harassment?”
“May we go inside?” Burden said.
“Oh, I don’t really think so, do you?”
“Yes, I do think so, Mr. Struther. It is Mr. Struther, isn’t it? The son of Owen and Kitty Struther?”
He was temporarily disconcerted, returned Burden’s look in silence. He walked up to the front door and pushed at it. The door came open with a long drawn-out groan. Over his shoulder he said, affectedly casual, “Has something happened to my parents?”
Burden and Karen followed him into the house. The hall was low-ceilinged, half-timbered, a huge sprawling place with a stone-flagged floor on which black carved furniture stood about, the kind that looks as if Elizabeth I might have sat on it or eaten off it. They all had to duck under the lintel to get through the doorway into a living room. Here was floral chintz, Indian rugs, Arts and Crafts tables, and all was exquisitely clean and sweet-smelling.
“Do you live here, Mr. Struther?” They hadn’t been asked to sit down, but Burden did so.
“I look the sort of guy who would live at home with Mummy, do I?”
“May I know where you do live?”
“London. Where else? Fitzhardinge Mews, West One.”
He
would
have a West One address, Burden thought. “Then I suppose you are here to take care of the house while your parents are away on holiday?”
That did surprise him. He looked at Karen’s legs, pursed his lips. “Something like that,” he said. “It’s scarcely a hardship to come here on my own holiday. My mother fears burglars, my father has some phobia about an inefficient drain, ergo …! Now can we come to the point?”
“You were here yesterday morning,” Karen said, “when a driver from Contemporary Cars came to collect your parents and drive them to Kingsmarkham Station?”
“Gatwick airport, actually. Yes, why?”
“Where were they going?”
“You mean, where are they now. Florence. A city more familiar to you as Firenze, no doubt.”
“If you make a phone call to their hotel, Mr. Struther, you will find that they are not there. They never went there.” Burden had been about to say that Kitty and Owen Struther had been abducted but he waited. The man’s hostility was almost tangible. “If you make that phone call you will find that your parents are missing.”
“I am not hearing this. I do not believe this.”
“It is true, Mr. Struther. May I know your first name, please?”
“Not to call me by it, I beg. I’m old-fashioned about things like that. My
Christian
name is Andrew. I am Andrew Owen Kinglake Struther.”
“You do know where your parents are staying, Mr. Struther?”
“Certainly I do and I consider that question impertinent. You’ve had your say, I’ve registered your absurd news, and now I’d like your space.”
Burden decided to give up. He was under no obligation to make this man believe in his parents’ abduction. He had done his best. Later in the day, no doubt, Andrew Struther would be on the phone to Kingsmarkham Police Station, having had what he had been told confirmed at Gatwick and in Florence, but instead of showing contrition and asking for more facts, demanding to know why the whole story hadn’t been imparted to him earlier.
But as they entered the hall once more and crossed the stone flags there was a sound of running footsteps from above and a girl came down the staircase, followed by a German shepherd dog. She was about Andrew Struther’s age, a white-faced red-lipped girl with a mass of untidy mahogany-colored hair, wearing jeans and what looked like the top half of baby-doll pajamas. The dog was young, black and tan, not unlike the bailiff’s dogs, with adense glossy coat. At the bottom the girl stopped, holding on to the carved banister post.
“Cops,” said Andrew Struther.
“You’re kidding.”
“No, but don’t ask. You know how low my boredom threshold is.”
The dog sat at the foot of the stairs and stared at them. Burden and Karen let themselves out but the front
“May we go inside?” Burden said.
“Oh, I don’t really think so, do you?”
“Yes, I do think so, Mr. Struther. It is Mr. Struther, isn’t it? The son of Owen and Kitty Struther?”
He was temporarily disconcerted, returned Burden’s look in silence. He walked up to the front door and pushed at it. The door came open with a long drawn-out groan. Over his shoulder he said, affectedly casual, “Has something happened to my parents?”
Burden and Karen followed him into the house. The hall was low-ceilinged, half-timbered, a huge sprawling place with a stone-flagged floor on which black carved furniture stood about, the kind that looks as if Elizabeth I might have sat on it or eaten off it. They all had to duck under the lintel to get through the doorway into a living room. Here was floral chintz, Indian rugs, Arts and Crafts tables, and all was exquisitely clean and sweet-smelling.
“Do you live here, Mr. Struther?” They hadn’t been asked to sit down, but Burden did so.
“I look the sort of guy who would live at home with Mummy, do I?”
“May I know where you do live?”
“London. Where else? Fitzhardinge Mews, West One.”
He
would
have a West One address, Burden thought. “Then I suppose you are here to take care of the house while your parents are away on holiday?”
That did surprise him. He looked at Karen’s legs, pursed his lips. “Something like that,” he said. “It’s scarcely a hardship to come here on my own holiday. My mother fears burglars, my father has some phobia about an inefficient drain, ergo …! Now can we come to the point?”
“You were here yesterday morning,” Karen said, “when a driver from Contemporary Cars came to collect your parents and drive them to Kingsmarkham Station?”
“Gatwick airport, actually. Yes, why?”
“Where were they going?”
“You mean, where are they now. Florence. A city more familiar to you as Firenze, no doubt.”
“If you make a phone call to their hotel, Mr. Struther, you will find that they are not there. They never went there.” Burden had been about to say that Kitty and Owen Struther had been abducted but he waited. The man’s hostility was almost tangible. “If you make that phone call you will find that your parents are missing.”
“I am not hearing this. I do not believe this.”
“It is true, Mr. Struther. May I know your first name, please?”
“Not to call me by it, I beg. I’m old-fashioned about things like that. My
Christian
name is Andrew. I am Andrew Owen Kinglake Struther.”
“You do know where your parents are staying, Mr. Struther?”
“Certainly I do and I consider that question impertinent. You’ve had your say, I’ve registered your absurd news, and now I’d like your space.”
Burden decided to give up. He was under no obligation to make this man believe in his parents’ abduction. He had done his best. Later in the day, no doubt, Andrew Struther would be on the phone to Kingsmarkham Police Station, having had what he had been told confirmed at Gatwick and in Florence, but instead of showing contrition and asking for more facts, demanding to know why the whole story hadn’t been imparted to him earlier.
But as they entered the hall once more and crossed the stone flags there was a sound of running footsteps from above and a girl came down the staircase, followed by a German shepherd dog. She was about Andrew Struther’s age, a white-faced red-lipped girl with a mass of untidy mahogany-colored hair, wearing jeans and what looked like the top half of baby-doll pajamas. The dog was young, black and tan, not unlike the bailiff’s dogs, with adense glossy coat. At the bottom the girl stopped, holding on to the carved banister post.
“Cops,” said Andrew Struther.
“You’re kidding.”
“No, but don’t ask. You know how low my boredom threshold is.”
The dog sat at the foot of the stairs and stared at them. Burden and Karen let themselves out but the front
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