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A Fortnight by the Sea
Emma Page


A beach holiday is ruined by a murder, committed with a cyanide-sprinkled sandwich.The death of a guest casts a shadow over the summer holiday season at Oakfields mansion.The murder weapon is discovered: a sandwich, seasoned with a good pinch of cyanide.Motives abound among the other holidaymakers staying at Oakfields, a strange and fascinating group of people with plenty of secrets to hide…













COPYRIGHT (#ulink_49d4e1f1-fc3d-51eb-be80-428e29e456c3)

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published as in Great Britain in 1973 by Collins Crime

Copyright © Emma Page 1973

Emma Page asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780008175924

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2016 ISBN: 9780008175931

Version [2016-02-18]


DEDICATION (#ulink_eb39ab28-8af5-58d7-8881-acb2a734002e)

for

D. S. P.

with love


CONTENTS

Cover (#u50e7102f-383b-5b2d-bd73-baedf711ea55)

Title Page (#u5e4a5f26-ae3d-54a5-a85d-37bb9b835f78)

Copyright (#ulink_258ff81e-abfb-5ecf-ba66-d6b5bbd81c95)

Dedication (#ulink_c40568fc-cac8-50dc-85bf-da39b07e2a53)

Chapter 1 (#ulink_9406b439-5b16-5be4-876f-b05b70346513)

Chapter 2 (#ulink_a7d8ff44-2e9e-5d18-800f-5db3e2294a51)

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

About the Author

By Emma Page

About the Publisher


CHAPTER 1 (#ulink_11f8bfdb-1cdf-50e2-b01f-0856ac059de7)

A sunny July morning with a salty stir of breeze among the tall green spears of montbretia in the narrow border under the kitchen window. Pauline Barratt looked up from her notebook with its jotted reminders, menus, dates and names; she gave a resigned sigh as her gaze came to rest on the narrow leaves. By the time the scarlet flowerheads broke from their sheaths the summer would be over. It was racing past her as it had raced for the last few years, in a whirl of bookings and cancellations, arrivals and departures, beds to be made up, lunches to be thought of.

Footsteps along the passage, the slightly ponderous steps of someone well into middle age, carrying with them a strong suggestion of purpose.

‘There you are, madam,’ Bessie Meacham said as she came into the kitchen. ‘I’ll get the packed lunches out of the way and then I can start on the cooking. Just the one couple for sandwiches today?’ Saturdays in the busy season might be pretty hectic early and late, but at least they offered a relatively calm spell in the middle.

Pauline turned from the window. ‘Yes. And just one person in for lunch.’ She frowned. ‘I’m not sure yet about the numbers for dinner.’

‘Probably best all round then if I make a good large beef or chicken casserole,’ Bessie said with decision. ‘And I can roast a nice leg of lamb as well. A big potato salad and a couple of cold sweets, should be enough late strawberries to make a flan.’

Pauline felt a touch of the old sense of inadequacy that still visited her fifteen years after she had walked through the front door of Oakfield as a bride of eighteen, not altogether able to credit her good fortune in actually marrying Godfrey Barratt. Bessie had stood waiting in the hall to welcome her – of course she hadn’t been Bessie Meacham then, but Bessie Forrest. She was twenty years older than her young mistress; she had worked at Oakfield ever since she’d left the village school at fourteen.

Pauline had never been able to rid herself totally of the notion that Bessie regarded the house – and the domestic quarters in particular – as her own property. Her impersonally pleasant manner always seemed to imply that Pauline was a temporary interloper to be casually humoured until she saw fit to drift off elsewhere.

‘I don’t think there’ll be any strawberries left.’ Pauline was determined to find some point on which she could assert authority. ‘The beds were picked over pretty thoroughly a couple of days ago. Better make it a raspberry flan.’

Bessie took a loaf from the bin. ‘Mr Meacham’ll find some strawberries for me,’ she said comfortably. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’ She liked to refer by this formal title to the man she had met and married during her holiday in the spring. She had gone off to Torquay with no special thought of romance, nothing beyond what any seaside holiday might be expected to offer – she had been Miss Bessie Forrest for fifty-three years, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have her fancies and inclinations like everyone else even if she’d never previously got as far as the altar.

A piercing ring sounded from the back door. Bessie glanced at the clock. ‘That’ll be the butcher.’ Tradesmen in the nearby town of Chilford still found it worth while to send their mobile shops the four or five miles inland to the prosperous village of Westerhill.

‘Let me see.’ Pauline wrinkled her brow. ‘A chicken, stewing beef—’

‘I’ve got it all in my head,’ Bessie said amiably. ‘No need for you to trouble yourself, madam.’ She went unhurriedly out into the passage.

The flowers, Pauline thought, I suppose I ought to go and see what Meacham has cut. All those vases to be arranged and herself the only person who could be relied on not to make a hash of the job.

From somewhere in the upper regions she caught the drone of a vacuum cleaner. Better go up and run her eye over the bedrooms, make sure everything was being done properly. A small squad of daily women assisted in a piecemeal fashion with the running of Oakfield, each with her own methods, duties, schedule of hours.

In the doorway Pauline turned and surveyed the room with its high ceiling and long windows. One day when there was money to spare – if ever such a day should dawn – it could be transformed into a glitteringly modern kitchen. In the meantime it would benefit considerably from rather more thorough cleaning and tidying than it was getting at present. Or was likely to get before the pace slackened in October.

Ah well – she smiled fleetingly – just as well there wasn’t any question of giving the room a good turn-out just yet; she wouldn’t in the least have relished raising the matter with Bessie. Like many people with an easy-going surface and slightly slapdash ways, Mrs Meacham was capable of fierce resentment at the suggestion that other methods might have something superior to offer.

Pauline made a dismissing movement with her shoulders, stepped into the passage and set off at a brisk pace towards the stairs.

The study at Oakfield was a comfortable room facing south. The furnishings – leather, mahogany, dull gold velvet – were much as they had been in the time of Godfrey Barratt’s father and grandfather.

Godfrey sat at his desk, staring out at the blue and gold morning. Utterly impossible that Osmond’s could fail. A firm of builders known and respected across half the counties of England, providing employment for a host of satellite concerns, sub-contractors, suppliers, manufacturers of everything from a paintbrush to a window-frame. And somewhere pretty far down on that list was Barratt’s, woodworkers and turners, a tiny firm – looked at from the standpoint of the giants – but reasonably efficient and prosperous. Or so it had seemed until four days ago.

Godfrey stood up and pushed back his chair. He thrust his hands into his pockets and paced about the room, still a little dazed by the shock that had struck him on Tuesday morning as he ran a casual eye over the business pages of his newspaper. Just a whisper of rumour at first, the merest shadow of a hint that things might not be everything they should be at Osmond’s, but he had felt the muscles of his throat tighten with apprehension.

By Wednesday morning company spokesmen were blandly asserting in radio interviews that nothing was seriously amiss; when the Stock Exchange closed for business on Thursday, Osmond’s shares stood at a third of Monday’s price; on Friday morning Godfrey assembled his men.

They were very quiet as they waited for him to speak. Their eyes looked back at him with disciplined blankness as if they couldn’t as yet abandon themselves to either fear or hope. Unemployment was at a high level; in a seaside town like Chilford there was scarcely any alternative work for a skilled man. But a miracle might yet happen. Currents might move unseen in the City, fresh capital might flow in from a dozen different sources, political pressures might compel the Government to shore up Osmond’s.

He’d explained the situation as he saw it, he’d answered their questions honestly, refusing to indulge in meaningless optimism.

All that remained to them now was to wait. Every action that controlled their immediate future would be taken by men they would never even see. Only another week to go and the firm would close for its three weeks’ annual holiday. That week would be spent in completing an order for a Chilford builder, the kind of order Godfrey had been accustomed to look on merely as an act of goodwill towards the local community. It occurred to him now with wry force that if his entire order-book had been filled with such benevolent commitments, he would be in a much healthier position.

He flung himself down into an armchair, leaned back and closed his eyes. No point in spending a single further minute in work for Osmond’s – unless the miracle happened. No point in going into the works this morning; there would be no Saturday opening, no overtime of any kind, till the whole complicated muddle was sorted out.

The whirligig of thought began again . . . This is the end of Barratt’s, there won’t be any rescue operation for Osmond’s, you won’t be the only small woodworking firm abruptly stripped of its chief contract, competition will be cut-throat for every other piece of business in sight, you won’t be able to hold out, there’ll be the men’s wages, the relentless overheads, Osmond’s won’t be paying another penny to suppliers, not even for deliveries already made . . . A light sweat broke out on his forehead at the remembrance of the large consignment Barratt’s had despatched to Osmond’s only ten days ago, a consignment for which they would normally have expected payment at the end of the month.

He jerked his eyes open and stared up at the ornate ceiling. They’ll have a receiver in by the end of the month, he thought, still hardly able to believe it, I can whistle for my money.

On the table beside him the phone shrilled suddenly and he snatched up the receiver, glad to be forced out of his obsessive thoughts.

‘Mr Barratt?’ The deep, soft voice of Theresa Onil, edged now with anxiety. ‘I think perhaps you ought to come up to see Miss Tillard, she’s not very well this morning. She asked me to see if you would call in.’

‘Of course I’ll come,’ Godfrey said at once. Elinor Tillard was his wife’s aunt. Headmistress years ago of a girls’ school in Africa, she was now seventy. She lived a short distance away, looked after by Theresa, the half-African girl she had brought to England seventeen years ago. ‘I take it you’ve asked the doctor to call?’ Godfrey added. Miss Tillard inclined to the view that sending for a doctor during a bout of illness was a desperate remedy to be adopted only when all others had failed.

‘Yes.’ A touch of hesitation in Theresa’s tone. ‘It’s the new young man, Doctor Nightingale, I’m not sure he’s—’

‘He struck me as perfectly competent,’ Godfrey said reassuringly. The local doctor – ageing, old-fashioned – had taken himself off a week ago for a holiday in Minorca, he wouldn’t be back for another three weeks. Godfrey had called in a couple of days ago during the evening surgery, to get a renewal of Pauline’s prescription, the stuff she took for her headaches. He’d had a word or two with Nightingale, sized the fellow up. ‘He may be young, but at least that means his methods are up to date,’ he pointed out.

‘Mm, perhaps so,’ Theresa said without conviction, preferring the man she had known for years. ‘Anyway, he said he’d call in shortly after half past eleven. If you could come up about then you could have a talk with him after he’s seen Miss Tillard.’

‘Yes, I’ll do that.’ Godfrey glanced at his watch. ‘Would Miss Tillard like my wife to come along too?’ In the course of the last year or two Godfrey had grown a good deal closer than Pauline to the old lady. He had helped her with one or two business matters, had fallen into the habit of calling in on her on his way home in the evening. She looked on him now as a kind of unpaid confidential adviser. And one of the things she most valued in him was the strict way in which he interpreted the word confidential. He might not be related to her by blood but he certainly shared the same close-mouthed attitude to financial affairs.

‘Miss Tillard didn’t mention Miss Pauline.’ A hint of coolness now in Theresa’s tone. ‘I think it would be better if there weren’t too many visitors at the moment. And I know Saturday morning is very busy for your wife at this time of the year.’

‘Very well then, I’ll see you in about an hour.’ When he had replaced the receiver, he sat for several seconds frowning down at the carpet, then he stood up abruptly and went over to his desk, pulled open a drawer and searched rapidly through its contents. ‘Ah!’ he said aloud a few moments later as he found what he was looking for. He sat down, picked up a pen and began to write.

‘Mr Godfrey not going into the works then this morning, madam?’ Bessie Meacham asked with casual interest when Pauline went into the kitchen at a quarter to eleven in search of coffee.

‘No, I don’t think he is. I believe he said something earlier.’ Pauline dragged her mind back from its preoccupations. She had never set foot inside the works, it had never occurred to either her or Godfrey that she might do so. She made regular conventional inquiries about the state of affairs at Barratt’s and received brief reassuring reports of progress.

‘I noticed his car still in the garage just now.’ Bessie opened the oven door and gazed critically inside. ‘That’s why I asked.’ An appetizing smell of roast lamb drifted out into the kitchen.

Pauline took down a tray from one of the crowded shelves. ‘I expect he’s in the study. I’ll take him a cup of coffee.’ She glanced at Bessie who was carefully basting the meat. ‘How’s the cooking going? Everything under control?’

‘Yes, thank you, madam.’ Bessie continued to ladle hot fat over the lamb. I do wish she wouldn’t address me as madam, Pauline thought with the flick of irritation that still sometimes stung her.

She poured out the coffee and took it along to the study. Godfrey was sitting at his desk, sorting through a bundle of papers. He wore a look of intense concentration, and it appeared to take him a moment or two to realize that his wife was in the room and that she was putting a cup of coffee down on the table beside him.

‘Better not let it get cold,’ Pauline said gently. He glanced up with an abstracted look and then his gaze focused on her. He pushed back his chair and got to his feet.

‘I’m sorry, my dear, I didn’t hear you come in, I was deep in documents and figures.’ He had said not a word to her about his fears over Osmond’s, would continue to say nothing until the very last moment – there was still a chance that the moment might never arrive. He picked up the topmost papers, scrutinized them, slipped a couple into his breast pocket and returned the others to the desk. ‘By the way, Theresa Onil phoned just now.’ He closed the desk and locked it. ‘It seems Aunt Elinor is not very well this morning, Theresa’s sent for the doctor.’

Pauline set down her cup with a little clatter. ‘How bad is she?’

Godfrey began to drink his coffee. ‘Don’t be alarmed, I dare say it won’t prove to be anything very serious, probably just another gastric upset. I know it can’t be very pleasant for her, but I should think in a week or two—’

‘She’s seventy.’ Pauline walked over to the window and looked out at the nodding roses. ‘Do you think we ought to phone Marion?’ she asked in an unemotional voice. ‘It’s quite a long time since she’s seen Aunt Elinor. I feel perhaps she should be told she’s ill.’ She turned round suddenly. ‘Does Aunt Elinor want to see me? Did Theresa say?’

‘I did ask but Theresa thought it would be better if you waited till tomorrow or Monday. Aunt Elinor wants me to go up there this morning, and then there’ll be the doctor, Theresa thought that would be enough visitors for one day.’

‘Theresa Onil takes it on herself to think rather too many things that are not strictly her business. She’s scarcely one of the family.’ And that ridiculous name, Pauline thought with unreasoning prejudice, she can’t even have a sensible name like everyone else. Forty years ago Theresa’s mother, walking gracefully along a rutted track on the edge of the Ashanti forests, had stopped and given directions to a young Irishman, a mining engineer newly arrived in the Gold Coast. The engine of his car was overheated, he was tired and thirsty, he could see no sign whatever of the cluster of buildings he had been assured he couldn’t miss. The girl was young and slender, shyly smiling. Yes, she knew the mine buildings – he had taken the wrong road some miles back; yes, she would come with him in the car and point out the way.

Three months later young O’Neill died swiftly and terribly of blackwater fever and the girl went back to her village. When her daughter was born she called her Theresa after a nun at the mission hopsital; there had never been any need for a surname until years later when the baby had grown into a tall, rather silent girl anxious for education. Onil, her mother had said, standing by the desk in the school office, casting her mind back with difficulty to the young Irishman with his black hair and blue eyes, an improbable figure from a brief, incredible time.

‘Come now,’ Godfrey said with mild reproof. ‘Theresa looks after your aunt as devotedly as if she actually were a member of the family.’ He finished his coffee, patted the papers in his breast pocket and glanced at the clock. ‘I won’t take the car, I’ll walk up to the bungalow. Young Nightingale’s looking in at about half past eleven, I’ll have a chat with him after he’s seen your aunt.’

‘You haven’t said yet whether we ought to phone Marion and Stephen.’ Pauline gave him a steady look. Marion was her sister, three years older than Pauline, married to Stephen Lockwood, a business executive. They lived some way off, in Barbridge, an industrial town markedly lacking in charm; it was a considerable time since visits had been exchanged between the two families.

‘You can phone if you think it necessary,’ Godfrey said after a short pause. He was silent again for several seconds. ‘Yes, I suppose you’d better.’

Pauline’s manner grew suddenly brisk. ‘I’ll suggest they stay for a week or two. Stephen might be able to take a little holiday, I’m sure Marion would like to see all the old haunts again.’ Something rather forced about the brightness of her tone. She picked up the coffee cups and placed them neatly on the tray; her eyes didn’t meet Godfrey’s.

‘Will you be able to fit them in all right?’ he asked, a little surprised at the determination in her manner.

‘The boys will be going off to camp in another week.’ She glanced at the photographs on top of the desk. Her sons looked out of the frames with self-conscious smiles, two sturdy boys, tall and fair like Godfrey. They were due home on Tuesday from the school which had been their father’s and their grandfather’s. ‘Their rooms will be free,’ she said. And she always tried to keep one or two bedrooms unbooked for casual holidaymakers looking for overnight accommodation.

‘I very much doubt that Stephen will be able to get away for more than a day or two,’ Godfrey said. ‘And in any case, don’t they always go abroad for their holidays?’

Does he really not want them to come? Pauline asked herself with such a fierce stab of the old jealousy that she raised a hand and pressed it to her side as if the pain had a physical cause. Godfrey had been wildly, passionately in love with Marion; they were never actually engaged but everyone had been certain they would marry. And then Stephen Lockwood had taken it into his head on a sunny, idle Saturday morning to go back to Chilford, to his old school, where they were giving a garden party to launch an appeal fund for the building of a new science block. The Tillard girls had gone to the garden party with their father, an old boy of the school. Marion was then twenty years old, at the height of her beauty; Pauline was seventeen, only just liberated from the classroom, still afflicted by adolescent spots and plumpness. Stephen had been coming out of the refreshment marquee where he had been making himself useful handing round glasses of iced lemonade, he had looked across the emerald lawns and seen the two girls coming towards him. Easy enough to find someone to introduce them; six weeks later he and Marion were engaged, in another couple of months they were married.

‘They went to Malta at Easter,’ Pauline said. She kept up a regular correspondence with Marion, ruled in this as in many other things by the strongly conventional side of her nature which dictated that if you had a sister you wrote to that sister, whatever thoughts and feelings were sternly denied expression on the smooth-surfaced writing-paper. ‘I shouldn’t think they’d want to go abroad again for a holiday so soon.’ For the first ten or eleven years of her marriage Godfrey had held a commission in the Army and at least half of those years had been spent out of England. Pauline had never really taken to the life; she had longed for the English countryside, had wanted to bring her children up in their own land. She had felt no regrets when Godfrey had resigned his commission four years ago on the death of his father. She had returned to England with pleasure and had ever since retained a certain mild prejudice against foreign shores.

‘I’ll phone them this evening.’ She was now absolutely determined to bring Marion face to face with Godfrey. Some compulsion had gathered force inside her during the last year or two; it had reached a stage now where it could no longer be repressed. She would stand in the same room with the two of them, she would look from one face to the other. She must know. ‘And in any case,’ she added with a touch of censoriousness, ‘Marion really ought to pay more attention to Aunt Elinor. I dare say she’ll be left everything – or the best part of it anyway, she’s the eldest.’ Marion had always been Aunt Elinor’s favourite, she had been everyone’s favourite. ‘Not that there’ll be all that much to leave, but still, it doesn’t look good.’ She suddenly caught the tail-end of her own utterance and was taken aback for a moment at the hypocrisy and petty-mindedness showing through.

‘I must go,’ Godfrey said. ‘I don’t want to miss the doctor.’ He walked over to Pauline, slipped an arm briefly round her shoulders and brushed her cheek with his lips. ‘I’ll give Aunt Elinor your love.’

When the door had closed behind him, she crossed the room and stood in front of the screened fireplace, gazing with frowning concentration at her reflection in the oval mirror above the mantelshelf. A faintly-tanned, fine-boned face, blue-grey eyes, delicate brows; but what she saw was the haunting image of her adolescent self, blemished skin, difficult hair. Of course he didn’t love me, she thought with savage certainty. How could he have loved anyone after Marion? And least of all that pathetic, plain schoolgirl. She saw all at once with total clarity why he had married her. He had wanted a son to carry on the name, he couldn’t have Marion so he had made do with Marion’s sister. She felt a searing wave of self-disgust. She’d been so eager to say yes; such an ignorant, blind, foolish creature.

She turned abruptly from the glass and went to the window. Godfrey was walking with an easy pace across the flagged terrace. I’d say yes again, she realized with astonishment; knowing all I know now, with innocence and the first flush of youth behind me for ever, if that starburst instant were to spring into being a second time, if he were to take my hand out there in the garden as he took it before, if he were to ask me again to marry him, I would still say yes.

As he neared the edge of the terrace Godfrey halted and looked back at the house. Pauline instantly moved to the side of the window and continued to watch her husband without fear of being seen herself. She levelled a look of fierce concentration at his calm features. If only she could tell what went on in his mind – but his upbringing hadn’t taught him to express his thoughts openly, and his years in the Army had done nothing to counteract that early and decisive training.

His gaze travelled without haste over the whole frontage of the house, the elegant proportions, long windows, slender columns, mellow stone, glossy-leaved creepers. This place means more to him than anything else on earth, she thought suddenly, there is nothing he wouldn’t do to keep it . . . The notion sprang into her mind with startling force.

The creak and rattle of a wheelbarrow approached from the shrubbery. Godfrey abandoned his survey of the house and permitted his stance to take on a relaxed air.

‘Good morning, sir.’ Edgar Meacham appeared with his barrow through a gap in the lilacs. ‘It looks as if the fine weather’s going to hold.’

Godfrey glanced vaguely up at the soft blue sky delicately ribboned with white. ‘Yes, it would seem so.’ He walked across to where Meacham was stooping over a scatter of lopped boughs. The severed ends were reasonably neat, the depth of cutting back not too severe. He nodded in brisk encouragement. ‘You’re making a pretty fair job of it.’ His gaze rested on the pale green leaves. He scarcely ever looked anyone directly in the eyes; on the chance occasions when he did his glance had a lightly veiled quality.

‘Thank you, sir.’ Meacham gave Godfrey his habitual frank and open look; his voice held both pleasure and relief. His employer’s head turned suddenly and with a distinct suggestion of dismay at the sound of the front door opening, footsteps, voices issuing forth.

‘Ah! Mr Barratt! I was hoping to catch you—’ A large, imposing lady bore down on Godfrey. She was followed by her daughter, a nervous-looking young woman who seemed perpetually to be trying to obliterate herself from the landscape.

Meacham gathered up the wood, flicking a covert glance of amusement at Godfrey’s back as Barratt compelled himself to walk with an air of affability towards the pair of females. Shouldn’t have stopped to talk to me, Meacham said to himself, then he’d have been off down the drive, out of harm’s way, before they’d had a chance to catch sight of him. His sharp eyes had more than once observed Barratt’s little manœuvres to avoid confrontation with his guests, particularly with the bed-and-breakfasters who were the most mixed bag of all.

‘A charming house,’ the large lady said with massive patronage. ‘Such a stroke of luck to come upon it—’ The trouble is, Meacham thought, taking a pair of secateurs from his pocket and snipping a shoot, there isn’t really any type of guest he does genuinely welcome. The pretentious made Barratt squirm, the ill-bred made him shudder, and with civilized folk he was perhaps even less at ease, imagining how they might be pitying – or even despising – him for having to throw open his house in this manner.

He stood now listening to the oration of the majestic lady; his face wore a slight, interested smile. ‘I’m so glad we managed to make you comfortable,’ he said when she paused for breath. If he didn’t protect himself with those good manners, Meacham thought as he looked round for his garden broom, I dare say he’d run the risk of breaking out, letting fly perhaps with a really nasty show of temper, could even go berserk, that type. Meacham had seen a thing or two in his time. Watch out for the disciplined man when the discipline wears thin; he’d learned that lesson the hard way.

‘I do hope you enjoy the rest of your holiday,’ Godfrey said pleasantly, at the same time removing himself by another couple of paces from the two women in order not to have to shake hands at the moment of farewell. He looked down at his watch. ‘I must ask you to excuse me, I have an appointment.’

Meacham swept the débris into a heap, listening with keen interest to the final exchanges, observing with an appreciative movement of his head the skilful way in which Barratt avoided touching either lady by the hand. Not that any man in his senses would want to, Meacham thought as he transferred the heap to the barrow. He sent a shrewdly assessing glance after the two women who were now walking back to the house. Not much joy to be had there, not from either of them. The daughter he might perhaps, at a pinch, have gone as far in the old days as, well, running his eye over her, sizing her up, not likely to have gone any farther than that. But the old girl – he shook his head and allowed a soundless whistle to escape his lips – he’d have known better than to tangle with the likes of her, even for a single moment. Not even in his palmy days. He sent a smiling sigh towards the past. Not even in his prime.




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