‘Good God! Do you know who wrote it?’
‘No I don’t. It wasn’t you, was it, Max, wanting to stir up trouble? Because I’d happily kill you if that’s the case.’ Evelyn’s voice was fierce. Annelise had never heard her sound so severe.
‘Evelyn darling, how could you say such a thing after what we meant to each other?’
‘Don’t say that.Not ever.And don’t call me darling! Swear to me, Max, that you didn’t send that letter. Swear on whatever you hold sacred.’
‘Evelyn, I swear I wouldn’t do anything of the kind. For what purpose would I behave so dishonourably?’
Annelise didn’t want to hear any more. She should have walked away the moment she heard the voices, knowing that it was a private conversation, but shameful curiosity had rooted her to the spot. Now she forced herself to move, to retrace her steps back to the marquee. But such was her shock at what she’d heard, she blundered into the low branch of a tree and let out a small cry.
‘Who’s there?’ Evelyn called out.
Annelise didn’t know what to do. Whether to show herself and pretend she hadn’t known anyone else was nearby, or slip away into the darkness.
She chose the latter, but instead of going the way she had come, she went in the opposite direction, hoping that she wouldn’t miss her footing in the dark.
No good ever came of eavesdropping, everyone knew that, and she wished with all her heart she could erase the conversation she’d overheard from her memory. Kit not Pip and Em’s father? It couldn’t be true. And just who was this Max character? A wartime lover?
Annelise knew that Evelyn’s war work had been what was commonly referred to as ‘hush-hush’. In Oxford she frequently came across dons and fellows who had been similarly employed in the fight against Germany. They never spoke directly to her of what they had done, but there were always hints and rumours. College life was like that, an endless cycle of gossip, some of it quite malicious. Annelise’s biggest fear was that there might be rumours circulating about her and Harry. Harry maintained that if he caught anyone gossiping about him, he’d fight back. ‘I’d make it known,’ he once said, ‘that, just as there was in Cambridge, a KGB spy ring is at work in Oxford recruiting ideological students with Communist inclinations. That would really put the cat amongst the pigeons!’
Here in Melstead St Mary, the Cold War could not feel less of a threat, even with the Cuban missile crisis hanging over them. But in Oxford, where debates raged constantly, it seemed much more of a reality.
In April of this year Annelise had gone with Rebecca to Hyde Park with thousands ofban-the-bomb protesters. She had never done anything like that before. She had wanted Harry to go with her, to march together arm in arm, but of course something like that was out of the question. They couldn’t be seen in public together. Not until he was a single man.
Not really knowing where she was going, just that she had been intent on putting as much distance between herself and the summerhouse, Annelise realised she was now on the path that lead to the vegetable garden. And just as the bank of clouds that had been hiding the moon parted, she saw Stanley sitting on a bench.
‘Stanley, are you all right?’ she asked.
‘Please don’t come any nearer,’ he murmured.
‘Why ever not?’
‘I’m not fit to be in decent company.’
Ignoring his answer, she went and sat on the bench with him. He immediately made as if to get to his feet. She put her hand out to stop him. ‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’
‘I stink,’ he said bluntly. ‘I’ve been sick.’
She could smell that he had. ‘Would you like a glass of water?’
‘No.’
‘Shall I fetch Edmund?’
‘I don’t need a doctor.’
‘Then what do you need?’
‘To be left alone.’
‘That’s the saddest thing you’ve ever said to me. Have I done something wrong? Or said something to offend you?’
He shook his head.
‘Then what happened back there in the marquee? One minute we were chatting, and the next you rushed off as though you couldn’t get away from me fast enough.’
He turned to look at her and in the shadowy gloom his face looked eerily gaunt and contorted with something she couldn’t name. ‘Stanley,’ she said softly, ‘you look terrible; I’m worried about you. Are you sure you’re not ill?’
