The Slow Death of Maxwell Carrick Read online

  I had already bought a gift for her, a beautiful brooch, which I had found in an antique shop in Oxford. It was a daisy, topaz in the centre surrounded by white-gold petals. It was a beautiful thing, delicate and very fine, and I was pleased with it. However, as I was passing the milliner’s window a very attractive silk headscarf caught my eye. It was a cheap thing, but I knew she would like it and, in addition, it had a daisy pattern, which the woman in the shop pointed out to me, as she laid it over her fingers. The two, I surmised, would complement each other most favourably.

  I was home for luncheon and making my way upstairs when I heard voices in the garden room. I leaned quite a way over the banister but couldn’t see anyone through the open door.

  ‘Careful or you may fall.’ Cécile was standing above me on the landing. I looked up and met her gaze, then I carried on walking upwards and we met on the turn of the stairs. She was almost level with me, just one tread above me and, in truth, I should have stepped back because there was too little space between us, but I felt no inclination to do so.

  ‘Did you enjoy the gardens?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes, they are very intricate and quite beautifully designed. I have been fortunate to see the gardens of Versailles and they are splendid, but this one at Lapston is so complicated and truly delightful; I shall never forget it.’

  ‘And you have until next week to enjoy it,’ I said. ‘The lawns and most of the beds are stunning with their autumn colouring.’

  ‘I have nothing but a window box of geraniums in my appartement,’ she defaulted to the French pronunciation quite without noticing. I heard the trace of a sigh in her voice.

  ‘Where is it?’ I asked, still standing too close, but neither of us moved.

  ‘In Saint Michel, in the Latin Quarter. In my street there is a tourelle which is quite, how do you say, notable. Do you know it?

  ‘Should I?’ I asked, staring into her eyes.

  ‘It is quite a famous road, one of the oldest in the city, I believe.’

  I was watching her lips as she spoke, the fullness of the bottom one, the finest, pale hairs above them. I imagined the hair at the nape of her neck, the feeling of her skin, soft and smooth to the touch.

  ‘Carrick,’ she spoke my name and then again, ‘Carrick.’ And I realised I was in another world.

  ‘I do apologise,’ I said, my gaze set firmly on her mouth. I could not raise my eyes from those lips. She stepped down so that she was beside me on the same tread and raised a hand to my cheek. The touch was light as gossamer, but it sent an exquisite ache through me.

  ‘You are still not feeling well, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m absolutely fine, in fact I’m feeling much, much better.’ Then, seizing my moment, I said, ‘I wondered if I might take you out to dinner tonight?’

  ‘That is very kind of you, Carrick, but I am already being taken out to dinner this evening. George asked me at breakfast.’ She smiled and I saw in her a trace of sympathy that I did not appreciate.

  ‘Very well, I’ll see you in a few minutes for luncheon,’ I retorted, continuing past her as she proceeded down the staircase. I stopped short of my door and instead, leaned over the balcony, just catching sight of the top of her head as she reached the bottom and made for the garden room.

  All at once, and for the very first time, I experienced some very ill feelings towards my dearest and closest friend.

  15

  I had almost finished looking at the two folders, only three files remained. One was called “Sarsten, A Neighbouring Hamlet.” Not the punchiest title I ever saw, I thought unkindly. I had been feeling quite touchy about the History Group. Camilla had called to say that they had held a sub-committee meeting which appeared to involve everyone except me and had decided that they wanted the content to stay very much as it was.

  I was stuck then between two stools: the need to make the book professional and also meet their requirements which were very fact based and, if I’m very honest, boring. I should of course have kept my head down, made some editorial revisions, and then presented the galleys to them, convincing them that I’d hardly changed a word. Something told me though that such a plan would not have worked with such pedants.

  I pulled out the article about Sarsten. It was written by Tom and had been typed, and even contained references, mid text, something usually added at the end.

  “Sarsten is a tiny hamlet of workers’ cottages and a former water mill, the wheel of which has long been lost. Sarsten House is the current home to a supermarket magnate and benefits from the largest parkland in the area. The owners do not like trespassers since two of the residents were involved in a high profile court case.” This was exactly my point, the reader would want to know who those people were and pictures should be available if necessary. I had no idea to whom this referred and it annoyed me let alone any readers. I continued reading.

  “Sarsten was the home of the Radcliffe-Earl family from seventeen fifty-one. It was built in the Georgian Style and is of the locally quarried sand stone. The orangery was one of the largest in England and was famous for its fruit tree collection during the early nineteenth century. The famous astrologer Miles Frim lived at the manor for a time, as did the author and historian Frederic Aynsley. They both rented the house from the Radcliffe-Earls.”

  There was a picture pinned between the two sheets of writing. It was a colour photocopy of the house, a very splendid place with tall windows, and its servants. There were at least fifty by my estimation. There was even a groom mounted on a large chestnut horse, its tail cruelly docked. The original picture had been black and white, but someone had carefully hand-tinted it. I carried on reading.

  “Sarsten has always been a very busy and thriving house. The observatory built in the centre of the house used to draw many astronomers and physicists from all over the country. Sadly, it burned down in 1929, just as the Radcliffe-Earls made huge losses on the stock market in America, which meant they lacked the funds needed to rebuild it. The family moved out and the house has had a number of owners culminating with the present occupiers who bought it five years ago and who have restored much of the building and grounds.

  NB Plans for a cross-country course for three-day-eventing have recently been submitted.”

  There was a planning application attached to the back.

  This was another case of a story glossed over. Why did the observatory burn down? The same year as the family made losses? Did one of them go mad and try to set fire to the house?

  It was time for a walk, I needed air, and although Inca and I had been round the block that morning, I wanted more space to think things through. I was pondering on where to go when the idea came into my head to drive to Sarsten and take a look at the village myself. I scooped up Inca’s lead and called her from her bed. She came gladly, wagging her tail.

  The settlement was tiny, just four small cottages lining the narrow lane that culminated in a dead end. There was a gatehouse, an octagonal affair with a studded door and old latticed windows. The mill was a four storey brick built monolith at the end of the lane. It was built low into the bank of the river which meant the ground floor could not be seen until I had parked the car and viewed it over the wall. The millrace was flowing fast beneath me, the water spewing up as it hit the outcrop of stone where once the wheel had been.

  I turned to the left and saw the former miller’s house tucked behind a clump of ragged bushes on each side of a narrow gravelled path. Inca was pulling me towards it, sniffing the air and wagging her tail. I took a deep breath to quell the twist of reticence in my stomach, and followed the path. There was a small clearing to the front of the house, which had once been a modest cottage, but which now boasted a glass extension, overhanging the water below. I could see Rory working on a large computer, his profile catching the blue glare of the screen. At that moment he looked up and saw me. A big smile lit up his face and secon
ds later he was opening the front door.

  ‘Stand back!’ he shouted as a big black mass of fur cannonballed past me and bounced towards Inca. I fortunately managed to step to one side, which meant I narrowly missed being flattened again.

  ‘Scooter, you thug.’ Rory wasn’t laughing. He pushed past me and tried to catch the hairy monster but Scooter was having none of it. He body-swerved and sidestepped like Barry John, and was soon playing tag with Inca whose lead was flying behind her. I hadn’t even realised at that point that I’d let go of her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Rory. ‘I had him locked in the kitchen but he’s started to work out how the latch works. I’m going to have to build something akin to Guantanamo for him.’ He looked embarrassed as he motioned for me to come into his house whistling for the dogs. They raced over to us and barged past me into the house. ‘You know the Crufts obedience class?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not entering him for it.’

  ‘That’s not exactly a news flash,’ I said and we were both laughing as Rory pushed the kitchen door open for me. I unclipped Inca’s lead and she went off around the kitchen nose to the floor sniffing for crumbs. Scooter sat waiting in the middle of the kitchen, one paw hovering in the air, his face full of expectation.

  ‘He now expects a treat because he came back to the whistle,’ said Rory shrugging. ‘What a dog.’

  He threw a gravy bone to each dog and they retreated to the far end of the kitchen and lay down together, Inca closing her eyes as Scooter licked her head. ‘Like old friends,’ said Rory. ‘They make a cute couple.’

  ‘They do.’

  ‘It’s so nice to see you. Does that mean Scoot’s flowers have worked and we’re forgiven?’

  ‘Of course. All forgiven and almost forgotten.’

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Coming up, unless you’d like a glass of vino. It’s nearly four and somewhere in the world a yardarm is being hoisted, or whatever one does with a yardarm, any idea?’

  ‘I think you’ll find the sun rises and not the yardarm itself.’ I suppressed a smile because I realised immediately that he already knew that.

  ‘Well, whatever it is, let’s have a glass of wine just to celebrate its existence.’ He was already uncorking a bottle of Sauvignon and, when he poured it, it glugged into the glasses. ‘You can always walk home,’ he said nonchalantly, ‘or even stay over.’

  I looked away because his comment made me feel uncomfortable. I ran a finger along the edge of the kitchen work surface, trying to think of something to say whilst he was putting the bottle away in the fridge. To him it was nothing more than a quip.

  ‘Remind me, how long have you lived here?’ I asked.

  He passed over my wine and opened up a bag of Doritos, emptying them into a very nice brown clay dish.

  ‘It’s a Bernard Leach. It should be in a display cabinet, but I like using it. That means it’s beautiful and useful at the same time.’ Rory led us through to the lounge and then stood to one side so I could take in the space before me. It was two rooms knocked into one, a large beam down the centre of the ceiling. The far end was dominated by a wide picture window and, as I moved forward, I could see that a quarter of the floor was glass too. It extended right over surging water in the river below.

  ‘Coming up to five years, in answer to your question.’ He watched me as I looked down at the water beneath my feet. ‘This is the same river where I met you, the one next to Lapston.’ He pointed at the deserted mill. ‘They were still operating there until the late fifties.’

  ‘So, why did it close?’

  ‘The new mill by the station, that was opened in the sixties, all mod cons. They recently opened a very nice shop too, good bread.’

  ‘I didn’t realise. I’ll have to take a look, I did see the sign going up.’ I was feeling a little giddy looking down at the water, I wasn’t sure I liked the sensation. ‘I presume you don’t suffer from vertigo,’ I said.

  ‘No, water’s my thing, can you believe it living here?’ he replied. ‘I love to look at it but I can’t actually swim.’ My mouth must have fallen open because immediately he added, ‘I can paddle, I’m not hydrophobic or anything and I like to drink the stuff too. How about you?’

  I was still marvelling at the fact I knew someone of his age who couldn’t swim, but I answered, ‘Claustrophobic.’

  ‘I suppose we all have something. My mother is scared to death of sticky labels. Pittakionophobia.’

  ‘Goodness. Does she still have it? How does she shop?’ I asked.

  ‘Badly!’

  ‘Like the dog with no nose?’ I was laughing and he was too, and when he smiled, his mouth was slightly crooked and his eyes lit up. He reminded me of Steve in a way, but Rory’s skin was clear and healthy looking whereas Steve’s suffered from being inside so much.

  Rory took a seat on a comfortable looking couch and I chose a worn armchair that looked well-loved. ‘What an unusual house. This glass extension really is quite something.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure at first, what with my water thing, but actually I think I might have done the same thing with the building. It would be a shame to be over the millrace and to be able to hear it but never see it.’

  ‘I agree, but doesn’t it make you want to wee all the time?’

  He threw back his head laughing heartily. ‘For the first three years yes, but now I’m used to it.’ He sipped his wine and was watching me from over the rim of the glass, weighing me up. Already we were very relaxed in each other’s company, I even felt like I’d known him a long time, like an old friend.

  ‘So what are you doing up in my neck of the woods?’ he asked.

  ‘I was reading all about Sarsten House for my book project and thought I’d pop up and take a look. I’ve never even been down this lane.’

  ‘No one comes down here unless they have a reason. There are no footpaths, all the land is privately owned. I’m allowed to walk on the old carriage drive, but that’s because I’m well behaved. They don’t know about Scoot’s thuggish behaviour – yet.’

  ‘Who owns it now?’

  ‘You know that really cheap corner shop operation, Seven/Seven?’

  ‘Yes, ages ago, in Oxford, on the Cowley Road and in Headington.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Turns out our Mr Seven/Seven sold out when the going was good and made himself a fortune. He’s earned it mind; he started as a barrow boy in the East End.’

  ‘Goodness.’ I looked over my shoulder towards the iron gates, just visible between the trees. ‘And he’s applied for a three-day-event course recently?’

  ‘Yeah, but he won’t get it; there’s one nearby already and the traffic would be congested on the main road. He’ll probably have something else up his sleeve though.’

  ‘What about the fire that burned down the observatory in 1929?’

  ‘Insurance,’ Rory replied in a very matter of fact way. ‘They lost a fortune on the American stock exchange, he had an American wife, the family was almost bankrupt. Lord Radders thought he could solve all his problems by burning down the house and, because he loved that observatory so much, he thought it would hold more sway if a fire started there.’

  ‘And did it work, did he get a payout?’

  ‘Nope, they sussed him out and he was facing a long spell in the clink, but managed to get himself, and the family, away to the States and was never heard of again. His assets were seized and sold off – always painful – and I suspect he started over again, but I really have no idea. An English cut-glass accent always charms our American friends.’

  ‘At last!’ I said rather joyously. ‘Something tasty for the history group’s book, these stately homes seem to come with a whole host of stories don’t they? I’m still working on this mysterious death at Lapston.’

  ‘What do yo
u know so far?’

  ‘Not that much. I’m hoping that your Mr Fry might help me.’

  ‘Ah yes, I called round a couple of days ago. Gladys Avery, his neighbour, told me that he’s away for a couple of weeks. I’ll let you know when he’s back.’

  ‘Rory, is there any chance of seeing Lapston?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, of course. It’s too late now the dusk is setting in and it would be dangerous to go in the dark, but how about next Monday at two? I’m going there anyway so I can pick you up.’

  ‘That will be out of your way though, won’t it?’

  ‘No, I’ll be coming back from Oxford, I’ve got a project over there.’

  ‘Okay then,’ I said, sipping the last of my wine. ‘Two on Monday, but I’d better be going now.’

  ‘Are you sure you won’t have another?’

  ‘No. I’m driving so I’d better not and anyway my husband will be home soon and he’ll be wondering where I am.’ Rory looked a bit disconsolate and I knew he’d hoped I’d stay longer.

  ‘Okay, but come for a drink after Lapston on Monday. We can have a really good chat.’

  I felt a prickling down my spine, a mixture of excitement, trepidation and something else, a thrill, deep inside me, of seeing him again.

  16

  Mrs Hall had gone to the trouble of making an omelette for lunch, the fruit of her beloved hencoop. I watched Cécile as she forked it into her mouth and I imagined her in her apartment, eating a simple meal such as this. Her apartment would be a sleek affair, elegant and fine, with red and blue furniture and tall windows that drenched the place with sunlight.

  ‘George tells me you are going out to dinner tonight,’ said Alice brightly.

  ‘Yes, he wants me to see Burford; I understand it is very beautiful.’

  ‘Oh, you will love it,’ said Alice. ‘It’s your favourite place in the world, Carrick, isn’t it?’ I knew I sounded disagreeable when I replied that many places were to my taste and Burford was not particularly notable. Alice looked quite taken aback. I couldn’t help it but there was a lack of warmth in my voice and she glanced sidelong at George who, in turn, looked a little uncomfortable.