Chapter 8
Tom
Tom crossed the entrance hall, carrying the robot vacuum.
He might as well empty it before he put it back.
From the grandfather clock came a whir of gears and click of shifting levers, and the brass hammer struck the quarter-past chime: a throaty, hollow cascade.
The clock was almost due to be wound. He wound both old clocks every week—this one, and the one in the ballroom—because otherwise it could feel that time might stop altogether.
They’d marked the beat of his life, every quarter hour, day and night, without fail.
Who would wind them next week, wherever they ended up?
In the butler’s room, he laid the vacuum cleaner on the desk, pulled his lighter from his coat pocket and went to light the fire, and then remembered he hadn’t set it, and there was no point, anyway. Force of habit upon walking into a cold room.
He grabbed the keys to the Land Rover and dropped them in his pocket.
Perhaps Duncan was camping out in the old shepherds’ huts in the remotest fields.
He did that sometimes if he had work to do out there.
Duncan would laugh heartily at the night’s events, Tom would feel like a twit, and all would be well.
And then there would be nothing for Tom to do but pack the Land Rover with what little he could claim as his.
He should have started packing months ago, but maybe he’d been holding out hope he wouldn’t have to.
He assumed he could take the Land Rover.
Surely the billionaire wouldn’t want a dented car older than himself that smelt of several generations of wet dogs.
No matter how much Tom cleaned, the smell persisted.
He looked at the sofa, where Amelia had sat. He’d have to factor in time to strip the fabric and post it to her at the museum. Could be an excuse to contact her…
Outside, a car door clicked open. He watched through the windows as Amelia picked up something from the driver’s seat of her little hatchback—her mobile phone—looked at it, then threw it on the passenger seat as if it had bitten her.
She tied her hair into a ponytail as she walked around to the boot.
She opened it, checked her surroundings and quickly took off her blue trousers.
Tom turned his back to give her privacy.
If she’d wanted to change her clothes, why not do that inside?
Because they’d already said their goodbyes, and that had been awkward enough. Except for the kiss. That was not awkward.
So it turned out he could have a connection like that with someone. He’d had proper relationships that hadn’t got as deep as he and Amelia had in a day, and that was only the parts he could remember. Maybe there was hope for him, if not for the estate. If he could find someone like her…
And if he’d reached thirty-two before finding the first Amelia, how long would he wait to find a second?
He grabbed his mobile phone from the desk, checked there was a wi-fi signal, and dialed. Connor answered on what had to be the last ring.
“Hey, mate,” Tom said, “have you heard from your dad today, or last night?”
“Uh, no,” Connor said warily. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing, but I had a … friend here last night and we thought we saw something odd.”
There was a beat of silence. “Like what?”
“Long story. Just, if he rings, tell him I’m looking for him?”
“Xanthe says the police were there this morning. Something going on? Do I need to come back from London?”
It sounded like that was the last thing Connor wanted to do. He no doubt had a ton of work to catch up with, for clients he actually charged.
“No, all good,” Tom said. “That was a … misunderstanding. Apparently one of the bottles we drank from the cellars was dodgy, so that probably explains everything.”
“What did you see?”
Tom screwed up his face. No sense creating a panic. “Look, we thought we saw a couple of people outside in the middle of the night, carrying … something. But the most likely scenario is that we were tripping, and it was nothing.”
“Who? Carrying what?”
“Not sure. Neither of us could recall their faces. Sergeant Kamdar reckons our memories will return in a day or two.”
Radio silence. Tom was about to check if Connor was still on the line when Connor spoke. “If you’re sure? Xanthe’s dropping hints that she wants help with wedding prep, though that’s honestly the last thing I can be arsed doing. But I can come back if something’s wrong.”
“No need to worry. I’ll let you know if anything develops. Amel—my friend’s about to leave, but she’ll let me know if she remembers anything.”
“Okay, well keep me posted, yeah?”
“Will do. Wait, Connor?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you taken anything from the library recently—a book of family history stuff?”
“Didn’t know there was one. Why do you ask?”
“Just couldn’t see it there this morning. No big deal.”
He ended the call, regretting making it.
Connor was the kind of guy who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Tom would bet good money, if he had any, that Connor wouldn’t be sorry to see the back of the place, even after his efforts to save it.
No bottle of dodgy brandy would erase his memories.
Amelia’s car started, and Tom watched until it disappeared from view.
He picked up the glass paperweight, running a finger over its rough, irregular planes.
Miss Havisham groaned. “I know, I know,” he said.
He couldn’t help feeling like a coward, for planning not to be here to look the old girl in the eye as the wrecking ball hit, or whatever method of execution they were planning.
He wouldn’t be at all surprised if she screamed.
He’d told himself he’d feel nothing but relief to be liberated of the house and its baggage.
To have time for a life of his own, rather than spending his days worried simultaneously about dry rot and regular rot, and knowing that even if he somehow eliminated those, another two issues would swiftly take their place at the top of the crisis list, like an eternal Tetris game.
To pay no heed to what had gone before or what would come next, or whether he was doing justice to both. Live a life that was just his.
As he emptied the vacuum into the rubbish bin, his mobile beeped. A voice message from the sergeant. He set it to play, almost feeling his blood pressure rising. Maybe she’d bumped into Duncan in the village and they’d had a big old laugh.
“Tom, I’ve checked in with the poisons people, and they say you and Amelia absolutely shouldn’t drive for another twenty-four hours. There’s still a risk of blackouts and hallucinations. And eat and drink loads, to flush out the toxins. But just water and juice, though, yeah? Take care, pet.”
Tom rubbed his eyes. Even if Amelia had mobile coverage, he didn’t have her number. He could probably catch her up though. She’d have just made it to the road, and she’d be taking it slowly in the creeping fog.
And the idea of spending another day with her wasn’t an unhappy prospect.
In fact, he’d been about to suggest she waited until the fog cleared, but he’d stopped himself.
Plenty of people drove that road every day in fog, whether they were familiar with it or not.
It was just an invented excuse to delay the inevitable. But now he had a real excuse.
As he clicked the dust box back into the vacuum cleaner, something rolled out of the mechanism.
He picked it up. A small emerald, from an earring, perhaps.
Amelia’s? There was also something stuck in the filter.
He reached in and tugged it out. A clump of shaggy gray hair.
He dropped it on the desk, blinking stupidly at it.
The same sort of hair they’d seen peeping out of the rug.
The hair they had supposedly hallucinated.
He touched it again, super quickly, just to be sure.
It was matted together with dried blood and dirt.
From outside came a distant screech. Locked car tires skidding on gravel. Amelia. Tom waited a couple of seconds, hands fisted, blood heating, and then it came—a sickening metallic crunch.