SIXTEEN

The drive down to Hampshire in Marilyn’s Mini had, in retrospect, an improbably light-hearted, carefree quality to it. The thrill of the chase had taken us over. In my case, it was also the thrill of Rachel’s company. Her beauty was heightened by her vibrancy. I couldn’t have failed to be attracted to her. There was just so much life bubbling within her. Of course, I already had good reason to believe she was a creature of moods, but I wanted her current mood – laughing, teasing, bewitching – to last for ever. We talked about her work at the UN and mine in the oil industry. We tried to outdo each other with suggestions for improbable pseudonyms. The miles vanished. And several hours with them.

Hatchwell Hall stood in affluently farmed countryside between Basingstoke and Alton. I’d said it didn’t sound like a hovel, but I hadn’t quite expected the sweeping lawns, exuberant topiary and large red-brick William and Mary mansion that came into view as we crested a gentle fold of land a few miles south of the village where we’d stopped for a pub lunch. It was a house from another century, set amidst fields and coverts its original occupants would have noticed little change in. It was the dream of rural ease and order, preened and pointed in the early spring sunshine.

‘Jesus,’ said Rachel. And that pretty much said it all.

Hatchwell Hall’s wrought-iron entrance gates stood open to visitors. Rachel drove slowly through and up the curving gravel drive. Several cars were parked in front of the house. Most were at least twice the size of Marilyn’s.

We stopped and got out. The air was aloofly cool, the quietude almost tangible.

‘All this on a government pension,’ mused Rachel.

‘Inherited wealth?’ I suggested. ‘Or extorted?’

‘Let’s try and find out.’

We walked to the half-glazed front door and pulled at the bell. It clanged antiquely in the hallway, which, we could see, ran the depth of the house. There was a glimpse of rear garden beyond a farther door. Floral-patterned rugs and an oak staircase filled the middle ground.

A plump, aproned housekeeper answered the bell. ‘Good afternoon,’ she said quizzically, in a local accent. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Is Mrs Linley at home?’ Rachel asked.

‘Lady Linley is, yes. But she’s busy with her charity group. Was she expecting you?’

‘Not exactly. We really called on the off chance. I’m not over here for long. It’d be so great if she could spare just a few minutes.’

‘It’s about her brother,’ I put in. ‘Desmond Quilligan.’

The housekeeper looked even more quizzical at that. ‘You’d best come in for a moment. I’ll see if she can have a word with you.’

We stepped inside and she bustled off, leaving us to the ticking of a longcase clock and the company of several paintings that clearly weren’t the work of Desmond Quilligan.

‘What’s with the Lady Linley?’ Rachel whispered to me.

‘It means her husband’s a knight of the realm.’

‘She’s done well for herself, hasn’t she?’

‘That’s marriage to a public servant for you.’

‘These people need bringing down.’ I sensed she was talking more to herself now than to me. ‘They truly do.’

It wasn’t long before the lady of the house joined us. Isolde Linley appeared from one of the reception rooms to our left. A broad-belted green plaid dress and a string of pearls helped her look exactly what her title suggested she was: a privileged woman entering comfortable old age with the means and the wish to present herself as elegantly as she could. High cheekbones, sparkling blue eyes and a lingering trace of red in her hair added several natural advantages. She might have looked radiant if she’d smiled. But she wasn’t smiling. Nor did I have the impression she was about to.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her original Irish accent overlaid with Home Counties English. ‘I’m in the middle of a meeting. What is this about?’

‘We’re sorry too, Lady Linley,’ said Rachel. ‘To interrupt, I mean. We should have written ahead, but I have to fly back to the States in a few days and— Oh, I guess we should introduce ourselves. I’m Liz Spelling.’

‘Peter Fordham,’ I put in. (The names actually belonged to two people I’d worked with in Houston.)

‘What exactly do you want?’

‘I’m helping Liz with her thesis,’ I replied. ‘She’s researching the later lives of Irish men and women who fought in the Easter Rising.’

‘That’s right,’ said Rachel. ‘People like your brother, Desmond. He’s particularly interesting because he finished up in London and, of course, he had an artisitic strand to his life, didn’t he? Now, his old landlady, Mrs Duthie, who gave us your address, mentioned you took all his paintings after he died and we—’

‘You’ve spoken to Mrs Duthie?’

‘We certainly did. And she was as helpful as she could be, but—’

‘She had no right to discuss my brother with you. He’s been dead twenty years and I’d have hoped he could be left to rest in peace.’

‘We’re not trying to sully his memory in any way, Lady Linley. I’m engaged in serious historical research. I thought you might be pleased to discuss his life and what the Rising meant to him.’

‘Well, you thought—’ The heavy closure of a door somewhere to the right drew Isolde’s attention at once. She stepped back and looked along a passage that was out of our sight. ‘Miles,’ she called.

‘What is it?’ came the gruff, bellowed response.

‘Can you help me with these visitors, please?’

‘Visitors?’ We heard approaching footsteps. ‘I thought you had your charity ladies here.’

‘I do. And I’d like to get back to them.’

Sir Miles Linley emerged into the hall, breathing heavily. He was ruddy-faced and white-haired, with an almost feminine softness to his chin that sat oddly with his brusque tone and impatient expression. He was dressed for gardening, in stout shoes, brown corduroys, check shirt and green padded waistcoat. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, frowning suspiciously at Rachel and me.

‘I’m Liz Spelling, Sir Miles,’ said Rachel politely. ‘This is my friend, Peter Fordham. We—’

‘They’ve been asking me about Desmond,’ Isolde cut across her. ‘For some kind of research project.’

‘My thesis, actually,’ said Rachel.

‘Which university?’ snapped Sir Miles.

‘Yale.’ I was impressed. We hadn’t settled on one as far as I knew. But I was also worried. If Sir Miles started nit-picking, our cover story might come apart at the seams. ‘I’m particularly interested in Desmond Quilligan’s paintings, which—’

‘Can you deal with them, Miles?’ asked Isolde. ‘I really don’t have the time. My meeting …’

‘Yes, yes, my dear. You go. Leave this to me.’ There was a hint of dismissal behind his husbandly smile.

‘Thank you.’ She glanced fleetingly at us. ‘Goodbye.’ The farewell was cool and final. She walked briskly away, closing the door she’d emerged from earlier firmly behind her.

‘What’s the subject of your thesis, Miss Spelling?’ Sir Miles asked as soon as his wife was gone.

Rachel trotted out her rehearsed answer about the Easter Rising and the loose end in Desmond Quilligan’s biography of his artisitic career. ‘Sir Miles look unimpressed throughout, though not, it seemed to me, unconvinced.’ When Rachel mentioned Brenda Duthie, he darkened thunderously. But no storm broke.

‘You’ve had a wasted journey, I’m afraid,’ he said when she’d finished, though I had the impression the statement had been prepared before she even started. ‘My wife’s done her level best to forget her brother and, frankly, so have I. You’ve chosen a strange time to research the lives of the IRA’s original members, I must say, when their successors are blowing up pubs, restaurants and trains and assassinating innocent people all over Northern Ireland and Britain in pursuance of their blood-soaked agenda. At least Desmond Quilligan saw the error of his ways in the end and abandoned the cause. The kindest thing I can say about him is nothing at all.’

‘Why did he abandon the cause, exactly?’ I enquired disingenuously.

‘Yeah, he’s the only Easter Rising veteran who signed himself out of wartime internment,’ said Rachel. ‘I’d like to get to the bottom of that.’

‘There’s nothing I can tell you about the workings of his conscience,’ came Sir Miles’ tight-lipped reply. ‘Now, if you—’

‘How did you and Lady Linley first meet?’ I asked, relishing the sense I had that we were beginning to get under his skin.

‘Is that really any of your business?’

‘No,’ said Rachel, forestalling any sarcastic answer I might have come up with. ‘It isn’t. And we absolutely respect you and your wife’s right to privacy, Sir Miles. I wouldn’t want to press either of you to discuss issues you’d rather not.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Sir Miles looked faintly mollified.

‘It was actually primarily in the hope of seeing some of Desmond Quilligan’s paintings that we came here.’

‘As I said, you’ve had a wasted journey. My wife sold her brother’s paintings years ago.’

‘All of them?’ He must have caught the incredulity in my voice.

‘Yes. Every last damn one of them. Second-rate stuff they were, anyway. We didn’t get much for them. Virtually had to give them away.’

‘Didn’t Lady Linley want to keep at least one or two as a memento of her brother?’

‘Obviously not, young man. Otherwise she would have done. I didn’t force her to dispose of them, though I can’t say I was sorry she did. Some people are best forgotten. Desmond Quilligan was such a man. That’s my last word on the matter. I’m sure your … thesis … will be an excellent piece of work, Miss Spelling. We won’t expect a mention in the acknowledgements. Now, if you don’t mind, I have roses to prune.’

He’d already herded us halfway to the front door. Now he opened it and stood back, inviting us to leave. Our time was up. Rachel rolled her eyes at me and headed out.

‘How long ago were you knighted, Sir Miles?’ I asked as I passed him.

‘In 1968. When I retired.’

I paused on the threshold. ‘Retired from what?’

‘The Diplomatic Service.’

‘A well-deserved award, I’m sure. Did you have any sensitive postings in your time?’

‘One or two.’

‘Ever get sent to Ireland?’

‘Yes.’ His eyes narrowed.

‘Ah. That’ll be how you and Lady Linley met, then. You might as well have said.’ I smiled at him. ‘An interesting choice of wife for a career diplomat: the sister of an IRA terrorist.’

‘Is the Mini yours?’ he asked Rachel, looking straight past me. Why he should suppose it was hers rather than mine was unclear. Perhaps he thought a Mini no car for a man.

‘Yes,’ she replied.

‘Take the drive slowly, would you? I don’t want gravel kicked up on to the lawn. It plays havoc with the mower. And the first cut of the season’s due any day.’

‘I’ll go carefully.’

‘You do that.’ His gaze switched back to me. ‘Good afternoon to you both.’

*

We pulled into a gateway half a mile or so along the road, from where we could look back at Hatchwell Hall. Rachel said nothing as she smoked a cigarette and stared towards the distant house. Eventually, I broke the silence.

‘What do you think?’

‘I think he’s a pompous sonofabitch and she’s got what she always wanted – and what she deserves.’

‘You didn’t like them, then?’

‘Sir Miles and Lady Linley? No. Was I meant to?’

‘We forgot to ask about Ardal.’

‘They wouldn’t have told us anything if we had – certainly not how to contact him. They were about as forthcoming as a pair of clams.’

‘Do you believe they’ve sold all the paintings?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because saying they have was the quickest and easiest way to get rid of us. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sir Miles was already on the phone to Yale, checking up on me. Actually, I hope he is. I want him to worry. It’ll be good for him.’

‘We didn’t come here to put the wind up Sir Miles.’

‘No. But it’s better than nothing.’

I wasn’t sure Eldritch would agree with Rachel about that. From his point of view, we had nothing to show for our visit: no lead on Ardal; no sight of the paintings; no progress on any front. It didn’t feel quite so bad to me, though I couldn’t have explained why exactly. Perhaps it was that the Linleys’ defensive reaction to our enquiries was a form of proof in itself. We were on to something.

Rachel offered to drop me at the Ritz when we made it back into central London through a grey, traffic-snarled dusk, but I opted to travel with her all the way to Islington, confessing I was in no hurry to face Eldritch with our news. She took pity on me, as I’d hoped she would, and suggested I have supper at the flat. I didn’t need any persuading, as must have been obvious to her. She left a note for Marilyn saying we’d be back for dinner and we walked round to their local for a drink. To my surprise, the Linleys’ stonewalling hadn’t dented Rachel’s optimism in the slightest. She seemed, indeed, in a mood to celebrate.

‘Thanks for everything, Stephen,’ she said, chinking her glass against mine as we settled at a table.

‘What have I done to deserve this?’ I asked, genuinely puzzled.

‘I’ve made more progress in constructing a case against the Brownlow estate in the past thirty-six hours than I have in thirty-six months. That’s down to you.’

‘We can’t prove anything against the Linleys, Rachel,’ I cautioned her. ‘Not a thing.’

‘No. But we know who they are, don’t we? Simon Cardale won’t have bargained for that. It means we can put more pressure on him. I’ve met him a couple of times and he’s always been … nervily defensive. Next time, his defences might not hold.’

‘When will next time be?’

‘The sooner the better, I reckon.’

‘I’ll see what Eldritch says.’

‘OK. But I’m not about to let slip whatever advantage we have. You can tell Uncle Eldritch that from me.’

‘Maybe I won’t have to.’

‘Maybe not.’ She lit a cigarette and smiled when I accepted the offer of one. ‘Marilyn hates me smoking in the flat. I have to come here to puff away over my’ – she raised her eyebrows in preparation for her attempt at an English accent – ‘half a bitter.’ We both laughed at her effort. Then she frowned at me mock-solemnly. ‘Listen, Stephen. I’d better come clean with you. Marilyn, like all my friends, thinks I’m crazy to be plugging on with the Brownlow case. So, don’t mention where we’ve been or why, will you? My story is you’re some good-looking guy I picked up in the Royal Academy. We’ve been to Stonehenge for the day.’

‘Stonehenge?’

‘It popped into my head when I was on the phone to her.’

‘And did we enjoy ourselves?’

‘Well, I did. What about you?’

*

Marilyn Liebermann was a much closer approximation to the all-American girl than Rachel, with blonde flick-ups, a big pink-lipped smile and a generous figure. She expanded the supper menu to accommodate three without difficulty and was mercifully incurious about the wonders of Stonehenge. I had the impression she was delighted her friend had finally done something as conventional as bringing a man back for a meal. In fact, it was a relief to chat idly about music, politics and our varied life stories, to be reminded there was a world beyond the mystery Eldritch had lured me into. And there was no reason I couldn’t return to that world whenever I chose. Unless Rachel Banner was a reason.

I’d rather hoped I could avoid Eldritch until the morning. It was more than late enough when I reached the Ritz for him to be asleep, although whether sleeping was something he did much of I wasn’t entirely sure. In the event my uncertainty on the point was only reinforced – and my choice in the matter effectively removed – by the note he’d slipped under my door.

‘Come and see me when you get in, whatever the time. I’ll be waiting up. We have much to discuss. E.’