The Strange Fate of Kitty Easton Read Free Page B

architectural features to show how clever you are, but sat and got the feel of it.’
    ‘It’s one of my favourites. I used to escape there rather a lot.’ He caught Eleanor’s approving look and stopped, suddenly self-conscious, as she offered him a plate of sandwiches, saying innocently, ‘Cucumber or anchovy relish?’
    ‘And now you’re a schoolmaster?’ Lydia said.
    ‘Well, I have been. But I’m actually considering something new.’ He had no chance to explain because Lydia added, eagerly, as if he needed to be encouraged to stay, ‘There’s plenty of history around here for you—not just the church.’
    ‘That’s the sort of thing Patrick—Lydia’s brother-in-law—is awfully good on,’ Frances said. ‘He’s been out in Crete. He’s an archaeologist.’ Leaning forward, she looked animated. ‘Wouldn’t you love to be there? Making history and revealing it all at once?’
    ‘I’d like to see Egypt,’ Lydia said. ‘The thought of buried treasure—all that gold and lapis lazuli—chariots and statuettes and goblets. That pharaoh nobody can pronounce. I read in my newspaper that Mr Carter and Lord Carnarvon said it was the first thing that hit them when they peered in: gold as far as the eye could see.’
    Eleanor responded, though with a smile that saved her from sounding critical: ‘Slaves building tombs for pharaohs then, and aristocrats disinterring them now, still ordering local peasants to do the hard work for them. I suppose that’s progress. Less flogging, anyway.’
    Frances laughed. ‘She was like this at Cambridge,’ she said to her sister. ‘She’s a fiery Amazon, always fighting for the rights of man. Well, woman, actually, on the whole.’ She looked fondly at her friend. ‘She’s all of our consciences.’
    ‘Not really.’
    ‘Yes , really.’
    A large portrait of a man in uniform caught Laurence’s eye: Digby Easton almost certainly. The man was pictured sitting side-on in front of a window. The garden stretched out behind him. Easton already had a captain’s pips. His boots shone, one hand, loosely holding leather gloves, lay on his crossed leg and the other held a riding crop. He seemed the picture of confidence, privilege and good health, with high colour and a clean-cut profile, yet when it was painted, he had, Laurence guessed, no more than a year to live. He looked around to see if there was a picture of Digby and Lydia’s daughter, but could see none.
    Noise from the hall interrupted his thoughts. A rumbling and a child’s laughter preceded William Bolitho’s entrance into the room with Nicholas at his side and a man who must almost certainly be Julian pushing the handles of William’s wheelchair. An excited Jack Russell ran in circles around them. William broke into a broad smile.
    ‘Very good to see you, old chap. You’ve obviously met Lydia and Frances and this is Julian.’
    Julian Easton stretched out his hand over William’s shoulder to take Laurence’s. He had the look more of the countryman than of the gentry, though his gaze was intelligent and his grasp firm. Light-brown curls were just beginning to recede on his hairline and he had an odd puckered scar running along and under his jaw, but it didn’t detract from his pleasant face.
    ‘Welcome to Easton. You seem to have brought fine weather with you.’
    Laurence had felt gnarled flesh as he shook Julian’s hand and now he caught sight of both of the man’s hands resting on the wheelchair. Julian wore a signet ring on his little finger, but he appeared to have been injured here too: there were stubs of flesh and old scar tissue showing pale against his tanned fingers. A war wound, Laurence imagined. The injury didn’t seem to bother him.
    ‘We’ve been all over the place,’ Julian said, his eyes on Lydia. ‘Now William’s got the bit between his teeth, there’s no stopping him. We’ve been up to the village, making sure the mortaring started while the weather’s good.’
    He turned