Isadora Dean.
Bloody fool.
They approached the Devereux home through a long avenue of dogwood, its blood-tipped tendrils reaching up through the decay of autumn like … What? The prospect of life and hope? Or flesh-stripped fingers piercing through a burial mound? Izzy couldn’t decide.
Devereux’s driver had been waiting for her; indeed, as a result of her foray into the mortuary and diversion amongst the medical profession at Weschester General he had been waiting some considerable time. He seemed gruff, taciturn, his manner suggesting impatience, or was it simply the innate reserve of country folk when dealing with strangers?
In any event conversation was impeded since, while he drove, she was left to sit in the back seat clutching Benjamin, who was petrified at the prospect of another car journey into the unknown. Not that the Devereux vehicle bore any substantialresemblance to the shattered Renault: a Rolls Royce Silver Cloud, nearly forty years old, a classic combination of blues and grey with original albeit cracked leather upholstery, of the vintage which set idiosyncratic yet enduring standards of design before luxury cars began their inexorable progress towards computer-induced anonymity. Devereux travelled in style.
The gardener-cum-chauffeur was named Chinnery, that much she managed to extract, but no first name. Around forty, hirsute, dark frown, short-cropped hairstyle with tattoos on his forearms, and working clothes which were well worn but practical and clean. Only his boots betrayed the slightest sign of soil, where the mud had been carefully scraped from around the sole leaving a damp tide mark. She guessed he was ex-military, other ranks, used to taking orders but no experience of socializing in the officers’ mess. And the same weathered, suspicious face she had seen peering out at checkpoints and from behind barricades in every war zone she had filmed, where the hoe and sickle had all too frequently been interchangeable with a Kalashnikov and ammunition belt and where mounds of freshly dug earth betrayed anything but the beauty of an English garden.
The Devereux house, like his car, was large and superbly appointed. An old brick-and-sandstone farmhouse with a gently beaten face that had undergone many modifications over the centuries but which now settled under a thick and freshly trimmed covering of thatch that the winds of winter had as yet had no opportunity to bedraggle. The setting was magnificent, with views over many hundreds of acres of wood and farmland to the spires of the small town of Bowminster, nestling below in theprotective embrace of gently sculpted hills. Beyond Bowminster, with its toy-like rooftops and smoke curling up from a dozen wood fires, perhaps some twelve miles away and through a cleft in the surrounding hills she could see the grey waters of the English Channel.
This was Hardy country, the very heart of it, beauty and timeless mystery that lingered in the rural shade. And personal tragedy, always in Hardy there was personal tragedy. Was there ever a happy ending? She couldn’t remember.
As they had driven through the winding avenue of dogwood and into the cobbled courtyard surrounded by pleached limes, she had grown uneasy. The exclusiveness of the setting meant isolation and reminded her that she was alone. She was a woman used to the bustle of the DC Beltway or the suicidal rush of an autobahn, clouds of traffic fumes rather than scented sea breeze; the bucolic tempo of Bowminster encouraged introspection, meditation, relaxation. Not throttling out the truth about Bella.
As the Cloud braked gently to a halt she found herself drumming her fingers in impatience, but relief in the form of the outside, familiar world was at hand. In the courtyard was parked a black Ford saloon which, judging by the fresh mud thrown up against the bodywork, had come a considerable distance and in something of a hurry. It bore diplomatic plates.
The driver emerged, a diminutive but
Bloody fool.
They approached the Devereux home through a long avenue of dogwood, its blood-tipped tendrils reaching up through the decay of autumn like … What? The prospect of life and hope? Or flesh-stripped fingers piercing through a burial mound? Izzy couldn’t decide.
Devereux’s driver had been waiting for her; indeed, as a result of her foray into the mortuary and diversion amongst the medical profession at Weschester General he had been waiting some considerable time. He seemed gruff, taciturn, his manner suggesting impatience, or was it simply the innate reserve of country folk when dealing with strangers?
In any event conversation was impeded since, while he drove, she was left to sit in the back seat clutching Benjamin, who was petrified at the prospect of another car journey into the unknown. Not that the Devereux vehicle bore any substantialresemblance to the shattered Renault: a Rolls Royce Silver Cloud, nearly forty years old, a classic combination of blues and grey with original albeit cracked leather upholstery, of the vintage which set idiosyncratic yet enduring standards of design before luxury cars began their inexorable progress towards computer-induced anonymity. Devereux travelled in style.
The gardener-cum-chauffeur was named Chinnery, that much she managed to extract, but no first name. Around forty, hirsute, dark frown, short-cropped hairstyle with tattoos on his forearms, and working clothes which were well worn but practical and clean. Only his boots betrayed the slightest sign of soil, where the mud had been carefully scraped from around the sole leaving a damp tide mark. She guessed he was ex-military, other ranks, used to taking orders but no experience of socializing in the officers’ mess. And the same weathered, suspicious face she had seen peering out at checkpoints and from behind barricades in every war zone she had filmed, where the hoe and sickle had all too frequently been interchangeable with a Kalashnikov and ammunition belt and where mounds of freshly dug earth betrayed anything but the beauty of an English garden.
The Devereux house, like his car, was large and superbly appointed. An old brick-and-sandstone farmhouse with a gently beaten face that had undergone many modifications over the centuries but which now settled under a thick and freshly trimmed covering of thatch that the winds of winter had as yet had no opportunity to bedraggle. The setting was magnificent, with views over many hundreds of acres of wood and farmland to the spires of the small town of Bowminster, nestling below in theprotective embrace of gently sculpted hills. Beyond Bowminster, with its toy-like rooftops and smoke curling up from a dozen wood fires, perhaps some twelve miles away and through a cleft in the surrounding hills she could see the grey waters of the English Channel.
This was Hardy country, the very heart of it, beauty and timeless mystery that lingered in the rural shade. And personal tragedy, always in Hardy there was personal tragedy. Was there ever a happy ending? She couldn’t remember.
As they had driven through the winding avenue of dogwood and into the cobbled courtyard surrounded by pleached limes, she had grown uneasy. The exclusiveness of the setting meant isolation and reminded her that she was alone. She was a woman used to the bustle of the DC Beltway or the suicidal rush of an autobahn, clouds of traffic fumes rather than scented sea breeze; the bucolic tempo of Bowminster encouraged introspection, meditation, relaxation. Not throttling out the truth about Bella.
As the Cloud braked gently to a halt she found herself drumming her fingers in impatience, but relief in the form of the outside, familiar world was at hand. In the courtyard was parked a black Ford saloon which, judging by the fresh mud thrown up against the bodywork, had come a considerable distance and in something of a hurry. It bore diplomatic plates.
The driver emerged, a diminutive but
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