‘Nothing wrong, if you do it legally. But this is taking the law into my own hands, to put it mildly. I’ve gone too far to do otherwise. Besides, as I told you, it’s really British Intelligence who are after me. I know too much, about various people. They want me stopped, put away, killed. Not the police. So even if I were proved innocent about Laura, that wouldn’t stop the others still coming after me. Look at what happened this morning: that man with the shotgun. That was Ross, the head of our dirty tricks section. Well, he’s somewhow got onto my track. They’re working hard. They’re out to kill me. It’s obvious. So I can’t do anything “legally” in this country. I have to get out if I can, with Clare. But you mustn’t get tied up in all this. If they killed Laura by mistake, why, they might do the same for you.’
Alice stood up and started to clear away the lunch. ‘That’s all theory. You could be wrong. In any case, one thing is fact: you won’t get Clare out of any institution, or either of you away to Portugal, without help. Without me,’ she added decisively.
‘Why not? I had some training when I was in the service. With a car, some money —’
‘And passports? You’d need them. And one with Clare’s name on it.’
‘She’s on Laura’s passport. It’s back in the cottage. Or I could buy one. There are places in London … I’d pay you back.’
‘Yes, of course. I need the money.’
‘Besides, if I need help, I’ve friends in London. One of them could help. They’re my friends after all. You don’t have to be involved.’
She saw at once that I was lying here. It was a stupid thing to say. We were already closer than I realised.
She said sharply. ‘I don’t believe you have such friends in London. If you had, you’d have gone to them in the first place, instead of lying up in the woods here for ten days. I think you’re probably as bad as I am about friends,’ she added with some defiance. ‘Any way,’ she went on, ‘I’m here to help …’
But she didn’t finish the sentence. We both of us heard wheels crunching over the gravel surround in front of the house just then. And we both saw the police car a moment later, a big white Rover streaked in orange and black, pulling up by the porch. Alice didn’t hesitate for a second.
‘Quick! Over there,’ she said. ‘Don’t go through the hall. There’s no time. Get in under that big shelf at the back, where the pots are. The other plants in front will hide you completely. I’ll get these dishes out of the way.’
I ran over to the back of the big conservatory where a profusion of brilliantly coloured potted plants and shrubs lay along a broad shelf against the wall. On the stone floor in front were other taller shrubs in pots and urns. Pushing my way in behind these from one end, I found myself beneath the shelf in a kind of greeny cage, hedged in by the exotic plants, with just the odd spyhole through the leaves and crimson petals out into the conservatory.
I heard the great hall doors opening in the distance. Alice would surely take the police into the drawing-room at the far end of the great hall, I thought. So I was surprised — no, I was angry — when a minute later I heard the footsteps coming through the library and on into the conservatory. What the hell was she doing bringing the police in here, unless to have done with me, to betray me? She’d probably fixed it all on the phone, when I’d been changing in Arthur’s rooms.
A bluff, nice, west-country voice rang out not far in front of me. ‘… I shouldn’t, Miss Troy. But I couldn’t resist asking you — just another look at your conservatory? I only glanced at it last time I was here. I’m not really a hothouse man myself, and I don’t get up to Chelsea now. But this! This is really wonderful. You don’t mind if I take another look, do you?’
‘Of course not, Superintendent. Go right ahead.’
‘These camellias, Miss Troy. They’re quite extraordinary.’ I heard the heavy policeman’s footsteps coming straight towards me. ‘Never seen anything like them. Even in Chelsea. This one …’ The Superintendent had stopped right in front of me now. I could see his black trousers blotting out all the light. The camellias were obviously all along the shelf immediately above me.
‘Yes, I’m proud of that. Marvellous, isn’t it? So dramatic. Those crimson petals on the little narrow bush. “Anticipation”, it’s called. Yet it’s ideal for small gardens. But my favourites are these, over here, these single-flowered ones: “Henry Turnbull”. They’re so delicate, the petals, like some fantasy Ascot hat. Just a breath of air and you’d think they’d disintegrate. In fact they’re quite robust.’
‘Beautiful. Just beautiful. Of course they don’t really do at all up here on this soil. Outside, I mean.’
‘No. Not enough acid. You have to pot them. And then pot on, and re-pot as they get bigger. It’s a bit tiresome, and you have to have the right kind of mulch every year and a good loam compost: acid loam if you can get it. Or add some sulphur. But once you get your compost right there are really no problems, they’re quite trouble-free. You have to watch the watering, though. Not too much, that’s the great thing. I use rainwater. The softer the better.’
‘Yes. I’d heard that.’
‘Or you can sub-irrigate, with a sand base and a water drip, if you’re really doing it grandly. But I prefer the old watering-can: the personal touch.’
‘Of course. That’s what plants are all about anyway, aren’t they? The personal touch.’
‘Would you like a cutting? Here — this japonica hybrid: “Tinkerbell”. There’s no problem.’
‘I wouldn’t think of it, Miss Troy —’
‘Not at all, Superintendent. Here, I’ll get my secateurs. Put it in some damp moss peat, you know, cover and seal it with a thin polythene, a little warm water now and then and you should have something in six or eight weeks …’
Their voices drifted away as they went out to the far side of the conservatory. But they were back again in a minute, right in front of me again while Alice took a cutting.
Then she said, ‘Coffee, Superintendent?’
‘No thank you, Miss Troy. As I mentioned in the hall, I really came up about this man who’s escaped.’
‘You think he’s still somewhere here, do you?’
‘Well, I don’t. But some people from London do, from the CID there, that man you told me about down by your lake this morning. They think he may be still hiding out somewhere on your estate. So we’re going to have to go through the whole place all over again, if you don’t mind. In fact, Miss Troy, I have to admit it, the man from London, well, he went back through the little valley down there, after you’d moved him off your land. He came to us then. You see, he found some things.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. You see, he’d brought a dog with him: an Alsatian tracker. He lost it earlier in the morning. But he found it when he went back. It had fallen down a well behind that old pumping-station you have on the far side of the little lake.
‘Yes?’
‘It seems the dog was speared by something, a piece of metal, through the throat, before he drowned. Well, that’s not so important — probably ran into something, an old bit of wire fencing. But then inside the pumping-station we found the remains of some cooking: warm bricks, a few bits of meat, ashes.’
‘Oh, that was me. Yesterday. I’m often down by the lake, bathing. And we sometimes make a barbecue in that old shed. Gets you out of the wind. That was me, Superintendent! Not the man you’re looking for.’
‘Well, that explains that. But then, Miss Troy, another thing: our dogs picked up a scent, just by the shed, of someone, possibly this man, and it led right up to your house here, to the kitchen door in fact. I have some of my men out in the yard now.’