‘Phew. I wasn’t expecting that, I must say.’

‘Well, I did offer to carry them for you,’ said Phoebe, walking over to the bay window.

A prolonged bout of bell-ringing and hammering on the front door had failed to produce any response, so Roddy had been obliged to use his own keys, and had then insisted on taking both their cases upstairs himself, with Phoebe’s folio wedged precariously beneath his arm. She had followed him in silence, amazed at the atmosphere of gloom and decay which permeated the whole house. The tapestries which hung from the walls were threadbare and tattered; the heavy velvet curtains on the landings were already drawn, admitting nothing of the dying sunlight; two suits of armour, standing precariously to attention in opposite alcoves, seemed about to fall apart from rust; and even the heads of the various unfortunate species of wildlife which had ended their days adorning the walls wore expressions of the utmost despondency.

‘Pyles is around, but he’s sure to be dead drunk by now,’ Roddy explained, between gasps for breath. ‘Here, let’s see if this does the trick.’

He took hold of a bell-rope hanging above the bed and pulled on it violently six or seven times. From the distant bowels of the house they could hear a far-off ringing. ‘That ought to do it,’ he said, panting heavily and lying flat out on the bed, and after about five minutes the approach of footsteps along the corridor could be heard: their tread irregular and unbelievably slow, with one step much heavier than the other. As they came closer, they were accompanied by a dreadful wheezing. Then the footsteps came to an abrupt stop outside their door, the wheezing continued, and a few seconds later there was a loud knock.

‘Come in!’ said Roddy, and the door creaked open to reveal a shabby, cadaverous figure whose eyes, set off by thick, beetling brows, flickered suspiciously about the room before coming to rest on Phoebe, seated at the bay window, who stared back in astonishment. The smell of alcohol overwhelmed her: she thought she would get drunk just by breathing.

‘Young Master Winshaw,’ the butler rasped, his voice hoarse and expressionless, his gaze still fixed on the female visitor. ‘What a pleasure to have you with us again.’

‘You got my message, I take it.’

‘I did, sir. Your room was prepared this morning. However, I was not aware – that is, I do not recall being informed – that you would be bringing a …’ (he coughed a dry cough, and moistened his lips) ‘… companion.’

Roddy sat up. ‘This is Miss Barton, Pyles, a young artist who I hope to be representing in a professional capacity in the very near future. She’ll be staying a day or two. I thought this room might be the most comfortable for her.’

‘As you wish, sir. I’ll go down and tell Cook that we shall be four for dinner.’

‘Four? Why, who else is coming?’

‘I received a telephone call earlier this afternoon, sir, from Miss Hilary. She’s flying up this evening, it seems, and she also intends to bring a …’ (clearing his throat once again, and licking the cracked corners of his mouth) ‘… companion.’

‘I see.’ Roddy seemed none too pleased with this information. ‘Well in that case surely we shall be five for dinner? I assume my father will be eating with us.’

‘I’m afraid not, sir. Your father suffered a slight misfortune this afternoon, and has already retired. The doctor has advised him not to exert himself any further today.’

‘Misfortune? What sort of misfortune?’

‘A most regrettable accident, sir. My fault entirely. I was taking him out for his afternoon constitutional, when I – most carelessly – lost control of his chair, and sent it hurtling down a slope, where it crashed. Crashed into the hen coop.’

‘My God – was there … was there any injury?’

‘A chicken was decapitated, sir.’

Roddy eyed him narrowly, as if trying to decide whether this was a joke. ‘All right, Pyles,’ he said at last. ‘I’m sure Miss Barton would like to freshen up after her journey. You may tell Cook that we shall be four for dinner.’

‘Very good, sir,’ he said, shambling towards the door.

‘What are we having, anyway?’

‘Chicken,’ said Pyles, without turning round.

Phoebe and Roddy were alone again. There was a difficult pause, and then Roddy said, with an awkward laugh: ‘He should really be put out to grass. Mind you, I don’t know who else they could find to look after a place like this.’

‘Should I go and see your father, do you think? There might be something I could do.’

‘No, no, the doctor will have seen to all that. Best not to get involved.’

‘Your butler seems to have a dreadful limp.’

‘Yes, poor soul.’ He got up from the bed and began to pace the room aimlessly. ‘That goes back about ten or fifteen years, when my uncle, Lawrence, still lived here. They were having a lot of trouble with poachers at the time and some man traps were put down. Seems that old Pyles got caught in one – late in the evening, as I understand it. Poor devil, they didn’t find him till the morning. The pain must have been shocking. That’s when he turned to drink, apparently. They even say that it … you know, turned his head a bit. Made him a bit strange – mentally, I mean.’

Phoebe said nothing.

‘Well, I did warn you what this place was like.’

‘Am I expected to dress for dinner?’ she asked.

‘Good Lord, no. Not on my account: and certainly not on account of my dear sister and her so-called companion. Which reminds me, I’d better go down and put the landing lights on for them. Pyles is bound to forget. Why don’t I come back up for you in about ten minutes or so, and we could perhaps do a quick guided tour before it gets dark?’

‘What about your father?’

Roddy’s smile was a perfect blank.

‘What about him?’

∗

It was dusk. Roddy and Phoebe stood on the terrace overlooking Cavendish Tarn, drinking a Château-Lafite 1970, newly brought up from the cellar. They had been on a cursory tour of the house, during which Roddy had proved himself wearily knowledgeable on the subject of Ionic columns and basket arches, and Phoebe had done her dutiful best to admire the brick diapers and the flush quoins and the close carving on the spandrels. Now it appeared that Roddy had other things on his mind. While Phoebe stared out at the two parallel rows of landing lights which stretched across the lake and seemed to converge only at its furthest shore, Roddy’s eyes were turned intently on her profile. She knew that he was about to say something unwelcome, and steeled herself for it.

‘You’re very beautiful,’ he said at last.

‘I don’t really see,’ she answered – slowly, and not without a smile – ‘what that’s got to do with anything.’

‘It’s why you’re here, and we both know it,’ said Roddy. He shifted a few inches closer. ‘There’s a cousin of mine called Thomas. A fair bit older than me – getting on for seventy, now, I should think. He’s quite big in the city. When he was younger – back in the late fifties, early sixties – he lent money to some film companies and got to know a few people in the business. Used to hang around the studios, and so on.’

‘Is there a point to all this?’

‘Hang on, I’m just coming to it. You see, I was only about eight or nine at the time, and Thomas – well, Thomas was, you know … a bit of a lad. A bit of an old rake. He used to bring me these photographs.’

‘Photographs?’

‘Pretty run of the mill stuff, most of them. Scenes from nudist films that he’d been involved with, that sort of thing. But there was one photograph – just an ordinary portrait shot, head and shoulders – of an actress: she was called Shirley Eaton. And I was really smitten with it for a while. Used to sleep with it under my pillow, if you can believe that. Of course, I was very young. But the funny thing is –’

‘– that I look exactly like her?’