the beautiful wild country. The best description it could muster today would be pleasant and tame.
The taxi sped along the secondary roads past dense hedgerows of field maple, hawthorn, and hazel, and plowed, stubbly fields.
“Lovely weather you brung with you,” the cabbie said.
Will didn’t want to do small talk.
“Most folks going to Wroxall go to the Abbey Estate conferencing center. Beautiful place, all done up ’bout ten years back, stately hotel and all. Christopher Wren’s country digs.”
“Not where I’m going.”
“So you said. Never been up to Cantwell Hall, but I know where it is. What brings you here, if I may ask?”
What would this guy say if he told him the truth, Will thought? I’m here to solve the greatest mystery in the world, driver. Meaning of life and death. Beginning and end. Throw in the existence of God while you’re at it. That’s why I’m here. “Business,” he said.
The village itself was a blip. A few dozen houses, a pub, post office, and general store.
“Entering and leaving Wroxall village,” the cabbie said with a nod. “Just two miles on now.”
The entrance to Cantwell House was unmarked, a couple of brick pillars on either side of a threadbare gravel lane with a central row of untamed grass. The lane plunged through an overgrown, wet meadow dotted with the fading hues of late-season wildflowers, limp, blue speedwells mostly, and the occasional clump of fleshy mushrooms. In the distance, around a sharp curve, he caught sight of gables peeking above a high hedge of hawthorn that obscured most of the building.
As they got closer, the sheer magnitude of the house jumped out at him. It was a hodgepodge of gables and chimneys, pale, weathered brick rendered over a visible Tudor exoskeleton of dark purplish timbers. Through the hedge, he could see that the central face of the house was completely clad in ivy cut away from white-framed leaded windows by someone who seemed to lack a facility for right angles and straight lines. The pitched and multiangled slate roof was slimy and moss green, more animate than inanimate. What he could see of the tangled front garden beds suggested they were, at best, lightly tended.
Passing through a generous, hedge-formed portico, the lane turned into a circular drive. The cab crunched to a halt on gravel near a latticed, oak door. The front windows were dead and reflective. “Dark as a tomb in there,” the driver said. “Want me to wait?”
Will got out and paid. There was a wisp of smoke coming from one of the chimneys. He cut the man loose. “I’m good,” he said, shouldering his bag. He pressed the buzzer and heard a faint interior chime. The taxi disappeared through the second hedged portico, back to the lane.
The entrance was unprotected from the elements, and while he listened for signs of life, his hair was slicking with rain. After a good minute, he pressed the buzzer again, then used his knuckles for emphasis.
The woman who opened the door was wetter than he was. She’d obviously been caught in the shower and without time to towel off had thrown on a pair of jeans and a shirt.
She was tall and graceful, a cultured, expressive face with confident eyes, skin, young and fresh, the color of buttermilk. Her clavicle-length blond hair was dripping onto her cotton shirt, and the outline of her breasts showed through its wet translucency.
“I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “It’s Mr. Piper, isn’t it?”
She’s gorgeous, he thought, not what he needed right now. He nodded, and said, “Yes ma’am,” like a polite Southern gentleman, and followed her inside.
THE HOUSEKEEPER’S AT CHURCH, Granddad’s deaf as a post, and I was in the shower, so you, I’m afraid, were left standing out in this wretched weather.”
The entrance hall was indeed dark, a two-story paneled vault with a staircase ascending to a gallery landing. Will felt that it was as inviting as a museum, and he started worrying he’d
The taxi sped along the secondary roads past dense hedgerows of field maple, hawthorn, and hazel, and plowed, stubbly fields.
“Lovely weather you brung with you,” the cabbie said.
Will didn’t want to do small talk.
“Most folks going to Wroxall go to the Abbey Estate conferencing center. Beautiful place, all done up ’bout ten years back, stately hotel and all. Christopher Wren’s country digs.”
“Not where I’m going.”
“So you said. Never been up to Cantwell Hall, but I know where it is. What brings you here, if I may ask?”
What would this guy say if he told him the truth, Will thought? I’m here to solve the greatest mystery in the world, driver. Meaning of life and death. Beginning and end. Throw in the existence of God while you’re at it. That’s why I’m here. “Business,” he said.
The village itself was a blip. A few dozen houses, a pub, post office, and general store.
“Entering and leaving Wroxall village,” the cabbie said with a nod. “Just two miles on now.”
The entrance to Cantwell House was unmarked, a couple of brick pillars on either side of a threadbare gravel lane with a central row of untamed grass. The lane plunged through an overgrown, wet meadow dotted with the fading hues of late-season wildflowers, limp, blue speedwells mostly, and the occasional clump of fleshy mushrooms. In the distance, around a sharp curve, he caught sight of gables peeking above a high hedge of hawthorn that obscured most of the building.
As they got closer, the sheer magnitude of the house jumped out at him. It was a hodgepodge of gables and chimneys, pale, weathered brick rendered over a visible Tudor exoskeleton of dark purplish timbers. Through the hedge, he could see that the central face of the house was completely clad in ivy cut away from white-framed leaded windows by someone who seemed to lack a facility for right angles and straight lines. The pitched and multiangled slate roof was slimy and moss green, more animate than inanimate. What he could see of the tangled front garden beds suggested they were, at best, lightly tended.
Passing through a generous, hedge-formed portico, the lane turned into a circular drive. The cab crunched to a halt on gravel near a latticed, oak door. The front windows were dead and reflective. “Dark as a tomb in there,” the driver said. “Want me to wait?”
Will got out and paid. There was a wisp of smoke coming from one of the chimneys. He cut the man loose. “I’m good,” he said, shouldering his bag. He pressed the buzzer and heard a faint interior chime. The taxi disappeared through the second hedged portico, back to the lane.
The entrance was unprotected from the elements, and while he listened for signs of life, his hair was slicking with rain. After a good minute, he pressed the buzzer again, then used his knuckles for emphasis.
The woman who opened the door was wetter than he was. She’d obviously been caught in the shower and without time to towel off had thrown on a pair of jeans and a shirt.
She was tall and graceful, a cultured, expressive face with confident eyes, skin, young and fresh, the color of buttermilk. Her clavicle-length blond hair was dripping onto her cotton shirt, and the outline of her breasts showed through its wet translucency.
“I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “It’s Mr. Piper, isn’t it?”
She’s gorgeous, he thought, not what he needed right now. He nodded, and said, “Yes ma’am,” like a polite Southern gentleman, and followed her inside.
THE HOUSEKEEPER’S AT CHURCH, Granddad’s deaf as a post, and I was in the shower, so you, I’m afraid, were left standing out in this wretched weather.”
The entrance hall was indeed dark, a two-story paneled vault with a staircase ascending to a gallery landing. Will felt that it was as inviting as a museum, and he started worrying he’d
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