Read Online Hunting Ground by J. Robert Janes - Free Book Online

looked not at me but into me, stripping away everything but the truth.
    ‘What is it you do in electrical engineering?’ I asked.
    He let the hardness of my voice pass. ‘The generation and transmission of electrical power. The electrification of the railways, which will surely come on a much more extensive scale once this war is over and won.’
    But won by whom? I wondered. ‘The wireless?’ I asked. ‘Have you knowledge of that?’
    His eyes gave nothing away. ‘Of course, but it’s more a hobby than anything else.’
    Was it? ‘Could you fix one? Mine has too much interference, too much of the …’
    ‘Static?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Please.’ He indicated that I should show him the way. As I got up, I handed him the glass and he tossed off the rest. ‘That’s only to make sure it won’t be spilt on your lovely carpets.’
    How thoughtful of him. The price … The weekend would cost us a fortune we didn’t have. Still, there was the wireless.
    ‘Does the aerial run up to the roof?’ he asked. ‘The forest, the hills …’
    Had he looked the place over even then? ‘No. I’ve strung ten metres around the outside of one of the windows in the library. Until recently, I was getting London very clearly. It’s a loose connection. A wire, I think, that runs between the tubes. When I tap the console, the static increases.’
    ‘Have you any solder—a bit of scrap silver perhaps? Something with which to fix it more securely?’
    Dmitry mended the set using an edge of the brooch I was wearing and the heat from the poker of the kitchen stove. The brooch had been one of those from the jewel box, and Jules hadn’t even noticed my wearing it.
    An uncomfortable silence settled over the dining room table, a pause, and then the muted sounds of hesitant cutlery, the accidental ringing of crystal on china as a wineglass was hurriedly set down.
    I waited for Jules to answer. When he didn’t, when he gave Janine, who was sitting on his right, a little more wine, I said, ‘The taxes, my husband. Why haven’t they been paid?’
    The wine bottle paused. Michèle Chevalier blanched and swallowed with difficulty. Dmitry Alexandrov, who was sitting opposite her beside Marcel, went on eating as if nothing untoward had happened. Henri-Philippe Beauclair, alarmed for sure, hesitantly fingered the tablecloth.
    The Vuittons waited with bated breath. This was news, scandal, embarrassment, the hour of decision too, no doubt.
    ‘Well?’ I demanded harshly.
    ‘Well what ?’ Jules lowered the wine bottle and set it carefully on the table among the tall-stemmed, air-twist glasses and the golden Meissonier candlesticks.
    ‘You know very well.’
    ‘This is neither the time nor the place to discuss such matters.’
    I put my knife and fork down. ‘When else is there time? We’re never alone for a moment. Pardon, please, Simone, André, Henri-Philippe, Michèle … I didn’t mean to imply that you are not welcome and gladly, but the taxes haven’t been paid and something must be done about them.’
    ‘They’ll be paid next week.’
    ‘How? You’ve nothing in the bank but a few thousand francs. They’ve written about a loan you took out some time ago. I know, my husband. I opened the letter.’
    For a wife to have done such a thing in France at that time or any other was to commit a sin far worse than adultery, but Jules simply looked at me and, for the first time that weekend, a sadness came into his eyes, and I realized he understood the matter only too well.
    The candlelight flickered and threw shadows on the walls where bluebirds and doves—all sorts of birds—sang silently from the exquisite prison of their flowering cherry trees. From the belle-époque chandeliers came the sparkle of diamonds among their many-faceted crystals.
    ‘I’ll have to sell something, I suppose,’ he said at last.
    He looked so handsome. Even then I had to confess that given but the slightest opportunity I would have forgiven him.
    ‘Such