R Raichev - The hunt for Sonya Dufrette

‘There is only Mrs Ralston-Scott. She has been at Twiston a year. Would that be all, Miss…?’

‘Darcy. Antonia Darcy… So Mrs Ralston-Scott bought Twiston from Mr and Mr Sandys?’

‘Yes. They left for Kenya. I believe they are still there. Well, if that’s all -’

A click was heard and a muffled woman’s voice said, ‘Sorry. Are you talking to someone, Laura?’

‘Yes, Mrs Ralston-Scott. A Miss Darcy. She wanted Lady Mortlock’s phone number.’

Antonia spoke. ‘Hello. I am still here.’

‘Oh hello. Are you a friend of Lady Mortlock’s?’ Mrs Ralston-Scott asked. ‘You were? I see.’ It was a pleasant voice. Warm and musical, its upper-class cadences played down. Antonia wondered whether she was a singer. ‘Terribly hard keeping in touch with people, isn’t it? Especially if one’s been abroad. You haven’t been abroad, have you? You can go, Laura, thank you.’

‘I used to work for Lady Mortlock. Twenty years ago,’ Antonia explained.

‘I lived abroad until last year. Did a lot of sailing.’ Mrs Ralston-Scott clearly wanted to chat. Rich woman at a loose end. Bored and lonely, Antonia imagined. ‘Sailed all the way from Monte Carlo down the Italian coast and around the Greek islands to Istanbul, then back… I am in port now and like it more than I thought possible! You are familiar with Twiston then?’

‘Oh yes. It’s a lovely place.’

‘That’s putting it mildly. There’s something magical about it. I can’t get enough of it. A Grade 1 listed house. So very English. As a matter of fact there’s a lot of repair work going on here at the moment. It’s real pandemonium. I am having parts of the gardens redesigned too and I am at my wits’ end what to do about that ghastly tree. It seems I have to ask special permission to have it cut down, can you imagine? On top of all my other problems. I am talking about the oak. The one with the horrid hollow.’

‘Oh yes. I remember the oak.’

‘It gives me the creeps each time I look at it. I always think there’s some malignant presence lurking inside. I imagine something unspeakable is about to crawl out! There’s a smell – I am sure I am not imagining it.’

‘Sir Michael was very keen on preserving the oak.’

‘I’m sure he was… What was your name, did you say? I wonder if perhaps we have met?’

‘Antonia. Antonia Darcy. Twenty years ago it used to be Rushton.’

‘No – I don’t think we’ve met.’

‘The oak has had a glorious history – a noble pedigree.‘

‘I don’t give a damn about its noble pedigree – I want it gone.’ A whimpering sound was heard and Mrs Ralston-Scott, speaking away from the receiver, said, ‘Yes, darling, Mummy’s coming… It’s my dog. One of my dogs. Such a nuisance…’

A note of exasperation entered her voice as the whimpering was repeated. ‘Doesn’t like me spending too much time on the phone. Jealous, silly thing.’ Mrs Ralston-Scott gave a musical laugh and again she spoke away from the receiver. ‘Laura, put on the record, would you? The one that calms her down… No, the other one. Yes.’ She was speaking into the phone once more. ‘I am a slave to my dogs! I must go now. I hope you find Hermione Mortlock on one of her good days. She is not entirely compos, you know, so you should be prepared.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. She’s transcended the milder lunacies of senes cence, that’s what George Mortlock said. Pathological rather than eccentric. George does have a way with words. I too knew her many years ago, but I don’t suppose she’ll remember me.’

The sweet sounds of a familiar old-fashioned song were heard somewhere in the background. The whimpering stopped. Mrs Ralston-Scott went on, ‘Lady Mortlock’s been a recluse ever since her husband died. Now she lives with a companion and a nurse. I don’t think they encourage visitors but you can try. Good luck.’

Antonia put down the receiver. For several moments she remained deep in thought. She had the vague feeling that something important had been said in the course of the conversation, only she couldn’t think what it was.

Atonement

He hadn’t thought it would be that effortless. There were eighteen Haywoods in the book, but only one woman whose first name was Greek, or what he thought was Greek. Major Payne could hardly contain his satisfaction as he wrote down the address and the telephone number for Andrula Haywood, who lived in Ravenscraig Road, Arnos Grove, London

Was it too much to hope that this was the nanny?

What should he do? Phone first – or simply turn up on the doorstep and take it from there? Play it by ear, eh? Yes, why not. Much better, in fact, when dealing with guilty parties. Receivers could be slammed down only too easily, in fear or in anger, and that would be that, while the vis-a- vis approach had a lot to recommend it if one was playing the detection game. He would be able to observe the eyes, the mouth, the tensing of hands and facial muscles. Watch out for any telltale signs. At this point he had very little to go on. Nothing but guesswork and speculation. The misguided romantic – the lapsed Catholic. Andrula might be neither of these… She had been considered a most conscientious nanny until someone (Lady M.?) had offered her a lot of money to abandon her charge on the morning of 29th July 1981.

What he was going to say to her when they met, Major Payne had no idea, but inspiration, he felt sure, would come. He was a quick thinker, had a sympathetic manner. He wasn’t a bad hand at drawing people out of themselves. He wasn’t easily thwarted or abashed either. People took to him, women in particular – most women.

Women found him charming, reliable, funny, non-threatening. Women frequently made him their confidant – not a role he always relished – it could be a bore. On a number of occasions women had become infatuated with him, which had been a terrible bore. Once an unmarried titled lady had developed quite an obsession with him. She had bought him a Bentley and, when he sent it back, had threatened to shoot a senior member of the Danish royal family, whom she had been entertaining at her country seat; she had finally tried to hang herself in her private chapel but made a botch of it. She had continued writing him notes on perfumed paper from her hospital bed. Now that had been scary. That was the kind of insane thing that happened to celibate priests and popular actors, his late wife had joked – he should have been one or the other.

It was three o‘clock in the afternoon when he walked through St James’s to Green Park underground station and got on the Piccadilly line. It took him thirty minutes to get to Arnos Grove, a pleasant enough residential area, if not a particularly leafy one. It was most certainly not what one would associate with plutocratic excess of any sort. Well, the nanny didn’t seem to conform to the popular idea of the newly rich. He had left his A-Z behind, consequently he got a cab outside the station.

Suburban semi-detached houses. Miss Haywood couldn’t have had an extravagant bone in her body. She hadn’t allowed her sudden riches to go to her head. Or could her ill-gained fortune have run out? Or had she felt so guilty about what she had done that she hadn’t taken full advantage of the hush money -

‘This is it, boss,’ the cab driver said. ‘There’s the church.’

Startled, Payne blinked. ‘Church? What church?’

‘Ravenscraig Road, you said, didn’t you? This address is a church.’

‘It can’t be.’

But of course it was. It didn’t look like a church from the outside, though it said so above the door. Church of the Tenderness of the Mother of God. Underneath an inscription in Greek conveyed the same information. The door was open and he could smell incense.