Erskine’s attention wavered like a man with an appointment elsewhere but he politely closed his notebook on the fragmentary facts Simon had been able to supply and promised to have a word with the river police and leave a message at hotel reception next day.
Simon ordered another round and said, ‘Frederick’s retired now. Nice old buffer but a real pushover when it comes to a pretty face. He took up painting in his old age and this girl’s just the sort to bowl him over. I wouldn’t like to think she’s taking advantage of the old boy.’
‘Having the time of his life, no doubt.’ Erskine rose, his drink untouched. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, Simon. Duty calls.’
They formally shook hands again and parted with assurances on both sides that they would not lose touch.
Simon sat alone after Erskine had left, finishing his wine, mulling over the perplexing permutations of the whereabouts of the missing girl, not to mention his uncle. Did she jump or was she pushed? The old chestnut struck a sour note. Had she charmed Frederick into some new escapade? Where were they?
Only one thing was certain. A woman with an androgynous name, wearing men’s clothing, had disappeared as dramatically as she had entered Simon Allington’s ordered existence.
And he didn’t like it one little bit.
Bowling along the M40, Rowan led a rowdy sing-song. Bar ballads, rousing hymns of the Salvation Army sort, a smattering of Victorian music hall songs and Cole Porter, of all of which by some time-warp she seemed to know most of the verses. She said her stepfather had taught her.
‘My first stepfather, that is. Before Mumsy discovered younger men. He collected old records. We used to play them on a wind-up gramophone in the garden. If you didn’t keep cranking the handle the songs got slower and sadder and even Jessie Mathews developed a growl.’
Frederick was enchanted. He hadn’t had so much fun in years. Aran started off well but by the time they had turned off at Junction 7, sitting on rolled-up dust sheets in the back of the van had made its mark. He grew silent, wondering if this was really such a good idea. By the time they pulled into Mayerton even Frederick’s spirits had dampened, home truths such as clean sheets and milk for the morning raising admonitory fingers. Luckily it was still daylight.
Rowan, however, seemed unquenchable, her delight in the village green set about with its half-dozen dwellings and a thatched pub spilling over in praises the British Tourist Board paid their advertising agency to invent. She insisted on driving round the village, getting her bearings—one of the compulsions evolved from a lifetime in strange places. She asked Frederick how Mayerton had remained so compact, complete in itself as if a thick line had been drawn round the houses in 1914 and nothing ever added.
It was a chocolate-box place, its single street winding like a snail’s shell, turning inwards to the Norman church. Frederick explained.
‘Until the early ’fifties the village was almost entirely owned by the Edens, surrounded by the Eden Court fields and pastures, dominated by a single family. Inheritance tax and a diminution of the vigour of the Eden bloodline resulted in the sale of the estate, the remnants of a dynasty now being represented by the two remaining Misses Eden.’
Rowan was intrigued. ‘What happened to them?’
‘Cressy and Blanche? Still living in the village, of course. At the Lodge opposite my cottage across the Green. They must be seventyish now. Blanche, the younger one, is a bit peculiar. She doesn’t get out and about much but Cressida still runs Mayerton. She’s a JP, churchwarden, school governor: the lot!’ he chortled. ‘To be fair, though, Cressida keeps the wheels turning. If it hadn’t been for the Edens, the developers would have mopped up Mayerton long ago. The local planning officer goes in fear and trembling of Cressida Eden.’
At Frederick’s direction the van stopped on the Green and he stiffly climbed out. Rowan joined him, standing at the edge of the circle of houses, lost in contemplation, for once her energy stalled. Aran shouted from the van, feeling like a hostage, chained by the blasted plaster cast. Rowan, jerked back to reality, waved Frederick ahead to open up and laughingly set about releasing their prisoner.
In fact, it was no laughing matter. Aran complained loud and long, a tirade falling on deaf ears, Rowan seemingly immune to the vituperation which had reduced even the male nurses at the Darwin to despair.
Frederick quickly recovered, the comfort of his own things about him renewing the joy of having friends to stay. A bachelor life was all very well but lonely, sometimes a little lonely.
Melrose Cottage was very old, thatched and with low beams—dark as pickled walnuts—spanning the sitting-room, drawing the eye to an inglenook in which the fire stood ready laid with logs and screws of paper. He applied a match, the magical transformation of flames leaping in the hearth enlivening the walls with dancing shadows, greeting the grotesque figure of Aran in his kilt, his arm looped round Rowan’s shoulder, framed in the doorway like a Victorian oleograph of a wounded Highlander home from the wars. In the confined space, the combined struggles of Rowan and Frederick to manœuvre him on to the sofa dislodged the phone. It slipped off the hook. Aran was the only one to notice and kept mum. Telephones as far as he was concerned only brought bad news.
Rowan unloaded the van, parked it at the back and, closing the door on the dusk, found herself enfolded in the overblown roses of Frederick’s enormous couch, toasting her toes. She patted his arm, saying, ‘Frederick, this is just marvellous. How long have you lived here?’
‘Oh, years on and off. Only permanently since I retired. Before that it was my weekend place, an escape from the Ministry.’
‘A bolthole like this only an hour or so from London. You clever old sod.’ Aran was impressed, his glimpse of the tiny hamlet a reminder of so much he had forgotten jetting between London and Rome, Rome and Venice, Florence and New York. Were there really hideaways like this huddled all over England, just waiting for the B roads to be swept aside like coy draperies?
‘How about some tea?’
Frederick, all consternation, offered to dash over to Ron’s. ‘The village sub-post-office,’ he explained. ‘It stays open till seven. You can get anything at Ron’s—videos, weedkiller, stamps, not to mention the off licence, of course.’
‘You mean you can buy booze at the post office and when that shuts the pub opens?’ Aran laughed. ‘O, country life, where is thy sting?’
Rowan pushed Frederick ahead and did her habitual stock-take of the kitchen. Recalling the cache discovered in Aran’s fridge, she patted the roll of banknotes in her pocket, wondering if there would be a right moment to confess. She shrugged. It would have to be the right moment: Aran’s temper was likely to evaporate into a red mist at the merest spark the way he was feeling after the bumpy ride from London.
‘I’ll go to the shop,’ she offered. ‘You’ll need some bread, milk and things for breakfast.’ Waving aside Frederick’s proffered notes she said, ‘We’ll use Simon’s petrol money.’
She left the two men secretly mulling over the strange enchantment the girl seemed to weave about her: an indefinable charm, unforced and unconsidered. ‘A honeypot,’ Aran concluded. ‘I’ve never come across one of those before!’ Delighted to have put his finger on it, he relaxed in the sepia warmth of Frederick’s cottage.
They had tea and muffins by the fire. Rowan had also prised some home-cured ham from Ron’s private supply he kept under