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Chapter 56

Tai-youngLee removed a key from her pocket and unlocked the padlock that Poe had unsuccessfully tried to pick.

‘As you’re blocking the drive, we’ll go in your car,’ she said to Poe.

‘Can’t we walk?’

‘It’s a quarter of a mile to the house.’

‘Fair enough.’

Highwood’s drive was only wide enough for one car, although there were plenty of purpose-built passing places. It was flanked by a gentle, undulating meadow. Individual oak trees broke the clean lines. If they had been planted by design, it was by a landscape artist long dead. They were well over one hundred years old. The grass was fairway-short and glistened with dew. Sheep grazed freely. Not the scrawny Herdwicks Poe was used to; these were plump – and in his opinion, pampered – lowland sheep. Probably a breed that sounded like posh cheese. Charollais or Ryelands, maybe. Wool so fine it was sent to the Japanese futon market rather than the makers of unwearable scratchy jumpers. A herd of animals skirting the edge of a wood caught his eye. Red deer, if he wasn’t mistaken. The UK’s largest native land mammal. Pretty, but destructive if not managed properly. No wonder the grass was short. Poe stopped the car and watched them for a while. They didn’t seem bothered. He wondered if they were resident at Highwood.

‘I haven’t got all day, Poe,’ Lee said.

Poe put the car back into gear and started driving again. He crested a small incline and Highwood came into view.

Estelle Doyle’s ancestral home was an impressive building, but it wasn’t as big as he had expected. Ania had said it had fifteenbedrooms and in Poe’s mind that was huge. And it was, but it wasn’tDownton Abbeyhuge. It was an unfussy design. Rectangular, without wings or turrets. Windows all the same size. Three chimneys. A large door in the middle. The type of house a child might draw.

The road eased into a half-moon gravel drive. It extended round both sides of the house. Poe hoped it didn’t wrap Highwood like a moat. He hoped there were overhanging trees or a fence at the back that the killer could have reached without his feet touching the ground. Anything a jury might accept as an explanation for the footprint-free snow. A stream gurgled in the distance. Big enough for rainbow trout, too small for salmon.

The expansive double door was protected by a portico. Four fluted columns and a sandstone roof with a triangular pediment. The capitals, the topmost part of the columns, were decorated with curling leaves. A single uniformed cop sheltered underneath. ‘Ma’am,’ he said, as they approached.

‘I need to go inside, Andy,’ Lee said.

‘It’s not locked, ma’am,’ he replied, standing aside.

To Poe’s surprise, Lee didn’t ask them to don forensic suits. She explained that CSI had finished with the house the day before and it would soon be released. Poe ignored the unsaid,So you didn’t need to resort to blackmail to get access.

She pushed open the doors and led them through the vestibule into an open reception room with a plush red carpet. Poe saw a huge curved stairway, oak-panelled walls and high ceilings with ornate crown mouldings. Portraits of long-dead ancestors hung under carefully positioned picture lights. Corridors stretched into darkness. Furniture that wentupin value. It looked as though the air hadn’t moved in centuries. There were even suits of armour. Shafts of low winter sun sliced through gaps in the heavy drapes like lasers.

The house smelled of wax polish and history and tradition.

‘Very Agatha Christie,’ Poe said.

‘What do you want to see first?’ Lee said. ‘The whole house has been cleared so you can go where you want.’

‘Everywhere, but we’ll leave the study for last.’