‘I don’t think we’re talking about quite the same thing,’ said Phoebe.

They drove in silence for several minutes.

‘Seems pretty similar to me,’ said Roddy.

∗

It was getting on for six o’clock when they drove through Helmsley and then struck out in the direction of the North York Moors. The sunshine was still bright and Phoebe found that the moors themselves, which she had visited many times before and had always considered overpoweringly bleak, today seemed cheery and welcoming.

‘You’re so lucky,’ she said, ‘having a home out here. It must have been a wonderful place to grow up.’

‘Oh, I didn’t spend much time here when I was a kid. Thank God. This is the dreariest place on earth, if you ask me. Never come here now if I can avoid it.’

‘So who lives in the house at the moment?’

‘No one, really. There’s a minimal staff – a couple of cooks and gardeners, and this old butler who’s been with the family for about five hundred years, and that’s about it. So the place is pretty much empty.’ He took out another cigarette for himself and gave it Phoebe to light. ‘Oh, apart from my father, of course.’

‘I didn’t realize he was still alive.’

Roddy smiled. ‘Well, as far as anyone can tell.’

Not knowing quite what to make of this, Phoebe said: ‘Do you know that John Bellany portrait of his father? I love that painting: it’s so rich and detailed – it tells you so much about the man, and at the same time it’s done with such warmth and affection. It positively glows.’

‘I know his work, yes. I’m not sure I’d recommend it to anyone as an investment these days. Look,’ he said, fixing Phoebe with a half-humorous, half-admonitory stare, ‘I hope you’re not going to want to talk about painting all weekend. I get enough of that down in London.’

‘What else are we here to talk about?’

‘Anything.’

‘ “I live and breathe art”,’ said Phoebe. ‘ “What other people refer to as ‘the real world’ has always seemed pale and insipid by comparison”.’

‘Well, that’s as may be. Personally I find that sort of attitude rather affected.’

‘Yes, but I didn’t say it: you did. Observer magazine, April 1987.’

‘Ah. Well, that’s the sort of thing you’re expected to say to journalists, in my line of business. You’re supposed to take it with a pinch of salt.’ Still puffing away on his cigarette, an edgier, more dangerous tone entering his voice, he said: ‘Do you know what I’d planned to be doing this evening? I’d been invited to dinner with the Marquis of ——, at his flat in Knightsbridge. Also on the guest list were one of the most powerful theatrical producers in London, a member of the royal family, and an incredibly beautiful American actress, currently starring in a film being screened all over the country, who was flying over from Hollywood especially for the occasion.’

‘And what am I supposed to say to that? You must obviously be bored with these people, if you’d rather spend the time up here with me, in the back of beyond.’

‘Not necessarily. I look on this as a working weekend. After all, my livelihood depends on the cultivation of talented young people: and I do regard you as talented.’ The compliment, he thought, was well calculated, and gave him the courage to add: ‘What I’m saying, my dear, is that I’m expecting something a little more exciting from this weekend than a few hours in the drawing room discussing the influence of Velazquez on Francis Bacon.’ And then, before Phoebe could reply, he caught sight of something on the distant horizon. ‘Hello, there it is. The beloved homestead.’

∗

Phoebe’s first impression of Winshaw Towers was not encouraging. Perched almost on the crest of a vast, forbidding ridge, it cast deep dark shadows over the grounds beneath it. The gardens were not yet visible; but she could already make out a dense area of woodland which screened off the approach to the house, and at the foot of the hill lay a large expanse of dismal and featureless water. As for the mad conglomeration of gothic, neo-gothic, sub-gothic and pseudo-gothic towers which gave the house its name, they resembled nothing so much as a giant black hand, gnarled and deformed: its fingers clawed at the heavens, as if to snatch down the setting sun which shone like a burnished penny and would soon, it seemed, have descended inexorably into its grasp.

‘Not exactly a holiday camp, is it?’ said Roddy.

‘Aren’t there any other houses around here?’

‘There’s a little village about five miles away, on the other side of the hill. That’s about it.’

‘Why would anyone want to live in such a lonely spot?’

‘God knows. The main body of the house was built in 1625, so they say. It didn’t come into my family for another fifty years or so. One of my ancestors, Alexander, bought it up – for reasons best known to himself – and then started adding to it, which is why there’s hardly any of the original brickwork left. Now this trumped-up duckpond’ – he gestured out of the window, for the road was now running parallel to the water’s edge – ‘goes by the name of Cavendish Tarn. It isn’t really a tarn, of course, because it’s man-made. Cavendish Winshaw was my great-great-uncle, and he had the whole thing dug out and filled with water about a hundred and twenty years ago. I think he must have envisaged hours of happy pleasure-boating and trout-fishing. Well, just look at it! You’d catch your death of pneumonia if you tried to stay out there for more than five minutes. I’ve always suspected that Cavendish – and Alexander too, if it comes to that – must have belonged to the … well, the eccentric side of the family.’

‘And what does that mean, exactly?’

‘Oh, didn’t you know? The Winshaws have a long and honourable history of insanity. It continues right up to the present day, as a matter of fact.’

‘How fascinating,’ said Phoebe. ‘Somebody should write a book about you all.’ There was a knowing, mischievous undertone to this remark which a more alert listener than Roddy might have registered.

‘Somebody was writing a book about us, now you come to mention it,’ he said blithely. ‘I even met up with him once: gave him an interview a few years ago. Inquisitive sort, I must say. Anyway, all that’s gone very quiet. Good job too.’

They had arrived at the main driveway. He swung the car in and they were at once plunged into a dark tunnel of foliage. In days long past, perhaps, it might have been broad enough to admit a fair-sized vehicle, but now their windscreen and roof were under constant attack from vines, ivy, creepers and overhanging branches of every description. And when they finally emerged into what was left of the daylight, the same neglect was evident on every side: the lawns were overgrown and choked with weeds, the location of paths and flowerbeds could only be guessed at, and most of the outbuildings seemed in a state of near-collapse, with cracked windows, crumbling masonry and doors hanging off rusty hinges. Roddy seemed impervious to all of this: he drove with inscrutable single-mindedness right up to the front door, and the car pulled to a halt on the pebbled forecourt.

They got out of the car and Phoebe looked around her, silenced by awe but also by a strange, unaccustomed apprehension. She realized, now, that Roddy had managed to lure her into a situation of peculiar loneliness and vulnerability, and she began to shiver. And then, while he was taking their cases out of the boot, she glanced up at the second storey and a movement behind one of the mullioned windows caught her eye. She saw it for only a brief moment: a pale, drawn and crooked face, surmounted by a wild tangle of grey hair, staring down at the new arrivals with a look of lunatic malevolence which was enough to freeze the blood.

∗

Roddy sank down on to the bed and dabbed with a silk handkerchief at his now beetroot-coloured face.