NANCY pulled up
behind the Hawthorne hedge. Today, she had donned a black overcoat and leather
ankle boots with fleece lining. A scarf provided further insulation against the
chill during a possible wait.
She
had packed a flask of tea, biscuits and ham sandwiches. The Cheap Sleep Hostel
permitted the use of a spacious but dour kitchen with steel tops. Burroughs had
advised her to place any food in a named Tupperware box but could not guarantee
someone might not steal it. She was pleased to find her bread, ham, butter and digestives
in the fridge when she had returned from breakfast.
Her
first night at the Cheap Sleep had seen little of its namesake. The radiators
rattled and the bed was hard. The bunk felt no more hers even with her addition
of new sheets and pillowcases.
Nancy
pressed the buzzer. Today she took cautious hope. With Amy out of the picture,
things might pan out differently. The place remained pap-free. According to a
snippet in today’s Daily Mail, Vince still languished in hospital
but would soon be flown out to a private clinic in Switzerland. A reporter had
taken his chances outside Vince’s Knightsbridge apartment without a sighting.
Speculations have begun to abound on conspiracy theories. Had the crash been
planned? Had someone messed with the brakes? Who was responsible? Could it be
family, the government, the secret service? A simple blowout would seem to provide
journalists extra things to write about. Still, this digression had worked in
Nancy’s favour. The Retreat in the backwoods of Warwickshire had grown increasingly
overlooked in the public eye.
Nancy
adopted the stance of yesterday: her feet planted upon a patch of grass
overlooked by the cameras and both hands grasping the handle of her satchel
bag. No whirring pierced the air this time, but then, the cameras didn’t have
to pan to spot her. At the head of the driveway, a green land rover partially
obscured the porchway. She lifted her chin for the benefit of whoever received
the feed. Her purpose here would remain plain; the manner by which she occupied
the space outside Vince’s gates could only mean one thing. A mechanism behind
the intercom system clicked. The gates hummed on its transit though a
ninety-degree arc. Nancy’s lower lip fell; a small frown gathered. She
remembered the cameras and stilled her expression. She was a guest here after
all; she had a job to do. Nancy transferred the handle of her bag to her right hand
and let it swing at her side.
Today,
the row of elms to her right did not look upon her as an intruder; the soles of
her boots pounded the gravel; the chapel entrance approached as though
expecting this guest. Her long black coat had almost taken flight as she strode
onto the Lakeland slabs. She straightened her scarf as she clopped towards the
door.
On
the oak panels she had the choice of a pulley or a large knocker. She went for
neither and rapped her knuckles against the oak. Nothing on the reverse side of
that door would tease out one Sheila’s daughter of Weaver’s Street who did not
know her father’s name. Her tiny but implacable smile came easily, not to be
dislodged by anything the Retreat could throw at her. The oak front gave an
inch before the gap widened. Mr. Beatnik of the Aaron jumper gazed at her with
his angelic blue eyes. Nancy found her words immediately. ‘Good morning, I’m
Nora Clements, Mr. Jonas’ nurse. You may remember me from the other day.’
Mr.
Beatnik’s wheaty brows drew together in a frown. ‘Yeah, I remember you.’ Small
pupils did a flick over her attire and seemed to make an evaluation. ‘He ain’t
here; gone to London on a meeting with some accountant.’
Beatnik’s
informality grated. He had a faint cockney twang American actors might adopt in
an effort to sound British.
‘That’s
okay,’ Nancy said and flashed a copy badge. ‘I’m here to rearrange Mr. Jonas’
room. Amy took the day off and left it to me.’
Beatnik
gave a small, slow nod. ‘Oh, right.’
An
awkward silence. ‘And you are…’
‘Oh,
I’m Henry Cavendish, the groundskeeper.’ His moist lips turned up at one
corner.
Amy
had evidently excluded a mere groundskeeper from the news a charlatan was at
large tricking her way into Vince’s bedroom. ‘May I come in?’ Nancy asked.
‘Er…yeah,
sure.’ Henry pulled the door wider and stood aside.