‘Mid-eighteenth century,’ Kingston muttered to himself, rounding the circle.
Ahead, standing by the arch, was a smiling young woman wearing a loose white T-shirt and blue jeans. She was holding a broom.
‘Could be earlier,’he mused, glancing up at the windows. He pulled the TR4 to a stop alongside her. Glad to be able to stretch his legs after being cooped up for the last couple of hours, he got out and took in a long breath, stretching his six foot three inch frame. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, slamming the car door with a thump, running a hand through his hair in a vain attempt to make it appear less tangled. ‘I’m here to see Jamie Gibson.’
The young woman grinned. ‘You’re talking to her.’
He summoned a weak smile and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I apologize.’
‘No need. I’m hardly one’s idea of the lady of the manor.’ She offered her hand. ‘So, what do you think of the jungle?’
‘Quite a jolt, I must say.’ He smiled, creasing the laugh lines at his eyes. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’ He shook her hand, noting the unusual firmness of her grip and absence of nail polish. ‘Lawrence Kingston,’ he said.
‘I’m delighted that you’re here,’ she countered, sizing him up. He towered over her by several inches, his features angular and pleasingly lined. Most noticeable was the hair, a thick snarl of white, though his eyebrows were oddly dark. No longer smiling, his face wore an air of authority. There was a vague but nevertheless intimidating lucidity in his blue eyes.
‘Do I call you doctor?’ she asked.
‘No, no, Lawrence is fine.’
‘Good. Well, come on in. You must be tired after such a long drive.’ She paused, glanced at the sports car, then ran her eyes over him, but all she said was, ‘Nice car.’
Kingston followed her into the house, their footsteps echoing across the tiled floor of a sparsely furnished entrance hall, through an open door into a living room. The room was grand, an ornate frieze girdling its high ceiling. A clutter of Persian carpets—most of them a bit the worse for wear—covered much of the parquet floor. The furniture, all of it antique, was a jumble of styles and periods. Gilt-framed paintings hung from walls that were the colour of old piano keys. An enormous crystal chandelier dominated the air space in the centre of the room. All the natural light came from one end where tall French doors, flanked by leaded windows, opened to a flagstone terrace looking out on to what used to be gardens, now an ugly wall of weeds, bramble and vines.
Jamie gestured to the large damask sofa. ‘Please sit down, Lawrence. May I get you something to drink?’
‘A cup of tea would be nice.’
‘Breakfast tea or Earl Grey?’
‘Earl Grey’s fine, thanks. Oh, lemon, please, if you have it.’
Jamie nodded towards the coffee table. ‘The top book contains several references to the house. I’ve marked the pages. I think you’ll find it interesting. I’ll be right back,’ she said, leaving the room.
Jamie Gibson was not at all as he’d imagined. In the first place, she was considerably younger and prettier than her somewhat husky American voice on the phone had suggested. Mid-thirties, he would guess. She had soft features with trusting brown eyes that, he would soon learn, could turn in a flutter of long lashes to businesslike and penetrating. Of average height and slim of hip, she had an athlete’s suppleness. Her blonde hair was fashionably short and her skin evenly tanned, leading him to wonder just how long she’d been living in Somerset. Beyond a trace of lipstick, she wore no makeup. It would be a fairly safe bet that she was from either California or Florida. He would inquire when she came back.
He leafed through the thick book to the first yellow Post-it note and started reading.
Five minutes had passed when he heard the rattle of china and looked up to see Jamie coming through the door carrying a tray with cups, saucers and a plate of scones.
‘I see the house was built in the mid-1700s,’ Kingston said, looking up. ‘From these old drawings, it doesn’t appear to have changed much?’
Jamie lowered the tray to the coffee table. ‘No, hardly at all.’
Kingston crossed his long legs, leaned back into the sofa and put on his best smile. ‘Forgive me for being curious,’ he said.
She tilted her head to one side as if to say, ‘Well?’
‘California’s my first guess, Florida second. Am I close?’
She sat down opposite him, folded her hands in her lap, returned the smile and then nodded. ‘Right first time,’ she said. ‘Sonoma County, north of San Francisco.’