Page 110 of Fire Must Burn

They arrived in Kimbolton, passing the castle.

‘Which of the six died there?’ asked Sally.

‘Catherine of Aragon,’ said Gwen. ‘I saw the room they kept her in when we stayed there.’

‘You stayed in the castle?’

‘I’ve stayed in many castles,’ said Gwen. ‘They’re much more exciting when you’re a child and don’t care about the temperature of the room in which you’re sleeping. There’s the road east. Take that next right.’

Sally carefully followed her directions as they headed into the countryside. Eventually, they turned onto a long driveway that brought them to a sprawling brick mansion. The original building was two storeys tall and dated from the sixteenth century, but every fifty years or so some ancestor of the Caters must have decided he needed more space, so another building was appended to the first, some lengthwise, some crosswise, as if generations of architects had been playing a long game of dominoes.

‘It’s a bit of a jumble, isn’t it?’ commented Sally as he parked the Hornet near some other vehicles in front of a large entrance on the left side of the building.

‘It’s not bad,’ said Gwen. ‘It’s certainly big.’

The door was answered by a maid.

‘May I help you?’ she asked.

‘Mrs Gwendolyn Bainbridge and Mr Salvatore Danielli,’ said Mrs Bainbridge. ‘We have an appointment.’

‘Certainly, Mrs Bainbridge,’ said the maid. ‘You are expected. Please come in.’

She led them to a room that took up one entire side of the house, with a twenty-foot ceiling and one entire wall taken up by glass panels overlooking the grounds. The room itself was filled with furniture that dated to different eras, each piece having in common only that in each of those eras the owners had overpaid. The maid showed them to a pair of nineteenth-century high-backed armchairs that had some vaguely Indian motif.

‘I will inform Lady Cater of your arrival,’ she said, and left, closing the double doors behind her.

‘I think every place I’ve ever lived in could fit inside this room at once,’ said Sally.

‘Speak softly,’ said Gwen. ‘The ancestors are judging us.’

He glanced over his shoulder at a wall holding an array of paintings of the various Lord Caters, some in wigs and stockings, some in uniforms and plumed hats, the most recent in tailcoats, leaning against cannons or horses or grand pianos, depending upon which background matched the outfit.

‘Bruce didn’t make it to the portrait portion of his life,’ observed Sally.

‘It’s only the men,’ said Gwen. ‘None of the ladies merited preservation or display. I don’t even see a photograph of the current family anywhere.’

The doors opened and the maid stepped in.

‘Lady Francesca Cater,’ she announced.

The woman who entered was small, almost doll-like in her appearance. Her make-up gave her skin a porcelain smoothness – so brittle it looked as if it could shatter if she smiled broadly.

There did not appear to be much risk of that happening.

The two rose to meet her, and she reared back, startled as Sally reached his full height.

‘Gracious!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re quite the specimen, aren’t you?’

‘How do you do, Lady Cater?’ he said in his most genteel tone. ‘Salvatore Danielli, BBC.’

‘And I’m Mrs Gwendolyn Bainbridge,’ said Mrs Bainbridge. ‘We spoke on the telephone yesterday. So good of you to welcome us to your home. It is quite lovely.’

‘Thank you,’ said Lady Cater, gesturing for them to sit again. ‘It was good of you to come all the way from London. We don’t get as many visitors nowadays as we did before the war, especially with our children having grown up and gone out into the world.’

‘I can imagine this must have been quite a lively place back then,’ said Mrs Bainbridge.

‘Oh, we had our occasions to shine,’ said Lady Cater modestly. ‘Of course, Kimbolton society, such as it was, was dominated by our cousins, the Montagues. Alas, they have fallen upon hard times.’