“It’s big.”

“I know––there are another fifty acres, too. Most of the valley belongs to the house.”

“Why is it called Halewell Close?”

“There’s a spring in the fields at the back of the house. It’s named after that.”

They walked on, Chiara looping her arm through Edward’s. They passed beneath the elms and onwards to a collection of kitchen gardens that were hemmed in by a low redbrick wall. A cinder path cut between neatly planted rows of vegetables: cauliflowers, potatoes, runner beans arrayed against a pine trellis.

“How long have you lived here?” he asked her.

“All my life––I was born here. My grandfather was still alive then.”

“Joseph said he was involved with the racecourses.”

“Is that what he said?” she chuckled. “I suppose that’s one way to describe it.” Edward looked as if he was going to ask her to elaborate, but she didn’t permit him the chance. She had no idea what he knew about the family business, and that was not a conversation that she wanted to have. She pressed on quickly. “My aunt moved in a couple of years ago.”

“And your uncle George?”

“He stays here a lot, but he doesn’t live here. He has an apartment in London. He likes to be right in the middle of things.”

“Well, it’s a wonderful place. I’ve never been anywhere like it before.”

“I know––we’re very lucky.” They walked on. “Do you live in London?”

“Yes,” he said, a little awkwardly. “I rent a flat.”

“What’s it like?”

“Oh, nothing special. But I’m getting some money together for a place of my own. Something nice.”

“Good for you. I’d love to live in London. We come into town a lot, of course, but it’s not the same.”

They reached the terrace again and made their way up the steps to the kitchen. Chiara closed the door and fastened the latch. “Oh, dear,” she said, “I don’t feel very well at all. I think I might go and lie down for another hour.”

“Really? You wouldn’t guess.”

“You’re very sweet, Edward.”

“Thank you for the tour. I enjoyed it.”

She reached across and gently squeezed his arm. “Joseph talks about you a lot, you know. It’s very nice to finally get to see what all the fuss is about.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too.”

She looked at him a little shyly. “Will you promise me something?”

“What?”

“I love my brother, but be careful. I wouldn’t want you to get caught up in some of the things he does. I know what he’s like––he’s a rascal, like the rest of the family. I’d hate to see you get in a scrape with him.”

Edward started a reply but didn’t know what to say.

Chiara laid a hand on his arm and leaned closer. She kissed him gently on the cheek.

“I’ll see you again, I hope,” she said.

19

THE FIRST HOUSE THEY ROBBED WAS IN MAYFAIR. Rain had started falling at dusk, a gentle sprinkling that strengthened into an angry, drenching deluge. The cold had settled under Edward’s skin and as he ran his fingers through his wet hair, a shiver danced across his shoulders. The house was in terrace of stuccoed four-storey houses, most two bays across, joined together in the classical style. Lights were on here and there, the turrets at the top dark against the moving sky. The houses had basements and attics and faced a small square, a private garden that had somehow managed to preserve its iron railings in the face of the war effort. Skeletal trees cast long shadows that swung to and fro in the wind.

They had only ever spoken about planning but Edward had known that he would come along, too. He wanted to. Accepting Joseph’s offer had immediately brought him into his confidence. That was necessary, but he needed to bind them closer together, and that would not be possible if he stayed away, leaving him to put the plan into action. It was, he knew, like the army. A shared adventure would be a powerful tonic for their friendship. War stories were more evocative when both parties had experienced them.

Joseph looked up and down the street and, satisfied that they were unobserved, mounted the single step from the pavement and stepped beneath the portico. Edward followed him. He was fizzing with adrenaline, his senses amplified and sensitive to everything. The front door was solid and substantial and he didn’t have the first idea how they might open it. Joseph put his hand over the bell for a moment, pretending to ring it, and listened hard. When he was satisfied that all was silent inside, he descended the flight of steps that led down to the basement and the lower entrance. Edward felt as if he had lost the ability to make his own decisions and dumbly followed. The narrow space at the bottom comprised a window and door on one side and a wall beneath the row of railings on the other. His foot crunched against a stray piece of coal and he froze, his heart in his mouth, for what seemed like an age. Joseph cocked his head quizzically, as if he had heard something else, and then pressed them both back against the wall beneath the railings. The sound of slow, deliberate foot-steps approached from the street. They drew closer, so close that Edward felt as if his heart were about to stop, and then a circle of torchlight played over the window before them. It was a policeman, it had to be, and he would surely see their reflection in the glass. But the footsteps resumed, absorbed into the storm with the same deliberate rhythm.

“Bloody hell,” Edward exhaled.

Joseph shushed him with a stern glare and a finger to his lips.

He took a small six-inch jemmy from his inside pocket and inserted it into the jamb, just below the handle. He gave the jemmy a sharp pull and the lock tore through the wood. He gently pushed the door open and disappeared inside. Edward followed. They were in a kitchen. Joseph took out a small electric torch and shone it around, illuminating a large range, cupboards, a rack of pots and pans. Every creak from settling floorboards or tick from cooling pipes was someone waiting for them around the corner. The steady cadence of the clock on the wall oscillated with Edward’s breath and he thought of the jungle, and night-time O.P.s, creeping through the darkness with the morbid certainty that Jap was lying in wait, endlessly patient, a rifle aimed at his heart. He fumbled for his handkerchief and wiped the rain and sweat from his eyes.

Joseph paused to acclimatise himself to the house and then led the way onwards. They passed through the kitchen, along a narrow passageway and up a set of back stairs until they re-emerged in the hallway, the door to the street at one end and, opposite, a wide staircase that was ghostly in the darkness. Joseph flitted silently to a large door and put his ear to it. He turned the handle and the mechanism clicked, the silence of the house seeming to shatter like a bowl of black glass. He opened the door––lifting upwards to take the weight off the hinge––and went through, into what was evidently the sitting-room. Inside was all Regency, with carefully draped curtains and Madame Recamier sofas. They moved through into the drawing-room. As they slipped through the darkened spaces, Edward had the sense of the shadows closing protectively around them and he started to relax a little.

Joseph quietly turned a gilded door knob and led the way into the library. He collected two silver candelabra from the mantelpiece and appraised them, feeling their weight. A nod indicated he was satisfied, and he handed them over. He took a dust sheet from a table and gave it to Edward, too. “Wrap them up,” he whispered, his lips brushing his ear, “and stay here.”

“Where are you going?”

“Upstairs. I’ll have a look around. If I’m not back in ten minutes, get out. Use the front door––you saw where it is?”

“Yes––back there.”

Joseph nodded. He paused at the open doorway, listening, before stepping out and fading into the shadows. There was the very slightest creak as, Edward fancied, he ascended a stair, but then there was nothing. The silence was so taut that the slightest creak seemed to stretch it to breaking point.