Careless in Red (Inspector Lynley, #15)(196)

A short distance from Redruth, she turned into a minor road and then into another, which was the sort of narrow lane that connects two or more hamlets. This last was marked for Carnkie, but rather than drive upon it, she stopped at a junction, merely a triangular bit of land where one might pull over and read a map. He expected her to do just that, as it appeared to him that they were in the middle of a nowhere characterised by an earthen hedge, partly reinforced by stone, and beyond it an expanse of open land studded occasionally with enormous boulders. In the distance, an unpainted granite farmhouse stood. Between them and it, ragwort and chickweed along with scrub grass were being seen to by sheep.

Daidre said, “Tell me about the room you were born in, Thomas.”

It was, he thought, the oddest sort of question. He said, “Why d’you want to know about that?”

“I’d like to imagine it, if you don’t mind. You said you were born at home, not in hospital. At the family pile. I’m wondering what sort of family pile it is. Was it your parents’ bedroom you were born in? Did they share a room? Do your kind of people do that, by the way?”

Your kind of people. A battle line had been drawn. It was an odd moment for him to feel the sort of despair that had come upon him at other moments throughout his life: always reminding him that some things didn’t change in a changing world, most of all these things.

He unfastened his seat belt and opened the door. He got out. He walked to the hedge. The wind was brisk in this area, as there was nothing to impede it. It carried the bawling of the sheep and the scent of wood smoke. Behind him, he heard Daidre’s door open. In a moment she was at his side.

He said, “My wife was quite clear about it when we married: Just in case you’re considering it, none of this separate rooms nonsense, she said. None of those coy, thrice-weekly nocturnal conjugal visits, Tommy. We shall do our conjugating when and where we desire and when we fall asleep nightly, we shall do so in each other’s presence.” He smiled. He looked back at the sheep, the expanse of land, the undulations of it as it rolled to the horizon. He said, “It’s quite a large room. Two windows with deep embrasures look down on a rose garden. There’s a fireplace?still used in winter because no matter central heating, these houses are impossible to keep warm?and a seating area in front of it. The bed’s opposite the windows. It, too, is large. It’s heavily carved, Italian. The walls are pale green. There’s a heavy gilt mirror above the fireplace, a collection of miniatures on the wall next to it. Between the windows, a demilune table holds a porcelain urn. On the walls, portraits. And two French landscapes. Family photos on side tables. That’s all.”

“It sounds very impressive.”

“It’s more comfortable than impressive. Chatsworth needn’t worry about the competition.”

“It sounds…suitable for someone of your stature.”

“It’s just where I was born, Daidre. Why did you want to know?”

She turned her head. Her gaze took in everything: the earthen hedge, the stones, the boulders in the field, the tiny junction in which they’d parked. She said, “Because I was born here.”

“In that farmhouse?”

“No. Here, Thomas. In this…well, whatever you want to call it. Here.” She walked over to a stone and from beneath it he saw her remove a card. She brought it to him and handed it over. As she did so, she said, “Did you tell me that Howenstow is Jacobean?”

“It is, in part, yes.”

“I thought so. Well, what I had was a bit more humble. Do have a look.”

He saw she’d given him a postcard with the image of a gipsy caravan on it. It was of the type that once embellished the countryside with the flavour of Romany: the wagon bright red, the arched roof green, the wheels’ spokes yellow. He studied it. Since she clearly wasn’t of gipsy birth, her parents must have been on holiday, he thought. Tourists had done that in Cornwall for years: They hired wagons and played at being gipsies.

Daidre seemed to read his mind, for she said, “No romance to it at all, I’m afraid. No getting caught short on a holiday and no Romanies in my background. My parents are travellers, Thomas. Their parents were travellers as well. My aunts and uncles, such as they are, are travellers also, and this is where our caravan was parked when I was born. Our accommodation was never as picturesque as this one,” with a nod at the card, “as it hadn’t been painted in years, but it was otherwise much the same. Not quite like Howenstow, wouldn’t you say?”

He wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t sure he believed her.

“Conditions were…I’d have to call them rather cramped, I suppose, although things improved marginally by the time I was eight years old. But for a time there were five of us shoehorned together. Myself, my parents, and the twins.”

“The twins.”

“My brother and my sister. Younger than I by three years. And not a single one of us born in Falmouth.”

“Are you not Daidre Trahair, then?”

“I am, in a way.”

“I don’t understand. ‘In a way’? What way?”

“Would you like to meet my real self?”

“I suppose I would.”

She nodded. She hadn’t removed her gaze from him since he’d looked up from the postcard. She seemed to be trying to evaluate his reaction. Whatever she read on his face either reassured her or told her there was no further point to obfuscation.