‘How close? Everyone knows everyone else in these little country villages, don’t they?’
‘No,’ Alice said bluntly. ‘The town I grew up in was small but it wasn’t that small. People who live in the city always imagine that anywhere fifty miles outside of London is some charming little hamlet where everyone is on first-name terms with everyone else.’
‘And it isn’t?’ Victor exclaimed with overdone incredulity. ‘You shock me.’
‘Ha, ha.’
‘Oh, dear. Don’t tell me that your sense of humour has gone into hibernation.’
Alice shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something had changed between them, almost unnoticeably. It was as though his sudden curiosity about her background had moved them away from the strictly working relationship level onto some other level, though what she couldn’t make out. Whatever it was, it made her uneasy.
‘So, what’s the town like?’ He glanced at her and continued smoothly, ‘Might be interesting if we’re to find out how saleable Highfield House is for visiting tourists.’
Alice relaxed. This kind of question she could cope with. ‘Picturesque,’ she said with a small frown as she cast her mind back. ‘The high street is very pretty. Lots of black and white buildings which haven’t been mown down in favour of department stores. There’s still a butcher, a baker...’
‘A candlestick maker...’
She smiled, almost without thinking. ‘Very nearly. Or at least, there was when I was last there.’
‘Which was...?’
‘A few years ago,’ she said vaguely.
‘Any historic sights nearby?’
‘Remains of a castle. I’m sure there must be quite a bit of history around it, but if there is, then I’m the last person to ask because I don’t know. Stratford-upon-Avon’s not a million miles away.’
‘Sounds good. Any stately home that’s open to the public can only benefit from having interesting surroundings.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ she said, wondering for the first time whether the town would have changed much, whether her mother’s old house was still standing, whether Gladys and Evelyn who had lived on either side were still finding things to argue about. She had not given any of this much thought for years, but as the Jaguar ate up the miles she couldn’t help casting her mind back.
‘So Highfield House is close to the town centre...?’ Alice glanced at him and his face was bland. Interested, but purely from a professional point of view. Or at least that was what his expression told her.
‘Not terribly. At least twenty minutes’ drive away and not readily accessible by public transport.’
‘Set on a hill, though, from what I remember from the photos. Quite a commmanding view.’
‘Yes.’
‘And correct me if I’m wrong, but there was an old man there, wasn’t there? James Claydon’s father, I believe.’
‘That’s right.’ He had never known about her infatuation with his son. James had only appeared occasionally. She could remember anxiously looking forward to his arrivals with the eagerness of a teenager waiting for her first date. And he inevitably would arrive with flowers, or chocolates, or little trinkets which he would bring from London, or wherever else he had been. And there would be a few days of stolen heady passion, followed by weeks of agonising absence.
‘Died... Can’t quite remember when...’
‘After my time, I’m afraid,’ Alice said shortly. ‘I’d already left for London by then.’
‘Ah, so you did know at least something of what was going on at Highfield House. Wasn’t the old man a widower?’
‘Yes, he was.’
They had cleared London completely now, and she looked out of her window, marvelling at how quickly the crowded streets gave way to open space. It was still very developed, with houses and estates straddling the motorway, yet there was a feeling of bigness that she didn’t get in the heart of London.
Victor began chatting to her about one of their clients, a problem account, and they moved on to art, music, the theatre. She could feel some of the tension draining out of her body. He was good at conversing and could talk about practically anything. His knowledge stretched from politics to the opera and he spoke with the confidence of someone who knew what they were talking about. It was a valuable asset when it came to dealing with other people, because he was informed enough on most subjects to pick up on the slightest hint of an interest and expand on it. He could put people at ease as smoothly as he could intimidate them when the occasion demanded.
She rested her head back and half-closed her eyes, not thinking of Highfield House or James Claydon, or any of those nightmarish thoughts that had dogged her for the past few days.
‘What made you decide to come down to London to work?’ he asked, digressing with such aplomb that it took her a few seconds to absorb the change of subject.
‘I thought that I might get a more invigorating job in the capital,’ she said carefully.
‘So you swapped the open fields for the city life.’ It wasn’t a question. It was more said in the voice of someone thinking aloud. Musing, but with only the mildest curiosity expressed.
‘It’s not that unusual.’
‘Quite the opposite.’ He paused. ‘What exactly were you doing before you came to work with me?’
‘Oh, just a series of temp jobs,’ Alice said, dismissing them easily.
‘And before that?’
She gave him a guarded look. ‘I wasn’t working for a company,’ she said evasively. On her application form, she had not extended her work experience beyond her temporary jobs, all of which had earned her glowing references; and because she had joined the firm as a temp herself there had been no in-depth questioning about her work background. Her experience within the company and the fact that she had worked smoothly with Victor had been all that was necessary.
‘Still at secretarial school?’
‘No.’ The nakedness of this reply forced her to continue. ‘I worked freelance. Actually I was transcribing a book.’ Well, it was the truth, shorn of all elaboration, and Victor nodded thoughtfully.
‘Anything interesting?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Was it ever published?’
‘I have no idea.’ She doubted it At the time, Henry Claydon had shown no real rush to finish his memoirs. It was a labour of love, something of a hobby. He’d certainly had no need of any money it might have generated. No, she was sure that it had remained incomplete.
‘Bit odd for you to take off for London in the middle of a job like that...’
She didn’t care for this line of questioning. She knew where it was leading, but she was wary of the circuitous route. This was how Victor was so clever at manoeuvring people into revealing more than they had bargained for.
‘The money wasn’t very good,’ Alice told him, truthfully enough, ‘and it looked as though it was a book that could have taken decades to write. I simply couldn’t afford to stay in the end.’ It was a sort of truth.
‘He must have been disappointed.’
‘He?’
‘He or she. Whoever was writing this mysterious book. You must have built up some kind of rapport, working in such intimate conditions.’
Alice shrugged. ‘I suppose so, although, to be fair, I did give him six months’ notice.’