‘But now, I can’t see the top at all.’
I stood back, letting it sink in. Margaret crouched down and looked for herself. The wheezing man tried it, then stood back and looked at me as if I’d discovered the secret of the ages.
Whereas before there had been a random collection of houses with crosses and others without, now there was a clear explanation for why some had been emptied, and others had been left in peace. Every house with a marker was inside the contour line.
‘Hang on,’ Margaret said. ‘There’s one we don’t have a marker for.’
She pointed at a large house, big enough to merit a blocky black shape on the map, showing a large main building with two wings, and a collection of outbuildings. Hatched shading showed a collection of glasshouses. The estate sat on the northern edge of the Forest. It had an uninterrupted view of the area within the contour line.
‘Perhaps Gooch didn’t know about it,’ I said. ‘We should check.’
‘No need to check,’ the wheezing man said. ‘Everyone knows who lives there. Been in the same family for generations.’
I looked at him expectantly. He was enjoying being the centre of attention.
‘I thought he was out in India,’ he said.
I had a sinking feeling. I looked at Margaret.
‘Vaughn Matheson?’ Margaret asked.
‘Lord Matheson to the likes of you and me,’ the wheezing man said. ‘Met him once at a village fête, a long time ago. Lovely chap.’
40
Vaughn’s place was the grandest house on Ashdown Forest, sitting in several hundred acres of private woodland surrounded by thousands more of heathland, all preserved for the exclusive use of one family. It was built in the same style as the Houses of Parliament – gothic, black stone dripping with damp even in summer.
Margaret parked her wreck of a car, an Alvis F series that seemed to burn a pint of oil for every gallon of petrol, in a glade of redwoods in front of the house. Each tree was larger at its base than her car, and I felt the bark of the nearest one as Margaret messed about with the car, topping up the oil, anticipating a quick departure. The redwood was soft and fibrous, unlike any native tree I’d ever felt. I looked up into its canopy, several hundred feet above.
The front door was open. There was a delivery van outside and large displays of fresh-cut flowers were being carried in. It looked like the place was being prepared for a function.
We were intercepted by a butler dressed in formal wear. He looked familiar. My age. I tried to place him and got an image of him running at me, red-faced, aiming to do me an injury. He bowled every now and then for Fairwarp cricket club. Deadly on occasion with a well-placed yorker. If I remembered right, I’d hit him for a couple of sixes the last time we’d met, before he’d got my middle wicket. WilliamWashington, distantly related to the American President, or so everyone always said.
‘We want a word with Vaughn,’ Margaret said. Washington didn’t blink, presumably it was part of his job not to look surprised.
‘I’ll let Lord Matheson know you’re here,’ Washington said, turning to leave.
‘No,’ I said.
Washington froze.
‘It’s a surprise,’ Margaret said. ‘Where is he?’
Washington glanced through a set of double doors. In the distance we could see patio doors leading out to sunlight, thin curtains fluttering in the slight breeze.
We found Vaughn on the tennis court, alone, hitting a ball against a wooden wall painted green with a white line at net height. He was in his whites. The way he was hitting the ball made me wonder what was on his mind. It looked like he was trying to destroy the wall, or the ball, or both.
He saw us out of the corner of his eye, but kept at it. Perhaps he was on track for a personal best. But he was off his rhythm, knowing he was being watched, trying too hard. He wound up for a backhand that would have sent the ball to France if he’d connected, but he missed, with a whiff of air through the strings.
He smiled. A good approximation of a man happy to see his friends.
‘Mags!’ he said.
‘What happened with the Leckies?’ I asked him. Better to be upfront than beat about the bush.
He didn’t answer. He pulled his shirt off, over his head like a child, picking up a towel from a chair.
‘You had some tenants on Palehouse Lane,’ I said. ‘They were killed.’
