a table and chairs were set up under the cool shade of an ancient horse-chestnut tree. Tea things were laid out; a blue pottery teapot, two mugs, cheese sandwiches and a plate of Bourbon biscuits.
‘How perfect!’ Cate smiled. ‘Thank you!’
Mr Syms didn’t sit, but instead concentrated, going over some internal checklist.
‘The housekeeper, Mrs Williams, thought you might need something. Her flat is there.’ He indicated a low cottage at the back of the property. ‘She’s prepared a shepherd’s pie for tonight. And apologises if either of you are vegetarians.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’m afraid, Mr Coates, that I have another appointment and must be going. It’s my understanding that you and Miss Albion will be spending the night, possibly even two, while you value and catalogue the contents of the house. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Here’s a set of keys and my card. If you need anything while you’re here, please don’t hesitate to contact me. Otherwise, you may leave the keys with Mrs Williams upon your departure and I anticipate hearing from you in due course regarding the value and sale of the contents.’
Jack took the keys, frowning. ‘And is everything to be sold? There are no pieces the family would like to keep?’
‘There is no family left in this country, Mr Coates. The entire estate has been purchased by developers who wish to turn it into a luxury hotel, the proceeds of which go to a number of charitable causes. So, sadly, no. Again, if I can be of any help –’
‘Forgive me, but who were they?’ Cate interrupted, settling into one of the chairs. ‘Who lived in Endsleigh?’
Mr Syms gave her a look, both surprised and slightly suspicious. ‘I thought it was common knowledge. The late Lady Avondale, more famously known by her maiden name, Irene Blythe, lived here. She died two months ago, aged ninety-two. She was a wonderful woman; very loyal and generous. Lady Avondale was an extremely active campaigner for children’s causes, especially of UNICEF. She received her OBE in 1976. Unfortunately, of course, it’s her sister everyone knows about. But that’s the way, isn’t it?’ he sighed. ‘The good in this world are never as glamorous as the bad. I’m sorry but I really must go. I’m reading a will in Ottery St Mary in an hour.’ He nodded to them. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you both. Mrs Williams is always on hand if you need anything. I hope you enjoy your stay.’ Then, with a small bow, he took his leave, cutting across the lawn with long strides.
‘Is it just me or does it feel like he’s running away?’ Cate poured out two mugs of tea. ‘Sugar?’
‘No, thank you.’ Jack picked up a sandwich. ‘He wouldn’t be the first. I have that effect on people.’
‘I’ve never heard of the Blythes.’ She passed him a mug. ‘And who is this infamous sister?’
‘Diana Blythe. The beautiful Blythe sisters. They were both debutantes; famous for being famous between the wars. Do you really not know who they are?’
Cate shook her head. ‘Am I just a mass of ignorance? Tell me everything you know.’
‘Well,’ he admitted, ‘to be honest, that’s it. I know Diana went missing during the war and was never found. Some say she went to live in America. Others think she was murdered. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of her.’
‘Obviously my education is lacking.’ Cate sipped her tea. ‘How strange and romantic!’
‘You have a very odd idea of romance.’
‘I have odd ideas about a lot of things.’ The wind blew across the lawn, gently ruffling her skirt. ‘What an old relic!’
‘The house?’
‘Hmm.’
‘You don’t think it’s charming?’
‘Well, it may be. But it’s sad too. And so staid; a great big cliché of a house.’
‘All these houses have a sameness about them. I’ve seen dozens and dozens over the years. It’s the position and the grounds that make this one special. I love looking out over the sea. And although it’s only small –’
‘Small!’
‘Ten bedrooms is nothing.’ He settled into the chair opposite. ‘I mean, it must’ve been wonderful for entertaining but it’s no size, really.’
‘Now there’s only you and me and Mrs Williams.’ Cate closed her eyes. ‘It’s peaceful,’ she sighed. ‘And the name is so evocative. Endsleigh!’
The sea was too far off to be heard but the sound of the wind through the trees, the birds and the warm smell of freshly cut grass bathed in sunlight soothed her.
‘It is peaceful,’ Jack agreed.
The dull, persistent ring of a mobile phone buzzed, coming from her handbag.
Her eyes flicked open.
It continued to ring.
‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’
‘I didn’t think there’d be a signal here.’
Finally, it stopped.
‘So,’ Jack grinned, ‘avoiding someone?’
The look on her face was cold, like being splashed by a bucket of iced water.
‘I was only –’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She stood up. ‘It’s too hot out here.
I’m going upstairs to unpack. Let me know when you’d like to begin.’
He tried again. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I –’
‘It’s nothing,’ she cut him off. ‘It’s of no importance at all.’
Taking her handbag, she walked across the lawn. Jack watched as she stepped between the layers of sheer fabric floating in the breeze by the French windows, disappearing into the house.
17, Rue de MonceauParis
13 June 1926
My dearest Wren,
Muv sent me a copy of the article in The Times featuring your lovely photograph. Miss Irene Blythe– one of the Debutantes of the Season! And rightly so! How did they get your hair to look like that? Have you had it shingled? Remember that I want to hear every tiny detail, especially about anything that HAPPENS to you–even a brief fumble in a corridor is thrilling for me, as I am in EXILE till next year.
As for me, I am limp with boredom, despite the romance of the Greatest City in Europe. That is Madame Galliot’s constant refrain. ‘You girls are spoilt! Here you are in Paris–the Greatest City in Europe– your parents are spending a fortune on you…on and on and on…Of course she doesn’t actually allow us to go anywhere, which is too vexing. Apart from our drawing classes and trips to Ladurée (the French cannot make a decent cup of tea) and endless expeditions to churches–you can see she is truly exerting herself on behalf of my education–we are rarely allowed to venture foot into Paris itself–a theatre or nightclub, let alone two Les Folies-Bergère. She also has perfected a sneer she reserves for me when she says things like, ‘There are certain subtle refinements that simply cannot be taught,’ (cue said sneer), referring of course to the fact that you and I were not born into our class so much as thrust upon it. To her we are and always will be counterfeits. Which is why it is so thrilling to leave cuttings of The Times around for her to see!
Under her tutelage I have learned precisely three things:
* How to eat oysters.
* How to wear my hat at a beguiling angle.
* How to