Page 122 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

What so false as truth is,

False to thee?

Where the serpent’s tooth is

Shun the tree…

Robert Browning A Woman’s Last Word

Pizzas eaten, Strike and Robin emerged half an hour later from the Bel Air and set off up the Avenue beneath a sky still threatening rain, and following the verbal directions given to them by the helpful barman.

As they passed the small, low-built shops that were either empty or closed, Strike said,

‘What would you say are the chances our friend Richard was trying to sneak off up the road to warn his brother we’re after him?’

‘High to very high,’ said Robin.

‘Why didn’t he just phone him?’

‘Maybe he has,’ said Robin. ‘Or maybe he waited for you to go back into the pub so he could dash up there. He might be waiting for us at Helen Platt’s. Hope he hasn’t brought his log.’

Strike laughed, but didn’t quip back, because even with the stick he was finding the Avenue harder going than he would have done had it been tarmacked, and didn’t want to look or sound like a man struggling with the terrain, not when Murphy would probably be vaulting gates if he was here, the limber fucker.

‘I don’t understand why this place is British,’ said Robin, as they turned right into Rue de la Seigneurie. ‘All the place names are French and we’re nearer France than Britain.’

‘I don’t think it is British, strictly speaking,’ said Strike, still trying determinedly not to wince or pant. ‘The Seigneur used to hold the island for the British monarch, or something. All goes back to William the Conqueror.’

They passed a church and graveyard and the local police station, both old, low buildings of stone, and after a further five minutes found themselves passing attractive houses.

Ahead, in the distance to the left, they could see the tower of what Strike knew from maps was the Seigneurie, the large stone building where the current Seigneur lived.

‘That’s it,’ said Robin suddenly, pointing at a house painted light pink. ‘Clos de Camille.’

It was rather better maintained than the de Leon family residence, the camellia tree for which it was named standing proudly beside the front door. However, nobody answered when Robin rang the doorbell.

‘Maybe Richard has called to warn him,’ she said, rejoining Strike in the street.

A painted side gate stood open, through which they could see into a long and well-tended garden.

‘There’s a bloke with a spade,’ said Strike, squinting at a figure in a bright yellow jacket, who seemed to be working at the far end of an expanse of lawn. ‘We could—’

Robin’s mobile rang.

‘Sorry,’ she said, with a sinking feeling, seeing Murphy was calling. ‘I need to—’

‘OK, I’ll see you in there,’ said Strike, and he left her, going through the open gate, making liberal use of his stick as he walked out onto the lawn in the direction of the distant gardener. Robin waited until her partner was out of earshot, then answered her phone.

‘Hi,’ said Murphy. ‘How’s Sark?’

‘Cold,’ said Robin, watching Strike move slowly towards the distant man in the yellow jacket, who still had his back to the road.

‘Found what you were looking for?’

‘Possibly. I don’t know.’

‘Listen, I wanted to talk about Monday night.’

Robin, who’d thought she’d been sufficiently affectionate when she’d said goodbye to Murphy on Tuesday morning to avoid a post-mortem, thought, oh God, not now.

‘Ryan, I’m mid-job. We can talk about it when I get back.’

‘Which is when?’

‘Tomorrow, if we’re lucky,’ said Robin, watching Strike. The figure in the yellow jacket still hadn’t turned around.

‘It’s been playing on my mind, that’s all,’ said Murphy. ‘I genuinely didn’t mean to upset you, with what I said, I was just trying—’

‘ Please ,’ said Robin, through clenched teeth, ‘don’t say you were trying to be honest.’

‘You don’t want—?’

‘Of course I want honesty between us, it just seems like it’s becoming a catch-all excuse to force conversations I—’

‘I wasn’t trying to force anything, I’m trying to understand—’

‘And I gave you my answer,’ said Robin, trying to hold herself together. ‘I answered you honestly. I don’t know what I’d have done if the baby had been viable, and I don’t think it’s fair—’

‘Were you sad? At all? About the baby?’

‘ Yes ,’ said Robin, her voice breaking. ‘Yes, I’ve cried about the baby. Is that what you need to know? That I’m not inhuman?’

‘I never—’

‘Be honest, Ryan. You want me to behave as you think a woman should behave.’

‘What’s that supposed—?’

‘You wanted me to sob in your arms about our lost child and say I wanted to get my eggs frozen immediately, so we can make a replacement.’

‘That’s not—’

‘Look, I’m working,’ said Robin, watching Strike, who was now within easy calling distance of the gardener. ‘I’d rather—’ She gasped, then exclaimed, ‘Oh my God – I’ve got to go!’ and hung up.

Cormoran Strike had just taken a spade to the face.