House of the Hanged by Mark Mills Page B

glanced off at the islands. ‘A burial at sea . . .’
    It wasn’t a question, but she sounded as if she was trying to make sense of it.
    â€˜You know how much he loved the water.’
    That was the truth. If Hector had been there now he would have been clawing impatiently at the sand, eager for them to join him in a bout of jumping off the rocks.
    â€˜You could have taken the Albatross , you know. I’m almost insulted you didn’t.’
    â€˜The thought crossed my mind.’
    â€˜Why didn’t you?’
    â€˜I’m not sure. Perhaps because it wasn’t a boat he knew.’
    She nodded, accepting the explanation. ‘Our secret, Lucy. I don’t want anyone else to know.’
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜I don’t want his death hanging over the holiday.’
    â€˜But it is.’
    â€˜You know what I mean. Promise me. I’m not sure I could cope with all the sympathy.’
    â€˜Not even from me?’
    â€˜Not yet.’
    She nodded.
    â€˜Say it,’ he insisted.
    â€˜I promise.’
    Her voice cracked as she spoke the words, and he thought for a moment she might be about to break down in tears. She didn’t, though; she just gripped his hands more tightly.
    â€˜Ahoy!’ came a distant cry.
    It was Venetia, rounding the headland in the kayak, rocking wildly as she thrashed inexpertly at the water with the oar.
    Lucy released her hold on his hands, discreetly manoeuvring away from him.
    â€˜Ahoy!’ Tom hailed back, waving.
    But even at a distance he could see from the shift in Venetia’s bearing that she had registered the moment. She knew that she’d caught them unawares, intruding on something private. And Tom had little doubt that he’d be held to account for it before long.
    Leonard and Yevgeny returned from Cannes just before midday, having squeezed in a quick nine holes before leaping into the car and racing back. They came bearing gifts and a whole batch of golfing anecdotes. The former went down far better than the latter.
    â€˜What is it about golfers?’ Venetia declared. ‘The bribes I can handle – in fact, I thoroughly approve of them – but the stories . . . My father and brothers are just the same. Do you really think that those of us who’ve never swung a club in our lives care a fig about “bogies” and “birdies” and “drives off the tee”? I can assure you we don’t.’
    Yevgeny ran a hand over his bronzed pate, smoothing down the phantom hair, no longer there. For reasons that still baffled even Fanya, he had chosen to shave the whole lot off back in the spring. Whatever his thinking, it suited him; he had the right kind of cranium to carry it off.
    â€˜My dear Venetia,’ he chirped, ‘you don’t understand. There is no other game like golf –’
    Venetia raised her hand, cutting him dead. ‘Yevgeny, I don’t doubt you’re about to say something terribly profound, but it might have more authority if you weren’t wearing those ridiculous chequered trousers.’
    No one seemed sure whether to laugh or shout her down. Her sense of humour sailed perilously close to the wind at times. Yevgeny opted for a third way.
    Unbuckling his belt, he let the trousers fall to his ankles.
    â€˜Is that better?’ he demanded.
    There was a stunned silence. And then laughter, wild and uproarious.
    Yevgeny’s undershorts were adorned with little golf clubs.
    Leonard was eager for a swim before lunch. It was the opportunity Tom had been waiting for, and he followed his friend into the water.
    â€˜Mind if I join you?’
    â€˜Of course not. The headland and back?’
    It was maybe half a mile across the bay to the headland separating Le Rayol from Le Canadel – a mere paddle for Leonard, but at the limit of Tom’s range.
    Ever the gentleman, Leonard slowed his stroke so as not to leave Tom languishing in his wake. At one