Night Music (18 page)

Isabel stared at the dead creature, the colour drained from her face.

‘Don’t fret, missus. No harm done,’ Mr Granger said soothingly. ‘I’ll clear it up for you. Here, boy, you hand me that bit of newspaper. Come on now, Mrs Delancey, sit down and have a cup of tea. You’ve had a bit of a shock. Never a dull moment in this house, eh?’

‘Collapsing floors, rats, guns? What is this place?’ Isabel said, as if to no one. ‘What on earth have I done?’ And then as Kitty stood, still breathing hard from the dancing, her mother turned and walked slowly from the kitchen, as if none of them was there, her violin clutched to her chest.

That evening, the music that echoed across the water was frenzied. It held none of its usual melancholic beauty, but hit the air in furious, jagged notes.

Kitty lay on her bed, knowing she should go up and talk to her mother, but she couldn’t get too worked up about Byron or his stupid rat. She kept thinking about Anthony with his red curtain, the way he had grinned at her, as if he didn’t think her family was mad. For the first time, Kitty was almost glad to be there.

Henry and Asad, walking home, paused as the last note drew to an angry close.

‘PMT,’ said Henry, knowledgeably.

‘I thought she said she was with the CSO,’ said Asad.

Across the lane, Laura McCarthy was finishing the washing-up. ‘That noise,’ she said, drying her hands on a tea-towel, ‘is going to drive me insane. I don’t understand why the woods don’t swallow the sound, like they do everything else.’

‘Should have heard it earlier,’ said Matt, who had been cheerful all evening, even when she’d told him her car needed two new tyres. ‘Never seen anything like it. Have you, Ant?’

Anthony, eyes on the television, made a noncommittal sound.

‘What do you mean?’ said Laura.

Matt flicked open a can of beer. ‘Mad as a March hare, that one. We’ll be in by Christmas, Laura. Mark my words. Christmas at the latest.’

Eleven

There were few sights more beautiful than the Norfolk countryside in early summer, Nicholas observed, as he drove the last few miles to Little Barton, passing the flint cottages, the skeletal rows of pines whose only greenery teetered at the pinnacle of spindly trunks.

Admittedly when one had left the unlovely environs of north-east London, almost anywhere seemed green and picturesque in comparison. But today, as the reservoirs, industrial parks and weary rows of pylons that marked the outskirts of the city melted away, the lush growth of the hedgerows and fresh-minted green of the verges had an almost unbearable piquancy. The symbolism was not lost on Nicholas Trent.

The bank had pronounced itself happy to back him to a certain level, and wanted to see detailed plans. ‘Good to see you,’ Richard Winters had said, clapping him on the back. ‘Can’t keep a good man down, eh?’

He had tried to tell himself many times that the woman might not want to sell. That there were plenty of other sites that could equally well accommodate his plans. But when he closed his eyes, he saw the Spanish House and its grounds. He saw the fabulous valley, surrounded by scenery so perfect it was hard to believe that it was not straight out of a picture book.

And even though he had known he would have a more straightforward journey back to business with a smaller-scale development on some brownfield site in the city, he had still headed out of London towards Little Barton for the third time in a month. So that, once again, he could accidentally find himself in the place that preoccupied him, that showed itself in the glorious technicolour property brochures of his dreams.

At work he had told them nothing. Every day he turned up at the agents’ offices, punctual and polite, and subjected himself to the same stressed customers, the same unfathomable changes of mind, the same collapsing deals and unmet targets. Derek had become increasingly snappy – he had been passed over for the area-manager promotion – and Nicholas knew that the leaflet dropping and coffee runs were his way of taking it out on someone. But he no longer minded. In fact, he relished the opportunity to be out of the office, with its petty irritations and fervid jealousies, so that he could lose himself in his thoughts. His brain hummed with ideas.

‘What have
you
got to be so cheerful about?’ Charlotte would ask, as if his happiness somehow caused her offence.

Twelve energy-renewable homes with solar panels and thermal heating, he wanted to answer. Five executive houses with an acre of grounds each. A top-of-the-range apartment block, each high-spec unit with glass frontage, offering spectacular views of the lake. So many possibilities, so much potential, all dependent on one thing: persuading the widow to sell.

I used to have the gift of the gab, Nicholas reminded himself, slowing down as he saw the sign for Little Barton. Once I could have sold ice cubes to Eskimos. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t pull this off. I just have to pitch it right. Ask someone too eagerly and they became convinced they had a potential goldmine on their hands. Offer too low and they’d be so offended they wouldn’t sell to you at any price.

There was no point in pinning all his hopes on one property, he thought, no matter how good an opportunity it represented. Better than anyone, he knew that that was the way to ruin. He pulled up in the village, arguing with himself, trying to put a brake on his own enthusiasm. He wouldn’t visit the house today. He’d try to find out a little more about it, perhaps drive around, look in a few agents’ windows. It was an up-and-coming area, after all. Rackety old barns were being knocked into habitable shape, workmen’s cottages reconfigured to meet rising demand. He would investigate all the other possibilities, and not let his heart rule his head. He didn’t want to raise his hopes, then cope with the aftermath when they were dashed.

But it was so hard.

Nicholas Trent sat in the quiet street for a few minutes. Finally he climbed out of his car.

‘What that man is doing is immoral.’

‘You can’t say that, Asad. You have no proof.’

‘Proof.’ Asad snorted as he stacked peppers on the vegetable display. Red, yellow, green, in meticulous order. ‘It is plain to see that he is pulling that house apart from the inside. You only have to mention his work to Mrs McCarthy for her to turn the colour of
this
.’ He held aloft a red pepper. ‘She is well aware of what he is doing. This is probably something they have cooked up between them.’

‘Mrs McCarthy being embarrassed is no proof of anything. She may still feel awkward about the house because of all the hard work she put in with the old gentleman for no reward.’ Henry shook his head. ‘In fact, there are all sorts of reasons Laura McCarthy might feel awkward when she talks to people about her husband, and you know as well as I do what those might be.’

‘I know what I know. And you know it too. That man is as good as stealing from Mrs Delancey. And he is doing it with a smile on his face, pretending to be a good Samaritan.’

The sun streamed through the windows of the little shop, lighting up the buckets of flowers, which swayed cheerfully in the breeze, harbingers of warmer months ahead. But the peonies and freesias, visible through the pristine glass, and the pots of hyacinths that decorated the windowsills were at odds with the air of foreboding inside. Henry watched Asad as he straightened, listening for wheezing. The hay-fever season was approaching, and Asad’s asthma always took a downturn at this time of year. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘it would be a good idea if you didn’t get yourself too worked up about this.’

‘I think,’ said Asad, pointedly, ‘that it is about time someone stood up to Matt McCarthy.’

The door opened, and a man entered the shop to the tinkling of the bell. Middle-aged, middle class, good suit, thought Henry. A traveller on a through route. ‘Can I help you?’ he said.

‘Er . . . not just yet, thank you.’ He went to the delicatessen counter. ‘I wanted some lunch.’

‘We can certainly help you there,’ Henry assured him. ‘Let me know when you’re ready.’ He left the man and went back to Asad who, having perfected the vegetable display, was now rearranging the shelves.

‘The canned fish,’ whispered Henry, ‘really doesn’t need to be in alphabetical order.’

Asad made sure his voice was low when he spoke. ‘This troubles me, Henry. It really troubles me.’

‘It’s none of our business. And white crabmeat should be next to sardines.’

‘Kitty comes in here every day saying he has knocked down this wall or that ceiling has collapsed. Mrs Delancey comes in white with worry about her finances.’

‘Anyone who’s had building work knows it’s disruptive and expensive. You remember what it was like when we had our kitchen done.’

‘That house existed for fifty years with no work at all.’

‘Exactly,’ muttered Henry. ‘That’s why it probably needs knocking around now.’

‘She knows nothing about building. She knows nothing about anything except music. She is still preoccupied with her dead husband. He is taking advantage.’ His voice had lifted with frustration.

‘But we don’t know anything about what’s wrong with the house. As you said, nobody’s looked at it for fifty years. Who’s to say what Matt McCarthy’s found?’

Asad gritted his teeth. ‘Any other builder, Henry, anybody but that man, and I would be content to believe that the house needed so much work.’ He put a can of pilchards on the shelf.

The customer was examining the bread basket.

‘But you tell me something from your heart. Tell me you don’t think Matt McCarthy is doing this so that he can have the house. You tell me this is not some kind of revenge.’

Henry stared at his feet.

‘Well?’

‘I can’t say that. I don’t trust him any more than you do, but it’s none of our business. And getting involved will only lead to grief.’

They stopped talking abruptly as the customer appeared at Asad’s elbow. He gave them a courteous smile. ‘I’m so sorry to interrupt, but could I possibly have one of the wholemeal rolls with some of that goat’s cheese?’

Henry scooted back behind the counter. ‘Certainly. Shall I throw in a couple of the vine tomatoes? They’re ever so good at the moment.’

Nicholas Trent walked out of the little shop with a brown-paper bag. Despite his earlier appetite he was no longer hungry. He threw the bag on to the passenger seat and headed off down the road, brain humming, stomach taut with excitement, searching for the overgrown lane beside the piggery that marked the way to the Spanish House.

‘A Spring Chorus.’ An attractive mixture of freesias, narcissi and hyacinths, available in white, mauve or pale blue. Available as a bouquet, a hand-tied arrangement or, for a little extra, arranged in a glass vase. Prices started at a little over thirty pounds, not including delivery. Laura had looked it up on the Internet. Flowers to gladden your heart in late spring. Flowers to say thank you. Or I’m thinking of you. Or even I love you.

Flowers she had not received.

Flowers that had been charged to Matt’s credit card the previous month.

Of course, she hadn’t seen the statement – Matt had long been too canny to leave credit-card statements around, and she knew he used his work card for anything he didn’t want her to see. But she had been going through his pockets before she washed his work jeans, and the crumpled receipt had fallen out with some self-tapping screws and a handful of loose change. She knew it was his card number, just as she knew everything there was to know about him.

What she did not know was who had received the flowers.

Laura McCarthy walked up the lane, the dog running in front of her, and let the tears fall down her cheeks. She couldn’t believe he had done it again. After everything he had said to her, after everything he had promised. She had thought they were past this. She had lost the anxious, nervy feeling that she was not quite enough for him, that her lack of something indefinable meant she should always be on her guard. She had stopped viewing any woman she came across as a potential threat.

Fool.

Laura blew her nose, failing to notice the glory of the budding hedgerows, the narcissi and bluebells pushing through the earth. Her stomach was a mass of knots, her head a whirling din of rage and accusation. She could see only Matt’s face, leering into that of some other woman’s . . . No! She had long known that was the way to madness. She could hear her mother warning her when she had made such an ‘unsuitable’ match that she would have only herself to blame when it went wrong. She could see herself, politely turning a blind eye to her husband’s infidelities until he was too old to commit them. ‘Bugger you, Matt,’ she yelled into the breeze, feeling faintly stupid that her upbringing and manners forbade the use of earthier language.

What should she do? What
could
she do, when he knew he held all the cards? How could he do this to her when she loved him so much, had done nothing but love him their whole life together?

In her heart she had guessed something was up. He had been too cheerful, too removed from her. He had not wanted to make love for almost three weeks, and with Matt there was little doubt as to what that meant, despite his protestations of exhaustion, or his staying up at night to watch ‘unmissable’ films.

‘Oh, God . . .’ Laura sat down on a tree stump and let the sobs rack her. She was made of stern stuff, but today she was beaten into submission by that tiny scrap of paper. Her marriage was a sham. It didn’t matter what he said – that it was nothing to do with her, that it was just the way he was made. It didn’t matter that he denied it. She loved him, and it was no use.

‘I’m sorry. Are you all right?’

Laura’s head shot up. A man in a suit stood fifty yards away, his car some distance back, the engine idling and the driver’s door open. He leaned sideways, as if to see her better, without coming too near. Bernie, her dog, was sitting at his feet as if Laura was nothing to do with him.

Laura, mortified, wiped frantically at her face with her hands. ‘Oh. Goodness.’ She got up quickly, cheeks flooding with colour. ‘I’ll get out of your way.’ She was appalled that someone had seen her in this state. So few people came into the woods that she had never considered she might not be alone.