Set in stone, p.32
Set in Stone, page 32
part #10 of Robert Goddard Series
When Halfyard finally got round to writing, it transpired that Daisy really had left everything to Lucy, meaning Matt inherited a house, a collection of sculptures and some substantial savings, none of which he wanted or needed. The house is on the market and the sculptures will be up for auction in a few months. Who knows, Daisy Temple may turn out to be a posthumous star of the art world. Matt kept one piece for himself: the unfinished bust of Lucy, which could so easily be of you.
There are quite a few things I could ask Matt, but don’t. And vice versa. We share our secrets by never speaking of them. The inquest into the double drowning in Rutland Water is due to be held next week. We’ll both be giving evidence. But we don’t talk about it. There’s no need. We know what we’ll be saying. And what we won’t. Least said soonest mended isn’t a proverb I ever thought I’d swear by. It’s never been my style. Till now.
One unasked question did get answered last weekend, though. Matt invited me up, ostensibly to discuss the American job. He’ll be over there quite a bit himself, so we’ll probably see as much of each other as we ever have, if not more. And we’d already discussed it pretty thoroughly. So, it was no surprise that the subject hardly cropped up. We talked about you and Lucy instead. We talk about the two of you quite a lot, actually. The things we did together, the holidays we had, and the fun. Yes, the fun. We forgot that somehow in the losing of you. But we remember it now, without flinching.
I stayed until Monday. Matt took the day off. We drove up to Lincoln to see the cathedral, which I never had before, and started back after a late lunch. Matt was driving. When we didn’t take the Melton turning off the Al, I thought he’d overshot by mistake. But no, there was something he wanted to show me. We turned off at the Ram Jam instead and headed towards Oakham. I suppose I knew then where we were going, but still I didn’t ask.
Soon, as we drove through Hambleton and carried on east along the peninsula, there was no need. Otherways was our destination. As Matt turned into the drive, he said, “Prepare yourself for a shock,” and, a few moments later, the shock was there, in front of me.
Otherways was no more. The foundations were still in place, and the moat, but the house itself had been demolished. Contractors’ vehicles were loading and removing the piled stonework. Glass and plaster and wood were stacked in skips. The smoking remains of a bonfire scarred the lawn. I stared at the scene in amazement. A building that had never seemed quite real now wasn’t real at all. The wrecking ball and the bulldozer had smashed Posnan’s subtle artifice into dust and rubble. Otherways had become part of its own history.
Seeing us, a man who looked as if he was in charge walked over to the car and spoke to Matt. “It’s not gone as smoothly as I’d have liked, Mr Prior,” he said. “Those walls didn’t seem to want to come down.” I saw Matt smile grimly. “But we got there in the end.”
“I wondered why you hadn’t put it up for sale,” I said, as the man walked away.
“I couldn’t sell that to anyone.” Matt looked round at me. “Now could I?”
“I thought it was listed.”
“So it was. That’s why I’ve had them at it over the weekend. Less chance of official intervention. There’ll be hell to pay, of course. And a fat fine, I dare say. But I don’t care. It’s gone. That’s all that matters.”
“Did I ever tell you about Stowe House?”
“I don’t think so.”
“The Grenvilles were the big landowners round Stanacombe for centuries. They built themselves a huge mansion called Stowe House in about 1680. A sequence of family tragedies followed and the male line died out. The house was pulled down in about 1740. It had stood for just sixty years. Marina read up on the subject. There was a saying about it she used to quote. “Within the memory of one man, grass grew and was sown in the meadow where sprang up Stowe House, and grew and was mown again where Stowe had been.” ”
“A meadow,” said Matt dreamily. “I like that.”
“So do I.”
I thought, and think, that Posnan might have liked it as well. Otherways was his greatest work, but it was also the reason why he stopped working. He built more than a house at Otherways. He made something he grew to fear. Now there was nothing to be frightened of any more.
“I’m glad you’ve done this, Matt.”
“No choice, really. None at all.”
He turned the car round and headed away along the drive. Neither of us looked back. Matt didn’t so much as glance up at the mirror.
At the end of the drive, he turned left and went as far along the lane as the gates Lucy had crashed through, just as he had in my dream. There he stopped and asked me to walk down with him to the water’s edge.
The afternoon was still and grey, with a tang of autumn in the air. We went through the pedestrian side gate and walked slowly ahead, over the last bulge of land before the descent to the pontoon. Neither of us said anything. There was nothing to say.
The pontoon came in sight, with Half Moon Spinney to the left, fields to the right and the waveless waters of the lake dead ahead. We walked on, side by side, until we reached the last shingly yard of lane before the flood line. Lucy had died here, either where we stood or a short way out, beneath the water. This was the last piece of the world we’d shared with her.
“It’s the first time I’ve come down here since it happened,” said Matt. “I’d forgotten how peaceful it is.”
“I did everything I could to save her.”
“I know.”
“But she didn’t want to be saved.”
“I know that, too.”
“There’s something I’m going to have to explain to you,” I said, sensing that the moment had come for me to tell him how poor a friend I’d really been to him,
“Let me go first, Tony.”
“You?”
“Yes. I have my monthly check-up with the doc tomorrow. If all’s well, he’ll probably extend it to three months for the next one.”
“And is all well?”
“Touch wood, yes. I’ll even be able to report some progress that he was predicting.”
“What sort of progress?”
“He said the amnesia would most likely be temporary. Well, he was right.”
“Your memory’s come back?”
“Yes.” Matt turned to me. “It has.” We stood there, looking at each other for several seconds. Then he went on, “Which means you don’t have to bother explaining anything.”
“I don’t?”
“Not a thing.” He glanced out at the lake and took a deep breath. “Let’s go home, shall we?”
We started back up the lane. I wondered if I should try to explain, despite his assurance to the contrary. Then the moment passed and, in the companionable silence that followed, I realized how right Matt was. We were done with explanations. There were many things we could both have said. But there was nothing we needed to.
What happened at Henna Cliff, Marina? What really happened? You know. You must do. I can only guess and stop Matt from guessing. The letter that was waiting for me at Stanacombe two months ago was postmarked Oakham, 12 July—the day before. But it could easily have lain in the box from the day before that; there are no collections on a Sunday afternoon. When I tore the envelope open, I found myself looking at a rail ticket, clipped in one corner. It was a first-class single, from Newton Abbot to Oakham. I don’t need to tell you the date on it. You know that well enough.
I carry the ticket around with me in my wallet. I don’t know why. I’ve often thought I should destroy it. But I haven’t. Not yet, anyway. It could be a last clever piece of stage management on someone’s part. Or it could be the only remaining fragment of the truth. Either way, I reckon I’ll go on keeping it to myself.
Robert Goddard, Set in Stone
