A flaking wooden sign marked the turning to Chiswell House. The drive, which was overgrown and full of potholes, was bordered on the left by a dense patch of woodland and on the right, by a long field that had been separated into paddocks by electric fences, and contained a number of horses. As the Land Rover lurched and rumbled towards the out-of-sight house, two of the largest horses, spooked by the noisy and unfamiliar car, took off. A chain reaction then occurred, as most of their companions began to canter around, too, the original pair kicking out at each other as they went.
“Wow,” said Robin, watching the horses as the Land Rover swayed over the uneven ground. “She’s got stallions in together.”
“That’s bad, is it?” asked Strike, as a hairy creature the color of jet lashed out with teeth and back legs at an equally large animal he would have categorized as brown, though doubtless the coat color had some rarefied equine name.
“It’s not usually done,” said Robin, wincing as the black stallion’s rear legs made contact with its companion’s flank.
They turned a corner and saw a plain-faced neo-classical house of dirty yellow stone. The graveled forecourt, like the drive, had several potholes and was strewn with weeds, the windows were grubby and a large tub of horse feed sat incongruously beside the front door. Three cars were already sitting there: a red Audi Q3, a racing green Range Rover and an old and muddy Grand Vitara. To the right of the house lay a stable block and to the left, a wide croquet lawn that had long since been given over to the daisies. More dense woodland lay beyond.
As Robin braked, an overweight black Labrador and a rough-coated terrier came shooting out of the front door, both barking. The Labrador seemed keen to make friends but the Norfolk terrier, which had a face like a malevolent monkey, barked and growled until a fair-haired man, dressed in stripy shirt and mustard-colored corduroy trousers, appeared at the doorway and bellowed:
“SHUT UP, RATTENBURY!”
Cowed, the dog subsided into low growls, all directed at Strike.
“Torquil D’Amery,” drawled the fair-haired man, approaching Strike with his hand outstretched. There were deep pockets beneath his pale blue eyes and his shiny pink face looked as though it never needed a razor. “Ignore the dog, he’s a bloody menace.”
“Cormoran Strike. This is—”
Robin had just held out her hand when Kinvara erupted out of the house, wearing old jodhpurs and a washed-out T-shirt, her loose red hair falling everywhere.
“For God’s
“You should wear a hard hat if you’re going in there, Kinvara!” Torquil called at her retreating figure, but she stormed away giving no sign that she had heard him. “Not your fault,” he assured Strike and Robin, rolling his eyes. “Got to take the drive at speed or you’ll get stuck in one of the bloody holes, ha ha. Come on in—ah, here’s Izzy.”
Izzy emerged from the house, wearing a navy shirtdress, the sapphire cross still around her neck. To Robin’s slight surprise, she embraced Strike as though he was an old friend come to offer condolences.
“Hi, Izzy,” he said, taking half a step backwards to extricate himself from the embrace. “You know Robin, obviously.”
“Oh, yah, got to get used to calling you ‘Robin’ now,” said Izzy, smiling and kissing Robin on both cheeks. “Sorry if I slip up and call you Venetia—I’m bound to, that’s how I still think of you.
“Did you hear about the Winns?” she asked, in almost the same breath.
They nodded.
“Horrible,
“Anyway, come along in… where’s Kinvara?” she asked her brother-in-law as she led them into the house, which seemed gloomy after the brightness outside.
“Bloody horses are upset again,” said Torquil, over the renewed barking of the Norfolk terrier. “No, fuck off, Rattenbury, you’re staying outside.”
He banged the front door closed on the terrier, which began to whine and scratch at it instead. The Labrador padded quietly in Izzy’s wake as she led them through a dingy hallway with wide stone stairs, into a drawing room on the right.
Long windows faced out over the croquet lawn and the woods. As they entered, three white-blond children raced through the overgrown grass outside with raucous cries, then passed out of sight. There was nothing of modernity about them. In their dress and their hairstyles they might have walked straight out of the 1940s.
“They’re Torquil and Fizzy’s,” said Izzy fondly.
“Guilty as charged,” said Torquil, proudly. “M’wife’s upstairs, I’ll go and get her.”
