Free The Wicker Tree by Robin Hardy

in her tracks and faced him, taking both his hands in hers.
    'Oh PC Furioso, I know I'm going to like you. A lot. What a delectable thing to say. But there are some quite flaccid, pathetic ones halfway up the drive. You'll see. I'm afraid my presence leaves them quite unmoved.'
    Direct though she could be, most of the time, Lolly possessed at least one of the ancient wiles of born coquettes – a talent to fashion useful surprises; to make the male caught in her web flounder a little.
    'If I was a dress designer,' she was saying, 'I would bring back the cod-piece. It would make the fashion houses' fortunes. Think of all the precious materials and jewels a man would be prepared to have lavished on his cod-piece. There would be pin-striped ones with discrete silver clasps for businessmen. Imagine a pop star's, all glittery jewels and maybe a line of little tinkly bells which would sound like a tiny carillion when he got excited. Now this is the west wing. The body of water over there looks like a river, but is not. It is actually a reflecting pool and is only about two feet deep.'
    Never having heard of cod-pieces before, it had taken a moment or so for Orlando to realise that she had not suddenly switched to Scotland's favourite North Sea fish but was still on the subject of the male member, though the context seemed obscure to say the least. They had emerged from the topiary, somewhat to Orlando's relief, and Lolly had started to describe those parts of the estate through which they were now passing. He noted that the castle would be very hard to burgle except by a really agile cat burglar, for all the great Georgian windows seemed to be on the upper floors whereas, at ground level, there were only heavily barred apertures dating from the castle's past role as a fortress. One exception to this lay on the south side of the building where a series of tall French windows opened out onto a flag-stoned terrace strewn with terracotta pots planted with herbs. One of these rooms was heavily shuttered from within, but, as it was dusk, Orlando noticed a rosy pink glow peeping through cracks in the shutters.
    'What happens in there?' he asked Lolly.
    For the first time, Lolly – who had expounded on the usefulness of the ha ha in keeping the deer away from the roses, on the rarity of the five pine trees ringing the lawn, each imported from a different continent, and on the hideousness of the Henry Moore sculpture of a disembowelled mother and her headless child – was suddenly perceptibly silent for a whole long moment.
    'Mm?' she murmured, as if she hadn't quite heard his question.
    'What happens in there?' he repeated, pointing to the windows.
    'Nothing really. It's a ballroom that is almost never used.'
    'Someone's left the lights on,' he said, just as he felt her arm slip through his.
    'Guess so,' she murmured, steering him back towards the front of the castle. Her sudden closeness banished the room with the eerie pink light completely from his mind.
    Sherry in the gun room was not what Orlando would have expected if he had had any grounds or previous experiences to lead him to expect anything in particular – except of course sherry. This was as nauseatingly sweet and sticky as he remembered it from the time when he had, as a child, secretly sipped the dregs from some left-over glasses after one of his mother's whist parties.
    Lachlan dominated the conversation from the start with a series of penetrating questions about Orlando's opinion on the rules of rugby.
    'Drop kick goals, Orlando – and I hope I may call you that?' said
    Lachlan, assuming that anything he hoped was instantly fulfilled and getting a smiling nod from his guest. 'Don't you find it absurd that they should be worth three whole points? I'm referring of course to our match against Italy. Or was it Iceland?' He looked to Lolly for the answer:
    'Close. The Faroe Islands.'
    Orlando knew they were both wrong but saw no point in saying so. Lachlan went on as if rugby