‘That’s what I meant just now about the team,’ Bromley went on, staring up at the ceiling pensively. ‘I’ve learned, from my experience of many different kinds of businesses, large and small, that charismatic people, essential as they may be to provide the initial dynamic, in the end are only as strong as the team they are able to form around them. And we have a very strong team here, David.’
Bromley frowned. ‘In any organization, after a certain stage is reached, the enterprise can do without the charismatic leader, but the charismatic leader cannot do without the team. That’s my point, David. Believe me, it’s true what they say about no one being indispensable. I’ve learned that the hard way.’
‘True enough,’ Brock remarked sadly. ‘Well, is there a prospectus for the Friends, Ben?’
‘Not exactly, David, but I do have some information on the financial side.’ He swung his stocky figure out of the chair, went over to a filing cabinet and extracted a file. He passed Brock a single sheet of paper. ‘That’s the current figure for this year.’
Brock read the top line and blinked. The annual fee appeared to be about equivalent to what he earned in two months.
‘Part of the fee can be designated contributions to a charity and so attracts tax relief, David, and part is a share purchase, attracting future dividends. The calculations give an illustration of the bottom line for a typical contributor, but you’d want to go through that yourself with your accountant.’
‘Yes, yes. That’s interesting. And how does one apply?’
‘As I said, it’s like a club. An existing member has to nominate you, and the membership as a whole has to accept you. It’s a small group, like-minded.’
‘Do you have a list of members?’
Bromley smiled. ‘Only for members’ eyes, David. But I think you can take it that you’ve already met one of them.’
‘Aha. What about women? I got the impression when you were talking just now that the Friends were predominantly men?’
‘They are all men, as it happens. No reason why there shouldn’t be a woman, of course. Just haven’t been any nominated so far. Stephen mentioned you work in the Home Office, David.’
Brock nodded. ‘You’ve given me plenty to think about, Ben. I’d better get off to my afternoon therapy session now and let you get on with your work.’
Bromley relaxed in his chair. ‘What’s the torture this afternoon, David?’
‘Yoga.’
Bromley grinned. ‘Did you hear what happened to the india-rubber woman who went out with the pencil salesman?’
‘No, I can’t say — ’
Brock was spared by the receptionist, who put her head round the door to remind Bromley of his next appointment. They shook hands and Brock was given another folder of brochures on his way out.
When the afternoon session was finished, Brock collected his overcoat, gloves and scarf from his room in preparation for his walk with Grace Carrington. She was waiting by the basement door and laughed when she saw his gear.
‘I did the same.’ She showed him her woollen mittens, scarf and hat, all striped in bright rainbow colours. ‘I hope you’ve got a map or something.’
When they had pulled on their boots, Brock produced a piece of paper from his coat pocket with a flourish. ‘Copied it myself. The locations are marked by the crosses and numbers.’
‘Very impressive. Come on, then.’
She pushed the door open. Cold air caught their nostrils and turned their breath to steam.
‘Oh, it’s wonderful!’ Grace called back over her shoulder to him. Sunlight came pouring out of a blue sky and was reflected blindingly from every snow-covered surface. Brock pulled the door shut behind him and crunched after her.
They walked round to the front of the house, where the drive broadened into a forecourt in front of the entrance steps. On the far side of this area, two rows of cypress trees formed a narrow avenue, now unused and overgrown, leading to the east.
‘Along this avenue somewhere,’ Brock called, puffing to keep up with her, ‘there should be some fragments.’
They found them half-way down on the left: several large stone capitals tilted at odd angles, partly buried in snowdrifts.
‘Looks as if the builders of the house had a few left over,’ Brock said, but Grace shook her head.
‘Wrong type. These are Corinthian, whereas the ones on the columns of the house and the temple are Ionic. They’re too big, as well. It’s disturbing, seeing them scattered on the ground like that,’ she added, ‘knowing that they belong high up on top of columns. You feel as if some catastrophe has happened.’
They walked on to the end of the avenue, where a stone pyramid, about the height of a man, blocked their route.
‘Well, this one seems clear enough,’ Brock said. ‘Egyptian monument to the dead.’
‘Or Roman: the Pyramid of Cestius, for example.’
‘You’re good at this.’
‘I used to teach art history. Long ago.’
There seemed only one way forward, through a gap in a hedge, and they found themselves in a garden of overgrown shrubs whose snow-laden branches barely gave them room to pass through. The bushes thinned out, and they came to a clearing with a stone bench facing an old sprawling yew tree. Beneath it stood a large block of stone, tilting slightly where the roots of the tree had unsettled it.
Grace brushed the snow off the bench and sat down while Brock went forward to examine the monument. ‘It looks a bit like an altar,’ he said, ducking his head under the branches of the yew to get closer to it. Then, noticing that in fact it wasn’t a solid block but had a heavy stone lid, he said, ‘No, it’s more like a sarcophagus. There’s some lettering carved into the front.’
‘What does it say?’ Grace called to him.
‘Et in Arcadia ego: Brock spelled it out to her. ‘And in Arcadia I. What is that supposed to mean? I can’t believe that anyone actually ever spoke this language. It’s like trying to decipher a crossword puzzle. This doesn’t even have a verb.’
‘That’s the point.’ Grace’s voice came softly from behind him. ‘The ambiguity adds to the meaning.’
Something in her tone made him pause and look back at her. Through the branches of the yew he saw tears streaming down her cheeks. He hurried back and sat beside her on the bench. ‘Grace, whatever is the matter?’
She shook her head and quickly brushed her face with her glove. After a while she took a deep breath and spoke. ‘My first visit to Paris was with my husband, before we were married. It was a wonderful trip, just the way it should be — it was spring, we were in love, you know … Anyway, in the Louvre we saw a famous painting by Poussin. It shows a group of shepherds in Arcady standing around a tomb which they’ve just discovered, like us. On the tomb are the words Et in Arcadia ego:
She shrugged and her voice became more businesslike, matter-of-fact. ‘You could imagine the verb in the past tense, And I was in Arcady, as if the person in the tomb was speaking to us from the past, you know, Think of me; I used to live here too, just like you. On the other hand, the verb could be in the present tense, in which case it isn’t the dead person talking, but death itself. Remember, even in Arcady, I am here.’
‘Yes, I see,’ Brock nodded. ‘You are good at this. But why does it upset you?’
She said nothing for a while, and he watched her stubborn profile staring fixedly at the snow at her feet.
‘I’m going to die,’ she whispered at last.
He was stunned. ‘What do you mean?’
She struggled to compose herself. ‘Everyone’s going to die, of course, we all know that. Only we don’t, not really. We just don’t believe it’s ever really going to happen. But I know it’s going to happen to me. I’ve been picked.’