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Authors: Ann Granger
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economy.’
That explained the outdoor appearance and his claim to be a‘countryman’. Horse-breeding was big business in Poland, Meredith recalled from an article on international showjumping. Jan’s English was good; he obviously fancied himself a bit. He might, despite his casual appearance, have quite an important job on that stud farm, wherever it was.
For the second time in their brief acquaintance, he spoke as if he’d followed her thoughts. ‘I’m what you call a veterinarian.’
‘That’s an American term,’ she told him. ‘In this country we say veterinary surgeon, or vet, for short. Oh, here’s Fourways!’
They’d reached the house almost before she’d realised it. The sun was sinking in the sky, streaking it with cyclamen pink on turquoise. Against the paintbox colours the house looked of a piece, part of the backdrop to a stage production –
Lucia di Lammermoor
, perhaps. Built at the height of the Victorian Gothic revival, its windows were tall and thin, pointed and filled with arched tracery. Meredith knew from past visits that they didn’t let in very much light. There were gargoyles under the eaves masking waterspouts and at one corner of the upper floor was a funny little pepperpot turret sticking out as if it had been a last-minute burst of inspiration on the part of the architect.
Jan Oakley leaned forward, his hands resting on the dashboard above the glove compartment, staring through the windscreen at the house. There was an extraordinary tension about him; electricity crackled in the air between them. His face held an exalted look as if he gazed on some holy relic. Meredith found herself unable to speak and could only sit and wait.
After a minute or two he turned to her and said quietly, ‘You can’t understand what this means to me. I’ve dreamed of this place. Actually to see it, to be here, not just for myself but for my father and grandfather, who never saw it – even my great-grandfather who left this house to come to Poland.’
‘Your great-grandfather?’ It all fell into place. ‘You’re William Oakley’s great-grandson!’ she gasped. ‘You’re Wicked William’s descendant!’
He turned to her and she realised she’d made a bad mistake. Hostility glittered in the dark eyes and something more. It was as if she’d attacked her companion personally. For a second she panicked, thinking he would physically strike back. But then the hostility faded. His tongue flicked across his lower lip as if, for him, this had some calming effect. Certainly, he relaxed. The dark eyes held nothing worse now than a mild reproach.
‘Why do you call him that – Wicked William? Was he a bad man?’
Even that softly-phrased question set alarm bells going in Meredith’s head. How much should she explain? Should she tell him that she was even now working her way through Geoff’s research material? No. She didn’t want to cause another upsurge of that anger. ‘He left home under a cloud,’ she said. In case he didn’t know this expression, she added, ‘There was an unfortunate incident.’
Jan was shaking his head. ‘I know what you’re talking about. He was accused unjustly of having murdered his wife. He didn’t do it. She was addicted to laudanum and while under the influence of the drug, suffered a tragic accident. He told my great-grandmother, his second wife, all about it before they married. She told their son, my grandfather, he told my father and my father told me. You see, I know all about it. My grandfather told me when I was a child that his mother had been a woman of great good sense. She would never have married a murderer. She knew her husband was an English gentleman. He wouldn’t have lied to her.’
Somehow Meredith found the strength to say, though she knew her voice trembled, ‘He stood trial.’
‘He was accused by a servant who had some grudge against him, but a jury – a
British
jury –’ Did she only imagine something mocking in his tone?
That explained the outdoor appearance and his claim to be a‘countryman’. Horse-breeding was big business in Poland, Meredith recalled from an article on international showjumping. Jan’s English was good; he obviously fancied himself a bit. He might, despite his casual appearance, have quite an important job on that stud farm, wherever it was.
For the second time in their brief acquaintance, he spoke as if he’d followed her thoughts. ‘I’m what you call a veterinarian.’
‘That’s an American term,’ she told him. ‘In this country we say veterinary surgeon, or vet, for short. Oh, here’s Fourways!’
They’d reached the house almost before she’d realised it. The sun was sinking in the sky, streaking it with cyclamen pink on turquoise. Against the paintbox colours the house looked of a piece, part of the backdrop to a stage production –
Lucia di Lammermoor
, perhaps. Built at the height of the Victorian Gothic revival, its windows were tall and thin, pointed and filled with arched tracery. Meredith knew from past visits that they didn’t let in very much light. There were gargoyles under the eaves masking waterspouts and at one corner of the upper floor was a funny little pepperpot turret sticking out as if it had been a last-minute burst of inspiration on the part of the architect.
Jan Oakley leaned forward, his hands resting on the dashboard above the glove compartment, staring through the windscreen at the house. There was an extraordinary tension about him; electricity crackled in the air between them. His face held an exalted look as if he gazed on some holy relic. Meredith found herself unable to speak and could only sit and wait.
After a minute or two he turned to her and said quietly, ‘You can’t understand what this means to me. I’ve dreamed of this place. Actually to see it, to be here, not just for myself but for my father and grandfather, who never saw it – even my great-grandfather who left this house to come to Poland.’
‘Your great-grandfather?’ It all fell into place. ‘You’re William Oakley’s great-grandson!’ she gasped. ‘You’re Wicked William’s descendant!’
He turned to her and she realised she’d made a bad mistake. Hostility glittered in the dark eyes and something more. It was as if she’d attacked her companion personally. For a second she panicked, thinking he would physically strike back. But then the hostility faded. His tongue flicked across his lower lip as if, for him, this had some calming effect. Certainly, he relaxed. The dark eyes held nothing worse now than a mild reproach.
‘Why do you call him that – Wicked William? Was he a bad man?’
Even that softly-phrased question set alarm bells going in Meredith’s head. How much should she explain? Should she tell him that she was even now working her way through Geoff’s research material? No. She didn’t want to cause another upsurge of that anger. ‘He left home under a cloud,’ she said. In case he didn’t know this expression, she added, ‘There was an unfortunate incident.’
Jan was shaking his head. ‘I know what you’re talking about. He was accused unjustly of having murdered his wife. He didn’t do it. She was addicted to laudanum and while under the influence of the drug, suffered a tragic accident. He told my great-grandmother, his second wife, all about it before they married. She told their son, my grandfather, he told my father and my father told me. You see, I know all about it. My grandfather told me when I was a child that his mother had been a woman of great good sense. She would never have married a murderer. She knew her husband was an English gentleman. He wouldn’t have lied to her.’
Somehow Meredith found the strength to say, though she knew her voice trembled, ‘He stood trial.’
‘He was accused by a servant who had some grudge against him, but a jury – a
British
jury –’ Did she only imagine something mocking in his tone?
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