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Hall Clarissa was still mulling things over as she wandered around the garden and stared down into the water of the moat. It was as green and murky as usual, if less so than the soup the under-gardener’s wife had served them at lunch. Given the choice, Clarissa wasn’t sure she wouldn’t have chosen heated moatwater in place of that soup. Sir George had tried a spoonful and promptly left the table to pour the filth out of the window.
    ‘Where the hell did you get that woman?’ he demanded. ‘From a sewage plant?’
    ‘She’s Herb’s wife.’
    ‘Good God, I wonder he’s still alive. Must have a cast-iron stomach to survive her ghastly cooking.’
    ‘She was the only so-called cook I could find in the village. If you will make a habit of sacking decent ones, simply because they’re too thin for your particular preference, you can’t expect me to whistle up an haute-cuisine replacement overnight. Anyway, I’ll tell her we’ll do without soup in future as we’re both on diets.’
    Sir George had moved over to the sideboard and the decanter of cognac set upon it.
    ‘What are you doing now?’ asked his wife as he poured himself a glassful. ‘You don’t usually drink cognac during lunch.’
    ‘Washing the taste away,’ he replied, after spitting a mouthful into the moat. ‘Probably kill the damned fish!’
    Although the rest of the meal hadn’t been quite so bad, one could hardly say that it was to their liking either. Sir George had compared the blancmange pudding to an extremely obese jellyfish, and unfortunately Herb’s wife had overheard and taken umbrage. Clarissa had intervened, blaming her husband’s remark on his lunchtime drinking, but privately was amazed that Sir George had escaped having it tipped over his head.
    Afterwards he’d taken himself off to watch a cricket match, saying that he couldn’t be at all sure when he’d get back. Clarissa couldn’t have cared less as she most certainly wasn’t in any hurry to see him. All in all, they’d had a relatively peaceful time of it for what wasleft of the weekend. Somewhat predictably he had exploded about the blasted fifteen hundred pounds she’d promised to pay the blasted tutor and the blasted free cottage for his blasted wife – but she had been expecting that and had assured him he didn’t need to worry.
    ‘If this man can get him into Porterhouse, Edward will soon be off your hands. And, besides, you’ll both have something to talk about. You can reminisce about your good old days at Cambridge.’
    ‘What? This fellow must be a genius if he can get your son into any dashed university. Now what did you say his name is?’
    ‘Wilt … Henry Wilt.’
    ‘Wilt? Sounds an appropriate name, at any rate. By the time he’s done his damnedest to get that son of yours through any exam, he’ll have wilted all right. That is if he’s as intelligent as you say he is.’
    ‘He must be. After all, he’s a lecturer at Fenland University.’
    ‘All the same, I’d keep your eye on Eddie. I mean, for all you know, the bloody fellow could be a paedophile, and next thing he’ll be messing about with your son. Yes, better watch him.’
    ‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous, George! Even if Eddie wasn’t more than big enough to look after himself, which he is, having met his wife, I’m absolutely certain that Wilt is nothing of the kind. Or she’d have killed him long ago. With her bare hands.’
    And on this ominous note she’d left her husband to stew.
    Now, as Lady Clarissa wandered through the garden, she planned her future tactics. She’d managed to calm down Herb’s wife for the time being, and ought to be able to keep things ticking along if she forbade her to serve any more soup, just sticking to sausages or roasts with potatoes and a variety of veg. For afters it might not be a bad idea to have rice pudding or tapioca, both of which she knew Sir George loathed, with just occasionally a fruit salad thrown in, to make him realise it was