Villages gave her the pip, anyway, and this one made no exception. Deep in Wiltshire, surrounded on all sides by old gravel quarries, it was almost an island. No storybook high street here, with rows of neat shops—this one looked all higgledy-piggledy, with clusters of new houses that seemed to turn in on one another, and an occasional old place tucked in between.
None of them the right one, though. Number Two, Grove House. No street name or number. How was anyone expected to find it?
Gemma turned left at the pub, and before she knew it she found herself dead-ended in a cul-de-sac of newish homes. Working herself into a temper of frustration wouldn’t do a bit of good, she thought. She took a deep breath, carefully reversed the car, and crawled back along the curb.
Ten feet from the corner pub, she found a gap in the hedge. A small metal plaque had been set into the open wrought-iron gate. Grove House, Gemma read. The Escort’s tires crunched on the gravel as she pulled the car into the drive and stopped. The clatter from the road came only faintly through the high hedges, and the smell of newly turned earth drifted in through the car’s open window. A wheelbarrow and spade stood near a heap of compost on
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the lawn. At least, she thought, it must be compost—her expertise in gardening consisted of cutting the six-foot- square patch of grass the advertisement for her house had called “a spacious back garden.”
The house itself gave a swift impression of gray stucco and slate and trailing green creeper, with a tangled hedge jutting out at a right angle from its center—the division between Number One and Number Two. She wondered how the house had looked new, and for a moment she imagined that the house had walled itself in, unchanging, as the village grew up around it. “A bit fanciful for you, love,” she said aloud, then shook herself and got out of the car.
Number Two turned out to be the left-hand side, half hidden behind the central hedge. Gemma smoothed her hair with her hands and adjusted her shoulder bag before she rang the bell. Quick footsteps sounded on tile and a woman opened the door. She was slender, with a fair, faded prettiness and a tentative smile. “Mrs. Rennie?” asked Gemma. “My name’s Gemma James.” She handed the woman her warrant card. “With London C.I.D. I’d like to speak with you for a few moments if I could.”
“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Rennie looked puzzled. “What can I do for you?” Her expression became slightly apprehensive. “It’s not about that awful business up in Yorkshire, is it? Patrick telephoned and told us—” Gemma saw apprehension spring to alarm in the woman’s eyes. “It’s not Patrick? Something’s happened to Patrick?”
“No, no.” Gemma hastened to reassure her. “Your son’s fine, Mrs. Rennie. We’re just making some routine inquiries of all the guests at Followdale House.” She smiled her best encouraging smile.
“Silly of me. Just for a moment—” Mrs. Rennie collected herself and her manners, ushering Gemma into the foyer. “Do come in. I shouldn’t have kept you standing on the step.” An enormous bowl of meticulously arranged flowers stood on a narrow table—that, and the softly lit oil portraits running along the hall and up the stair, were all she glimpsed before Mrs. Rennie led her into the drawing room.
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“Sit down, please. Would you like some tea?”
“That would be lovely. I had quite a drive getting here,” Gemma answered, thinking that in this house she would not invite herself into the kitchen to help. Left alone, she examined the room. Like the rest of the house, it had an air of worn elegance—expensive things well used; the oriental rug under her feet had threadbare spots, the chintz-covered chairs and sofa sagged where most sat upon. There were books, and maps, and objects that she thought might have come from the Far East. And the room, with its shabby gentility redolent of good wools and sensible shoes, raised in Gemma a deep discomfort.
She smelled the mingled scents of flowers and furniture polish and dusty book bindings, and thought of her own semidetached, where the smell of grease and cooked cabbage from next door seemed to seep through her walls, and no matter how much she threw open her windows and aired things it never quite went away. She thought of the matching beige suite in her sitting room, with its rough, cheap fabric, and her fingers stroked the smooth chintz. Well, she did the best she could, what with her salary, and Toby’s day care, and Rob’s not being too dependable with his child support.
Clinking sounds from the direction of the kitchen broke into her reverie. She sighed, then straightened her spine against the chair’s soft back. Mrs. Rennie pushed open the swinging door with her shoulder and maneuvered the tea tray through it. When Gemma rose to help, Mrs. Rennie stopped her with a quick shake of her head. “No, don’t get up. I can manage.”
