“As strange and hard to please as ever, I imagine,” she answered.
“Yes, as it ever was. Well, rather you than me, I know that much.”
He must have known who bought the house from the man he’d originally designed it for. He must have wondered.
Teapot steaming on a tray, biscuits arranged higgledy-piggledy on a bone china plate, John beckoned her to follow him into the sitting room.
They sat opposite each other, morning light filtering through soft linen curtains into the high-ceilinged Victorian sitting room, and they talked.
She asked him questions about his books, his life, and he answered. He told her about his youth, his lost wife, his daughter, his fears and hopes.
He must not have known what the house had become. He must not have realized.
She sailed as close to the wind of truth as she could get away with, because she knew he would sense a lie if it was offered.
He suggested another pot and she accepted. He rose to fetch it and told her to stay, to take a look at his books, to make herself at home. He turned to leave and then turned back to Lucinda.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m telling you all this?” he said pointedly, then just as suddenly slipped into a world of his own thoughts. “You see, I’ve recently had a bit of bad news. Now, you’re not far off my daughter’s age, and I think I’d like your advice. She’s a bit of a lone wolf as they say, an introvert; always has been. But we’ll get to that. If you’ve got time for a few more biscuits?”
Lucinda shifted in her seat. John Stanley Hepworth might have worked out why she was here. She would do best not to drink any more tea.
“I can be bought with biscuits,” she answered with a smile.
“Oh, I doubt that very much. I’m guessing these private investment clients don’t pay you in biscuits, now, do they, Lucinda.”
And with that he slipped from the room.
Lucinda stood and headed for his desk. She slipped the small desk clock, and a Montblanc pen, into her handbag. As the kettle flared up again in the kitchen, she gently tugged his central desk drawer open and slid out a thin copy of The Waste Land from its dark interior along with a small Moleskine journal.
The sound of a biscuit tin popping open in the kitchen sent Lucinda onward toward the bookshelves, where a dog-eared copy of the Alexandre Dumas classic The Count of Monte Cristo made it into her bag also alongside a small sterling-silver pig figurine.
Since the house had been repurposed clients no longer paid to experience the house themselves; they paid to watch others experience it. She had become very good at curating backstories to package participants for clients. Nina and her father were a fantastic backstory, on a par with Maria and her formative experiences at the Darién Gap. She would reconfigure the rooms to reflect their father–daughter story.
The rattle of a tray being carried back to her led Lucinda back to her seat, where she set down her laden bag with care.
She had enough already, though if she got his signature for use on documents she would have more than enough to tie this one up. But as he settled back in, more stories flowed. Stories about Nina and their shared past.
It was only as she was leaving that he let the veil slip. As he shook her hand in farewell, he palmed her the number. In case there was a recording, in case there was a camera.
She felt the sharp rasp of paper against her fingers as he held her eye. She understood. He knew who she was. And he was trying to tell her something.
“Take care, Lucinda,” he told her, his hand still shaking hers. “If you ever run into my daughter, keep an eye out for her, would you. You seem like a nice girl.” He released her with a warm smile and then chuckled lightheartedly. “You’ve just fallen in with the wrong crowd, I think. But money makes fools of us all. Who am I to judge.”
As the door closed on her the wave of guilt threatened to overwhelm her and everything there had ever been.
She thought of Penny back home, of her soft shiny coat and her bouncy greetings and simple energy, and felt another wave of sadness.
But this was her last candidate. After this one she could stop. They had promised.
Back in the car she slowly unballed her fist. On the crumpled paper, a phone number. An escape route.
—
THE POWERS THAT BE HAD not been as good as their word. They did not create an exit strategy. They simply changed Lucinda’s role and dragged her in further. Her responsibilities more profound. And the phone number Nina’s father had given her became more and more enticing.
The house is fully automated now, so it requires only maintenance and one project manager on-site. Plus the single gatehouse guard who helped earlier with the local who’d arrived unexpectedly. Three of them in total, Lucinda, Joon-gi, and a carousel of nameless guards.
It’s just her and the electrician up at the house when a package is in progress. It limits accountability and any room for human error.
