“Maybe you’ll show me the rest of the grounds?” he said, not certain that this was the appropriate question, but more certain that he didn’t want this conversation to end here without some possibility of them meeting again. She made a noncommittal noise by way of reply. The corners of her mouth were tucked down.
“Tomorrow?” he said.
This time she didn’t answer at all. Instead, she started to walk toward the house. He tagged along, knowing their exchange would falter entirely if he didn’t find some way to keep it alive.
“It’s strange being in the house with no one to talk to,” he said.
That seemed to strike a chord.
“It’s Papa’s house,” she said simply. “We just live in it.”
Papa. So, she was his daughter. Now he recognized the old man’s mouth on her, those pinched-down corners that on him seemed so stoical, and on her, simply sad.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she said.
He presumed she meant about their meeting, but he didn’t press her. There were more important questions to ask, if she didn’t race away. He wanted to signal his interest in her. But he could think of nothing to say. The sudden change in her tempo, from gentle, elliptical conversation to this staccato, confounded him.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She looked around at him, and beneath her hood she seemed almost to be in mourning.
“I have to hurry,” she said. “I’m wanted.”
She picked up the pace of her step, signaling only in the hunch of her shoulders a desire to leave him behind. He obliged and slowed, leaving her to go back to the house without a glance or a wave.
Rather than return to the kitchen, where he’d have to endure Pearl’s banter while he breakfasted, he started back across the field, giving the dovecote a wide berth, until he reached the perimeter fence, and punished himself with another complete circuit. When he ran into the woods he found himself involuntarily scanning the ground underfoot, looking for fossils.
17
Two days later, about eleven-thirty at night, he got a summons from Whitehead.
“I’m in the study,” he said on the phone. “I’d like a word with you.”
The study, though it boasted half a dozen lamps, was almost in darkness. Only the crane-necked lamp on the desk burned, and that threw its light onto a heap of papers rather than into the room. Whitehead was sitting in the leather chair beside the window. On the table beside him was a bottle of vodka and an almost empty glass. He didn’t turn when Marty knocked and entered, but simply addressed Marty from his vantage point in front of the floodlit lawn.
“I think it’s time I gave you more leash, Strauss,” he said. “You’ve done a fine job so far. I’m pleased.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Bill Toy will be up here overnight tomorrow, and so will Luther, so this might be an opportunity for you to go down to London.”
It was eight weeks, almost to the day, since he’d arrived at the estate: and here, at last, was a tentative signal that his place was secure.
“I’ve had Luther sort out a vehicle for you. Speak to him about it when he arrives. And there’s some money on the desk for you-”
Marty glanced across at the desk-top; there was indeed a pile of notes there.
“Go on, take it.”
Marty’s fingers fairly itched, but he kept control of his enthusiasm.
“It’ll cover petrol and a night in the city.”
Marty didn’t count the notes; simply folded them and pocketed them.
“Thank you, sir.”
“There’s an address there too.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take it. The shop belongs to a man called Halifax. He supplies me with strawberries, out of season. Will you pick up my order, please?”
“Of course.”
“That’s the only errand I want you to run. As long as you’re back by midmorning Saturday, the rest of the time’s your own.”
“Thank you.”
Whitehead’s hand reached out for the glass of vodka, and Marty thought he was going to turn and look at him; he didn’t. This interview was apparently over.
“Is that all, sir?”
“All? Yes, I think so. Don’t you?”