“What sort of a man is he?”

“Well, there’s another irony. Cautious and conventional sums him up. Rather dull, I’d always thought. Not at all Mummy’s type. So I’d have said, anyway. But what would I know? More and more, my mother seems like a stranger to me. Or an impostor. Somebody who was never what she came across as. But what she really was… I’ve no idea.”

“You’re not saying you believe Naylor may be innocent?”

“Oh no. That’s the worst of this. The very worst. Seymour and his kind will go on pressing for that bastard’s release. And Rowena’s suicide will only help them. They’ll say she had a guilty conscience, won’t they? They’ll say it was her way of avoiding the truth.”

“Surely not.”

“I’m afraid so. The bandwagon’s only just started rolling. There’ll be more books. More programmes. More articles. There’ll be a committee formed before long to coordinate the campaign for his release. Questions will be asked in the House. Pressure will mount for a re-trial. Or a reference to the Appeal Court at the very least. And they’ll never stop. They’ll never be satisfied. Until the day Naylor walks out of the Royal Courts of Justice a free man and is carried away down the Strand in the arms of his adoring supporters.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“You’d better. Because it’ll happen. Eventually. Inevitably. Whether we like it or not. There’s nothing we can do to stop it. We can only…”

“Yes?”

“Lead our lives, Robin. What else?”

There was nothing else. No corner to turn. No redoubt to defend. No stand to take. Sarah would go on with her life. And so would I. When she drove away from Greenhayes that evening, I sensed it was a final parting, whatever the technicalities of time and chance might subsequently dictate. She was heading into her future. And into my past.

I went down to the Cricketers after she’d gone and drank so much I had to be driven the short distance home by the landlord. And though I woke next morning with a thick head, my prospects were clearer in my mind than they’d been for weeks. If Bushranger Sports took over Timariot & Small, I’d quit before they could sack me and return to Brussels at the expiry of my congé. I’d turn my back on a disastrous diversion in my career. I’d give up chasing shadows and revert to the pursuit of wealth and leisure. I’d bid Louise Paxton an overdue farewell. I’d walk away. And forget. Even though

Those two words shut a door

Between me and the blessed rain

That was never shut before

And will not open again.

Rowena was buried in Sapperton on Monday the twenty-eighth of June. I stayed in Petersfield, putting in a gingerly half-day at the factory to keep myself occupied. But the media weren’t about to let me off the hook. That night, on the television news, there was a filmed report from outside St. Kenelm’s Church, hymn-singing audible above the commentary. “As speculation mounts that Rowena Bryant killed herself rather than face the thought that her testimony helped convict an innocent man, a spokesman for West Mercia Police insisted they had no intention of reopening their inquiries into the Kington killings.” Before the scene switched to the cemetery I could picture so easily, I switched off.

Half an hour later, Sophie rang. I heard her voice purring from the answering machine. But I didn’t pick up the receiver. And I didn’t return her call. She’d made a fool of me once. And that was enough. I didn’t mean to give her the slightest chance of doing so again.

Two days after the funeral, Bella paid me a visit. She and Sir Keith were returning to Biarritz the very next day, so this was in the nature of a goodbye. But not just for that reason.

“It’ll take Keith a long time to recover from the loss he’s suffered, Robin. If he ever does. And it’ll take him a long time to forgive those he holds responsible for that loss.”

“Like me, you mean.”

“Yes. Like you.”

“You never were one to mince your words.”

“Would you want me to?”

“No. I wouldn’t. Sarah told you about Howard Marsden, I suppose?”

“She told me.”

“Mentioned it to Keith, have you?”

“No.”

“So, it’s time to sweep things under the carpet, is it? Time to batten down the hatches?”

“Time to go, Robin. That’s all.”

“Without even a farewell drink?”

And at that she had the decency to smile.

We went out to the Red Lion at Chalton, where she’d taken me in July 1990 to pump me for information about the Kington killings. The three years that had passed since seemed more like ten when I looked at her across our table in the pub garden and saw her eyes drift to the field behind me. A blue drift of linseed, then as now. She too was remembering.

“You said I’d be making a mistake by going back into the company,” I remarked.

“And I was right. Wasn’t I?”

“As it’s turned out, I suppose you were. But you’ve been able to make sure you were right, haven’t you?”

“It’s Adrian’s idea to accept the Bushranger offer. Not mine.”

“But without your support, he can’t force it through, can he?”

“Technically, no. But I haven’t the slightest intention of changing my mind. So don’t waste your breath by-”

“I’m not about to. I’ve learnt my lesson. You see before you a man who isn’t going to swim against the tide any longer. I’ve made a pact with the future. And you should be flattered, Bella, you really should. Because it’s your example I’ll be following.”

“In what sense?”

“I’m going to take the money and run.”

For a moment, I thought she meant to throw her lager in my face. But after staring at me for a few seconds, she merely shook her head and laughed. When all was said and done, she and I understood each other.

Two weeks passed. And the third anniversary of Louise’s death approached. Since it fell on a Saturday, there was nothing to stop me driving up to Kington, as I’d long been tempted to, and walking out once more across Hergest Ridge. It was a day very like its well-remembered counterpart. Yet it could never be the same. And I didn’t want it to be. What I wanted was the stony soil beneath my feet and the gorse-cleansed air in my face to assert the normality of the place. To convince me no magic or mystery was waiting for me there. Nor any perfect stranger. Only turf and sky and sheep. And nature’s placid disregard for mankind’s illusions.

I made my way down into Kington and called at the Swan for a drink, as I had three years before. This time, however, I struck up a conversation with one of the locals, who didn’t seem to mind discussing the murders one little bit. Neither of the victims having been genuine Kingtonians, their memories evidently merited no special protection from outsiders. “More about that to come out, you wait and see. Much more. From what I’ve heard, that Nick Seymour on the telly got it all wrong. Forgery weren’t Oscar Bantock’s game. Oh no. Satanism. That’s what it was. Devil worship. His nephew rents Whistler’s Cot out to holidaymakers, you know. But I wouldn’t spend a night under that roof. Not after everything old Oscar got up to. Not me. No way. ’Course, there’s a lot of it about round here. Black magic, I mean. It’s the Dyke as gets ’ em going. Covens. Sacrifices. Black masses. Midnight orgies. You wouldn’t believe the half of it.” And on that last point at least he was absolutely right.

I left the Swan and drove straight out of the town. I’d thought I might take a look at Whistler’s Cot, but, when it came to the point, I no longer needed to. An encounter with some exuberant family on a bargain break delighted to report they hadn’t seen any ghosts would have constituted one dose of reality too many. I’d gone to Kington to close a chapter in my life. And I left confident of having done so.