Pulling back the thin white curtains at one window, he kept glancing across the road to where — some three hundred feet away — Fleet House raised its square, uncompromising face of white-painted stone. Being on higher ground, he could look across almost to the topmost row of windows. Over trees and clipped lawns, he could see a flagstone terrace before the front door.
Flagstones. That was probably where Sir George Fleet had…
Martin saw no sign of an ole black car. But someone was moving on the terrace, woman in a long filmy dress with a red sash and a broad straw sun-hat
And Martin yielded to temptation.
On a table beside his bed, with its spotlessly mended white counterpane, lay an old-fashioned brass telescope of the short and folding sort. He pulled out its few bands and focussed the end one. The image sprang up close and clear, just as the woman turned her head round and up. Aunt Cicely.
He remembered Jenny's soft voice: "Aunt Cicely if kind. But she's so vague, though still very pretty." The westering sun was in Martin's eyes, though the telescope shielded it. Aunt Cicely must be into her fifties. Yet she had an Edwardian air, Martin thought: the sort Sargent had painted so well. With her pale blonde hair under the broad sun-hat, face turned up, she seemed (through the telescope, at least) almost young and rather fragile.
Furthermore, she had recently been crying.
Martin shut up the telescope. What was the air of sheer coldness which seemed to breathe out of Fleet House? Probably his professional imagination. But…
This situation was getting to be damned awkward. He had not seen Ruth or John Stannard. But then he had not seen H.M. or Masters either, though the landlord told him they had booked rooms. Half-past two and a quarter to three.
It was past four, the cigarette-tray full of stubs, before he made a guess which he should have made before. He hurried down, fumbled with the small, 'phone-directory, and rang Brayle Manor.