Enter Pale Death(52)
JOE FROWNED AS he watched the Lagonda disappear. “Drown the green man,” had he said? He tried to make sense of it. Some medieval country custom? Or: the Green man? A lawyer who’d annoyed him? A bad-tempered chap who cut the lawns? He smiled and shook his head.
Joe didn’t want to be seen marching alone straight down the centre of the lime avenue. Too exposed. He preferred to come crabwise at buildings, at people, down trenches. There was no glory and no sense in a strutting advance across open ground into the teeth of the cannon. He’d learned that much. He’d saved his own skin and that of hundreds of his men, he reckoned, by simply not hearing orders of a suicidal nature passed down the line. Others had taken the same precautions. There were more effective ways of achieving your aims. Joe had learned far more from rear offices than he ever had from façades, he reckoned.
A quick glance at Hunnyton’s estate map that he’d tucked into his pocket gave him his orientation and he set out across the open ground to his right, heading for an intriguing incursion into the landscape of what looked like several acres of ancient woodland which had been left untroubled to serve as an element of the framework of the Hall and as a screen for the stable block. A group of three tall elms, outliers of the wood, stood on guard. To welcome or repel? Joe made straight for them across the close-cropped grass, using them as a marker.
As he approached, he picked out oak, ash, hazel, much tangled hawthorn and a concentration of lower-growing shrubbery. Tantalisingly, Hunnyton had marked in the centre of this wilderness a tiny building he’d labelled TEMPLE OF DIANA. On a sporting and sociable estate like Truelove’s there was bound to be a temple to a classical god and Diana was most suitable. Diana the Huntress, eternally young and lovely. An appealing challenge to the sporting male ego since she had dedicated herself eternally to a state of virginity. Joe had always thought it odd that her other attribute was a mismatched concern for fertility. Denying it in herself, she loved and encouraged it in women. Those who wanted to become pregnant sought her intercession and when the moment came, this goddess would even help them through a painful childbirth.
Follies, hermitages (occasionally still with hermit in residence), marble temples, they were thick on the ground in English country seats, usually put up at the whim of eighteenth-century young English gentlemen recently returned from their Grand Tour. They came back from the continent, travelling boxes stuffed with architectural designs of a classical style or Italianate nature. Some, more adventurous, brought along the architect himself if he were of cool classical style or hot Italianate nature.
Joe enjoyed harmless whimsy. He approved of follies—they made useful trysting places or a refuge from boring company. A place to retire to with a good book minutes before someone’s aunt called for a fourth at bridge. He had fond memories of kisses snatched, surprising intimacies allowed, in his youth; he had less fond memories of a corpse he’d been called in to attend to, hideous flesh and blood polluting the white marble beauty. He reckoned he had time to take in Diana on his way to the stables. He hoped there’d be a statue of some sort, for choice a scantily clad Grecian lady on whose lips he could plant a chaste kiss. Sculptors quite often went into flights of erotic fantasy when chiselling out a Diana. He’d make off to the house before she could turn him into a wild animal or a bush of some sort. He remembered Diana had a quick temper and a short way of dealing with unwanted romantic overtures; her admirer, Actaeon, even her male priests had all come, one after the other, to a sticky end. Better treat her with respect when he found her. Still—a guest who took the trouble to stop off and make a votive offering to the goddess of the place on his way up to lunch might just soften the heart of the Dowager. It would certainly get the conversation going.
The heat of the open parkland changed within a few strides to cool shadow as he entered the wood. He paused for a moment to let his eyes grow accustomed to the gloom and he breathed in deep forest scents laced with the intoxicating sharp top note of the elderflower that frothed in abundance, creamy-white amongst the dark foliage. He wished he could spend the afternoon here, alone with his thoughts.
Some yards to his right, a twig snapped. A small animal? Joe moved on briskly into the heart of the wood, seeking for a rise in the ground for that would be where a temple would be sited. The trees now crowded overhead, blotting out any external pointers like the tall bell tower of the distant chapel he’d lined up his sights on. If he kept his back to the sun he couldn’t go far astray—the whole grove couldn’t be much more than a couple of hundred yards wide. He stopped as, again, a twig snapped, to his left this time, and slightly behind him. Could be a poacher? Joe thought not. Those fellers didn’t go about snapping twigs so carelessly. Joe was used to tracking—and being tracked. Even allowing for the still air and the smothering effect of the thick tree canopy, that snap had been too loud. Not accidental. He could have sworn someone had picked up a stick and broken it with gusto. To attract his attention? Warn him off? Frighten him?