been in the habit of
coming here; if he had sat in the inglenook with a drink and talked to the local people. Vincent was looking so crestfallen, she felt obliged to say, ‘I’ll let you know how I get on, if
you’d be interested.’
‘I would indeed. Come down to my room at any time. Any time at all. This is my home telephone number. I’m only a few minutes’ walk from here.’
Georgina waited until he had gone, and then locked the door leading out to the landing. This was probably a bit over the top; he was just inquisitive, which was perfectly natural. But it was
somehow disturbing to remember that he had a key to this house and her rooms.
It was just on eleven o’clock, and as Vincent had already pointed out the little flat had tinned soup and bread and cheese. She would forage in the cupboards for lunch when she felt like
it or go to the pub, but for the moment she was far more interested in making the acquaintance of her great-grandfather.
As Vincent left Georgina and went down to what he thought of as his own little domain, he felt extremely worried.
The deed boxes. The square ordinary metal boxes that Huxley Small had handed over to Georgina Grey and that contained papers – documents – sent to the Society on Walter Kane’s
death. What were those papers and those documents? What might Walter Kane have written in medical reports and records during his life? And how many of those reports might have survived, and have
found their way into those deed boxes? Anything could be in there,
anything
. . .
Vincent realized he was clenching his fists so tightly his nails were digging into his palms. He forced his hands to uncurl, and took several deep, calming breaths.
But feeling calmer was not going to make the problem go away. It was starting to look as if he might have to formulate some kind of plan about all this, which was irritating when he had been
expecting to enjoy the presence of Chad Ingram and the television people in Thornbeck.
Jude Stratton had not expected to particularly enjoy the journey to wherever Chad Ingram was taking him, because these days he hated all journeys. Being guided into a car
– ‘Mind your head, no a bit lower – can you find the seat belt – or p’raps I’d better fasten it for you, had I?’ – and then the painstaking
descriptions of the views through the car windows: he bitterly hated those. Who the hell cared if it was a glorious spring day with daffodils when you would never be able to see daffodils or spring
sunshine for yourself again?
The worst thing of all was hurtling along a road with no idea where you were or what the traffic might be doing. If the driver broke the journey there was the guiding hand again, this time into
the coffee bar or the restaurant, and then into the men’s loo afterwards. ‘The taps are just there, and the hand dryer is on your left . . .’ He knew it was ungracious and
disagreeable of him to feel like this when people were trying to be kind, but ungracious and disagreeable was how he felt.
There had been times during the past two years when Jude would have traded his soul to be back in the days when he and the camera crew had rattled across war-torn landscapes in one of the
terrifyingly erratic jeeps they used to hire. Jude would be writing the reports as they went, trusting to heaven or hell they would get back to the base to send them; the camera crew would be
cursing because the terrain was too uneven for filming, the interpreter would be looking out for likely people to interview along the way . . . There had been a great many times during those
journeys when they had known they might be the target of a sniper or that a bomb might explode in their path at any minute, because their luck would not last for ever. But they had gone on anyway.
Until the day when the luck had run out, and the bomb had exploded, and two of the camera crew had been killed and Jude had been blinded.
But when it came to this journey,
coming here; if he had sat in the inglenook with a drink and talked to the local people. Vincent was looking so crestfallen, she felt obliged to say, ‘I’ll let you know how I get on, if
you’d be interested.’
‘I would indeed. Come down to my room at any time. Any time at all. This is my home telephone number. I’m only a few minutes’ walk from here.’
Georgina waited until he had gone, and then locked the door leading out to the landing. This was probably a bit over the top; he was just inquisitive, which was perfectly natural. But it was
somehow disturbing to remember that he had a key to this house and her rooms.
It was just on eleven o’clock, and as Vincent had already pointed out the little flat had tinned soup and bread and cheese. She would forage in the cupboards for lunch when she felt like
it or go to the pub, but for the moment she was far more interested in making the acquaintance of her great-grandfather.
As Vincent left Georgina and went down to what he thought of as his own little domain, he felt extremely worried.
The deed boxes. The square ordinary metal boxes that Huxley Small had handed over to Georgina Grey and that contained papers – documents – sent to the Society on Walter Kane’s
death. What were those papers and those documents? What might Walter Kane have written in medical reports and records during his life? And how many of those reports might have survived, and have
found their way into those deed boxes? Anything could be in there,
anything
. . .
Vincent realized he was clenching his fists so tightly his nails were digging into his palms. He forced his hands to uncurl, and took several deep, calming breaths.
But feeling calmer was not going to make the problem go away. It was starting to look as if he might have to formulate some kind of plan about all this, which was irritating when he had been
expecting to enjoy the presence of Chad Ingram and the television people in Thornbeck.
Jude Stratton had not expected to particularly enjoy the journey to wherever Chad Ingram was taking him, because these days he hated all journeys. Being guided into a car
– ‘Mind your head, no a bit lower – can you find the seat belt – or p’raps I’d better fasten it for you, had I?’ – and then the painstaking
descriptions of the views through the car windows: he bitterly hated those. Who the hell cared if it was a glorious spring day with daffodils when you would never be able to see daffodils or spring
sunshine for yourself again?
The worst thing of all was hurtling along a road with no idea where you were or what the traffic might be doing. If the driver broke the journey there was the guiding hand again, this time into
the coffee bar or the restaurant, and then into the men’s loo afterwards. ‘The taps are just there, and the hand dryer is on your left . . .’ He knew it was ungracious and
disagreeable of him to feel like this when people were trying to be kind, but ungracious and disagreeable was how he felt.
There had been times during the past two years when Jude would have traded his soul to be back in the days when he and the camera crew had rattled across war-torn landscapes in one of the
terrifyingly erratic jeeps they used to hire. Jude would be writing the reports as they went, trusting to heaven or hell they would get back to the base to send them; the camera crew would be
cursing because the terrain was too uneven for filming, the interpreter would be looking out for likely people to interview along the way . . . There had been a great many times during those
journeys when they had known they might be the target of a sniper or that a bomb might explode in their path at any minute, because their luck would not last for ever. But they had gone on anyway.
Until the day when the luck had run out, and the bomb had exploded, and two of the camera crew had been killed and Jude had been blinded.
But when it came to this journey,
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