CHAPTER 7
The minicab’s tyres crunched on the gravel driveway on the approach to Chalton Manor, an eighteenth-century Georgian pile nestling in four acres of rural countryside in a village bearing the same name.
From one of the upstairs windows, Iveta Kalnieks watched the car swing round in an arc to the left of the wide expanse of the drive and ultimately disappear from her view as it pulled up outside the entrance portico below her. He was back.
She had monitored his progress on Flightracker, and although the flight had arrived ten minutes early, a miracle given the distance, the journey from the airport was bound to be less predictable. So she had arrived an hour ago, just to be sure, as she didn’t want to miss him on her last day.
She turned away from the window and approached the large mahogany chest of drawers, giving it a rudimentary wipe with the duster she held in her right hand. It didn’t need dusting but she wiped it anyway, then turned to the large bed to adjust cushions that didn’t need adjusting and smooth a bedspread that didn’t need smoothing. Satisfied everything was as perfect as it could be, she made her way around the bed towards the door, stopped to take one last look at the large bedroom and let herself out the large panelled door for the last time.
Downstairs, Colonel Peter Jeffries, rucksack over one shoulder, pushed open the grand main entrance door to Chalton Manor and staggered into the large hallway, dragging a wheeled suitcase behind him. He dropped the baggage by the oak reception table and threw his hat and keys down next to a pile of letters.
He had shrunk in height since his days on the parade ground, and to his enduring dismay was rarely able to stand upright to attention anymore, one of the many debilitating aspects of the ageing process. But even at seventy he retained a good shock of hair, albeit silver, and a fine moustache that, to his mind at least, passed daily inspection in the bathroom mirror and afforded him a modest degree of personal dignity.
In contrast, of course, his girth had expanded over the years as his exercise regime declined and he had gradually succumbed to the pleasures of fine wine and, when someone provided it for him, good food.
But age was telling now, as was his condition. Traipsing halfway around the world used to be routine, part of the job, but he rarely travelled now and when he did it was only to mooch up the river on Carician, so the combined effect of airports, jet lag and, on this occasion, unusually strenuous walking at altitude had taken its toll.
He looked up and around the hallway as if visiting the place for the first time. There were several oil paintings hanging on the walls, a large standard lamp and, as well as the oak reception table, a chest of drawers upon which sat a large eighteenth-century French clock and a couple of Meissen porcelain figurines. To the right of the door stood a large grandfather clock, ticking languorously, next to a deep container made from cane which held numerous umbrellas, walking sticks and tennis rackets.
He had lived here for the last ten years, although it had always been the family home, his father’s before him and his father’s before him and so on. Peter had grown up there, but now he felt completely detached. The house had become a stranger to him now that everyone had gone. It needed people, a family with noise and activity to breathe life and vibrancy into its crusty and decrepit interior. Now he was alone, it felt alien to him, and oppressive, as if he didn’t belong, and he wondered what the future now held him for them both.
He looked down at the pile of mail and instinctively picked it up to scan the bundle of letters that had accumulated over the last three weeks, but he was not interested in any of them. He gave the first two or three a cursory glance and dropped them back on the table. Cup of tea is what was needed, he thought, and hobbled down the hallway to the kitchen, aged legs aching with every step.
Before he had reached halfway down the long kitchen, with its large central table capable of seating a family of ten, his mobile phone rang. Without breaking step, he fished it out of his inside jacket pocket, examined the display and, with a nod of recognition, put the phone to his ear. He stood at the window over the kitchen sink, looking out onto the back garden.
“Michael. Good morning to you.” He tried but failed to keep the weariness out of his voice and said it with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. But then Michael Goodman was a good friend of his, he was pleased to speak to him and genuinely grateful that he had called.
“Hello, Peter. I wasn’t sure what time you’d be back.” Michael had been Peter’s lawyer, friend and confidant for over thirty years, and together with Michael’s wife Emma, just about the only people in the world he could call family.
“Just walked through the door,” said Peter.
“And how are you feeling?”
“Ah well, you know what these long flights are like.” Peter was not in the mood to explain his state of mind, or body, for that matter, but he knew Michael was not purely interested in his friend’s health.
“And were you able to get any information?”
“Yes, I did.” He tried, without success, to keep any sense of resignation out of his voice. “But I’m afraid it’s not very good. I just don’t know what else to do.” He felt close to despair.
“Well, I think you should take some time to rethink the options. I have some contacts out there who might be able to continue where you left off. But in the meantime, don’t let it drag you down.” It sounded trite and simplistic to Peter, but he didn’t blame his friend. He meant well, but what could he say?
“No, I won’t. But it’s very hard,” said Peter. “I have never felt so despondent.” The word said it all. The once garrulous, bombastic, humorous, confident, supremely able Colonel Peter Jeffries, emotionally and physically drained in a way he could not recognise and had never experienced before. He wished for inspiration, something to ease the pain.
“We’re thinking of you, Peter. We’re thinking of you both. Call me in a couple of days when you’ve settled back in and we’ll have chat.”
“Thanks. Bye now.” Then quickly, before Michael had hung up, he said, “Oh, and love to Emma,” courteous and thoughtful as ever.
He pressed the cancel button just as an unfamiliar sound from behind startled him, and he turned to see what or who it was, realising immediately there was no danger.
“Ah, Iveta, it’s you.” He took a few steps towards her and they met halfway down the kitchen. “I didn’t expect you here today,” he said gently. Iveta stood looking mournful and uncomfortable and wearing her coat, which to Peter meant she had either just arrived or else was just leaving. Iveta stretched out a hand that held a small bundle of keys.
“I just came to bring you these,” she said in her heavily accented English. Reluctantly, Peter took the keys from her and pulled himself together.
“Good luck in your new job,” he said with as much warmth as he could manage.
He was greatly saddened Iveta was leaving, but fully understood her reasoning. It could not have been a whole bundle of laughs living with a miserable old fool like him in a tired old house like this for the last few months. She was young, mid-twenties, and no doubt craved a bit more variety and personal interaction in her work. She had been offered a job with a nice professional couple who had two small children and it was an opportunity she couldn’t turn down. There was nothing here for her anymore, and he knew it. But she had been a very good housekeeper, diligent, industrious and uncomplaining, and although she had a brusque and businesslike character and often failed to laugh at his merry quips, she was unquestionably honest and reliable, and he would miss her.
Iveta smiled ruefully. “Colonel,” she said, and he could see the sorrow in her eyes, “did you find anything?” He appreciated her concern, which he knew to be genuine, but was in no mood to explain.
“No,” he said. Iveta pursed her lips and looked away. She hesitated a moment, then returned his gaze.
“I am very sorry for you.” The Latvian intonation made her sound officious and unfeeling, but he managed to smile at her and she thrust out a hand, which he shook gently.
“Goodbye,” she said with finality and turned away. Peter watched her go out of the kitchen and listened to her receding footsteps on the stone floor in the hallway.
“Bye, Iveta,” he said out loud to himself as he heard the main door open with a creak, then close with a distant clunk that echoed around the entire house that was Chalton Manor.