11

Chandler-Powell waited until Marcus’s footsteps had faded, then left the Manor to see Candace Westhall. He hadn’t intended to spend this Wednesday becoming embroiled in arguments with either Marcus or his sister, but now that a decision had been made it would be as well to see what Candace had in mind. It was going to be a nuisance if she, too, had decided to leave, but presumably, now that her father was dead, she would want to return to her university post for the next term. Even if that wasn’t the plan, her job at the Manor, taking over from Helena when Helena was in London and helping out in the office, was hardly a career. He disliked interfering in the domestic management of the Manor, but if Candace now intended to leave, the sooner he knew the better.

He walked up the lane to Stone Cottage in the fitful winter sunshine and, approaching, saw that there was a dirty sports car parked outside Rose Cottage. So the Westhalls’ cousin, Robin Boyton, had arrived. He remembered that Helena had said something about his visit with a marked lack of enthusiasm which, he suspected, was shared by both the Westhalls. Boyton tended to book the cottage at short notice, but as it was vacant, Helena obviously had found it difficult to refuse him.

He was always interested in how different Stone Cottage had looked since Candace and her father had arrived some two and a half years previously. She was an assiduous gardener. Chandler-Powell suspected that it had been one legitimate excuse for getting away from Peregrine Westhall’s bedside. He had only visited the old man twice before his death, but he knew, as he suspected did the whole village, that he was a selfish, demanding and unrewarding patient to care for. And now that he was dead and Marcus about to leave England, no doubt Candace, released from what must have been servitude, would have her own plans for the future.

She was raking the back lawn, wearing her old tweed jacket, corduroy trousers and boots which she kept for gardening, her strong dark hair covered by a woollen cap pulled down to her ears. It emphasised the stark resemblance to her father, the dominant nose, the deep-set eyes under straight bushy brows, the length and thinness of the lips, a forceful uncompromising face which, with the hair concealed, looked androgynous. How oddly the Westhall genes had fallen, so that it was Marcus, not she, in whom the old man’s features were softened into an almost feminine gentleness. Seeing him, she propped the rake against a tree trunk and came to meet him. She said, “Good morning, George. I think I know why you’ve come. I was just going to break for coffee. Come in, will you.”

She led him through the side door, the one commonly used, into the old pantry, which, with its stone walls and floor, looked more like an outhouse, a convenient dump for worn-out equipment, dominated by a Welsh dresser hung with a miscellany of mugs and cups, bundles of keys and a variety of plates and dishes. They moved to the adjoining small kitchen. It was meticulously tidy, but Chandler-Powell told himself that it was time something was done to enlarge and modernise the place, and wondered that Candace, reputed to be a good cook, hadn’t complained about it.