The Strange Fate of Kitty Easton (7 page)

‘Old Digby,’ Patrick said. ‘It’s certainly not the same place without Digby. Or, indeed, my father. Back then the whole place hummed. They’d be out with the guns, riding to hounds, throwing dances, hatching glorious schemes—mostly disastrous—going on escapades and excursions, with cavalry men, racing drivers, actors, bounders, swooning girls. My father’s style was consuming prodigious quantities of champagne, while a queue formed at the back door of tailors, local traders, blacksmiths, wine merchants and irate husbands wanting satisfaction. Digby just loved life and loved company. He hated being alone. And he had the sort of charm that could persuade a fish to fly.’

Laurence wondered how Digby’s exuberant spirits had altered after Kitty disappeared.

‘And then he bagged a beautiful and rich wife,’ Patrick said, ‘and before he could get too bored—and he was never at his best when boredom set in, to be honest—a hero’s death.’

After a very long pause while he drank his tea, he added, ‘I miss him. He made me laugh more than anyone I’ve ever met. Still, Mr Bartram, to be frank it’s better the estate be in the hands of Lydia and the loyal Julian.’ He made a rueful face, defusing his slight sharpness. ‘That’s if there was to be anything left of it at all.’

‘Are you glad to be back?’

‘I am back, so I suppose I must be. No, I’m not being entirely truthful. Families—well, in my case what remains of them—you know how it is: it can be damned awkward. And I already miss Crete.’ He gave another quick smile. ‘But I’m fortunate in that what I have been doing is something that gives me enormous pleasure and Sir Arthur Evans’s enthusiasms tend to sweep one on.’

Was it arrogance that led Patrick to assume that Laurence knew his profession already or merely an accurate assessment of family talk?

‘Working with him must be extraordinary,’ Laurence said and meant it.

For over a year the papers had been full of Howard Carter and Tutankhamun’s gold, but to Laurence the idea of stripping back the earth in Crete, layer after layer, not to discover glittering treasure but mysteries—walls, paths, fortifications, which needed patience and imagination to reconstruct—was far more thrilling. Not in order to stock museums, but to try to discover how these ancient people lived, what they hoped for, what they feared. He knew that on Crete they had found inscriptions in an unheard-of language, a tantalising, unreadable clue to these long-gone people.

‘I wasn’t there for the crucial bit, sadly. The excavations started at the turn of the century. The most famous finds—the tablets, of course, and the figurine of the snake goddess—were early on.’

Patrick stopped and waited to see whether Laurence understood what he was referring to.

‘I read Sir Arthur’s account,’ Laurence said.

Patrick nodded. ‘I went out there once in the vac but not full time until I left university. I missed the boat really because all that soon stopped in the war, of course, so I only managed a month or so. I went back to Sir Arthur’s house near Oxford to help write up the finds. Since then, the last five years, it’s mostly been reconstruction.’ He got up and went over to the fire. ‘Some of it more like getting the decorators in,’ he said as he poked the coal into life.

‘But to be right there. At the heart of such a great discovery—’

Patrick turned back to him. ‘I know who you are now,’ he said, almost as if they were at a Belgravia cocktail party. ‘You’re the churches man. The expert. You wrote a book.’

Laurence must have looked surprised as Patrick said, ‘Frances wrote. There was a letter waiting in Paris. She said you were coming down to give St Babs the once-over. You’re a friend of the architect chap who is trying to sort out the cottages.’

‘William Bolitho.’

‘Bolitho, yes. And his wife? A clever friend of clever Frances?’

Laurence nodded. ‘William is in a wheelchair,’ he said. ‘He lost his legs in 1917.’

Patrick nodded. ‘I gathered. Difficult. I’m glad he’s here. It was good of him. But what do you make of our church? Beyond the extraordinary carvings round the door?’

‘They’re astonishing. The best I’ve ever seen.’

Patrick was nodding vigorously as Laurence continued, ‘As for the interior, I’ve scarcely had more than a quick look but there are certainly some intriguing anomalies. Actually that’s where I was going.’ He took his compass out of his pocket and held it up.

Patrick put down his cup, which he had been almost nursing in his lap, suddenly alert.

‘Anomalies? I’m always drawn to anomalies.’

‘It’s nothing much, possibly odd orientation, and the floors have been resurfaced rather clumsily and I can’t see why.’

‘May I come too? Watch for a while? Before everybody gets back?’

Patrick had dropped his guard and looked genuinely interested.

Laurence’s heart sank. He preferred to think in peace, especially when trying to make sense of a puzzle, but it was he, not Patrick, who was really the stranger here. Patrick had every right to visit his own family’s church.

‘I won’t interfere, I promise,’ Patrick said, still sounding enthusiastic. ‘Back in Crete, Sir Arthur is possessed of a magnificent certainty and has rebuilt the palaces of the Minoans so that they’d feel quite at home if they returned tomorrow. I don’t have his great gift of faith. I like the standing and silently sensing the invisible. You too, I imagine?’

Laurence was surprised by Patrick’s frankness and perception. He was about to reply when he heard voices.

‘Ah, my hosts,’ Patrick said, ‘my
family.
No rest for me then.’ Turning to Laurence, as the voices drew closer, he added ‘Later perhaps,’ just as Lydia called out from the corridor, ‘Hello. Patrick? Is that you?’

She came in just a little ahead of Frances looking unwell but as animated as Laurence had ever seen her, taking Patrick’s hand in both of hers. From behind her, Frances, who had looked watchful at first, stepped forward.

‘Patrick,’ she said, giving him a hug. ‘How awful of us. I had no idea you were here until I saw that strange old car outside and realised it must be yours.’

‘Your telegram said you’d be later...’ Lydia said.

Patrick grinned. ‘The car. Dreadful old thing. Somehow suitable for an archaeologist, but I rather wondered whether I was going to make it at all. I set out early, simply so that I stood a chance of getting here in daylight.’

His glance lingered on his sister-in-law and Laurence fancied he could see concern in Patrick’s eyes but he swiftly turned to Frances, regarding her too with real warmth.

‘You look so well, Frances.’

He turned back to Lydia, who was holding on to the back of a chair. She blinked a couple of times, almost as if she were trying to focus.

‘Sit down,’ Frances said gently, taking her arm again. Lydia’s skin was greyish and she closed her eyes briefly, but once sitting by the fire she brightened again quickly.

‘So where’s my big brother?’ Patrick said. ‘Out beating the bounds in true squirearchical fashion?’

Lydia smiled. Frances stood behind her chair, gazing down at Lydia with her hand resting on her half-sister’s shoulder.

‘He must be with David and William,’ she said, looking up.

‘Ah, yes. Turning old Easton into a model estate. Before scouring the mop fairs for tenants.’

Frances’s eyes narrowed but Patrick appeared not to notice. ‘It’s really very good to be here again, Lydia.’

‘You should come more often,’ she replied but without any tone of reproach. Then, turning to Laurence, ‘We haven’t seen Patrick for five years. I fear he has weathered those years better than we have.’

‘Nonsense, you look well!’

‘It’s not nonsense, despite everybody’s care, but you were always gallant,’ Lydia said.

Laurence was struck by the long interval of time. Five years’ absence?

Maggie came into the room carrying the tea things. The girl looked flustered, her eyes opening wide when she saw Patrick, who stepped forward to take the tray from her. Putting it down, he shook her hand. ‘Well, I think I can certainly say that you’ve grown. How old are you now?’

Maggie’s cheeks were blotched with embarrassment or pleasure. ‘Fifteen,’ she said. ‘I’ll be sixteen come July. I’m sorry I wasn’t here, I was seeing to my grandad and I didn’t know we’d have people for tea,’ she said, all in a rush. Then she added, ‘Mrs Hill is teaching me to cook. I did half the cake.’

‘I’m glad. I’ll have to come back more often when you’re in charge of the kitchen.’

Maggie’s expression was uncertain. She stared down abruptly at the cup still in his hand, then around the room like an animal seeking cover, her eyes seeming to fix on the tray Laurence had brought in earlier. Suddenly she seized Laurence’s teacup from the table beside him and snatched Patrick’s from his hand, putting them next to their ancient teapot, and picked up the tray. For a second Laurence was startled. Muttering ‘servants’ crockery,’ she half bobbed, something he’d never seen her do before, and headed for the doorway, nearly bumping into Eleanor, who was closely followed by Julian.

Maggie hovered, awkwardly, trying to get past the new arrivals.

‘It looks as if my brother’s already been availing himself of your fruit cake,’ Patrick said, giving Maggie a pat on the back as she left the room.

Julian looked impassive but a spot of colour burned on each cheek. Compared with his younger brother, he did look a bit solid, despite his hours walking the estate, Laurence thought. Julian’s movements were slower too, his features more amiable but less classically handsome.

Eleanor stepped forward and shook hands with Patrick. Laurence had seldom seen her so demure.

‘My husband’s just sorting out tomorrow’s plan of work,’ she said. ‘He hopes you’ll forgive him.’

Eventually Julian moved forward and shook hands with his brother.

‘Patrick.’

Both seemed to be gauging the other’s reaction. Frances was pouring tea but, as she straightened up and handed a cup to her sister, she too was watching the two men.

‘Good journey?’ Julian asked.

‘Not bad. Warmer here than Greece, funnily enough. Outside, anyway. This house was always so damned cold.’

Patrick rubbed his hands together in an exaggerated fashion, taking a fresh cup of tea from Eleanor.

Julian bent down and rubbed Scout’s ears.

‘Is that Otter still, or son of Otter?’ Patrick asked.

Julian fiddled with the dog’s collar. ‘Daughter of Otter,’ he said. ‘Scout.’

‘He’s always had the same breed of dog,’ Patrick explained to Eleanor, ‘as did my father before him. A single dynasty of small but indomitable terriers. Inbred and not very bright. But fearless.’ He reached down to pat the dog but Scout bared her teeth.

‘Give her time,’ said Julian. ‘She doesn’t like strangers.’ He ruffled her neck again. ‘Well, I’ve promised to help William—but we can talk at dinner perhaps?’

Without waiting for an answer he walked out. Scout shot ahead, her paws skidding on the flagged corridor. They heard Julian’s footsteps retreat and the baize door at the end of hall thudded shut.

Lydia seemed nonplussed, her eyes following Julian to the door. Patrick sat, seemingly relaxed, in the window seat, one leg crossed over the other, looking out for some minutes as if putting some distance between himself and the rest of them. Eleanor raised her eyebrows and Frances shook her head, almost imperceptibly. Eventually Patrick turned back to the others.

‘You’ve really made some changes, Lydia. You’ve done marvellously well.’

‘Well, it’s tidy, at least, but in another month—’

‘The first time I came back after the war, I wished I’d never come back.’ He directed his gaze at Laurence. ‘It was February. The whole place was still in mourning. As for this,’ he pointed towards the garden, ‘except for the small borders by the house, they hadn’t been able to keep it up in the war. It had grown and rotted year after year. It was bitterly cold when I arrived, I remember that clearly ... Your new man?’

‘David,’ said Frances. ‘Not very new now.’

‘He picked me up. Didn’t talk much. He didn’t have to. We passed through the village. Some chimney smoke. Some bare beanpoles. An empty wood store. A couple of boarded-up windows. Two scared-looking children peering from a doorway. A woman in black trudging up the lane. David slowed to pass her. She looked like a witch, with her arms wrapped round herself and bent over in the cold, but when she raised her head she was young under her shawl and must have been beautiful. Perhaps I’d known her once—I used to know everyone in Easton—but she just stared at me. I’d left the Hall and Digby and the village, all unchanged and prospering, and I’d come back to a landscape of death. Even the drive was overgrown. Dead trees, branches we had to swerve around. When I got out, blackened weeds crunched underfoot.’

Frances interrupted him. ‘We know, we lived through it.’ But Patrick didn’t seem to hear her.

‘Silence. Nothing lived, not a bird, not the smallest creature in the undergrowth. Paint peeling off doors and windows. Nobody came to the front door. I remember walking round to the terrace. Last autumn’s dead leaves had blown against the french windows, and the urns by the steps had cracked open and black earth spilled out. The remains of our wonderful wisteria had been ripped away by wind, lying broken across the flags.’

When he ran out of words, Eleanor said with surprising gentleness, ‘It must have been a shock.’

Patrick looked at her. ‘Everything was gone, you see. Things I’d dreamed of from a Crete blasted by summer heat. My mother’s rose garden. I especially remember that. The croquet lawn ... I know, I know. I expect you’re thinking: what about old Digby? What about the gallant men of Easton? Here Patrick is, with a melancholy tale of dead flowers and, as Julian would be the first to point out, Patrick would be less horticulturally sensitive if he’d been through what the other Easton men had in the war.’

‘Julian has never once even thought that,’ Frances said sharply. ‘You couldn’t fight. That’s all there is to it.’

But Laurence thought, watching, that that wasn’t all there was to it.

‘And, selfishly, how glad we are that you didn’t,’ Lydia added. ‘So that at least you are here today. Part of Easton again.’ After a long pause she said, ‘We did try, you know. Especially at first.’