Giotto's Hand

Apart from that there was a small, self-enclosed settlement of modern houses on the outskirts built for people who wanted to live in the country but had no desire to give up either the form or appearance of suburban life, and Weller House itself.

This lay at the end of a grand, if a little neglected, avenue and had been built, so Argyll guessed, in the late seventeenth century. Subsequent modernizers had Greekified one side in the nineteenth century, and a few decades later had Gothicized the other so that the house looked strikingly like an example from a textbook of architectural styles. The result was charming, though. Just the right size, too. Not a gigantic palace, but something you could live in and still impress every neighbour for twenty miles around.

Quiet and tranquil as well, he added to himself. About three-quarters of a mile out, cut off from the rabble by still-extensive—if overgrown—grounds which turned into scruffy woodland, a tall stone wall and a large, rusty iron gate that gave on to the main road. Once upon a time the stone wall was to keep the peasants at bay; now it served to keep out all the noise of the modern age. Adaptability, that was the thing.

Alas, more than stone walls were needed. Just as Argyll was thinking how quiet it was, there came another low rumble from somewhere over the horizon. As he stood there, trying to work out what sort of storm was in the offing, the sound grew in volume and changed from something that resembled a slow-motion roll of thunder into an ever more high-pitched whine. Then, with an explosive blast that made the ground beneath his feet vibrate, two black and very threatening shapes shot through the air a few hundred feet above him, flashing through the skies at an almost unbelievable speed. Then they disappeared over the line of trees at the far end of the grounds, and the noise slowly dissipated once again.

“What in God’s name was that?” he asked his new hostess, who appeared to pay no attention to the phenomenon. She merely glanced at her watch.

“Five-thirty,” she said mysteriously. “Must have been bombing Scotland again.”

“Eh?”

They’re F1-11s,” she explained with all the indifference that long familiarity breeds. “American bombers,” she added, lest Argyll’s aircraft recognition skills be rusty. “Their base is about five miles away, and we’re underneath their flight path. When they’re feeling a bit perky, they see the avenue cut through the trees, and can’t resist belting up it for all they’re worth. Bloody noisy, aren’t they?”

“Can’t anyone stop them? The house’ll fall down if it vibrates like that.”

She pointed up at the house, and one long crack coming down the side. “I’m trying to persuade the Americans it’s all the fault of their pilots and that they should pay for it. In fact, I suspect that crack appeared before the Wright brothers were even born, but never mind. With a bit of luck they’ll cough up before they go.”

“Go where?”

She shrugged. “Wherever they come from. The base is closing, as they think there’s nothing to defend us from any more. Disaster.”

“Why? It’ll be much quieter.”

“Yes. And that’s the problem. No commuters want to live here because it’s so noisy; so when they pack up, Weller will become another bedroom community. Also, the Americans were incredibly generous. They so wanted to be liked they paid for every house for miles around to have double-glazing; repaved all the roads their lorries used, and threw annual parties and excursions for the local children. Wonderful people. Much better than the local council. And the party’s over. The general feeling round these parts is that it’s all the fault of the Russians for being so weak and feeble. Come along.”

Digesting this strange analysis of geo-politics, Argyll followed Mrs. Verney through the big wooden doors covered with peeling and blistered paint, and into the hallway. He waited patiently, examining distinct signs of woodworm in the dark brown panelling, while she worked herself up into an artificial fit of indignation and then telephoned the base commander to protest about his pilots using her arboretum for target practice. Yet again, Colonel, yet again, as she put it so primly.

“Now, then,” she said afterwards. “Tea. And gossip. But tea first.” Then she led the way down a grim staircase to a kitchen so ancient that it might well have been transported complete for exhibition on Edwardian domesticity, and began to brew up.

“No modern equipment, and no servants to work the old equipment either,” she observed. “The worst of both worlds. I spend my life trying to fix the fuses when they blow. It’s amazing how much you learn about electrical circuitry when you join the landed gentry.”

“I thought you were born into it. Isn’t that the whole point?”