Case Histories

Howell poured more gin for himself and Julia. "Why don't you join us, Mr. B.?" she said. "We can play three-handed Gladstone. I'll teach you."

"We can try and win some of your excessive and undeserved wealth off you," Howell said. Jackson declined.

"Miserable bugger," Howell said.

Perhaps Jackson could set Howell up in business. He would put some of the money in trust for Marlee. And he could give some to Lily-Rose. He had been to see Theo, had seen the postcard with the picture of the pink flower propped up on the mantelpiece. Neither of them mentioned it. Lily-Rose had made them a pot of tea and they sat and drank it in the garden and ate slices of a Victoria sponge sandwich that Theo had made. "Good, in't it?" Lily-Rose said appreciatively.

And he would have to give some of the money to charity, to salve his conscience if nothing else. It turned out that the money hadn't come from diamonds. A long time ago one of Binky Rain's forebears had invested in the building of the American railroads, so the money had been made from the blood and sweat of whoever built the Union and Central Pacific lines (Chinese? Irish?), which wasn't particularly ethical either, Jackson supposed, but what could you do?

Which charities? There were so many. He thought about asking Amelia, it might be good to give her something to get her teeth into. She had become "a little overwrought," Julia had explained to him, and had taken too many pills and was now "resting" in the hospital.

"You mean she tried to kill herself?" Jackson interpreted.

Julia frowned. "Sort of."

"Sort of?"

He had volunteered to bring Amelia home from the hospital. She was doped up and untalkative, but when they reached the house on Owlstone Road Julia was waiting at the door with the black cat formerly known as Nigger, which she pressed into Amelia's arms as a welcoming gift, and when Jackson observed Amelia burrowing her face into the black fur ("He's called Lucky," Julia said), he realized that he might have found the perfect custodian of Binky's legacy.

"What do you think?" he asked Julia later. "Binky's place would have to be done up, obviously, but then Amelia could live there and look after the cats."

"Oh, and she could rescue the garden as well," Julia said excitedly. "She would love that. Oh, what a splendid idea, Mr. Brodie!"

Jackson hadn't thought about the garden. "Do you think that would be alright though," he said. "I mean with Olivia being there all that time – it wouldn't freak Amelia out?" Amelia hadn't been told about Olivia yet, Julia was still trying to find the "right time," and Jackson had said, "There never will be a right time," and Julia said, "I know."

"I think," Julia said, "that it would be a very good thing. It would be somehow appropriate." She turned her head on the pillow to look at him – because they were conducting this conversation about Amelia's future in bed – and gave him one of her big lazy smiles. She stretched extravagantly and one of her warm feet rubbed up and down his calf.

"Oh, Mr. Brodie," she said, "who would have imagined this would be so delicious?"

Who indeed, Jackson thought. "You might try calling me Jackson now," he said.

"Oh no," she said, "I much prefer 'Mr. Brodie.'"

As the plane went through its preflight routine Jackson perused the estate agents' details. There was a nice chateau, not too showy, in the Minervois (chateaus seemed to be ten-a-penny in France) and a thirteenth-century presbytery in a small village south of Toulouse, a maison de maitre in a village near Narbonne. Not that he'd decided which area to live in, but you had to start somewhere. He imagined he could motor his way round France, viewing houses, take his time. He'd sold his business to Deborah Arnold. If she'd been only a slightly nicer person he might have knocked something off the price. He closed his eyes and thought about France.

"Can I get you a drink, sir?" He opened his eyes and looked into Nicola Spencer's bland, indifferent face. She smiled at him without warmth and repeated her question. He asked for an orange juice in order to prolong the encounter a little. In some ways he knew everything about Nicola Spencer, and in other ways he knew absolutely nothing. She gave him a small packet of pretzels with his orange juice and moved on to the next passenger. He watched as she pushed her trolley past him, her muscular buttocks straining against her uniform skirt. He thought about following her when they landed – out of curiosity and because she was unfinished business – but by the time he'd gone through the rigmarole of picking up a rental car at Toulouse Airport, he'd lost interest.

Chapter 22. Caroline