paid
to share his wilder obsessions. Well, he thinks I do . . .' Rachel exhaled a short, throaty laugh.
They came out of the wood. A
track to the left was barred by a gate with a metal sign. COURT FARM. Where the
Preece farmed. Jack, son of Jimmy, the Mayor, and Jack's two son She'd seen
Jack once, slinking almost furtively out of the church, his nightly duty accomplished.
'And what exactly is Mr Goff's
obsession with the Court?'
'I'll show you in a minute,'
Rachel said affably.
This was too easy. Fay was
suspicious. She watched Rachel Wade driving with a languid economy of movement,
like people drove in films, only you knew they weren't in real, moving vehicles.
This was the kind of woman who could change a wheel and make it look like a
ballet. Made you despair.
Rachel said, is that your
father, the old clergyman? Or your grandfather or something?'
'Father. You've met him?'
'In the Cock. We got into
conversation after my lighter fell off the bar and he picked it up.' Rachel
smiled, in fact, if he'd been considerably younger, I'd almost have thought . .
.'
Fay nodded wryly. 'The old
knocking-the-lighter-off-the-bar routine. Then he carries out a detailed survey
of your legs while he's picking it up. He's harmless. I think.'
'He's certainly a character.'
Rachel pulled up in a walled courtyard amid heaps of sand and builders' rubble.
Before them random grey-brown stones were settled around deepset
mullioned windows and a dusty oak door was half-open.
Fay took a breath.
'Crybbe Court,' Rachel said.
'But don't get too excited.' She snapped on the handbrake. 'Leave the dog in
the car, he won't like it. Nobody does, really, apart from historians, and even
they get depressed at the state of it.'
She wondered what had made her think it was going to be mellow and
warm-toned like a country house on a Christmas card.
'It's old,' she said.
'Elizabethan.'
She felt cold and folded her
bare arms. Outside, it was a fairly pleasant midsummer's day; in here, stark
and grim as dankest February.
Somehow, she'd imagined rich
drapes and tapestries and polished panelling. Probably because the only homes
of a similar period she'd visited had been stately homes or National Trust properties,
everything exuding the dull sheen of age and wealth, divided from the plebs by
brass railings and velvet ropes.
In Crybbe Court these days, it
seemed, only the rats were rich.
The room was large, stone-floored
and low-ceilinged, and apparently fortified against the sun. The only direct
light was from three small, high-set windows, not much more than slits. Bare
blue sky through crossed iron bars.
Fay said, 'I suppose it's logical
when you think about it, the period and everything, but I didn't imagine it
would be quite so . . .'
She became aware of a narrow, stone
staircase spiralling into a vagueness of cold light hanging from above like a
sheet draped over a banister.
'Ghastly,' Rachel said, 'is, I
think, the word you're groping for. Let's go upstairs. It's possibly a little
less oppressive.'
The spiral staircase opened
into a large chamber with mullioned windows set in two walls. Bars of dusty
sunshine fell short of meeting in the middle. It had originally been the main family
living-room, Rachel explained. 'Also, I'm told, the place where the local high
sheriff, a man named Wort, held out against the local populace who'd arrived to
lynch him. Have you heard that story?'
'I've heard the name, but not
the story.'
'Oh, well, he was a local
tyrant back in the sixteenth century. Known as Black Michael. Hanged men for
petty crimes after allowing their wives to appeal to his better nature, if you
see what I mean. Also said to have experimented on people before they died, in
much the same way as the Nazis did.'
'Charming.'
'In the end, the local people
decided
to share his wilder obsessions. Well, he thinks I do . . .' Rachel exhaled a short, throaty laugh.
They came out of the wood. A
track to the left was barred by a gate with a metal sign. COURT FARM. Where the
Preece farmed. Jack, son of Jimmy, the Mayor, and Jack's two son She'd seen
Jack once, slinking almost furtively out of the church, his nightly duty accomplished.
'And what exactly is Mr Goff's
obsession with the Court?'
'I'll show you in a minute,'
Rachel said affably.
This was too easy. Fay was
suspicious. She watched Rachel Wade driving with a languid economy of movement,
like people drove in films, only you knew they weren't in real, moving vehicles.
This was the kind of woman who could change a wheel and make it look like a
ballet. Made you despair.
Rachel said, is that your
father, the old clergyman? Or your grandfather or something?'
'Father. You've met him?'
'In the Cock. We got into
conversation after my lighter fell off the bar and he picked it up.' Rachel
smiled, in fact, if he'd been considerably younger, I'd almost have thought . .
.'
Fay nodded wryly. 'The old
knocking-the-lighter-off-the-bar routine. Then he carries out a detailed survey
of your legs while he's picking it up. He's harmless. I think.'
'He's certainly a character.'
Rachel pulled up in a walled courtyard amid heaps of sand and builders' rubble.
Before them random grey-brown stones were settled around deepset
mullioned windows and a dusty oak door was half-open.
Fay took a breath.
'Crybbe Court,' Rachel said.
'But don't get too excited.' She snapped on the handbrake. 'Leave the dog in
the car, he won't like it. Nobody does, really, apart from historians, and even
they get depressed at the state of it.'
She wondered what had made her think it was going to be mellow and
warm-toned like a country house on a Christmas card.
'It's old,' she said.
'Elizabethan.'
She felt cold and folded her
bare arms. Outside, it was a fairly pleasant midsummer's day; in here, stark
and grim as dankest February.
Somehow, she'd imagined rich
drapes and tapestries and polished panelling. Probably because the only homes
of a similar period she'd visited had been stately homes or National Trust properties,
everything exuding the dull sheen of age and wealth, divided from the plebs by
brass railings and velvet ropes.
In Crybbe Court these days, it
seemed, only the rats were rich.
The room was large, stone-floored
and low-ceilinged, and apparently fortified against the sun. The only direct
light was from three small, high-set windows, not much more than slits. Bare
blue sky through crossed iron bars.
Fay said, 'I suppose it's logical
when you think about it, the period and everything, but I didn't imagine it
would be quite so . . .'
She became aware of a narrow, stone
staircase spiralling into a vagueness of cold light hanging from above like a
sheet draped over a banister.
'Ghastly,' Rachel said, 'is, I
think, the word you're groping for. Let's go upstairs. It's possibly a little
less oppressive.'
The spiral staircase opened
into a large chamber with mullioned windows set in two walls. Bars of dusty
sunshine fell short of meeting in the middle. It had originally been the main family
living-room, Rachel explained. 'Also, I'm told, the place where the local high
sheriff, a man named Wort, held out against the local populace who'd arrived to
lynch him. Have you heard that story?'
'I've heard the name, but not
the story.'
'Oh, well, he was a local
tyrant back in the sixteenth century. Known as Black Michael. Hanged men for
petty crimes after allowing their wives to appeal to his better nature, if you
see what I mean. Also said to have experimented on people before they died, in
much the same way as the Nazis did.'
'Charming.'
'In the end, the local people
decided
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