Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. “Don’t be childish, Annabel. That old world that had shoved up that silly old hotel, and all the rest of it. I am apparently a beast, a pig and an imbecile, too, if memory serves me. ‘Expect? He’s had a twenty-four hour watch on Remenham House these two days.
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