swayed like the stems of flowers.
Over the whole panorama of woods, hills, and green valleys (as seen from the air) the wind, weighted with heavy rain, flew in great silvery gray sweeps that glittered when the lightning came. The thunder rolled, then clattered with a sound like trees falling or heavy objects flung down on top of one another from a great height.
The workmen and the tree expert went home. Down in Kingsmarkham, Wexford also went home: a brief visit to check on his forlorn hope that there might be something significant or even vital on his answering machine.
He found both his daughters there.
The three-day-old Amulet lay in Sylvia’s lap. Sheila leapt up and threw herself into his arms.
“Oh, Pop darling, we thought we ought to be here with you. We both thought that simultaneously, didn’t we, Syl? We didn’t hesitate, we didn’t
think
. Paul drove us down. I didn’t even bring the nurse—well, I couldn’t, could I? Where would we put her? And I don’t really know anything about babies, but Syl does, so that’s okay. And poor, poor you, out of your mind about Mother, you must be!”
He bent over the child. She was a pretty little girl with a round rose-petal face, tiny prim features, and hair as dark as Sylvia’s was and Dora’s once had been.
“Lovely blue eyes,” he said.
“They all have blue eyes at that age,” said Sylvia.
He kissed her, said, “Thank you for coming, dear,” and to Sheila, “You too, Sheila, thank you,” though he didn’t want them, they were an added complication, and his heart had sunk when he saw them, ungrateful devilthat he was. Many people would give all they had for the devotion of not just one daughter but two.
“I have to go back for a couple of hours,” he said. “I only came to see if there was a message.”
“There’s nothing,” said Sheila. “I checked. It was the first thing I did.”
When one has children one has no privacy. They take it for granted that what is yours is theirs, personal things and the secrets of your heart, as well as possessions. He ought to be used to it by now. But how kind they were, his daughters, how good to him.
“Surely you’re not indispensable at a time like this?”
It was a remark characteristic of his elder daughter. He ignored it, though looking at her kindly. How different they were, the two of them. Most of the time he didn’t see it, but now, inescapably, he saw her mother in Sylvia, the same features, the same almond-shaped dark eyes, hardened in Sylvia’s case just as Sylvia was taller and altogether a bigger woman. But the likeness … It made him gasp and turn his gasp to a cough. Sheila took his arm, looked into his face. “What can we do for you, darling? Have you had lunch?”
He lied, said he had. She was so absolutely the successful young actress who has just had a baby, she was it and playing it in her muslin tunic and white trousers, strings of beads, fair hair loose and flowing, soft fruit-colored makeup. Yet Sylvia in jeans and loose T-shirt, looking down with unusual tenderness at the baby on her knees, seemed more the child’s mother.
“I’ll see you both later,” Wexford said and plunged back through the torrents to his car.
They had mounted a hunt for his wife and Ryan Barker, mainly concentrated on inquiries in and around Kingsmarkham Station. Every taxi company had been investigated. The drivers had no more knowledge of Ryanthan they had of Dora, and the station staff—such as they were, three ticket clerks and four platform staff—remembered nothing of either.
By five Vine and Karen Malahyde with Pemberton, Lynn Fancourt, and Archbold had come up with only one certain thing: neither Dora Wexford nor Ryan Barker had reached Kingsmarkham Station on the previous morning. Somewhere, between their points of departure and the station, they had been spirited away.
It was Burden to whom the Roxane Masood phone call was relayed at five in the afternoon.
“I want to report
Over the whole panorama of woods, hills, and green valleys (as seen from the air) the wind, weighted with heavy rain, flew in great silvery gray sweeps that glittered when the lightning came. The thunder rolled, then clattered with a sound like trees falling or heavy objects flung down on top of one another from a great height.
The workmen and the tree expert went home. Down in Kingsmarkham, Wexford also went home: a brief visit to check on his forlorn hope that there might be something significant or even vital on his answering machine.
He found both his daughters there.
The three-day-old Amulet lay in Sylvia’s lap. Sheila leapt up and threw herself into his arms.
“Oh, Pop darling, we thought we ought to be here with you. We both thought that simultaneously, didn’t we, Syl? We didn’t hesitate, we didn’t
think
. Paul drove us down. I didn’t even bring the nurse—well, I couldn’t, could I? Where would we put her? And I don’t really know anything about babies, but Syl does, so that’s okay. And poor, poor you, out of your mind about Mother, you must be!”
He bent over the child. She was a pretty little girl with a round rose-petal face, tiny prim features, and hair as dark as Sylvia’s was and Dora’s once had been.
“Lovely blue eyes,” he said.
“They all have blue eyes at that age,” said Sylvia.
He kissed her, said, “Thank you for coming, dear,” and to Sheila, “You too, Sheila, thank you,” though he didn’t want them, they were an added complication, and his heart had sunk when he saw them, ungrateful devilthat he was. Many people would give all they had for the devotion of not just one daughter but two.
“I have to go back for a couple of hours,” he said. “I only came to see if there was a message.”
“There’s nothing,” said Sheila. “I checked. It was the first thing I did.”
When one has children one has no privacy. They take it for granted that what is yours is theirs, personal things and the secrets of your heart, as well as possessions. He ought to be used to it by now. But how kind they were, his daughters, how good to him.
“Surely you’re not indispensable at a time like this?”
It was a remark characteristic of his elder daughter. He ignored it, though looking at her kindly. How different they were, the two of them. Most of the time he didn’t see it, but now, inescapably, he saw her mother in Sylvia, the same features, the same almond-shaped dark eyes, hardened in Sylvia’s case just as Sylvia was taller and altogether a bigger woman. But the likeness … It made him gasp and turn his gasp to a cough. Sheila took his arm, looked into his face. “What can we do for you, darling? Have you had lunch?”
He lied, said he had. She was so absolutely the successful young actress who has just had a baby, she was it and playing it in her muslin tunic and white trousers, strings of beads, fair hair loose and flowing, soft fruit-colored makeup. Yet Sylvia in jeans and loose T-shirt, looking down with unusual tenderness at the baby on her knees, seemed more the child’s mother.
“I’ll see you both later,” Wexford said and plunged back through the torrents to his car.
They had mounted a hunt for his wife and Ryan Barker, mainly concentrated on inquiries in and around Kingsmarkham Station. Every taxi company had been investigated. The drivers had no more knowledge of Ryanthan they had of Dora, and the station staff—such as they were, three ticket clerks and four platform staff—remembered nothing of either.
By five Vine and Karen Malahyde with Pemberton, Lynn Fancourt, and Archbold had come up with only one certain thing: neither Dora Wexford nor Ryan Barker had reached Kingsmarkham Station on the previous morning. Somewhere, between their points of departure and the station, they had been spirited away.
It was Burden to whom the Roxane Masood phone call was relayed at five in the afternoon.
“I want to report
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