with intent. But I don’t want to warn off the big boys. Could you find the house again?’
‘I don’t think it was in Devon. It didn’t seem far enough away.’
The inspector pom-pommed a little.
‘It was near Oxshott,’ I said. ‘That’s Surrey, according to Ophelia. Oh, here she is.’
Ophelia came strolling into the drawing room, wearing her new fur-lined coat and a great deal of shimmering eye-shadow that made her eyes appear startlingly large. She looked extraordinarily lovely, even for her. Inspector Foy stood up politely. When she saw him she sighed. ‘I’ll be home late so don’t bolt the back door.’ She turned to go out again.
‘Just a minute, Miss Byng.’ The inspector spoke sharply. ‘There’s a man lurking who’s been making serious threats against your family. You’d better not go out.’
‘Why don’t you arrest him?’ Ophelia allowed her eyes to glide over the inspector’s face before training them on the fireplace in a bored way. ‘Isn’t that your job?’
‘I don’t plan to do that yet.’
‘Well, that’s your business.’ Ophelia lifted a brow. ‘Kindly mind it. I’m going out.’
The inspector moved between her and the door. I admired the way he managed to look bigger suddenly, like an animal when challenged, though he had no fur to fluff up or hackles to raise. ‘Don’t be a fool.’ It was quietly said, but with an undertone of contempt. ‘I don’t want to have to fish your body out of the river in a few hours’ time. It doesn’t take long for a water-logged corpse to swell to four times its usual size. They’re a great deal of trouble to get to the morgue.’
Ophelia stared at him as insolently as she could, which was plenty and then some, as Americans say. The inspector held her gaze with one equally forceful.
‘Life is rapidly becoming a dead bore.’ She took off her coat and let it drop to the floor. She walked slowly from the room and I heard her going upstairs.
If the inspector felt victorious he had the grace not to show it. ‘If Chico’s clothes weren’t worth anything then there was something in the pockets, or perhaps the lining, that was. Can I have a word with your gardener?’
‘I’ll go and get him,’ said Portia.
‘I don’t think Loveday’s the easiest person to question,’ I said apologetically, aware as never before that our family must be quite infuriating to the methodical mind. ‘He’s rather – odd.’
‘We see all sorts in this job.’ The inspector was helping his pipe to draw by placing his matchbox on the bowl. I was becoming familiar with the habits and mannerisms of pipe-smokers. I was convinced now it was all a distraction so he could control the tempo of any conversation. ‘From genius to madman and everything in between.’ He got out his notebook and a Biro.
‘Have you seen the film Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde?’ asked Cordelia eagerly. ‘It’s about a man who’s both. This scientist invents a potion that makes him grow hideous and sinful and go out killing people. He’s good, you see, but his other self is as wicked as can be. It’s absolutely terrifying – particularly the bit when you see this horrible hairy hand come creeping round the door and she’s brushing her hair in front of the mirror and she sees it and tries to scream only she can’t get any sound out –’ Cordelia paused for breath – ‘but I expect being a policeman, nothing scares you.’
‘Don’t you believe it!’ Inspector Foy laughed. ‘The man who tells you nothing frightens him is whistling in the dark. Besides, fear is not necessarily bad. It may guard you from harm. And I suspect that fear of being caught, punished and disgraced keeps many more of us from committing crimes than does the voice of conscience –’
The arrival of Loveday interrupted this philosophical discourse. He was a small man with a large pointed nose and small eyes, rather ratty-looking, in fact. He had been giving the maze one last trim before the onset of winter so his hair and his clothes were sprinkled with leaves. His eyes gleamed cunningly against his speckled green skin in a way that made me think of those sinister wild men in medieval literature, forces of Nature and all that sort of thing.
‘Thank you for coming to see me, Mr Loveday. I’m Chief Inspector Foy of –’
‘I know who ye are. I seen it all writ in the clouds, se’en nights ago.’ Though Loveday had been born and bred in East Hackney, he had a strange Loamshire accent that suggested a childhood on a heather-tufted moor or a sheep-bitten crag.
‘Oh.’ The inspector smiled, so far undeterred. ‘Well, Mr Loveday, I believe Miss Byng gave you some clothes to burn.’
‘Ah ha. Cloth made fro’ devil’s dust, spun into threads on Queen Mab’s wheel.’
‘Well – perhaps.’ The inspector blew noisily down the stem of his pipe. ‘Did you do so?’
‘No, milord.’
The inspector forgot to puff and suck, and leaned forward on his chair. ‘Where are they?’
‘Twas the flames that burned them. I am but a mortal man. I cannot combust.’
‘So they are destroyed?’ The inspector could not hide his disappointment.
‘Tha’s a deep question, milord. Who knows where things go that are consumed by fire? Mayhap they become smoke-imps that ride the backs o’ will-o’-the-wisps to mislead travellers in the dark. There’s only one can answer that.’
The inspector frowned, and I sensed that Loveday’s particular brand of whimsy was beginning to pall. ‘Who?’
‘’Tis the man in the moon with a dog at his feet and sticks on his back.’
‘Right. Well, thank you, Mr Loveday, that’ll be all for the moment.’
Loveday went back to his maze, leaving a trail of leaves across the carpet. The inspector put away his notebook, humming tunefully and spent some time examining the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe. When he spoke again it was to ask me how I thought my father was bearing up in prison. The inspector was very kind and assured me that being on remand was nothing like as bad as serving a sentence. I hoped this meant he thought it unlikely that my father would have to do so. I was afraid to ask him outright.
He waited with us until a police car delivered a uniformed bobby to stand in our front garden. PC Bird had round, grey, guileless eyes. A manifest sense of duty stiffened the large chin that braced the strap of his helmet. I noticed this at once for the events of the last few days had bread an increased sense of caution and mistrust in things generally, and in men in particular. I watched from the window as Loveday remonstrated angrily with him about treading on the emerging hellebores. This was sheer bloody-mindedness on Loveday’s part, for the journalists had long since crushed every living thing to stalks and mud resembling a small-scale Passchendaele.
It was about then that things – already, I had thought, about as bad as they could possibly get – got suddenly worse. We were told by Inspector Foy that we should limit our excursions into the outside world. If we really had to go out, it should be during the hours of daylight and only to public places where there were plenty of people about. We had to inform the policeman on guard of our destination and appoint an hour for our return. Having to log in and out was curiously discouraging to enjoyment, and anyway, it was difficult to have a good time when we were jumpy and suspicious of every stranger. We all began to behave as though we were characters in Wuthering Heights, digging up old scores, seeing slights where there were none, and generally doing a good deal of brooding, sulking and scowling.
Absolutely the worst thing of all – apart from Pa being in prison, that is – was the disappearance of Mark Antony. He had become quite a favourite with the, by now, very bored reporters. So when, one rainy night, he did not return from his evening session at stool I went out to ask the last stragglers if they had seen him. They told me that the