“Go on.”

“There’s a suite at Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons called that,” said Robin. “Raymond Blanc, you know, the chef who started the hotel? Play on words. Blanc de Blanc—no ‘s.’”

“Is that where you had your anniversary weekend?”

“Yeah. We weren’t in ‘Blanc de Blanc,’ though. We couldn’t afford a suite,” said Robin. “I just remember walking past the sign. But yes… that’s where we celebrated our paper anniversary. Paper,” she repeated, with a sigh, “and some people make it to platinum.”

Seven dark thoroughbreds were appearing one by one in the paddock now, jockeys in their silks perched atop them like monkeys, stable girls and lads leading the nervy creatures, with their silken flanks and their prancing strides. Strike and Robin were some of the few not craning their necks for a better view. Before she had time to second-guess herself, Robin introduced the subject she most wanted to discuss.

“Was that Charlotte I saw you talking to at the Paralympic reception?”

“Yeah,” said Strike.

He glanced at her. Robin had had occasion before now to deplore how easily he seemed to read her thoughts.

“Charlotte had nothing to do with me and Lorelei splitting. She’s married now.”

“So were Matthew and I,” Robin pointed out, taking another sip of champagne. “Didn’t stop Sarah Shadlock.”

“I’m not Sarah Shadlock.”

“Obviously not. If you were that bloody annoying I wouldn’t be working for you.”

“Maybe you could put that on the next employee satisfaction review. ‘Not as bloody annoying as the woman who shagged my husband.’ I’ll have it framed.”

Robin laughed.

“You know, I had an idea about Blanc de Blancs myself,” said Strike. “I was going back over Chiswell’s to-do list, trying to eliminate possibilities and substantiate a theory.”

“What theory?” said Robin sharply, and Strike noted that even halfway down the bottle of champagne, with her marriage in splinters and a box room in Kilburn to look forward to, Robin’s interest in the case remained as acute as ever. “Remember when I told you I thought there was something big, something fundamental, behind the Chiswell business? Something we hadn’t spotted yet?”

“Yes,” said Robin, “you said it kept ‘almost showing itself.’”

“Well remembered. So, a couple of things Raphael said—”

“That’s me on my break, now,” said a nervous female voice behind them.

63

It is a purely personal matter, and there is not the slightest necessity to go proclaiming it all over the countryside.

Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

Short, square and heavily freckled, Tegan Butcher wore her dark hair scraped back in a bun. Even in her smart bar uniform, which comprised a gray tie and a black shirt on which a white horse and jockey were embroidered, she had the air of a girl more at home in muddy Wellington boots. She had brought a milky coffee out of the bar to drink while they questioned her.

“Oh—thanks very much,” she said, when Strike went to fetch an extra chair, clearly gratified that the famous detective would do as much for her.

“No problem,” said Strike. “This is my partner, Robin Ellacott.”

“Yeah, it was you that contacted me, wasn’t it?” said Tegan as she got up onto the bar chair, making slightly heavy weather of the climb, being so short. She seemed simultaneously excited and fearful.

“You haven’t got long, I know,” said Strike, “so we’ll get straight to it, if you don’t mind, Tegan?”

“No. I mean, yeah. That’s fine. Go on.”

“How long did you work for Jasper and Kinvara Chiswell?”

“I was doing it part time for them while I was still at school, so counting that… two and a half years, yeah.”

“How did you like working for them?”

“It was all right,” said Tegan cautiously.

“How did you find the minister?”

“He was all right,” said Tegan. She appeared to realize that this wasn’t particularly descriptive, and added, “My family’ve known him for ages. My brothers done a bit of work up at Chiswell House for years, on and off.”

“Yeah?” said Strike, who was making notes. “What did your brothers do?”

“Repairing fences, bit of gardening, but they’ve sold off most of the land now,” said Tegan. “The garden’s gone wild.”

She picked up her coffee and took a sip, then said anxiously:

“My mum would do her nut if she knew I was meeting you. She told me to keep well out of it.”

“Why’s that?”

“‘Least said, soonest mended,’ she always says. That and ‘least seen, most admired.’ That’s what I got if I ever wanted to go to the young farmers’ disco.”

Robin laughed. Tegan grinned, proud to have amused her.

“How did you find Mrs. Chiswell as an employer?” asked Strike.

“All right,” said Tegan, yet again.

“Mrs. Chiswell liked to have someone sleeping at the house if she was away for the night, is that right? To be near the horses?”

“Yeah,” said Tegan, and then, volunteering information for the first time, “she’s paranoid.”

“Wasn’t one of her horses slashed?”

“You can call it slashed if you want,” said Tegan, “but I’d call it more of a scratch. Romano managed to get his blanket off in the night. He was a sod for doing that.”

“You don’t know anything about intruders in the garden, then?” asked Strike, his pen poised over his notebook.

“Weelll,” said Tegan slowly, “she said something about it, but…”

Her eyes had strayed to Strike’s Benson & Hedges, which were lying beside his beer glass.

“Can I have a smoke?” she asked, greatly daring.

“Help yourself,” said Strike, taking out a lighter and pushing it towards her.

Tegan lit up, took a deep drag on the cigarette, and said:

“I don’t think there was ever anyone in the gardens. That’s just Mrs. Chiswell. She’s—” Tegan struggled to find the right word. “Well, if she was a horse you’d call her spooky. I never heard anyone when I was there overnight.”

“You slept over at the house the night before Jasper Chiswell was found dead in London, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you remember what time Mrs. Chiswell got back?”

“’Bout eleven. I got a right shock,” said Tegan. Now that her nerves were wearing off, a slight tendency to garrulity was revealed. “Because she was s’posed to be staying up in London. She went off on one when she walked in, because I’d had a fag in front of the telly—she doesn’t like smoking—and I’d had a couple of glasses of wine out the bottle in the fridge, as well. Mind, she’d told me to help myself to anything I wanted before she left, but she’s like that, always shifting the goalposts. What was right one minute was wrong the next. You had to walk on eggshells, you really did.