‘Sssssh!’ he chastised me, then, a few moments later, ‘She likes to exact a price,’ he panted, ‘I can see that now. And you’ll find out yourself soon enough. An extreme, little spirit – stringent. Beautiful but stringent. An outcast. An oddity. Invasive. Like a little … a little weed …’

‘A daisy, Brother,’ I murmured, half to myself, suddenly remembering the photograph.

Then again, once he’d finally reached the door and was leaning against the frame, steeling himself for the corridor, ‘Still there?’ he whispered, followed by a short pause. ‘I did as you asked, didn’t I?’ followed by, ‘He paddles his own canoe, little one. That’s what he … But why are you …?’

Another pause. ‘No! No more of your smiles, my dear child. It’s too painful. I’m much too old – can’t you see? – and much too sinful. Please. Please. No more. No more. No more of your smiles.’

32

Miss Carla Hahn

Clifford was incredibly hot and bothered – poor thing – from re-burying the dog. Then (a real glutton for punishment) he’d broken into Shimmy’s big shed (which has been inaccessible for months) with a giant pair of bolt-cutters and liberated an old rabbit cage. Shimmy was glued to the radio, all the while, switching frantically from channel to channel, listening to every available piece of coverage on the Brighton bombing. I could hear the stentorian tones of a series of newsreaders, intercut with the dazed voices of witnesses, victims and furious pundits from all the way out in the garden.

‘So Rogue wasn’t actually dead.’ I tried to get to the bottom of the situation. ‘He was in some kind of a … a coma … and then he …?’

‘Yes. Either he dug himself out of the hole,’ Clifford confirmed, ‘or possibly the badgers …’

His mouth suddenly tightened. ‘Or maybe she did it,’ he muttered, darkly, ‘maybe it was just her.’

‘She?’ I echoed.

She? Who did he mean, exactly? She? Surely not …?

Not …

Not Orla?

I scowled.

But Clifford didn’t even …

I mean Clifford wasn’t especially …

I stared down at the newly covered grave again and … and … Oh I can’t believe they had relations! Mr Huff and Mrs Meadows! In Lamb House! Birthplace of The Ambassadors! (Which I’ve never actually read.) And straight after breakfast, or … did they even eat breakfast? Maybe they just …

‘How’s the bird?’ he asked.

‘Sorry?’

I glanced up, but I just couldn’t get that awful image of Mr Huff and Mrs Meadows having … being … doing … out of my head.

‘Sorry? The bird?’ I repeated.

Clifford still seemed to be avoiding all eye contact.

‘The parrot,’ he expanded.

‘The parrot?’

‘Yes,’ he snapped. ‘The parrot, Carla!’

‘Oh, you mean Baldo?’ I finally made sense of it. ‘I don’t honestly know. The last I heard Alys had taken him over to—’

‘She just can’t resist it!’ Clifford interrupted, plainly livid. ‘Over-egging the damn pudding!’

‘Who …?’ I murmured.