Lethal White

In a family there is always something or other
going awry…
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
A flaking wooden sign marked the turning to Chiswell House. The drive,
which was overgrown and full of potholes, was bordered on the left by a dense
patch of woodland and on the right, by a long field that had been separated into
paddocks by electric fences, and contained a number of horses. As the Land
Rover lurched and rumbled towards the out-of-sight house, two of the largest
horses, spooked by the noisy and unfamiliar car, took off. A chain reaction then
occurred, as most of their companions began to canter around, too, the original
pair kicking out at each other as they went.
“Wow,” said Robin, watching the horses as the Land Rover swayed over the
uneven ground. “She’s got stallions in together.”
“That’s bad, is it?” asked Strike, as a hairy creature the color of jet lashed out
with teeth and back legs at an equally large animal he would have categorized as
brown, though doubtless the coat color had some rarefied equine name.
“It’s not usually done,” said Robin, wincing as the black stallion’s rear legs
made contact with its companion’s flank.
They turned a corner and saw a plain-faced neo-classical house of dirty
yellow stone. The graveled forecourt, like the drive, had several potholes and
was strewn with weeds, the windows were grubby and a large tub of horse feed
sat incongruously beside the front door. Three cars were already sitting there: a
red Audi Q3, a racing green Range Rover and an old and muddy Grand Vitara.
To the right of the house lay a stable block and to the left, a wide croquet lawn
that had long since been given over to the daisies. More dense woodland lay
beyond.
As Robin braked, an overweight black Labrador and a rough-coated terrier
came shooting out of the front door, both barking. The Labrador seemed keen to
make friends but the Norfolk terrier, which had a face like a malevolent monkey,
barked and growled until a fair-haired man, dressed in stripy shirt and mustard-
colored corduroy trousers, appeared at the doorway and bellowed:
“SHUT UP, RATTENBURY!”
Cowed, the dog subsided into low growls, all directed at Strike.

---

“Torquil D’Amery,” drawled the fair-haired man, approaching Strike with his
hand outstretched. There were deep pockets beneath his pale blue eyes and his
shiny pink face looked as though it never needed a razor. “Ignore the dog, he’s a
bloody menace.”
“Cormoran Strike. This is—”
Robin had just held out her hand when Kinvara erupted out of the house,
wearing old jodhpurs and a washed-out T-shirt, her loose red hair falling
everywhere.
“For God’s sake… don’t you know anything about horses?” she shrieked at
Strike and Robin. “Why did you come up the drive so fast?”
“You should wear a hard hat if you’re going in there, Kinvara!” Torquil
called at her retreating figure, but she stormed away giving no sign that she had
heard him. “Not your fault,” he assured Strike and Robin, rolling his eyes. “Got
to take the drive at speed or you’ll get stuck in one of the bloody holes, ha ha.
Come on in—ah, here’s Izzy.”
Izzy emerged from the house, wearing a navy shirtdress, the sapphire cross
still around her neck. To Robin’s slight surprise, she embraced Strike as though
he was an old friend come to offer condolences.
“Hi, Izzy,” he said, taking half a step backwards to extricate himself from the
embrace. “You know Robin, obviously.”
“Oh, yah, got to get used to calling you ‘Robin’ now,” said Izzy, smiling and
kissing Robin on both cheeks. “Sorry if I slip up and call you Venetia—I’m
bound to, that’s how I still think of you.
“Did you hear about the Winns?” she asked, in almost the same breath.
They nodded.
“Horrible, horrible little man,” said Izzy. “I’m delighted Della’s given him
the push.
“Anyway, come along in… where’s Kinvara?” she asked her brother-in-law
as she led them into the house, which seemed gloomy after the brightness
outside.
“Bloody horses are upset again,” said Torquil, over the renewed barking of
the Norfolk terrier. “No, fuck off, Rattenbury, you’re staying outside.”
He banged the front door closed on the terrier, which began to whine and
scratch at it instead. The Labrador padded quietly in Izzy’s wake as she led them
through a dingy hallway with wide stone stairs, into a drawing room on the right.
Long windows faced out over the croquet lawn and the woods. As they
entered, three white-blond children raced through the overgrown grass outside
with raucous cries, then passed out of sight. There was nothing of modernity
about them. In their dress and their hairstyles they might have walked straight

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out of the 1940s.
“They’re Torquil and Fizzy’s,” said Izzy fondly.
“Guilty as charged,” said Torquil, proudly. “M’wife’s upstairs, I’ll go and get
her.”
As Robin turned away from the window she caught a whiff of a strong,
heady scent that gave her an unaccountable feeling of tension until she spotted
the vase of stargazer lilies standing on a table behind a sofa. They matched the
faded curtains, once scarlet and now a washed-out pale rose, and the frayed
fabric on the walls, where two patches of darker crimson showed that pictures
had been removed. Everything was threadbare and worn. Over the mantelpiece
hung one of the few remaining paintings, which showed a stabled horse with a
splashy brown and white coat, its nose touching a starkly white foal curled in the
straw.
Beneath this painting, and standing so quietly that they had not immediately
noticed him, was Raphael. With his back to the empty grate, hands in the pockets
of his jeans, he appeared more Italian than ever in this very English room, with
its faded tapestry cushions, its gardening books piled in a heap on a small table
and its chipped Chinoiserie lamps.
“Hi, Raff,” said Robin.
“Hello, Robin,” he said, unsmiling.
“This is Cormoran Strike, Raff,” said Izzy. Raphael didn’t move, so Strike
walked over to him to shake hands, which Raphael did reluctantly, returning his
hand to his jeans immediately afterwards.
“Yah, so, Fizz and I were just talking about Winn,” said Izzy, who seemed
greatly preoccupied with the news of the Winns’ split. “We just hope to God he’s
going to keep his mouth shut, because now Papa’s gorn, he can say whatever he
likes about him and get away with it, can’t he?”
“You’ve got the goods on Winn, if he tries,” Strike reminded her.
She cast him a look of glowing gratitude.
“You’re right, of course, and we wouldn’t have that if it weren’t for you…
and Venetia—Robin, I mean,” she added, as an afterthought.
“Torks, I’m downstairs!” bellowed a woman from just outside the room, and
a woman who was unmistakably Izzy’s sister backed into the room carrying a
laden tray. She was older, heavily freckled and weather-beaten, her blonde hair
streaked with silver, and she wore a striped shirt very like her husband’s, though
she had twinned hers with pearls. “TORKS!” she bellowed at the ceiling, making
Robin jump. “I’M DOWN HERE!”
She set the tray with a clatter on the needlepoint ottoman that stood in front
of Raff and the fireplace.

---

“Hi, I’m Fizzy. Where’s Kinvara gorn?”
“Faffing around with the horses,” said Izzy, edging around the sofa and
sitting down. “Excuse not to be here, I expect. Grab a pew, you two.”
Strike and Robin took two sagging armchairs that stood side by side, at right
angles to the sofa. The springs beneath them seemed to have worn out decades
ago. Robin felt Raphael’s eyes on her.
“Izz tells me you know Charlie Campbell,” Fizzy said to Strike, pouring
everybody tea.
“That’s right,” said Strike.
“Lucky man,” said Torquil, who had just re-entered the room.
Strike gave no sign he had heard this.
“Did you ever meet Jonty Peters?” Fizzy continued. “Friend of the
Campbells? He had something to do with the police… no, Badger, these aren’t
for you… Torks, what did Jonty Peters do?”
“Magistrate,” said Torquil promptly.
“Yah, of course,” said Fizzy, “magistrate. Did you ever meet Jonty,
Cormoran?”
“No,” said Strike, “afraid not.”
“He was married to what’s-her-name, lovely gel, Annabel. Did masses for
Save the Children, got her CBE last year, so well-deserved. Oh, but if you knew
the Campbells, you must have met Rory Moncrieff?”
“Don’t think so,” said Strike patiently, wondering what Fizzy would have
said if he’d told her that the Campbells had kept him as far from their friends and
family as was possible. Perhaps she was equal even to that: oh, but then, you