‘She reminds me a bit of you,’ said Cedric, attempting to lighten the atmosphere.
Lavinia made a face, and even Rose was persuaded to smile.
‘Poor man,’ said Lavinia. ‘He’s frightfully handsome, don’t you think, Rose?’
‘Your Mr Dewhurst, or me?’ asked her brother flippantly.
‘Oh, Mr Dewhurst, of course,’ Lavinia replied, ‘though I suppose you are quite good-looking in your way.’
‘Well, your Mr Dewhurst doesn’t look the sort to fetch and carry,’ retorted her brother. ‘He seemed an arrogant sort of fellow to me.’
‘I think you’re being dreadfully unfair,’ said Lavinia. ‘I knew you’d take against him, and you don’t even know him.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t lose your head over him, if I were you,’ said Cedric, a serious note creeping into his voice for the first time. ‘He didn’t strike me as the sort of fellow who’d play fair.’
‘Really, Ceddie, you do talk the most awful rot. I’m not a hothouse flower, you know.’
Rose, who shared her husband’s reservations concerning the duchess’ companion, wondered whether they should take Lavinia into their confidence. As she watched the siblings spar, however, it occurred to her that Lavinia was well able to look after herself and hold her own. Besides, she reasoned, Lavinia was not one to hold her tongue, and the fewer people who were aware of the duchess’ real identity, the better.
Just as these thoughts were passing through her mind, Ron Thurlow sauntered back to their table, his hands thrust nonchalantly in his pockets.
‘I say, any news on our newcomers? Are they musicians or guests?’
‘Guests,’ replied Cedric, rather abruptly.
‘Jolly good,’ said Ron. ‘They looked the sort of people for whom I might arrange a tour. I say, my employer will be glad. Perhaps I should go and introduce myself. I wonder if they will be staying long?’
‘They’re a brother and sister by the name of Dewhurst,’ said Lavinia helpfully.
‘Oh?’
Was it Rose’s imagination or was the courier visibly shaken by this piece of information? Certainly, a puzzled frown had creased his forehead, and again she caught him staring meditatively at the window through which the newcomers had made their entrance. Aware suddenly that she had been regarding him for a while, she turned away and surveyed the rest of the room. It was with something of a jolt that she discovered that Ron Thurlow was not the only person to be fixated by the fateful window. For Mr Vickers was also casting furtive looks in its direction, as if seemingly under its spell. She studied him with a growing feeling of repulsion, for his sly and shifty manner, coupled with his habit of licking his dry, fleshy lips, did little to enhance the man’s already shabby appearance and general air of desolation.
With a shudder she returned her gaze to her immediate companions. Though the room was warm, bordering on humid, she suddenly felt cold and suppressed a shiver. She took a sip of water, keen to steady her nerves and regain her equilibrium. Cedric, she noticed, was watching her closely, and continued to do so during dinner, while Lavinia prattled on about nothing in particular, oblivious to the fact that her audience was inattentive and subdued.
‘I say, darling, are you all right? enquired her husband in a concerned fashion, as soon as the meal was over.
Rose did not reply immediately. Lavinia had left their table and so ostensibly she and Cedric were alone, though the hotel band had struck up a jaunty tune to remind them that they were still in the crowded hotel dining room. As if to emphasise this point, odd fragments and snatches of conversation from the neighbouring tables drifted over to them.
Rose turned to look at her husband, aware that she must appear agitated. Had there not been that awful gulf between them, she might have taken his hand and clasped it tightly. Instead, she merely shook her head and said: ‘I’m frightened. I daresay it is very silly of me, but I have an awful feeling that something dreadful is going to happen.’
Chapter Four
Later in the evening, Rose wondered whether she had imagined the odd sense of foreboding that had entered the room the very moment the man and woman had stepped in through the window. The atmosphere had certainly altered with their entrance, though whether this was because the newcomers were viewed as trespassers rippling the comfortable familiarity and accord that had struck up between the hotel guests, or was in fact something more sinister, it was hard to tell. All Rose could say, if asked, was that the air felt charged, as if there were a tension in the room that had not been there before.
As much for something to do, as for reassurance, she surveyed the room, stopping at each table in turn to note the diners. Had she been requested to do so, she would have been able to say where each guest would be seated without looking. For, at the commencement of their stay, each had been assigned a particular table at which to take their meals. Only Ron Thurlow had shown any inclination to stray from his allotted place to take coffee at the Adlers’ table, where he would ostensibly converse politely with the vicar. The young man’s attention, however, as Lavinia would readily point out, to anyone who would listen, appeared exclusively focused on Miss Mabel Adler, who would bestow on him the odd encouraging smile while her father talked.
‘It’s a great pity,’ Lavinia was wont to say, ‘that the poor girl’s mother is dead. If only she were here to occupy the vicar, Mr Thurlow and Miss Adler might manage to get a moment or two to themselves. As it is, her father quite refuses to take the hint.’ Following which, Lavinia would address her brother. ‘Can’t you pretend that you are interested in religious artefacts or something, Ceddie?’ she would plead. ‘To lure the vicar away, I mean. Of course,’ she would sigh, ‘I suppose I could organise a tennis party, but really, it is far too hot to play.’
Mr Vickers kept to himself, except when inebriated at the end of the night when he was apt to stagger inadvertently into another table and mumble a slurred apology. As oft as not, it was the Misses Trimble who suffered this indignity. Rose had noticed that Miss Hyacinth was in the habit of smiling and pretending the fault was hers, while her sister, Miss Peony, deaf to Mr Vickers’ feeble efforts at an apology, would bestow on that gentleman a look which could curdle eggs. Mr Vickers, apparently oblivious or indifferent to the fact that he had caused any offence, would then stumble away to his room.
On this particular evening, Rose was conscious only of the stifling heat in the dining room, despite the open windows and the efforts of the Hunter ceiling fans, with their beechwood blades and black enamelled, cast iron frames. Indeed, the almost unbearable warmth, coupled with the noise of the band, produced a heady mix which suddenly made her feel rather giddy.
‘Darling, are you all right?’
Rose stared almost blindly at her husband, fighting back the tears that threatened to come unbidden. For she was acutely aware that tonight the awful gulf that had sprung up so sharply and suddenly between them had seemed to lessen and diminish. Of course, it was quite possible that this thawing, or truce, of sorts, was just temporary, yet she felt the need to grasp at it with open hands. She was reminded also of her intention that tonight on this Greek island, far from her husband’s ancestral home and the responsibilities and duties of his estate, she had resolved to speak with him to determine the fate of their marriage.
It was with something of a heavy heart, yet coupled also with a faint flame of hope and optimism, that she rose from her chair. Her husband mirrored her actions, his face a picture of concern and bewilderment. She swayed for a moment, suddenly feeling light-headed, clutching at the starched linen tablecloth to steady herself, much as if she had been the intoxicated Mr Vickers stumbling his way out of the room. The comparison brought a smile to her lips. Had it not, she might have been tempted to sit down again and permit the distance to resume between herself and her husband, for there was a part of her which did not wish to know the truth. Instead, the comic image of Mr Vickers, conjured up in her mind’s eye, gave her the impetus she needed to draw the sit
uation to a head.
Aloud, she said: ‘I am feeling a little faint. It is very hot in here; I need some air.’ She fumbled with the clasp of her evening bag, withdrew from it a handkerchief, and put it up to her flaming cheeks. ‘Will you come out with me on to the terrace?’ she added in a voice which sounded strange even to her own ears. She dared not look at her husband in case he refused. Indeed, she was on the point of leaving without receiving a reply to her question, the prospect of being left to stand foolishly and dejectedly at the table being too awful to comprehend, when Cedric muttered a few words.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course.’
Almost before she was aware of what was happening, he had taken her by the arm and was steering her between the tables towards the open window. Though she was in something of a daze, she was vaguely aware that Lavinia was staring after them, a thoughtful look, for once, on her beautiful face.
‘We need to leave here at once,’ cried the woman who had appeared at the dining room window.
She was standing in the Dewhursts’ private sitting room, which overlooked the terrace. Her focus had initially been drawn to the window which, though concealed by heavy linen drapes, stood partially open, allowing the music from the band to drift in and remind her all too readily of her recent humiliation. With something of a shudder and following a last despairing glance in the direction of the dining room, she closed the window and retreated into the room, her attention now drawn to her companion, who was reclining full length on a sofa in stockinged feet.
‘Eh?’ the young man remarked absently, seemingly unperturbed by her comment.
‘I said we need to leave here at once. I daresay we can’t leave the island until tomorrow morning, but surely there must be another hotel or similar establishment. Our cases are yet to be unpacked. The hotel manager, I am certain, would help us to find alternative accommodation if we were to ask …’
The woman allowed her sentence to falter. It was patently evident, even to the most casual observer, that the young man was preoccupied not on what she was saying, but with the contents of the newspaper he was reading.
‘Oberon ...’
‘Hello?’
The woman had been fidgeting with a button on her dress. Now she gave a reproachful glance at the newspaper, which so effectively hid her companion’s face from view. She advanced a step or two closer. This time, when she spoke, there was a note of urgency in her voice.
‘Oberon …’
‘Well, what is it?’ The young man lowered his paper a fraction but made no effort to raise himself into a sitting position. Instead, he regarded the woman before him in something of a bored fashion. ‘Not still worrying about the Belvederes, are you?’ The woman nodded, her hand pulling at the light fabric of her dress. The young man gave her a dispassionate look and said with unexpected fierceness: ‘I’ve no intention of leaving, I can tell you. It took an age to get here. Why we couldn’t have stayed in Athens –’
‘Lord Belvedere is an acquaintance of my husband’s,’ cried the woman. ‘He recognised me, Oberon. I am sure of it. He is certain to write –’
‘He will have far better things to do than write to your husband,’ said the young man, somewhat irritably, ‘and I say, do stop calling me Oberon. I can’t stand the name; never could.’
Something akin to a gasp escaped from the woman’s lips. ‘Can’t you?’ She quickly collected herself, however, and said: ‘I suppose it is a little old-fashioned, but I rather like it.’
‘I should say it is!’
‘I think,’ she continued, as if she had not heard him, ‘it is rather a romantic name.’
‘Do you? I’d much rather be called Alec.’
‘Alec?’ said the woman, with a look of disdain.
‘Yes. There is nothing wrong with Alec. It’s a good solid name,’ said the young man, warming to the subject. ‘Alec.’ He rolled his tongue around the name.
‘Alec?’
‘Yes. After all, no self-respecting chap wants to be named after the king of the fairies.’
‘But –’
‘I know what you’re about to say. It’s your favourite play of Shakespeare’s. Something about a dream. I’m keen on Shakespeare myself, but I prefer Caliban or Iago for a name. They have a little more substance to them, don’t you agree?’
‘No, I don’t. I think,’ said the woman slowly, and with feeling, ‘that Oberon is a lovely name.’
The young man cast her a quick sideways glance, as if suddenly conscious that he had offended her.
‘Yes, of course it is. I daresay I’m tired, that’s all,’ he said hurriedly. ‘As it happens, I’m rather proud of my name. But,’ he continued, choosing his words with care, ‘it would be much better if you called me Alec while we’re here.’ He held up his hand as the woman made to protest. ‘Oberon is a very … a very distinctive name. It is the sort of name people remember. And we don’t want people to remember us, do we?’
‘No … I suppose you are right,’ agreed the woman, with some reluctance. ‘I shall call you Alec when we are in company.’
‘You might forget if you were to call me by two different names,’ replied the young man, eyeing her closely. ‘And the servants might talk if they happened to hear you call me Oberon. We wouldn’t want that.’
‘Very well,’ said the woman in a resigned sort of voice. ‘I’ll call you Alec if you wish.’
‘I do.’ The young man smiled and sat up, regarding the woman before him. Despite the heat and the sun, he thought she looked rather pale. The colour had quite gone from her cheeks and he thought that he could detect strands of grey in her hair that had not been there when he had first made her acquaintance. She was still a fine figure of a woman, but she looked older. Inwardly, he sighed. He found her endless fretting and dithering irritating; her restive streak annoyed him. The smile left his lips, and he said rather cruelly: ‘I was just reading something about you in the paper. Do you know that they are calling you the ‘Disappearing Duchess’? It has quite a ring to it, don’t you think?’
An anguished cry left the woman’s lips and she tore at the newspaper, snatching it from the young man’s grasp.
‘I say, Sophia,’ said the young man, rather taken aback. ‘There’s no need for all that. I’d be quite happy to read the article to you, you know. You have only to ask.’
The woman ignored him, clutching the newspaper to her as if it were some favoured possession. She moved to a bookcase, on which a candle was burning, and scoured the sheets of paper until she had found the offending article. With a sharp intake of breath, she read the commentary. The colour had returned in a bright flush to her cheeks, and her bottom lip was trembling. All the while, the young man watched her, fascinated and not a little perplexed.
‘It’s caused quite a stir, hasn’t it? Your vanishing like that, I mean,’ he said, conversationally.
Again, she ignored him, her eyes riveted on the page. She stared, almost transfixed at the photograph which accompanied the article. It had been taken earlier that year at a May Ball she had attended. She had just emerged from a car and had turned to face the photographer, a bright smile on her well made up face. She was wearing a beautifully cut chiffon dress of the palest yellow, and her neck was covered in diamonds, which seemed to sparkle and dazzle even in the black and white print. Instinctively, her hand went up to her throat, which seemed strangely naked and bare. She stared at her gloved hand in the photograph. It appeared to be clutching at some object. Something stirred in her memory. Her husband, who had not been included in the photograph, had accompanied her to the ball and it was his arm, she recalled, that she had taken to steady herself as she got out of the car. It was the fabric of his jacket which she was clutching so tightly …
She turned and regarded her companion, the newspaper falling from her hand.
‘What is it?’ demanded the young man, somewhat alarmed by her expression.
‘I was just remembering how it was …’ she said, in a voice that was ba
rely audible, her voice tailing off before she had finished her sentence.
‘Before I came into your life?’ suggested the young man. ‘I say, that’s rather galling. A chap could take offence. I suppose you’ll be telling me next that you wish you’d never laid eyes on me.’
‘I should never say that!’ cried the woman. In one swift movement she was seated beside him on the sofa and took his hands in hers. ‘You mustn’t say that, even in jest. It’s … it’s very unfair.’
‘Is it?’ enquired the young man, retrieving his hands. There was a challenge in his eyes, and she shrank back from him, twisting her hands together in something of a pathetic, helpless manner.
‘Don’t. Please don’t, I couldn’t bear it if …’ she said.
There was a strong possibility that she was about to weep, and the young man, aware that he had gained the upper hand, took measures to stem the flow of tears that threatened to fall.
‘What’s a fellow to think?’ he said in a lightly mocking voice. ‘Blowed if I know.’ His voice softened, and he said in rather an insincere voice: ‘My dear, I don’t like to see you looking miserable.’
‘I’m not miserable,’ said his companion quickly. ‘Really I’m not. You mustn’t think that. It’s just my husband …’ She paused to pick up the newspaper. ‘It says here,’ she continued, jabbing at the page with a finger that trembled, ‘that he’s hardly been seen out in society. He missed Lady Setter’s ball, and it’s not at all like him to do that. I’m afraid I’ve made him desperately unhappy.’ She bowed her head and said despondently: ‘I had no wish to hurt him.’
‘Well, it’s a bit late for all that, isn’t it?’ replied Oberon Dewhurst rather nastily, returning to form. ‘You made your choice and you chose me. It’s no use regretting it now.’
Murder on Skiathos Page 4
