?’

He rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. The laudanum was definitely having its effect.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t know exactly. She was here for a party, and she said goodbye and left, and later I heard that she was dead. I really know nothing about it. But I do miss her. She was a good girl, and very pretty, though not in the same way as you are. But then – no two women are alike,’ and he once again proceeded to resemble a wolf.

I nestled up to him with the outer shell of my body, while the inner portions shrank away in disgust. A tense, awkward giggle escaped me as I imagined myself observed at the present moment, and suddenly remembered some pages from Dumas’ little book which had caused me to laugh uncontrollably by asserting that the lovers of the loose women known as lorettes are all uniformly known as ‘les Arthurs’. I am not a lorette – in spite of my behaviour with Mr Archer I am most definitely not a lorette – but my beloved is certainly an Arthur. And Ivy? Ivy was a lorette…a flower with as many lovers as petals.

‘Who was she?’ I asked him suddenly.

‘Oh, she was just a little actress,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘A sweet, good girl, but not important. I was very fond of her, but I don’t pretend for a second that she was fond of me, or rather, that she was fond of me only. A girl like that has to earn her living as she can. Not like you. You’re a good girl, anyone can tell that.’ He settled closer to me and laid his head on my shoulder. ‘Goodness, how tired I am,’ he remarked, closing his eyes.

‘Oh,’ I said kindly, ‘do take a little rest.’ And I petted his white hair, willing him to sleep. It was not long before he sank into a deep, drug-induced slumber. I disengaged myself, deposited the old gentleman on the sofa, and stood up. I had a little time to explore freely, for the maid had been told not to enter. The sleeping draught was by no means a strong one, and Mr Archer might be awakened by any loud noise, so I slipped out of the room silently and closed the plush-covered door to the study behind me.

This was the room that interested me. Here, I might find examples of handwriting – Mr Archer’s own handwriting, to identify the empty envelope I had found in her room, or Mr Julian Archer’s writing, or perhaps even Ivy Elliott’s own writing, to identify her letter. And here, I might also find financial information sufficient to prove to me, as Mr Julian had asserted, that Mr Archer was not able to spend his money freely, could not access any significant sum without its being known…could not, under any circumstances, allow himself to pay a hired murderer, let alone put himself at the risk of blackmail.

I pulled open a drawer of the desk, and then another and another, glancing at the papers they held, riffling through them quickly. I saw nothing unusual and nothing private. Everything seemed to treat of financial affairs of one type or another. Which suited me well enough.

I rapidly went through one after another of the well-organised, neatly docketed folders arranged in the drawers. I examined and turned over every single paper. Long experience has made me able to read and understand such papers quickly and accurately. After twenty minutes of searching, I had found nothing to contradict Julian Archer’s description, and everything to confirm it.

Letters from the trustees approving or rejecting various payments, statements of bank accounts, copies of Mr Archer’s own correspondence, everything was there, and everything was in perfect order. As well it should be, since he was periodically obliged to go through it all in detail with the trustees.

I looked with especial interest through a folder labelled Investments. Apart from statements of earnings, it contained an exchange of letters between Mr Archer and the trustees going back over some thirty years. It emerged clearly from these documents that Mr Archer had been allowed, many years ago, with trepidation and disapproval, but upon his own insistence, to invest a modest sum of money in a firm whose enterprise he greatly admired. This investment had turned out extremely profitable, and over the following years, I saw that Mr Archer’s expertise and intuition in the matter of investment had convinced the trustees to place larger and larger sums in the companies that he recommended. It was, however, equally clear that no money connected with these investments was ever transferred to Mr Archer directly, neither the sums invested nor those earned. All passed through the trustees, all went directly to swell the Archer fortune, which by now controlled many thousands of pounds invested in a dozen companies, most of which appeared to be inventors of technological products which had obtained Mr Archer’s approval. I scanned the list briefly.

I could not help but admire Mr Archer’s knowledge of technology and his flair. It did seem rather unfair that he should not freely profit from a single penny that was made through his own efforts. He himself protested the situation in a number of letters. However, the trustees invariably responded that such were the terms of the ancient will, that increasing the Archer fortune was a worthy goal in itself, and that of course all money he requested for any reasonable activity should be forthcoming with their approval immediately. And they did accede to a number of requests, for voyages, sojourns in hotels in various cities of the Continent, dinners hosted in elegant London restaurants. It seemed that it was not money which was lacking in his life, nor even the freedom to spend it; it was privacy. Yet that very lack was exactly what condemned my idea of a hired killer to hopeless impossibility. And to make matters worse, the numerous examples of his handwriting I examined intently did not correspond – not in a single, solitary, detail – to the writing on the envelope I had found addressed to Ivy Elliott. Nor was there even a scrap of correspondence concerning her to be found in the desk.

I closed the last drawer, disappointed, and slipped quietly out of the french window, down a few steps and onto the lawn. I was about to walk around the house and down the path to the gate, when suddenly and unexpectedly, I perceived a gardener coming towards me, pushing a wheelbarrow.

Afraid that he would stop me, and feeling strongly that I really had no business to be where I was, I pulled back hastily and scampered around the same tree behind which I had been hiding with Estelle the first time I laid eyes upon Mr Archer. But the gardener came around the house, stopped, and began clearing a space to put in some flowers, not two yards from where I stood. I waited on tenterhooks for a moment – he stood up again and went off to fetch something. I took two steps in the direction of flight – he was already coming back! I glanced up into the tree; it stood very close to the house, but on the other hand it was leafy enough to provide a reasonable hiding place. In no time I was silently perched amongst its lower branches.

I was compelled to remain there for nearly an hour as the gardener worked below me. By peering through the leaves, I found that I could obtain a reasonable view into Mr Archer’s sitting room. I fell to wondering what he would do if he woke up and discovered my departure. My curiosity was eventually satisfied.

I saw him sit up, rubbing his forehead and looking confused. He stretched, and looked all about him. I could not hear him at all, but I believe he called out something, quite probably my name. Then he arose and began to look for me. I shrank back into the branches.

He crossed into the study and looked there, then opened the french window and peered out onto the lawn. I held my breath, expecting him to ask the gardener if he had seen me. But he said nothing; presumably he did not care to advertise his amorous adventures to the servants. Finally, he returned indoors and departed towards the interior of the house. I waited another quarter of an hour, watching the progress of the gardener’s planting with interest; he had set in nearly all the plants, only two were left, only one, none were left, he was finished. He fetched water and watered them copiously, then swept up the scattered leaves and put them in the wheelbarrow. He stopped for a while, taking the sun and fanning himself with his hat while I waited impatiently, then finally moved away, wheeling his now empty barrow.

I shifted on my branch and began climbing down the tree as silently as possible. ‘Ouch!’ I exclaimed under my breath, pulling my arm away sharply as my sleeve became caught on a twig. I expected it to snap, but it didn’t, so I reached up with my fingers to disengage it. To my surprise, it was not a twig, but a wire which was caught in my sleeve buttons. My fingers unwound it and followed it; almost invisible, it continued upward towards the top of the tree and downwards along the trunk. I took care not to trip over it as I reached the ground. I wondered vaguely if it was a trap of some kind. Magpies, I know, are very annoying when they come to attack the nests of other birds.

Looking about me to make sure there was not a soul in sight, I sped onto the path and away. I hurried all the way home, and as soon as I arrived, I flung myself into a chair and penned a note to Mr Archer so that he should not take my disappearance amiss. In spite of my complete failure to have discovered the slightest incriminating factor, I did not want my acquaintance with him to come to an abrupt end.

I sealed this, went out to post it, and returned home to find Arthur waiting for me. He seemed delighted to see me, came towards me warmly, and put his hand on my arm. I felt horrendously guilty, remembering myself with Mr Archer’s repulsive lips pressed upon mine, suddenly seeing the scene as though through Arthur’s eyes. I blushed to the roots of my hair. He looked at me, a little surprised, then suddenly took my hands in his.

‘You’re very beautiful today,’ he said unexpectedly. I looked at him, and suddenly, as he saw me with different eyes, I saw him with different eyes. I mentally compared him with Mr Archer, and Mr Julian Archer, and was happy. I am really very lucky in my husband.

‘Oh, Arthur, come – let’s go out for a ramble, just the two of us,’ I said. And we left the house behind and walked into the countryside, down lanes and through fields, along streams and under trees. He filled my arms with wild flowers and I filled his hair with kisses. But it was a long time before I felt really able to look him straight in the eyes. When I did, what I found there caused my guilt to be submerged by a rush of other feelings.