Glittering Images. Susan Howatch

don’t have much in common. How ghastly it was when that baby was born dead in 1918! No wonder Carrie went to pieces, poor thing.’

      ‘Was that when she had her nervous –’

      ‘Well, it wasn’t really a nervous breakdown,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith fluently. ‘I was exaggerating. A nervous breakdown means someone climbing the walls, doesn’t it, and having to be whisked away to a private nursing home, but Carrie’s collapse was quite different. She just lay weeping on a chaise longue all day and when she finally had the strength to leave it she started consulting spiritualists to see if she could get in touch with the dead child – terribly embarrassing for Alex, of course, to be a clergyman whose wife consulted spiritualists, so it was arranged that Carrie should have a little holiday with her parents in the country. That did her the world of good, thank God, and afterwards she was fine until they moved to Radbury.’

      ‘Someone did mention that she found the move a little difficult –’

      ‘Poor Carrie! If only Alex had been made vicar of some quiet little parish in the back of beyond! But no, off he went to Radbury to run that hulking great Cathedral, and Carrie found herself put on public display as Mrs Dean – hundreds of new people to meet, all the residents of the Cathedral Close watching critically to see if she made a mistake, new committees to master, endless dinner parties to organize, Mrs Bishop looking down her nose from the palace, all the Canons’ wives trying to interfere –’

      ‘When did Mrs Jardine make the decision to engage a companion?’

      ‘Alex made the decision, not Carrie. Carrie was soon in such a state that she couldn’t make any decisions at all – although of course,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith, ‘she wasn’t having a nervous breakdown. Not really. She just went shopping every day to buy things she didn’t need – I think it took her mind off her troubles – and when she wasn’t shopping she was always so tired that she had to stay in bed. However finally she bought some really frightful wallpaper – the last word in extravagance – and Alex decided she needed someone to keep an eye on her during her little shopping sprees. Miss Christie turned up and was an immediate success. Alex used to refer to her simply as “The Godsend”.’

      ‘The Bishop must have been concerned about his wife,’ I murmured, selecting an understatement in the hope of luring her into further indiscretions, but Mrs Cobden-Smith merely said: ‘Yes, he was,’ and shifted restlessly as if aware for the first time that a stranger might read into her frank comments rather more than she had intended to reveal. I suspected that like most people of little imagination she found it difficult to picture what was going on in any mind other than her own.

      ‘Where does Miss Christie come from?’ I said, changing the subject to soothe her uneasiness.

      ‘Rural Norfolk – one of those places where there’s lots of inbreeding and everyone talks in grunts. She has a clerical family background, of course.’

      ‘How suitable. But Mrs Cobden-Smith, one thing does puzzle me about Miss Christie: why has she never married?’

      ‘Ah!’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith. ‘That’s what we’d all like to know! There’s a rumour that she was once badly jilted, but I think she put that story in circulation to cover up a far less respectable reason for staying single.’

      ‘Oh?’ I said. ‘And what would that be?’

      ‘I strongly suspect,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith, lowering her voice confidentially, ‘that Miss Christie has a lust for power.’

      IV

      The sense of an absurd anti-climax was so strong that I had to fight a desire to laugh but fortunately Mrs Cobden-Smith was more anxious to explain her theory than to see if I kept a straight face.

      ‘Of course the popular rumour,’ she was saying, ‘is that Miss Christie’s secretly in love with Alex, but that’s nonsense because I can’t see her being such a fool as to waste ten of the best years of her life being hopelessly in love with a married man. No, you mark my words, Dr Ashworth, she’s mad about power. Some women are; not all women want to marry, and I think Miss Christie simply loves being in charge here, running the palace, looking after Carrie, helping the Bishop, meeting all the Church dignitaries and all the aristocratic guests like the Starmouths. In my opinion,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith decisively. ‘Miss Christie’s merely an unusual example of a modern woman who’s wedded to her career.’

      Having conquered my fou rire I could see now that Mrs Cobden-Smith’s theory was not so absurd as I had supposed; it was certainly more attractive than Lady Starmouth’s wild assertion of lesbianism. However before I could make any comment Mrs Cobden-Smith exclaimed: ‘Ah, there’s Carrie – downstairs in time for luncheon, thank God! And there’s Willy with George. Will you excuse me, Dr Ashworth? I must see George eats his horsemeat.’

      She set off briskly across the lawn, and as soon as I was alone I became aware that I was uncomfortably hot. I decided to cool off in my room before lunch while I reviewed the evidence produced in such profusion by my interviews.

      By the time I reached the terrace Mrs Cobden-Smith had disappeared with the Colonel and George, but Mrs Jardine was waiting for me with her warmest smile. Now that I knew more about her the smile seemed poignant, and again I was aware of reality submerging itself beneath illusion in the heat of that Starbridge noon.

      ‘How are you, Mrs Jardine?’ I said as I mounted the steps to the terrace. ‘I was sorry to hear you were feeling so tired.’

      ‘Oh, I’m much better now, thank you! So stupid about my insomnia, I must have had too much coffee by mistake last night, and then after I’d gone to bed I started thinking about your poor wife and the baby and … Well, you know how it is, I dare say, when one’s thoughts go round and round, especially in the early hours of the morning, and suddenly I felt so frightened, I don’t know why, I do get moments of panic sometimes, especially when the weather’s so hot. Do you think there might be a storm coming, Dr Ashworth? The air’s very sultry, so close and threatening, and I feel as if something dreadful’s going to happen.’

      The sky was cloudless and although the air was hot there was little humidity. I said gently, ‘I agree it’s very warm – shall we go inside?’ and I gestured to indicate she should precede me into the house but Mrs Jardine hesitated, looking uncertainly up and down the terrace. ‘I was wondering if we should have drinks out here,’ she said, ‘but I can’t make up my mind. Alex never drinks at midday but my brother and sister-in-law do and so do the Starmouths. Do you drink at midday, Dr Ashworth?’

      ‘Not usually, no.’ Beyond the open French windows Miss Christie and the butler were entering the drawing-room. I heard Miss Christie say: ‘No, it’s too hot outside, Shipton,’ and the butler set down his tray of glasses on a side-table.

      ‘Lyle says it’s too hot out here,’ said Mrs Jardine, relieved that the decision had been taken out of her hands. She called to Miss Christie: ‘Dr Ashworth doesn’t drink cocktails at midday either, dear, so we’ll be one extra for lemonade.’

      ‘Yes, I’d anticipated that,’ said Miss Christie, coming out on to the terrace to join us. ‘Good morning again, Dr Ashworth. I hope you’ve been enjoying sunbathing in a clerical suit.’

      ‘I have indeed,’ I said. ‘In fact the morning’s been so enjoyable that I’m resolved to have an equally enjoyable afternoon. Will you come for a drive with me after lunch?’

      Miss Christie had given an inch and I had taken a yard. At least no one could accuse me of wasting my opportunities, but Miss Christie showed signs of regretting the conceded inch. Without hesitation she said: ‘I’m not a free agent, Dr Ashworth. I have my duties here at the palace.’

      ‘Oh, but I shall only be resting this afternoon!’ protested Mrs Jardine. ‘Do go for a drive with Dr Ashworth, dearest – why not!’

      ‘Why not indeed?’ said a familiar harsh voice, and swinging round I found that Dr Jardine was