The Debutante

Horns blared behind them as they raced out of London.

And, for the first time in a long while, all was right with the world. It was a beautiful, sun-drenched morning – the entire summer spread out before them. He felt handsome, masculine and young.

And he was laughing too.

High on a cliff where the rolling countryside, dotted with cows and lambs, met the expanse of sea, Endsleigh stood alone. Part of an extensive farm, it commanded a view over the bay beneath and the surrounding hills that was breathtaking. Built in pale grey stone by a young, ambitious Robert Adam, it rose like a miniature Roman temple; its classical proportions blending harmoniously into the rich green fields that surrounded it, mirroring the Arcadian perfection of the landscape with its Palladian dome and restrained, slender columns. High stone walls extended for acres on either side of the house, protecting both the formal Italian rose gardens and the vegetable patches from the stormy winter winds, while the arched gravel drive and the central fountain, long out of use, lent the house an air of refined, easy symmetry.

It was impressive yet at the same time unruly, showing signs of recent neglect. The front lawns were overgrown; the fountain sprouted dry tufts of field grass, high enough almost to blot out the central figure of Artemis with her bow and arrow, balanced gracefully on one toe, midchase. There was no one to care if the guttering sagged or the roses grew wild. It was a house without a guardian; its beautiful exterior yielding, slowly, to the inevitable anarchy of nature and time.

Just before the drive, a discreet sign pointed the way to a campsite on the grounds, nearly a mile down the hill, closer to the shore and out of sight of the occupants in the main house. Below, the bay curved gently like an embracing arm, and beyond, the ocean melted into the sky, a pale grey strip blending into a vast canopy of blue. It was cloudless, bright. Cool gusts tempered the heat of the midday sun.

Jack pulled up, wheels crunching on the gravel of the drive, and turned off the engine.

They sat a moment, taking in the house, its position; the view of the countryside and the sea beyond. Neither of them wanted to move. Silence, thick and heavy, pressed in around them, tangible, like the heat. It was disorientating. The internal compass of every city dweller – the constant noise of distant lives humming away in the background – was missing.

‘It’s much bigger than I thought it would be,’ Cate said at last.

It was an odd observation. The beauty of the place was obvious, overwhelming. Could it be that she was calculating how long they would be alone here?

‘Yes. I suppose it is.’

Swinging the car door open, she climbed out. After so much time driving, the ground felt unsteady beneath her feet.

Jack followed and together they walked past the line of rose bushes, full-blown and fragrant, alive with the buzzing of insects, to the front door.

He pressed the bell. After a moment, footsteps drew closer.

A tall, thin man in a dark suit opened the heavy oak door. He was in his late fifties, with a long, sallow face and thinning, grey hair. He had large, mournful eyes, heavily ringed with dark circles.

‘You must be Mr Coates, from Deveraux and Diplock,’ he surmised, unsmiling.

‘Yes.’

‘Welcome.’ He shook Jack’s hand.

‘And this is Miss Albion, my…assistant,’ Jack added.

‘John Syms.’ The man introduced himself, inclining his head slightly in Cate’s direction, as if he’d only budgeted for one handshake and wasn’t going to be duped into another. ‘From the firm of Smith, Boothroy and Earl. We’re handling the liquidation of assets on behalf of the family.’ He stepped back, and they crossed the threshold into the entrance hall. ‘Welcome to Endsleigh.’

The hall was sparse and formal with black-and-white marble tiles and two enormous mahogany cabinets with fine inlay, both filled with collections of china. Over the fireplace hung a large, unremarkable oil painting of the house and grounds. Four great doors led off the hall into different quarters.

‘How was your journey?’ Mr Syms asked crisply.

‘Fine, thank you.’ Cate turned, examining the delicate Dresden china figurines arranged together in one of the cabinets. Their heads were leaning coyly towards one another, all translucent porcelain faces and pouting pink rosebud mouths, poised in picturesque tableaux of seduction and assignation.

‘Yes, traffic wasn’t too bad,’ Jack said, immediately wishing he’d thought of something less banal.

Mr Syms was a man of few words and even fewer social graces. ‘Splendid.’ Pleasantries dispensed with, he opened one of the doors. ‘Allow me to show you around.’

They followed him into the main hall with its sweeping galleried staircase, lined with family portraits and landscapes. It was a collection of country-house clichés – a pair of stiff black Gothic chairs stood on either side of an equally ancient oak table, stag’s heads and stuffed fish were mounted above the doorways; tucked under the stairwell there was even a bronze dinner gong.

Cate looked up. Above, in a spectacular dome, faded gods and goddesses romped in a slightly peeling blue sky. ‘Oh, how lovely!’

‘Yes. But in rather bad repair, like so much of the house. There are ten bedrooms.’ Mr Syms indicated the upper floors with a brisk wave of his hand. ‘I’ve had the master bedroom and Her Ladyship’s suite made up for you.’

He marched on into the dining room, an echoing, conventional affair with a long dining table tucked into the bay-fronted window overlooking the fountain and front lawns. ‘The dining room,’ he announced, heading almost immediately through another door, into a drawing room with an elaborate vaulted ceiling, library bookcases, soft yellow walls and a grand piano. Marble busts adorned the plinths between shelves; two ancient Knole settees piled with cushions offered a comfortable refuge to curl up with a book and a cup of tea. A ginger cat basked contentedly in a square of sun on top of an ottoman, purring loudly.

‘The drawing room.’

He swung another door open wide.

‘The sitting room.’

And so the tour continued, at breakneck speed; through to the morning room, the study, gun room, the flshing-tackle room, the pantry, the silver room, the main kitchen with its long pine table and cool flagstone floors leading into the second, smaller kitchen and cellars. It was a winding maze of a house. No amount of cleaning could remove the faint smell of dust and damp, embedded into the soft furnishings from generations of use. And despite the heat, there was a permanent chill in the air, as if it were standing in an unseen shadow.

Mr Syms returned to the sitting room, unlocking the French windows. They stepped outside into a walled garden at the side of the house where a rolling lawn, bordered by well-established flower beds led to a small, Italian-style rose garden. It was arranged around a central sundial with carved stone benches in each corner. In the distance, the coastline jutted out over the bay; the water sparkling in the hazy afternoon sun.

Mr Syms guided them to the far end of the lawn where a table and chairs were set up under the cool shade of an ancient horse-chestnut tree. Tea things were laid out; a blue pottery teapot, two mugs, cheese sandwiches and a plate of Bourbon biscuits.

‘How perfect!’ Cate smiled. ‘Thank you!’

Mr Syms didn’t sit, but instead concentrated, going over some internal checklist.

‘The housekeeper, Mrs Williams, thought you might need something. Her flat is there.’ He indicated a low cottage at the back of the property. ‘She’s prepared a shepherd’s pie for tonight. And apologises if either of you are vegetarians.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’m afraid, Mr Coates, that I have another appointment and must be going. It’s my understanding that you and Miss Albion will be spending the night, possibly even two, while you value and catalogue the contents of the house. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Here’s a set of keys and my card. If you need anything while you’re here, please don’t hesitate to contact me. Otherwise, you may leave the keys with Mrs Williams upon your departure and I anticipate hearing from you in due course regarding the value and sale of the contents.’

Jack took the keys, frowning. ‘And is everything to be sold? There are no pieces the family would like to keep?’

‘There is no family left in this country, Mr Coates. The entire estate has been purchased by developers who wish to turn it into a luxury hotel, the proceeds of which go to a number of charitable causes. So, sadly, no. Again, if I can be of any help –’

‘Forgive me, but who were they?’ Cate interrupted, settling into one of the chairs. ‘Who lived in Endsleigh?’

Mr Syms gave her a look, both surprised and slightly suspicious. ‘I thought it was common knowledge. The late Lady Avondale, more famously known by her maiden name, Irene Blythe, lived here. She died two months ago, aged ninety-two. She was a wonderful woman; very loyal and generous. Lady Avondale was an extremely active campaigner for children’s causes, especially of UNICEF. She received her OBE in 1976. Unfortunately, of course, it’s her sister everyone knows about. But that’s the way, isn’t it?’ he sighed. ‘The good in this world are never as glamorous as the bad. I’m sorry but I really must go. I’m reading a will in Ottery St Mary in an hour.’ He nodded to them. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you both. Mrs Williams is always on hand if you need anything. I hope you enjoy your stay.’ Then, with a small bow, he took his leave, cutting across the lawn with long strides.

‘Is it just me or does it feel like he’s running away?’ Cate poured out two mugs of tea. ‘Sugar?’

‘No, thank you.’ Jack picked up a sandwich. ‘He wouldn’t be the first. I have that effect on people.’

‘I’ve never heard of the Blythes.’ She passed him a mug. ‘And who is this infamous sister?’

‘Diana Blythe. The beautiful Blythe sisters. They were both debutantes; famous for being famous between the wars. Do you really not know who they are?’

Cate shook her head. ‘Am I just a mass of ignorance? Tell me everything you know.’

‘Well,’ he admitted, ‘to be honest, that’s it. I know Diana went missing during the war and was never found. Some say she went to live in America. Others think she was murdered. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of her.’