Enter Pale Death(111)
HALF AN HOUR later Grace Aldred was safely—and happily—stowed away with Adam’s sister. Rather than make the journey back to town and into a family situation Grace had just left, a stay with her old friend Annie was much to be preferred.
Having gone without the ‘light collation’ on offer for lunch at the Hall, Joe had wolfed down a piece of fruit cake and a mug of tea at Hunnyton’s cottage. Grace had accepted a biscuit, listening nervously as the two men spoke to each other in short sharp phrases, looking constantly at their watches, calculating times and distances and making plans. Grace, while not managing to follow much of the professional-sounding conversation, seemed to sense that everything stemmed from the action she had taken on that ghastly April morning and she twitched with feelings of guilt and foreboding. It was not over yet and someone was for the high jump. But these two men who spoke over her head in soldiers’ voices seemed to have her welfare at heart and they assured her it would all soon be dealt with and she wasn’t to worry. Joe had seen her safely off to Annie’s house in the company of the superintendent, whom she seemed shyly to adore.
Joe strolled into the hall and greeted Styles with the self-satisfaction of a man just returned from a post-luncheon constitutional. He walked swiftly about the corridors for a while, smilingly avoiding conversation with anyone and finally headed for the telephone room. He emerged after a few minutes, leaving the door open and calling for the butler. “Ah, Styles! There you are. Sorry, I seem to be treading on your toes today … I was in there talking to the Yard. The phone rang as I put the receiver down. Thought it must be my superintendent with an afterthought but no—it was for you. The Aldred household ringing from Bury, courtesy of the grocer. A three-penny bit to hand and time of the essence so I took a message.” Joe’s eyes went slightly out of focus as he recalled a piece of lightweight information. “Grace’s mother’s taken a turn for the worse. Heart trouble. Grace won’t be back until Wednesday at the earliest. Apologies and all that. Oh, and would you please tell Mrs. Bolton she’s sorry about the … gophering? I say—does that make sense?”
Styles smiled. “Perfect sense, sir. Mrs. Bolton will be relieved to hear there’s been a communication. Tea has been cleared, I’m afraid, sir. Shall I summon up another pot? No? The dressing gong will sound at seven for dinner at eight.”
“Thank you, Styles. I shall be on parade at eight.”
BEFORE THE GONG sounded he would set in motion the plans he’d made with Hunnyton, and he’d start in the kitchen. He looked at his watch. The lull between tea and drinks. This was the right time to catch Ben and Mrs. Bolton and explain what he wanted from them.
Two hours to go before he could disappear to his room and be certain he would not be disturbed. At seven he would go up and do his packing, preparing for a quick exit. Lagonda back to Cambridge and then whatever train was available to get him back to reeky old London. He could be back at his desk by midmorning on Monday, checking one last time the wording of the resignation that he kept permanently in his drawer undated and ready to be delivered to the chief commissioner. He could be taking one last look at the plane trees lining the Thames Embankment. Like them, he’d absorbed year on year the contamination of his surroundings and finally, in a moment of release, he’d throw off the whole layering of filth to reveal the pristine white trunk beneath. If his core did indeed remain unsullied. He couldn’t be certain that the rot hadn’t begun to penetrate.
In an odd mood of self-doubt and nostalgia, spiked by an edge of excitement and anticipation of change, he first made his way to the Great Hall. He passed the crowd of disapproving ancestors in review one by one, countering their superior stares with his own knowledgeable gaze. He moved on down the corridor to the dining hall, where he annoyed a couple of footmen who were putting the finishing touches to the dinner table by taking up space in front of the Canaletto landscape of the Thames. Saying a quiet farewell? There hadn’t been much he’d enjoyed at Melsett but he’d been glad to see this.
The enchantment was broken by a confident voice at his elbow. A low and intimate voice that sent a shiver down his side. “So here it is! I’d never seen one of his views of London before. It’s superb, of course. Though I have to say, once one has seen any of his sunlit pictures of Venice, the contrast with a grey northern cityscape is striking but unwelcome. The dome of St. Paul’s seems reduced, the architecture uninviting, the water murky, don’t you think?”