I know. But I thought they might have … no, perhaps not … I’m sure that eventually someone will think …’
‘What, for heaven’s sake? Spit it out, man,’ said the woman in exasperation.
‘Perhaps you should sit down … As you will,’ said Waverley as the woman responded with a steely stare that wouldn’t have been out of place on a peregrine. ‘I heard it on the radio this morning, then rang to check details. It’s your nephew, Pal. It’s very bad, I’m afraid. The worst. He’s dead. Like your brother.’
‘Like …? You mean he …?’
‘Yes, I’m truly sorry. He killed himself last night. In Moscow House.’
‘Oh God,’ said the woman. ‘Laurence, you are again my bird of ill omen.’
Now she sat down.
It seemed to Hat, who had emerged from the depths of his introspection just in time to take in the final part of this exchange, that the soft chirruping of the birds, a constant burden since he entered the kitchen, now all at once fell still.
The woman too sat in complete silence for almost a minute.
Finally she said, ‘This is a shock, Laurence. I’m prepared for the shocks of my world, but not for this. Am I needed? Will anyone need me? Please advise me.’
‘I think you should come with me, Lavinia,’ said the man. ‘When you have spoken to people and found out what there is to find out, then you will know if you’re needed.’
The shock of the news had put them on first-name terms, observed Hat. It also underlined his obtrusive presence.
He stood up and said, ‘I think I should be on my way.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said the woman. ‘Carry on with your breakfast. I think you need it. Laurence, give me five minutes.’
She stood up and went out. The birds resumed their chirruping.
Hat looked at Waverley and said uncertainly, ‘I really think I ought to go.’
‘No need to rush,’ said Waverley. ‘Miss Mac never speaks out of mere politeness. And you do look as if a little nourishment wouldn’t come amiss.’
No argument there, thought Hat.
He sat down and resumed eating his second slice of bread on which he’d spread butter and marmalade to a depth that had the robin tic-ticking in admiration and envy.
Waverley took two mugs from a shelf, and poured the tea.
‘Is there anywhere I can give you a lift to when we go?’ he said.
‘Thank you, I don’t know …’
It occurred to Hat he had no idea where he was in relation to his own vehicle.
To cover his uncertainty, he said, ‘Did you come by car? I didn’t hear it.’
‘I leave it by the roadside. You’ll understand why when you see the state of the track up to the cottage. Miss Mac doesn’t encourage callers.’
Was he being warned off?
Hat said, ‘But she makes them very welcome,’ with just enough stress on she for it to be a counter-blow if the man wanted to take it that way.
Waverley smiled faintly and said, ‘Yes, she has a soft spot for lame ducks, whatever the genus. There you are, my dear.’
Miss Mac had reappeared, having prepared for her outing by pulling a cracked Barbour over her T-shirt and changing her wellies for a pair of stout walking shoes.
‘Shall we be off? Mr Hat, you haven’t finished your tea. No need to rush. Just close the door when you leave.’
Hat caught Waverley’s eye and read nothing there except mild curiosity.
He said, ‘No, I’d better be on my way too. But I’d like to come again some time, if you don’t mind … Sorry, that sounds cheeky, I don’t want to be …’
‘Of course you’ll come again,’ she interrupted as if surprised. ‘Good-looking young man who knows about birds, how should you not be welcome?’
‘Thank you,’ said Hat. ‘Thank you very much.’
He meant it. While he couldn’t say he was feeling well, he was certainly feeling better than he had done for weeks.
They went out of the door he’d come in by. She didn’t bother to lock it. Waste of time anyway with the window left open for the birds.
They went down the side of the cottage, Miss Mac leaning on the stick in her right hand and hanging on to Waverley’s arm with the other as they headed up a rutted track towards a car parked on a narrow country road about fifty yards away.
If Hat had thought of guessing what sort of car Waverley drove, he would probably have opted for something small and reliable, a Peugeot 307 for instance, or maybe a Golf. His enforced absence from work must have dulled his detective powers. Gleaming in the morning sunlight stood a maroon coloured Jaguar S-type.
He said, ‘That lift you offered me, my car’s on the old Stangdale road, if that’s not out of your way.’
‘My pleasure, Mr Hat,’ said Waverley. ‘My pleasure.’
Some miles to the south, close to the picturesque little village of Cothersley, dawn gave the mist still shrouding Cothersley Hall the kind of fuzzy golden glow with which unoriginal historical documentary makers signal their next inaccurate reconstruction. For a moment an observer viewing the western elevation of the building might almost believe he was back in the late seventeenth century just long enough after the construction of the handsome manor house for the ivy to have got established. But a short stroll round to the southern front of the house bringing into view the long and mainly glass-sided eastern extension would give him pause. And when further progress allowed him to look through the glass and see a table bearing a glowing computer screen standing alongside an indoor swimming pool, unless possessed of a politician’s capacity to ignore contradictory evidence, he must then admit the sad truth that he was still in the twenty-first century.
A man in a black silk robe sat by the table staring at the screen. He didn’t look up as the door leading into the main house opened and Kay Kafka appeared, clad in a white towelling robe on the back of which was printed IF YOU TAKE ME HOME YOUR ACCOUNT WILL BE CHARGED. She was carrying a tray set with a basket of croissants, a butter dish, two china mugs and an insulated coffee-pot.
Putting the tray on the table she said, ‘Good morning, Tony.’
‘He’s back.’
‘Junius?’ That was the great thing about Kay. You could talk shorthand with her. ‘Same stuff as before?’
‘More or less. Calls himself NewJunius now. Broke in again, left messages and a hyperlink.’
‘I thought they said that was impossible.’
‘They said boil-in-the-bag rice was impossible. His style doesn’t improve.’
‘You seem pretty laid-back about it.’
‘Why not? Some bits I even find myself agreeing with these days.’
‘What bits would they be?’
‘The bits where he suggests there’s more to being a good American than making money.’
‘You tried that one out on Joe lately?’ she asked casually.
‘You know