Читать книгу The Heights - Parker Bilal - Страница 18

The big iron gate down at the road stood half open, which was not how Crane remembered things. In itself it was unremarkable, but it felt like a portent of what she could expect to find. Steering the bike through the gap, she twisted the throttle to send the Triumph shooting up the track that wound its way gently up the crest of the hill. To her left was a broad hillside dotted with trees. The grass a deep green. To her right a wall gave way to a high fence that ran alongside the unsurfaced track, separating empty fields from a more densely wooded area.

The sun broke through the indigo clouds as she reached the top and circled in front of the big house. Sunlight glinted off the high windows and painted the honey-coloured sandstone of the big house a rich amber. The driveway was empty but for a battered old white Range Rover that was parked over to one side. Crane climbed off the bike and looked up at the house. Her grandfather always used to tell the story that back in Cromwell’s day a party of his Roundheads had commandeered the house as they headed north to do battle with the Royalists. Stories. This house was full of them. The last time she had been here was more than a decade ago, the day of her grandmother’s funeral. Nothing else would have brought her back.

The front steps were worn and chipped. The original parts of the house were four hundred years old and it had received a few knocks in its time. The front door gave onto a wide vestibule with a chequered black-and-white tile floor. To her left light poured in through the high windows at the far end on the south side of the house. To her right a reception area and beyond that a dining room with views over the hillside down towards the hawthorns and yew trees that shrouded the river.

The only response to her shouted greeting was a heavy sigh that came from her left. She walked through into the drawing room, where a dappled grey mare was chomping contentedly on the stuffing coming out of an antique divan. The horse swung her head round to look at Crane and then carried on eating.

She wandered through the house, making a complete circuit of the ground floor and finding nothing but disorder. Overturned chairs and tables, the remains of what looked like weeks’ worth of discarded food wrappings, empty bottles, whisky, gin and enough wine to sink a caravel. She lifted a bottle up to the light and saw sediment that had dried against the glass. She surprised two mice on the dining table.

A couple of geese were waddling along the upstairs landing. They paused here and there to tug free tufts of wool from the carpet. Her father was in what used to be called the library, although by the looks of it most of the books had been removed. Wearing a dressing gown, he was slumped over the big desk by the window, his long white hair in disarray. Her heart skipped a beat as it occurred to her that he might actually be dead. Then she saw his hand move, crawling across the polished teak towards a glass that had tipped its contents over the desk and onto the floor. Crane walked over and pushed open the windows to let some air in. Her father gave a shudder and sat up with a start.

‘What are you trying to do?’ he asked, squinting at her. ‘Kill me?’

‘If it was that easy, I’d have done it years ago,’ she said, unzipping her jacket and throwing herself down in an armchair. He scrabbled around for his glasses and managed to put them on.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I came to check whether you were still alive.’

‘You always were the sentimental type.’ He leaned back in his chair and yawned. ‘What day is it?’

‘Does it make a difference?’

‘If you’ve come here to trade insults I’m not in the mood.’

‘What’s going on, Dad?’

‘What do you mean?’ He seemed baffled, as if he had no idea what she was talking about.

‘I mean, look around you.’

‘Look around? Don’t you understand, I’ve been very busy.’

‘I heard you were having problems.’

‘What kind of problems? Look at me.’ He thumped his chest. ‘Sound of mind and body.’

‘I’m not sure that qualifies as an expert opinion.’

Edmund Crane hung his head. ‘You were always a contrary child. Never wanting to do anything you were told. You drove your mother mad.’

‘Please. Don’t bring my mother into it.’

The old man’s lip trembled. ‘Ungrateful and resentful, that’s you. I mean, all of this will pass to you some day.’

Crane threw a glance about her. ‘I hardly think so.’

‘What are you going to do, give it to some socialist charity?’

‘I can’t think of a charity that would take it, other than an animal sanctuary. Are you expecting a flood or something?’

‘Always so cynical. Why are you here anyway?’

‘I heard you were in trouble.’

Edmund Crane was dismissive. ‘Trouble? Nonsense. Where would you hear a thing like that?’

‘Marco Foulkes.’

‘Oh, that fool.’ Edmund Crane’s eyes sought refuge in the window. ‘I tried to borrow money from him. He’s got so much of it, I thought he wouldn’t miss it. All those starry-eyed women buying his shoddy books. I mean, what has the world come to when you can peddle such rubbish as literature?’

‘It’s all gone downhill since Thomas Hardy.’

‘Don’t patronise me. I can’t believe you’re defending him.’

‘I’m not. I certainly didn’t come to talk about his writing. I want to know what he’s been selling you.’

Edmund Crane groaned, putting his hands to his head. ‘I asked him for a loan, just to tide me over. I have money coming in. It’s just tied up in legal issues.’

‘You mean the bank won’t let you remortgage this place again?’

‘When did you become a financial expert?’

‘Why don’t you get your old friends in the Foreign Office to help you? Oh, yes.’ Crane smiled. ‘That would be too humiliating. Asking for help.’

Edmund Crane grumbled to himself as he got to his feet. Stumbling across the room, he began pulling books off the shelves. Whole swathes of them tumbled to the floor until he found what he was looking for.

‘Aha!’ he said triumphantly, holding up a half bottle of Napoleon brandy.

With a sigh, Crane got to her feet and headed for the door, where she paused to look back.

‘Why don’t you get someone to help?’

‘But I have someone.’ The brandy had brought a smile to Edmund Crane’s face. ‘I have Hilda. You should say hello to her on the way out.’

Hilda? It took Crane a moment to remember Marco Foulkes’ divorced mother’s first name. She had been in pursuit of Edmund Crane for years. She vaguely recalled some story about them having been childhood sweethearts or something. The woman she found downstairs in the kitchen had mousey hair, the colour and texture of damp straw. She was wearing yellow rubber gloves and green wellies.

‘He’s not himself,’ she confided.

‘Clearly he can’t manage. I mean, look at the place. He needs help.’

‘Well, that’s why I’m here.’ Her smile was well meant, but shaky.

‘All due respect, Mrs Foulkes, but you can’t be expected to take care of him by yourself. You have your own life. He needs to hire somebody.’

‘Well, he let them all go. The groundsmen, the housekeepers.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He doesn’t like to talk about it, but it’s his finances.’

‘What’s the matter with his finances?’

‘Well, you didn’t hear it from me, but …’ Hilda’s eyes lifted to the ceiling. ‘I understand he made some unwise investments.’

Crane recalled Hilda Foulkes as eccentric and not particularly generous. A vain and rather self-absorbed woman with a fondness for wacky diets and health fads, all of which indicated a fragile grasp of reality. Perhaps Mrs Foulkes had finally taken leave of her senses.

‘Marco explained it all to me. Most unfortunate. Your father put his money into a property company. Shares. Then the company was taken over by Russians, or something like that.’ She paused to frown fiercely at the floor. ‘Europeans in any case, or perhaps they weren’t from Europe at all but somewhere in the east.’

Crane’s patience was rapidly running out. It felt like a wasted trip.

‘I can have a word with his solicitors, see if they can shed any light.’

‘Yes, you should.’ Hilda Foulkes’ face lit up like a lantern. ‘I understand you’re helping Marco. He was always very fond of you.’

‘That was a long time ago, Mrs Foulkes.’

‘Hilda, please. We’re practically family.’

Crane resisted the impulse to respond, deciding that compassion might be in order.

‘Well, it’s good he’s got somebody to keep an eye on things.’

‘I’m always here. I mean, I’m just across the way. You should come by some time.’

‘I’ll do that,’ said Crane, with a smile so convincing she almost believed it herself.