He walks up the stairs, poking his head into a tiny room on the first landing with a rope across its entrance. It appears to be a miniature chapel. Adorned in red and gold, it has velvet pews along the walls facing into the centre. Next door, tucked around the corner, is a toilet; it looks like a throne carved from dark timber with a decorative blue-and-white porcelain bowl. As he walks through rooms, magnificent rugs and elaborate chandeliers abound. Gilt-framed artwork and breathtaking tapestries cover entire walls.
A man is chatting to an American couple ahead of him and Roddy eavesdrops on their conversation, hearing only snatched words about the ‘sad history’ of the house. He wanders through bedrooms, galleries and parlours until, half an hour later, he finds himself back downstairs, alone, in the kitchen. He flicksthrough his brochure and sees that the kitchen was updated in the 1970s. The huge range sits next to a more modern oven. A sound startles him. A man dressed in gardening gear has entered through a doorway markedNo exit.
‘Hello. Do you work here?’ asks Roddy.
‘Yeah. Been in the gardens for twelve years, I reckon.’
‘Don’t suppose you’ve ever met the owner, Lord Fitzhenry?’
‘Francis?’ The man frowns. ‘Yeah,course.Cut him some amaryllis for his kitchen this morning. Likes fresh flowers, does our lordship. Not much about at this time of year, but he’s always grateful for whatever I bring.’
Roddy’s heart gives a patter of excitement. ‘Francis Fitzhenry is here?’
‘Yeah. Lives in the old stables. Well,’ the man laughs, ‘he calls it the “old stables”. Bloody fancy for stables if you ask me.’ He points behind him, across the courtyard and through the grounds.
Roddy follows his finger. His eyes land on a brick building in the distance. ‘That place across the lake?’
‘Yeah. Nice bloke. Only lives here part of the year and mostly keeps to himself. He’s not usually here in winter.’
‘Don’t blame him. It’s cold.’
The man agrees, then turns to leave and Roddy waves as he heads through the kitchen courtyard and a timber gate.
Roddy waits until the man disappears then lets himself out the same gate and pretends to meander aimlessly through the gardens. Excitement mixes with his jet lag and he begins to feel a little sick. He pauses intermittently, pretending to be fascinated by garden statues and decorative elements in the walls. When he reaches a gate markedNo Public Entry, he looks about furtivelybefore letting himself through. He hurries past some huge old deciduous trees bereft of leaves.
He feels exposed as he approaches the old stables. The lovely ancient bricks are streaked with lichen. Stunning timber carriage doors take up one end of the building, which is set behind a picket fence.
He feels a flutter in his stomach, thinking of the magazine articles he’s read on the viscount’s career in fashion and costume design.
Roddy’s phone vibrates with a text message. It is Lottie responding to his earlier text.
I’m feeling much better, thanks. Have you found him yet???? Send info asap.
It is midnight in Brookbank. She should be sleeping, recovering from her concussion. He snaps a photo of the grounds and sends it back.
I’m on the case. Go to bed. I’ll text if I have news.
Roddy is a bucket of nerves as he knocks on the beautiful forest green door. It is adorned with a plain willow Christmas wreath woven with tufts of blue spruce. A man pulls open the door with a flourish, a smile on his face as if he is expecting someone. He is tall, with tousled grey hair and an attractive two-day stubble on his jaw. When he sees Roddy his face drops, almost comically. He stares.
Roddy stares back. A strange feeling floats up inside him; a sort of supreme ease. It’s as if he already knows this man, so elegantly dressed, who now begins to smile again. The man’s smile widens while his eyebrows furrow so that he appears happily confused. ‘Yes?’
‘Hello. Are you Francis Fitzhenry?’
‘Yes.’
‘You … er … you don’t know me, but if you’d just give me five minutes, I wanted to talk to you about something important.’
The man tips his head on the side, as if slightly amused, and Roddy, who has always liked a man with a sense of humour, feels his heart give a flip.
‘All right.’ Francis Fitzhenry makes no move to invite Roddy in.
‘I wanted to talk to you about Dorothea Stewart.’
The man’s face drains of colour, so that Roddy feels compelled to rush on, panicked the door might shut in his face. ‘I think I know her whereabouts.’
Francis opens his mouth, then closes it again.
‘I’m Roddy, by the way. I’m a friend of hers.’ He holds out his hand.
