They were sitting outside their tent, eating eggs and bacon and fried bread cooked on their Primus. So they could manage something other than sausages and beans. “Your mother rang last night,” Roderick said to Cordelia. “I thought it wouldn’t be long,” she said equably. She fiddled nervously with the food on her plate, then looked up at him with one of her dazzling smiles. “I suppose news of one of our postcards has got back to her. Did she throw a rage?” “No-o,” admitted Roderick. “Though of course she wasn’t pleased.” “Did you tell her I was looking at your father’s letters and papers and things?” “That was what she wasn’t pleased about. . . . Before she rang off, she said: ‘I think I’m going to have to—’ ” “What did she mean by that?” “I rather thought she meant she was going to have to come down here.” “I think you’re right.” She put aside her plate and looked up at him again with a sunny smile. “Great . . . just great.
