I’ve been gone for much of the day-darkness shadows even the brightest of the light pouring through the open doorway. I was given no chance to put them on before being made to leave the house. My favourite blue coat and hat are still on the coat and hat stand. Now I wear Williams’ overcoat over my sensible travelling clothes of a green skirt and thick stockings. I hadn’t precisely been dressed for a cold and draughty police station when I was led away in handcuffs the night before. I can already feel the leather chaffing my cold feet. My red driving shoes are drenched between one heartbeat and the next. Not if the bustle I’m witnessing is anything to go by.Įagerly, not waiting for my chauffeur, Williams, to open the door, I swing it outwards, noticing how my sleeve darkens beneath the deluge, able to hear the hub of conversation as I skip over the gravel driveway. What’s happened now? I want nothing more than to luxuriate in the Turkish bath complex with its beautiful blue tiles, soaking away the stink of the local police station at Rothbury, but that isn’t about to happen.
I can see little despite my best efforts. No, my eyes are drawn to the flurry of activity taking place around the main door of Cragside house, despite the sheeting rain that makes everything appear elongated and out of focus. Rain thuds onto the black roof of the Rolls Royce Phantom, but that doesn’t concern me.
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