"Yes, well, it's not the first time." Quinnell swirled his brandy, turning back to the fire. "This is her third attack, you know. She never did like listening to doctors. For years now they've been telling her she ought to be more careful, have some help around the house; but she's a bloody-minded woman, Nancy Fortune. She still thinks she can do it all herself." He smiled faintly, shook his head. "We used to call her Henny, in the old days, after the Little Red Hen in the fairy story. 'I'll do it myself, that's what she'd say. And she'd do a damned fine job of it, too. Always mastered anything she put her mind to."
I heard the ring of pride in his voice, and glanced at him with interest. “It must have been a great loss, when she left you."
"A terrible loss," he agreed. "Terrible. But of course, she had her reasons.'' "David's father."
"Yes." He smiled again, a little sadly. "I'm afraid I was rather ungracious about the whole affair. I never quite forgave her for leaving, but in time I understood. Time," he told me, "gives us all the gift of perspective."
Of course, I thought, he'd lost much more since then. His wife, presumably ... she must be dead, since Peter never mentioned her. His son. He'd lost them both. How tragic.
I tried to think of something suitable to say, but nothing came to mind.
Behind us, in the hall, the floorboards creaked. My shoulders tensed in sudden, foolish fear, and then relaxed again when Adrian said sleepily: "Ah, here you are. I thought I heard voices."
He shuffled over to the drinks cabinet, smoothing back his rumpled hair. The gesture didn't help. He looked like he'd been romping through the sheets with someone, barefoot and bare-chested, his shirt slung on loosely as an afterthought, his jeans unbuttoned.
Quinnell arched an elegant eyebrow in my direction and I hastened to explain, not wanting him to get the wrong idea.
"He stayed to keep me company, and fell asleep on the sofa."
Adrian grinned. "What she means to say," he told Quinnell, "is that I've been behaving myself, in spite of appearances. But if you will insist on leaving me stranded .. ."
The eyebrow lowered again. "Ah yes, your car. I do apologize, my boy. Couldn't find the keys to the Range Rover, I'm afraid. Fabia puts them in the damnedest places. And when I went to look in the Rover itself, I found your car beside it, with the keys in the ignition, so ..." He spread his hands and smiled an apology. "I wasn't thinking very clearly, at the time."
Adrian sloshed a measure of gin into a glass, and shrugged magnanimously. "No harm done. Not to me, anyway. Poor Brian McMorran's a bit shaken up, though. You nearly ran him over."
"Did I?" Quinnell frowned faintly, trying to remember. "I do seem to recall something leaping into the bushes .. . that was Brian? Did I do him any damage?"
Adrian shook his head. "Just rattled him a little."
"Ah." The charming voice sounded rather disappointed, to my ears. "Pour me another brandy, would you, there's a good chap." He passed his empty glass to Adrian, and turned to me expectantly. "And now, since I have you both here, perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me what all of you were up to tonight, out in the field."
Adrian turned.
The black cat Murphy, drawn by our voices, materialized in the doorway. After a moment's pause he came padding across the carpet and leapt lightly to the arm of Quinnell's chair. Nothing else moved.
My eyes met Adrian's uncertainly. He lounged back against the drinks cabinet, his expression deliberately blank. "I'm sorry?"
"Come now," said Quinnell, taking the brandy from Adrian's outstretched hand. "I may be an old man, but I'm not a complete fool." His eyes slid from one to the other of us, waiting. "Now, what did the Sentinel say?"
XX
"Ye've telt him." Wally Tyler wasn't asking a question. He slowly lit a cigarette and nodded like some ancient sage pronouncing judgment. 'Tis well ye did. It'll take his mind off Nancy, some."
I took a seat beside him on the low stone wall that ran around the small neglected garden at the side of the house, and watched while he threw a stick for Kip.
Already it was early afternoon, and the betraying shadow on the sundial at the center of the garden shamed me for sleeping away half the day. Not that I could have helped it. When sleep had finally found me in the hours after dawn, it had claimed me with a sure and final vengeance. But I was sorry to have missed what must have been a lovely morning.
Without the wind, the sun would have felt exceedingly hot; even as it was, my plain outfit of jeans and T-shirt seemed too warm. Spring had nearly faded into summer. Come Saturday week, it would be June. Which left us three full months still, in the digging season. Time enough to prove our theory. Our theory ... I smiled faintly, raising a hand to rub my tired eyes. When I'd begun this, I had thought it Peter's theory, and his alone.
"Actually," I confessed to Wally, "he wasn't much surprised to learn what we'd been up to. He'd figured most of it out already, on his own."
"Aye." Wally nodded. "Thought he might. I had a feeling, ken."
"God." I sighed in mock exasperation. "Don't tell me you're psychic, as well."
The wizened features smoothed into a smile. "No, lass. There's only Robbie has the sight, and he didna get it fae my side o' the family."