The driver had reacted too slowly and shot a few metres past the entrance. He muttered to himself as he reversed the car and then turned into a ribbon of neatly laid gravel that led us through the thick woodland purposely designed to hide the house from the road. After about a minute, we emerged into an estate that could have been described as a kingdom in itself. Moxham Hall was a sprawling, nineteenth-century manor surrounded by perfectly striped lawns reaching as far as a low metal railing. Miles of grassland stretched out on the other side, different shades of green rising and falling over hills and continuing as far as the eye could see. As we swung round an improbable white marble fountain – Neptune holding a trident, fighting off an army of cupids and dolphins – my eyes took in rose gardens, ornamental gardens, vegetable gardens and rockeries. And there was the famous helicopter pad, a white H stamped into a circle of mauve asphalt. My first impression was that the house was beautiful, with its patterned brick and limestone façade, the rows of symmetrical windows, the grey tiles and chimneys. But as we drew closer, I noticed the modern additions: the out-of-scale conservatory, the fake portico around the front door, the glass and steel shell surrounding the swimming pool. There was something a little soulless about Moxham Hall. I could imagine it being rented out as a posh wedding venue. It wasn’t somewhere I would want to live.
The taxi stopped. We got out.
‘What are you hoping to find here, Hawthorne?’ I asked.
‘Nothing much, mate. But this is where Harriet’s book opens. And since we were passing, I thought we might as well have a look.’
‘I don’t think anyone’s around.’
And yet someone had to be working here. It was obvious from the lawns and the flower beds, the exaggerated neatness of everything. The house was being looked after – and with all this land, so many rooms, it was going to take more than one visit a week. Feeling very much like a trespasser, I followed Hawthorne to the front entrance and watched him press the doorbell. It made no sound, or at least none that we could hear from outside. We waited. Nobody came.
‘What now?’ I asked, thinking we ought to move on to the village.
I was answered by the sound of footsteps on the gravel and a man appeared from around the side of the house, a groundsman or a gardener by the look of him. He was wearing a jacket, waistcoat, yellow cravat and expensive wellington boots. All that was missing was the shotgun under his arm and the Labrador Retriever. As he drew closer, I saw that he was in his sixties, perhaps even older, beaten about by the seasons. The sun had left a red welt on the bridge of his nose. The cold had scarred his neck with ugly patches of psoriasis. The rain had drawn the colour out of his cheeks and the wind had thrown his hair into permanent disarray. Just looking at his face, I took in a whole year of Wiltshire weather.
‘You looking for someone?’ he asked in a voice that was not exactly friendly.
Hawthorne was not intimidated. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘I’m John Lamprey. I look after the house and the grounds for Mr Golinishchev.’
‘He’s the owner?’
‘Yes. You’re on private land.’
‘Is Mr Golinishchev at home?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not able to give you that information.’
‘It doesn’t look like it. But it doesn’t matter anyway. We’re interested in Trevor Longhurst and his family.’
Lamprey sniffed at that. ‘What are you? Tourists? Or newspapermen? If so, you’re a bit late. That all happened years ago and they’re no longer in the area.’
‘I’m a detective. I’m investigating the death of Harriet Throsby. You may have read about it in the newspapers.’
For the first time, Lamprey looked interested.
‘Yes. I saw that someone had put a knife into her. You got ID?’
‘Do I really need it?’ Hawthorne had a way of judging people and there was something about his response that amused the other man.
‘Maybe not,’ he said.
‘Did you talk to her?’
‘Harriet Throsby? Yes, I met her. Although I wish I hadn’t.’
‘Then you may be able to help us … if you’ll give us ten minutes of your time.’
Lamprey took a few moments to examine us both, then nodded his head slowly. ‘All right. I don’t see why not. You can come inside if you like.’ He opened the front door, which hadn’t actually been locked.
‘So where are the Golinishchevs, then?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘They’re only here three or four weeks a year,’ Lamprey replied. ‘They usually come in the shooting season … October, November. You think Miss Throsby might have been done in because of that book of hers?’
‘It’s one theory.’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me. Everything she wrote was a pack of lies.’
He took us in through the front door, into a hall with gilt mirrors, a modern steel and glass chandelier, Persian rugs … all of them as soulless as the showrooms from which they had come. Too much money had been spent on the house, making it too perfect. The paintings were not just abstract. They were indecipherable. None of the furniture quite matched. Lamprey led us into a kitchen that reminded me of Hawthorne’s except that it was three times bigger. It was too clean and strangely uncomfortable. There was a fireplace, but no evidence that it had ever been used for a fire. If it hadn’t been for the lawns visible on the other side of the windows, we could have been in Belgravia. We could have been anywhere.
‘You live here?’ Hawthorne asked. Perhaps he was thinking the same as me.
‘I have a room in the annexe. There’s a separate kitchen there too, but I thought I’d spare you the walk.’
‘And you worked for the Longhursts.’
Lamprey nodded. ‘I was one of the gardeners back then. After they left, I stayed on to look after the place. It was empty for three years. After that, it was owned by a local family, but it was too big for them and eventually they moved on. Then the Russians came. They completely renovated the house … put all this stuff inside. Spent a fortune! If they didn’t like it, back it went again. Staircases, bathrooms, the lot! And now it is how it is.’ He had made his judgement. There was nothing more to add.
‘Were you here when the teacher, Major Alden, was killed?’
Another slow nod. ‘I used to know the major. The whole village did. He was what you would call a bit of a character. Bald, moustache. Always wore a three-piece suit. A big supporter of the local hunt until the day he died. Not such a bad old stick really, although some of the kids might have thought otherwise.’
‘You said that Harriet Throsby wrote a pack of lies. I’d be interested to know what you meant by that.’
‘You’ve read her book?’
‘Some of it.’
‘She came over here from Bristol. She had a friend in the village – Frank Heywood – and he introduced her to me. That was my mistake. I assumed, because she came recommended, that I could trust her. I sat down and talked to her in this very kitchen … not that it looked like this then. The Hall was already being emptied by the time she arrived. The Longhursts had gone. Anyway, I couldn’t have been more wrong. She took what I said, used the bits she wanted and distorted the rest. I reckon she’d already made up her mind what she wanted to write long before she got here.’
‘What did you tell her?’
‘I told her about the family. About the boys. I knew Stephen Longhurst, of course, but the other kid, Wayne Howard, was often round here and I got to know him too. The school. The village. Two hours we spoke, and it all went down in that little notebook of hers. Scribble, scribble, scribble. You’re not taking notes?’
‘I don’t need notes, Mr Lamprey. What did she get wrong?’