Hotbed by Bill James Page A

troublesome. He had sent her to finishing schools run by nuns in Poitiers and Bordeaux, hoping they would show her the value of temperateness, though, given the news about some nuns, this had risk. She was back now. Ralph didn’t feel sure she’d changed. He had the idea that Brown’s bit of moustache and the chin whiskers would get to her, also his flashiness and cheerful insolence, plus a brother an actor. ‘Yes, I’ll drop in – as and when,’ Brown said.
    â€˜We’ll be flexible about times at these selected locations. I’ll wait an hour at some pre-agreed place, say, and if you haven’t come I’ll assume it’s awkward and leave it until the following day. I’ve got some reasonably anonymous places in mind – say a launderette or one of the old coastal defence blockhouses.’
    â€˜Yes, I’ll drop in here – as and when,’ Brown replied. ‘I feel at ease. That plaque on the gate – the Cicero quote: “A man’s mind is the man himself.” I like this. It means fuck all, but he gets away with it because of all the nice q and s sounds in the Latin. It shows what can be done if you’re smart enough.’
    And he dropped in as and when at Low Pastures.
    Drop-in 1
    He came by hired VW on a Sunday afternoon. Ember and all the family were at home. Brown brought the bill for the day’s use of the car and handed it to Ralph. When Ralph gave him the £5000 at the end of their meeting, he added £70 in tens. Brown said he’d do it the same way next time, but on a different day and in a different car, and not a VW. ‘As you mentioned, Ralph, “it could be anyone, anything,”’ Brown said. But it wasn’t anyone, it was Turret. He had on what Ralph took to be skateboard gear – loose, threequarter-length beige trousers, a floppy brown V-necked sweater and trainers: another sad try at proving he wasn’t stunned by the splendour of Low Pastures, and wouldn’t dress up for it. All right, all right. To Ember, Brown still looked like someone who would take £5000 for an eight or ten job, had to worry about hire car costs and who couldn’t stomach his brother’s success. Venetia was in one of the paddocks practising gymkhana jumps. Ember had been watching her from the drawing-room window when he heard the VW’s approach. Venetia obviously heard it, too, and pulled the pony around so she could watch as the car stopped and Brown got out at the front door. She’d probably think those drooping clothes brilliant, especially on someone with a bit of beard.
    Ember let Turret in and this time took him to the study. ‘We’ll be undisturbed here,’ Ralph said. Brown carried a blue canvas document case.
    â€˜Welsh cob?’ he said.
    Ralph reckoned he could see right through that fucking cob reference. Brown would pretend he was more interested in the pony than in the girl on it. Well, if you picked someone sly enough for a snuggle-up-to-Manse project, you had to expect a helping of all-round slyness. He boasted of his subtlety, didn’t he? Ralph would be watching, though. And it was not merely that he didn’t want Venetia involved with a man of twenty-seven. He didn’t want Venetia involved with a man of twenty-seven who’d taken on a very dangerous ploy that might kill him, or at least get him crippled/disfigured, and for undistinguished money. Taken it on at Ralph’s invitation. Venetia could be daftly, wilfully teenage, but she also had the genuine feelings of a young girl. He knew she would be appallingly hurt if a man she’d fallen for were suddenly taken from her, or catastrophically injured. And Ralph dreaded what she might think of him should she discover he’d sent the man into such risk. He feared her hatred.
    â€˜How do you manage with the hire?’ Ralph said.
    â€˜Manage?’
    â€˜Do you have to use your real name? You have to show