“Is yours in here?”
“It is now. You will call me if you have any difficulty.”
“Yes.”
I wake early the next morning to find his side of the bed empty.
A few miles outside the village of Beaumont, a narrow lane bordered on both sides by hedgerows cuts through a sea of fields. When I spot the gate into a meadow where Mrs Bellacci can turn the car around, I ask her to drop me off. I can see the tree-lined track to Honeycomb Cottage not too far off. Due to the distance from the farmhouse—a good two hundred and fifty miles and four and a half hours’ drive away—we agree that I will find my own way back.
Lorenzo left early to explore the area around Balchraggan that morning, bidding us both a cursory farewell. After the intensity of last night, we barely spoke over breakfast. Honestly, I am pleased he left because I feel sure he would have found a way to remain by my side. Mrs Bellacci merely rolled her eyes at his rudeness. I am sure she knows there’s more between us, but on the journey down, she said nothing. As I step out of the car, I have barely closed the door before she puts the vehicle into gear and drives off.
Within minutes, the car engine fades into the distance, and I’m alone with the occasional rustle of wind in the branches and the chatter of birds. This part of the world is very different to the scorched but temperate landscape of Tuscany, more wild and windswept. Alone again, I do what I do best—pull up my collar, put my head down and trudge onwards.
Not far down the track, intimidating ‘Keep Out—Electrified Perimeter’ and ‘Private Property’ signs begin to appear, along with pictures of Doberman silhouettes. Eventually, I come to a perimeter fence and metal gates set into brick columns. Cameras are mounted in plain sight on tall metal poles, trained on the entrance. I notice the faint hum of electricity from the fences on both sides. I also spy an intercom on the wall and am about to press a button when a speaker sizzles to life.
“What do you want?” comes a gravelly voice.
I pull my hand away and stare up at one of the cameras.
“I am looking for Dr Maurice Leblanc.”
“On what business?”
“Am I speaking to Dr Leblanc?”
“What do you want?”
Stepping back, I pull a large brown envelope from inside my jacket and hold it up to the camera.
“I have urgent registered post for him,” I reply.
“Drop it through the bars of the gate. I will see that he gets it.”
“No can do, I’m afraid. The letter needs to be signed for by the recipient.”
I can’t make out the exact expletive, but immediately afterwards, the ambient noise from the other end of the connection cuts off. I wait a few seconds before lowering the envelope and placing the object back into my jacket.
“My instructions are to hand-deliver the letter to the recipient,” I call out. “But if Dr Leblanc would prefer, I can return to the main depot in Carlisle and he can go there, sign for it and pick it up at his own convenience.”
My bluff seems to do the trick because a huff of frustration issues from the intercom.
“Come to the house. And be quick.”
A loud buzzing accompanies a clunk, and the doors swing open. I head forward and follow the trail into the grounds. I’munsure what I expected—maybe something like the ramshackle Scottish farmhouse—but certainly not the pretty little cottage nestled in a mature garden. Even Mrs Bellacci’s satnav did not pick up the location, and I am grateful to the cheerful landlady of a pub a few villages away who gave me clear directions to find the place. She could not hide the slight frown of distaste when I mentioned Honeycomb Cottage, and I can only assume that Leblanc is not particularly liked by the rural community.
Mrs Bellacci advised me to wear my nerdy outfit, complete with glasses, to approach the man. She also suggested I pose as a courier delivering an important package as cover.
As I approach, I see that the façade, with two windows on each storey, appears to have had a fresh coat of paint, the smooth, clean walls in a gentle cream and the woodwork in glossed burgundy. I also notice that each window has security bars with thick black blinds pulled down inside.
When I’m a few metres away, the front door opens a crack before closing again. Chains rattle and latches slide before the door opens enough for a face to poke out. As I hurry forward, I see the resemblance to Sylvie in his eyes. If I had to guess, I would place him in his late seventies. He has dark, sagging eye bags and sunken sockets reminiscent of street insomniacs I have known. Sporting an untidy yellow-white combover, he wears a crinkled olive shirt beneath a frayed mustard-coloured woollen cardigan with holes at the elbows and stains down the front. He scans the area behind me, his eyes darting nervously around the grounds.
“Hurry. Where do I need to sign—”
Before he can react, I take a stride forward and reach a hand out to prevent him from closing the door on me.
“Tell me what you know about The Hartfield Institute,” I say.
His gaze swings from my hand to my face, then his complexion blanches before he staggers back a step. But a step is all I need.