The Love Letter (35 page)

‘Oh, she does that quite often, although in the past Hector would be accompanying her on the bassoon,’ Legs chattered nervously. She had started to edge around the room, planning to make a dash through the door when she got close enough. ‘They used to like to fantasise they’re like Johnny Dankworth and Cleo Laine.’

She heard a low sigh across the dark room, ‘I’m not sure whether to be grateful or sad that I don’t share her exhibitionist genes.’

Legs couldn’t see his face, so it was impossible to tell his mood.

‘So what do you make of your mother?’ she asked, still edging around the room.

‘I think we both have a nasty streak.’

Legs froze. ‘How do you mean?’

‘We like to settle scores, and we can wait a very long time to eat a dish cold.’

‘Poppy doesn’t eat anything much.’ She laughed uneasily. Then
she gasped, realising that if Poppy had mothered her son until he was ten, she would know all about his nut allergy. Had she deliberately tried to poison him tonight? Would there have been time to change the menu?

At that moment the lights came on, and blinking through the sudden glare, she saw Byrne leaning against the doorframe. His hair was on end and he had a red mark on one cheek, but his face was back to its normal size and colour and she thought how handsome it was, those dark eyes so meltingly intense. Eyes now adjusting to the brightness, she was also acutely aware of all the nude paintings surrounding them.

Byrne didn’t appear to have noticed them at all. He looked at her for a long time, those dark eyes so incredibly focused that she was sure he could see right through her skin to the ventricles of her heart pumping harder and faster.

From somewhere deep within the lowest bowels of the house, there was a bloodcurdling scream.

Byrne turned back to the open door. ‘Jesus what was that?’

‘We’d better get downstairs.’ She rushed past him and out onto the landing, so grateful that gutsy Julie Ocean was once again taking over, she was tempted to throw in a couple of SAS rolls along the landing.

In the kitchen, they found Francis emerging from the cellars in a terrible state, cobwebs in his hair and a face as white as a sheet. His hands shook. ‘I just found … down there … it’s horrible …’

‘Ohmygod, there
has
been a murder!’ Legs screamed.

‘Stay with him.’ Leaving Francis holding onto the Aga rail for support, Byrne headed down the cellar steps.

They could hear Poppy singing ‘Strange Fruit’ in a reedy alto in the distance. Nobody else in the house seemed to have taken the slightest notice of the scream.

‘What’s down there, Francis?’ demanded Legs.

But he shook his head, too upset to speak. He was close to tears.

To her surprise, Byrne looked quite cheerful when he bounded back up the steps a few moments later. ‘I think you need to look at this, Allegra.’

‘I really can’t stand the sight of blood,’ she protested. ‘Surely we should just call the police? Trampling over a crime scene contaminates evidence.’

But he grabbed her hand and pulled her behind him. ‘As crimes of passion go, this is extremely inventive.’

Heart thudding sickeningly, Legs followed him down to the cavernous vaulted Farcombe cellars. The first cellar looked just as she remembered it, clammy cold and smelling of the sea, the grilled door to the cove passage padlocked in one corner. To the left lay the wine cellars and a maze of old storage rooms. To the right, where Byrne led her now, was the old boiler room, then on past the fuse boxes and into the wide expanse of lower ground floor that faced onto the parkland, which Poppy now used as her studios because of the high north-facing windows and big doors which allowed easy access to one of the courtyards.

In here, it appeared Poppy had been working on her latest creation for several weeks, carving into a huge slab of limestone. But this was no amoeba. This was a human figure. Nobody could mistake that long, languid body, the sprouting beard and thick head of hair. And the bassoon was a giveaway.

Three times larger than life, Hector was depicted with such unflattering, caricatured exaggeration that he was rendered monstrous, one eye bulging, the other squinting, the nose pocked and bulbous, a dribble escaping from chapped lips as they puckered towards the reed. His body, creped as old netting, sagged and bulged and creased grotesquely. The detail was incredible, right down to the gnarled angles of his fingers on the bassoon key holes, the ragged edges of his nails, and thick cuticles. She had even etched in varicose veins on his legs, along with a scattering of moles and a few tattoos.

Most unflattering of all was what lay between his legs.

Legs whistled. ‘Oh Christ, it makes Michelangelo’s David look well hung.’

In the sculpture, Hector was undoubtedly in a state of high arousal, but while the rest of his carved stone body was three times its normal size, this feature was on a far smaller scale. It looked like a hyacinth peeping out between huge tree roots, waiting for the frost to pass.

‘He’ll go hopping mad.’ She stared at the tiny stone protuberance, perfect in every detail apart from proportion. ‘Hector’s hung like a donkey. And he doesn’t have tattoos on his buttocks.’

When Byrne said nothing, it occurred to her that her observations might be open to interpretation.

‘She must be planning to exhibit is at this year’s festival,’ she rushed on. ‘No wonder Fran’s upset. The family pride will take quite a knocking.’

Byrne let out a low laugh. ‘You know, I think I could get to respect my mother after all. She has an incredible talent. It’s one of the most remarkable pieces I’ve ever seen.’

‘I never knew she could actually, really sculpt,’ Legs had to give grudging respect. She stepped forward to remove a dust sheet that had been abandoned by one of Hector’s stone feet. Then she let out a yelp.

Wrapped around Hector’s bulky ankle was a tiny bent-backed creature, part reptile, part monkey, part human, a slathering servile Gollum clinging onto the great man. Its face was Francis’s.

‘Jesus,’ Byrne gasped in awe.

‘I wonder where she’s put Édith?’ Legs whispered.

‘Up his arsehole?’

There was a step behind them and they turned to see Francis looking pale but composed, his chin held high. The family likeness captured in the sculpture was so clear when the two were juxtaposed, it showed just how brilliant Poppy was.

‘It will
never
go on show,’ he announced darkly.

Neither Legs or Byrne knew where to look.

Francis cleared his throat. ‘The other guests are leaving. I’m sure you want to say farewell.’

For a moment the two men stared each other down, but then Byrne conceded, turning to Legs. ‘Would you like me to walk you back to the hotel?’

‘She’s staying here tonight!’ Francis snapped.

Caught between Byrne’s glowering disapproval and Francis’s high emotion, she knew her loyalty should keep her here, but she craved her bed in Skit and time to think.

‘I think perhaps I should go.’

To her surprise, Francis put up no more resistance. ‘You’re right. It’s been a rather overwhelming evening, and it’s not over yet. I must speak with Poppy about this – monstrosity – straight away.’ He couldn’t bear to look at it.

As Byrne went on ahead and Francis hastily threw the sheet back over the ankle-biter, Legs lingered behind.

‘Francis, I—’

‘Leave it!’ he hissed, stalking past her towards the stairs. ‘Some things are best left.’

In the main hallway, the party was taking forever to disband, largely because Poppy was raring to keep going until the early hours.

As soon as she saw her glowering stepson thunder out of the cellars to issue formal handshakes, Poppy registered that he was itching to have a fight, but was too well mannered to do so in front of dinner guests, and so she tried to string things out as long as she could.

‘You must, must stay, Jamie,’ she crooned at Byrne in her deep voice. ‘We have so much to share, so much to talk about. My long lost son!’ Her bony ringed fingers reached up to his cheek.

‘Another time.’ He smiled guardedly. ‘Thank you for tonight. I apologise that I sprang such a surprise on you earlier. My plans changed at the last minute.’

‘Oh, I love surprises.’ She creased her huge eyes playfully, squeezing his cheek so that his mouth formed into an involuntary half-smile.

‘I’ll remember that.’ He removed her hand gently and dropped a brusque kiss on it, which Legs considered very courteous considering Poppy had spent so much of the evening summarising his childhood so ungraciously.

By contrast, Francis kissed Legs farewell on both cheeks with lips like branding irons, then clamped her to his chest in a vice-like hug. He was so angry with Poppy, his hands were still shaking. ‘We’ll meet up tomorrow.’

‘I leave for London straight after breakfast. I’m collecting Nico.’

‘Then we’ll have breakfast. We must talk.’

She nodded, not looking at Byrne. Fink the basset was already eagerly pushing his way outside, desperate to escape the madhouse and new sworn enemy Byron, with whom he’d come to blows over leftovers.

‘Kizzy’s left Byron behind!’ Legs realised as the lame little terrier growled on the doorstep, but there was nobody to hear; Poppy was already going into rapid retreat back to her petits four and Billie Holiday, jewelled Moroccan slippers tapping lightly on the stone floors, pursued by Francis’s long stomping strides. Byrne had slipped out into the darkness.

Legs and Byrne walked away from the hall in silence. The storm had passed now, the rose petals underfoot a slippery river of bruised colour that ran into the veins of black lava of the rhododendron flowers lit by the carriage lamps along the rear drive. Beyond the rearing unicorns on the gate pillars the sky was clear
again, stars back on show, the crescent moon now looking out to sea.

The gates were padlocked as usual. While Byrne stood in front of them wearily, assuming their way was blocked, Legs opened what appeared to be a panel in the left gate pillar itself and stepped inside, pushing another panel that led out onto the village road.

‘This is amazing,’ Byrne followed her.

‘Hector had it put in to enable a quick dash to the pub. It only works going out, though. You can’t get back this way. He has to come home through the churchyard, which he hates. That’s always his excuse for staying until last orders.’

‘He sounds quite a character.’ His voice was unusually flat.

‘Of course, you haven’t met him. He’s a one-off.’

‘I think I might recognise him now.’

She tried not to think about the hideous stone caricature; ‘When I was a little girl, I idolised him. I thought he was a king.’

‘When I was a little boy, I thought he was the Devil,’ Byrne said quietly.

Legs wrapped her arms tightly around herself, trying not to shiver. ‘It is strange to see your mother again after so long?’ The question sounded horribly nosey and awkward spoken out loud as she struggled with her intimacy switch; last night’s confessions and tonight’s life-saving had conspired to make her feel skin-to-skin, yet he kept three feet apart from her like a prisoner walking alongside a lawyer, divided by steel mesh and guards.

His voice, at least, remained mellifluous in its peaty warmth. ‘I rather like her, which is a pleasant surprise. We have a lot in common; she has a monstrous ego and a neat line in revenge. That said, I can’t say I share her taste in food.’

Legs laughed nervously, a horrible seagull caw even to her own ears. Her teeth were chattering, goosebumps like bubble-wrap now. If she hugged herself any tighter, she’d start popping like space dust.

She had so many things that she longed to ask about his childhood, and why he had come back, but she felt suddenly so shy of him she had no idea where to start. There was something so noble and tragic about him. She kept feeling she should apologise for her weak character and loose morals.

She jumped as Byrne slipped his jacket over her shoulders. It smelled of sea walks and wet dog, such a contrast to Francis’s expensive cologne.

‘Thank you.’ She trudged on for a few paces before realising that he was no longer alongside. Turning back, she saw him rooted to the spot, staring up at the moon as it was crossed by a cloud, just its top half poking up like a luminous shark’s fin.

‘It wasn’t an accident,’ he said quietly.

‘What wasn’t an accident?’ She walked back towards him.

He narrowed his eyes as the smoky cloud thinned around the shark’s fin, transforming it into a sickle. ‘You’re the detective, Heavenly Pony.’

Legs wavered, mind whirring. Was he talking about the food that had almost killed him? Or Kizzy leaving so suddenly? Or even, she thought wildly, their discovery of the Hector sculpture?

But before she could hazard a guess, he stepped forwards, his silhouette blotting out the moon’s sharp blade. ‘You leave for London tomorrow?’

She nodded.

‘You’re right to get away from this place. Don’t look back.’ He made it sound as though staying behind spelled doom.

‘I have to be at work.’ They fell into step again, heading towards the dim lights of the village.