A Trick of the Light by Ali Carter (books for 5 year olds to read themselves TXT) 📗

No addresses and numbers, just titles, names and lineage. I’d look up Jane’s husband and find their marriage date and her maiden name. But no, a surname like Atkinson won’t be in there, too ignoble to be part of the pack. My hunt has come to a grinding halt.

I put John Buchan back in place and took Edith Wharton’s Summer down off the shelf. I haven’t read this one of hers before, and it’s slim enough to finish by the end of the week – a much better choice. My work here is done. I flicked off the lights and crept back to bed. Thankfully without another ruff from Haggis.

It’s five past seven. I’m in the hall, ahead of time as always, but I’m far too excited to wait in my room. Spring light is flooding through the cupola showing up dust everywhere. I have a tissue in my pocket and as Fergus isn’t here yet, and I like a job – I’m not very good at sitting still – I wipe the surface of the table.

‘Susie,’ said Zoe, swanning through the arch, her damp hair wound up into a bun, Haggis at her heel. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Nothing.’ I stuffed the tissue in my pocket – it’s actually rather rude to be cleaning someone else’s house.

‘It is so early,’ she said. ‘Fergus is sleeping. I didn’t want to wake him so if you want to change your mind and go back to bed he’ll never know.’

I tried to catch her eye. Has Zoe gone mad? Why would I ever turn down going around four great paintings with an expert?

She ruffled her damp hair and looked down at the dog. ‘Landseer’s pictures are out of fashion, aren’t they, Haggis, I’m sure they’re not Susie’s kind of thing.’

‘I definitely want to see them, please.’

Zoe shrugged her shoulders. ‘Your choice,’ she said as she flung open the front door.

Haggis wagged his way out beneath the Corinthian portico. Donald’s pickup was leaving the yard. He raised his hand from the steering wheel to say hello. No sign of Mhàiri so I guessed she’d scampered in through a servants’ entrance.

‘Susie,’ said Zoe, looking at her watch, ‘I must take Haggis into the garden to do his business, but I’ll be back before our visitor arrives.’

‘Okay.’

It would have been nice if Zoe had asked me to accompany her, but I suppose I should wait here in case the man arrives. I stood on the top step breathing cold air up my nostrils until they stung. I wanted the shock to wake up my senses, help me get my head around why Zoe was up late last night, why Fergus had overslept and why Haggis was sleeping downstairs.

Fergus came storming out the front door wearing a scowl and rocking a bed-head do.

‘Susie, thank goodness you’re up. I don’t know what happened, slept straight through my alarm, and as for Zoe, where is she?’

‘Coo-ee, angel, morning.’ Zoe was coming around the side of the house and no sooner had she greeted her husband, than a racing-green Volvo swept into the yard. The driver grinned and waved as if we were his audience in the gallery. I felt rather embarrassed on his behalf.

Fergus marched down the steps, making no attempt to stop Haggis racing across the yard. The young man (he couldn’t be more than late twenties at the most) was too busy patting down his side-parting to stop the rascal jumping up. But totally unbothered by the paws on his off-the-peg suit, he seemed perfectly au fait with dogs and proceeded to greet Haggis as amicably as he’d greeted us.

‘Come, Susie,’ said Zoe, reaching the top step. ‘It’s freezing out here, let’s go inside.’

We waited seconds in the hall and as soon as the door opened Fergus introduced us. ‘This is my wife Zoe and this is an artist we have staying, Susie Mahl.’

‘Hello, I’m Oliver Raylet.’ He shook us both enthusiastically by the hand.

‘Would you like some coffee, Oliver?’ said Zoe.

‘No thank you.’ He turned to Fergus. ‘If it’s okay with you I’d like to get straight to it. I must make it back to Edinburgh this afternoon and the weather’s not in my favour.’

‘Is Edinburgh home?’ said Zoe.

‘Yes and no. I live and work there but I grew up in Bucks.’

‘Buckinghamshire?’

‘Yes. Although my great-great-grandfather was Scottish and so I’m trying to reignite the connection.’

‘How lovely,’ Zoe smiled, and Fergus chivvied us into the body of the house.

‘Come, Oliver,’ he said. ‘As I explained on the telephone the house is full and I don’t want our residents knowing you’re here. We must keep our voices down.’

‘Yes,’ said Zoe. ‘It’s very important.’

‘I understand,’ whispered Oliver.

‘Let’s all go upstairs then and I’ll show you the pictures.’

‘Thank you, my Lord.’

‘My Lord. For heaven’s sake call me Fergus.’

‘Fergus,’ Oliver repeated, and I only just managed to suppress a laugh.

Oliver Raylet has the manners of someone who overthinks and underplays their sophistication. I blame it on his job. If you come, as I assume he does, from minor English public-school stock and are plunged into a sales role in a high net-worth department, it shapes you. Assuming the role of art valuer, you’ve become conscious of the price tag on things that were previously just stuffing in your parents’, friends’ or relations’ houses. And like those before him – and car salesmen, estate agents and antique dealers too – Oliver has an inclination to dress up and flirt with his subject.

This performance began as the three of us, plus Haggis, which made four, trotted upstairs after Fergus, and Oliver said quietly under his breath, ‘There’s a rare harmony between the exterior and interior of your house, it’s a delight.’

But Fergus wasted no time exchanging pleasantries, and it wasn’t until he pulled a key out of his pocket and opened the door into a vast space, stretching the length and width of one entire wing, that he spoke. ‘In we go,’ he said, standing back. ‘You