“Don’t worry,” said Bella. “He’ll be back soon enough.” It was as if she was presenting a dispassionate assessment of human behaviour with no particular interest in its accuracy. I felt sure she was right. But I didn’t envy Sir Keith the welcome he’d get from his wife when he returned. She’d given him unstinting support in crises that were none of his making. But this crisis was different. And so was Bella’s response. I wish I’d had the courage to ask her there and then: “When are you going to ditch him, Bella? Before Paul’s trial? Or after?” But I’d already done enough looking forward to be heartily sick of the view. And, besides, Bella gave a kind of answer to my unspoken question in what she said next. “Tell me, Sarah. As a lawyer, how long do you reckon it will take for this business to be settled?”

“Longer than any of us would like,” Sarah replied. “A police investigation. An appeal. A trial. It could take a year or more.”

Bella’s eyes briefly closed, as if to ward off a spasm of pain. Then she said: “And for it to be forgotten?”

“Oh, I don’t think it’ll ever be forgotten.” Sarah looked at both of us in turn before adding: “Do you?”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The mind is master of its own defences. There’s always one more drawbridge to raise, one more portcullis to lower. There was nothing I could do to block or blunt the consequences of Paul Bryant’s confession. And so, without admitting what I was doing even to myself, I began to prepare my retreat from them. The Paxtons would have to face their future without me. I’d tried before to detach myself from them and failed. This time I had to make the break. I’d told Bella I meant to take the money and run. And now I had an even more compelling reason than when I’d said it to do precisely that.

It wasn’t just that the tidy self-contained life of a Eurocrat suddenly seemed like a haven from scandal and recrimination. It also seemed like a refuge from my own broken dreams. What some people might have found wholly incomprehensible about Paul’s behaviour in July 1990-his infatuation with Louise Paxton-was to me only too credible. A single encounter with her of a few minutes’ duration had left me with a trace of sympathy for Paul’s inability to defeat his obsession. And for the violence of his reaction when he glimpsed the true nature of the woman he’d idolized and idealized. There but for the grace of God-or the mercy of chance-went I.

It was easy to maintain my detached pose. Until the police investigation began-and for some time after that-only a handful of people would know what was happening. Bella urged me to be reticent: “Do please try to keep your mouth shut about this, Robin.” But she needn’t have bothered. I had no intention of telling anyone, least of all members of my own family, whom Bella imagined crowing at her discomfiture. Even if I’d wanted to confide in them, the acrimony that grew between us as the climactic board meeting approached would have ruled the idea out. Confidence had long since gone the same way as our profits.

I was still determined to resist the Bushranger bid, of course, futile as doing so was bound to be. But even futility can serve a purpose. My opposition to the future Adrian had mapped out for Timariot & Small gave me an honourable reason for refusing to participate in it. And for scuttling back to Brussels long before the Kington killings returned to the headlines. My fall-back position was ready. And there seemed no reason why my retreat to it shouldn’t have at least the appearance of an orderly withdrawal. Except that, not for the first time, I’d reckoned without Bella’s unpredictable ways.

A week had passed since my visit to The Hurdles. Sarah had gone back to Bristol, while Bella and Sir Keith had returned to Biarritz. So Bella had led me to assume anyway. Having given her proxy vote to Adrian, there was certainly no need for her to hang around for the board meeting. So I was surprised when she phoned me at home early on Wednesday the twenty-second, the day before the meeting. Eight o’clock was an hour I didn’t think she knew much about. And the clarity of the line made it seem as if she were in Hindhead rather than Biarritz. Which, as a matter of fact, she was.

“Can we meet for lunch, Robin?”

“Today?”

“Yes. My treat.”

“I’m not sure. I’ve got a lot-”

“It’s really important.”

“In what way?”

“In almost every way. I’ll explain over lunch.”

“Yes, but as I’ve just-”

“The Angel at Midhurst. Twelve thirty. Don’t be late.”

I drove across to Midhurst at noon through the sunshine and showers. The trees were turning, the first leaves of autumn beginning to fall. This time next year, I remember thinking, it’ll all be out in the open. Not over. Not even then. But no longer hidden. No longer my secret. Or anyone else’s. And I’ll be out of it. Out altogether.

The Angel was busy, but Bella had booked one of the more secluded tables. I was early and she, naturally, was late. Having pressed me to be punctual, that was only to be expected. But still, in my present mood, it grated. After twenty minutes of toying with a mineral water while eaves-dropping on nearby conversations about school fees and racing form, I was seriously considering walking out, when, as if timing her arrival by intuition, Bella strolled unhurriedly into view. She was wearing a startlingly well-cut red suit that drew admiring glances from men and women alike, though for very different reasons. I couldn’t help returning her smile as I rose to greet her.

“I expect you’re wondering why I’m still in the country,” she said after ordering a drink.

“I assumed you were going to tell me.”

“I am. But first I must apologize for the… atmosphere… last time we met. Partly my fault, I expect. Paul’s… news… was a terrible shock.”

“Yes. Of course. How’s Keith been since?”

“Better. He’s come to terms with it, I think.”

“And have you?”

“Not exactly.” But she didn’t light up when her drink arrived. That alone signalled some kind of adjustment. “Keith’s eager to go back to Biarritz. He thinks we can weather the storm better there.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Unfinished business.” Seeing me frown, she said: “Tell me why you oppose the Bushranger bid, Robin.”

“You’ve been thinking about that? At a time like-”

“Just tell me. There’s a good boy.”

The phrase reminded me, as perhaps it was meant to, of times past. Our secret times together of which we’d tacitly agreed never to speak. It had only ever been an affair of the flesh. With Bella, I suppose, nothing more was possible. Yet a little frail mental bond remained. She’d never tried to exploit it. She’d never needed to. Till now. I didn’t mind rehearsing my objections to surrendering a hundred and fifty-seven years of English tradition to the Ned Kelly of Australian bat making. I was actually pleased to be asked to. But I never for a single moment thought Bella was really interested in hearing them. Around the time her salmon in sorrel sauce arrived and my diatribe against smash-and-grab commercial raiding wound to a close, she began to reveal her true concerns.

“So you still intend to vote against the bid?”

“Certainly.”

“Along with Uncle Larry?”

“He won’t change his mind. Neither will I.”

“But you’ll lose.”

“It seems so.”

“Unless somebody else changes their mind.”

“True. But I’m not holding my breath.”

“Perhaps you should. You can have my vote if you want it.”

I stared at her in amazement, a fork-pronged potato stalled halfway to my mouth. “You’re not serious.”

“I am. I can go to Adrian this afternoon and withdraw my proxy. Uncle Larry and I hold twenty thousand shares each. That’s forty per cent of the total. With your twelve and half per cent stake…”