The evening would be worse still, he knew, for it was now Alec Dewhurst, not he, who was in the habit of taking coffee with the Adlers after dinner. Surely it was only a matter of time, Ron reflected miserably, before Alec Dewhurst accompanied the vicar and his daughter on the various excursions they made of the island.
Ron gave a cursory glance at the pile of papers on his desk, aware that recently he had become rather neglectful of his duties. There were reports to write detailing his impressions of the island and notes to jot down of his various conversations with the local tavernkeepers and fishermen. Yet he knew that, even if he should sit at his desk this very instant, he would be unable to focus on his work. For his mind still dwelt on Mabel’s face and, more precisely, on Alec Dewhurst’s ever mocking smile.
He sighed and picked up his hat which lay discarded on a chair. Notwithstanding the heat, he had a sudden longing to be outside. He was vaguely hopeful that the vivid sunshine would restore his mood and banish his feelings of melancholy. With this end in mind, the young man set off at a brisk pace, giving little thought to the direction in which his feet were taking him. He did not realise, therefore, until he felt the light, summer breeze on his cheeks, that he was making for the cliff. It was too late to change course. Somewhat reluctantly he proceeded on his way, stopping only to look out to sea. As he did so, he sighed and gave a rueful smile. The last time he had taken in this view, Mabel had been by his side, and the air had been filled with their laughter.
With a heavy heart, he was in the very act of turning around, intending to retrace his steps back to the hotel, when he was arrested by the sound of a voice surprisingly close at hand.
‘I thought I’d find you here.’ The words were uttered in an assured way, as if the talker was certain of his ground.
Ron started violently, though it took him but a second to identify the speaker. ‘What do you want?’ he said curtly.
‘I say, that’s no way to greet an old friend,’ replied the newcomer advancing. If he was disappointed by his lacklustre reception, he did not show it; if anything, he grinned.
‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Ron.
‘I might well ask you the same question,’ Alec Dewhurst replied. ‘I wasn’t certain it was you at first. I didn’t recognise the name and you look a little different from when I saw you last. You’ve filled out a bit. Th-ur-low.’ He rolled the word on his tongue. ‘Is that the name you go by now? I say, it sounds dashed respectable.’
‘And Dewhurst,’ Ron countered, ‘I can’t say I’ve heard you called by that name before.’
‘It’s rather good, don’t you think?’ the man calling himself Alec Dewhurst said, with a nonchalant air. ‘It has a certain ring to it.’
‘It has nothing of the sort,’ retorted Ron. Unable to keep his temper, he grew bellicose and raised his voice. ‘You haven’t answered my question. What the devil are you doing here?’
‘I would have thought that was pretty obvious,’ replied his companion. ‘I say,’ he added, watching Ron keenly, ‘that proprietor fellow told me you were some sort of private courier working for a travel company.’
‘What if I am? It’s no business of yours.’
‘No?’ said Alec, a flash of triumph in his eyes. ‘I daresay they don’t know you’ve been to prison. I rather think it my duty to tell them, don’t you?’ He paused a moment and made what he considered to be a lucky shot. ‘I wonder what Miss Adler would say if she –’
‘You can go to the devil!’ cried Ron, clenching his fists.
‘Ah, I’ve hit a nerve, I see.’ An unpleasant smile contorted Alec Dewhurst’s handsome features. ‘I rather thought you were fond of her. She’s a pretty little thing, I’ll admit, but not the sort of girl to break one’s heart over.’
‘Why, you –’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Alec, with a dismissive gesture. ‘I only wanted to know the lie of the land.’
‘There’s many a thing I could tell Miss Adler about you –’
‘There is,’ agreed Alec, ‘but you won’t, not if you know what’s good for you.’ The last vestiges of humour had left his voice. He glared at Ron. ‘You’ll hold your tongue.’
There was a moment’s awkward silence, as each man glowered at the other.
At last, Ron said: ‘Your … sister …’
‘Oh, she’s hardly that,’ replied Alec, somewhat flippantly. ‘But, of course, you know that already. That’s why I’m calling myself Dewhurst. I mean to say, when a chap’s living with another man’s wife, he’d be a fool to use his own name. The lady in question doesn’t even know it.’
‘They say she’s the Duchess of Grismere, this woman pretending to be your sister.’
Was it Ron’s imagination, or did the other man start? Certainly, to Ron’s untrained eye the other gave every appearance of being startled.
‘Do they, indeed?’ said Alec, recovering a little of his equanimity. ‘What a lot of rot. It’s not like you to listen to servants’ gossip. I would have thought you were above such things.’
He made as if to go, but Ron clutched at his sleeve to detain him, his nails digging painfully into the other man’s arm. ‘It was Lord Belvedere who recognised her.’ He felt Alec Dewhurst stiffen under his grasp. ‘Tell me,’ Ron said rather breathlessly, ‘is it true?’
‘Of course not. He’s quite wrong. There is a bit of a resemblance, I agree, but that’s all. I mean to say, what would the Duchess of Grismere see in a chap like me?’
‘Very little, I’d have thought,’ replied Ron coldly.
Alec Dewhurst glared and wrestled his arm free from the other man’s grip. He set off purposefully and bristling towards the hotel leaving Ron to look after his retreating figure, a look of utter contempt on his face. There was another expression there also. Even the most casual observer would have concluded that the courier was considerably agitated. He seemed perplexed too. Indeed, he was the perfect study of a man in deep contemplation, who was also suffering from some form of extreme mental anxiety.
As it happened, there was no casual observer in the vicinity. But there was an interested one. The two young men had been too engrossed in their argument to give any consideration to their surroundings. Had they not been so intent on glowering at one another, they might have noticed that they were not alone. They had been standing on the very edge of the cliff, but neither had thought to look down and ascertain if anyone was on the cliff path that weaved its way down to the beach. Had they done so, they would have noticed a figure perched a few yards below the cliff edge. A fellow hotel guest, in fact. That in itself might not have caused them undue alarm, had it not been for the way in which the breeze was blowing, which had caused their voices to be carried out to sea. Indeed, had the young men seen fit to glance down at the figure, they would have seen the interested look on its face. It is quite possible that it might have dawned on them then that the onlooker had heard every word of the argument that had passed between them.
It was all very well to decide in theory to warn the duchess of the ominous presence of the journalist on the island, but to put it into practice, Rose soon discovered, was quite another thing. The chief difficulty lay in the fact that the duchess rarely, if ever, left her rooms.
In stark contrast, Alec Dewhurst soon became something of a regular fixture on both the hotel terrace and the private beach. Indeed, so often was he seen about the hotel and surrounds without his companion that it was tempting to forget that he had been accompanied on his travels by another, who presumably languished lonely and abandoned in their rooms. As if to further illustrate this peculiar fact, Miss Hyacinth was apt to remark, to anyone who would listen, that, had she not witnessed the Dewhursts’ arrival with her own eyes, she would quite readily have believed the young man to be travelling alone.
‘His dear sister must be at quite a loss without his company,’ she had remarked rather tentatively to the vicar one afternoon, while watching Alec Dewhurst and Mabel Adler engaged in playing a game of tennis. Since h
er worrying conversation with Miss Peony, she was given to studying Alec Dewhurst’s conduct closely for any signs of an inappropriate dalliance. ‘Such a shame that she is obliged to keep to her rooms. I say, Mr Dewhurst,’ she said, raising her voice to attract the attention of the young man playing tennis, ‘how is Miss Dewhurst feeling today? I do hope she is a little better. Do you think she will feel up to taking dinner in the dining room this evening? It would be so nice to make her acquaintance.’
The interruption caused Alec Dewhurst to miss his serve and a scowl appeared fleetingly on his face, momentarily marring his handsome features. It was replaced almost immediately by a charming smile and words to the effect that Miss Hyacinth was very kind to ask after his poor sister but, alas, she was not very strong, and any form of company was likely to exhaust her. Still, he was hopeful that the Mediterranean air might yet prove to be the tonic she needed to return her to health.
‘If only the poor woman would see fit to step outside her rooms,’ Miss Hyacinth remarked rather cattily to the vicar, ‘she might breathe in some of that restorative air of which Mr Dewhurst speaks so fondly. Let us hope that at least the windows of her rooms are kept wide open.’
‘Now, now, Miss Hyacinth,’ said the vicar soothingly. ‘I’m sure Mr Dewhurst knows what’s best for his sister’s health.’
Miss Hyacinth was not so certain. She regarded the vicar’s kindly face and bestowed on him something of an incredulous look. It was true, she reminded herself, that Father Adler had not been present when she had produced the offending newspaper article and commented on the likeness between Miss Dewhurst and the Duchess of Grismere. He had not heard Lady Lavinia’s assertion that the two women must be one, nor heard Lord Belvedere’s vehement, but quite unbelievable, denial. Poor Father Adler, she thought. He does not doubt for one moment that Mr Dewhurst is exactly whom he purports to be; a young man of considerable wealth and charm, accompanying an invalid sister on her travels.
Inevitably her eyes were drawn back to the game of tennis being played out before her. She studied Alec Dewhurst and Mabel Adler closely, conscious of every exchange between them, each nod of the head, each laugh, each coy adjustment of a wayward curl by Miss Adler. While thus engaged, the game finished abruptly, and the players advanced towards the net and shook hands. Miss Hyacinth continued to watch avidly, aware that the two young people remained by the net, hands still clasped, heads bent together. To Miss Hyacinth’s attuned ear, there was a great deal of whispering. She stole a sideward glance at her companion, but the vicar appeared deeply engrossed in the reading of a sermon that he had composed that morning. She sighed thinking that there were none so blind as those who did not care to see what was happening in front of them. For, unless she had given way to imaginings, she felt certain of a growing intimacy developing between Mr Dewhurst and Miss Adler, of which the vicar appeared entirely ignorant.
It was at the very moment she was thinking such thoughts that the vicar chanced to look up from his pocketbook and cast an affectionate glance in the direction of his daughter. It said much for his indulgence towards his offspring that he neither blinked rapidly nor drew in a sharp intake of breath at the intimate picture she presented with Alec Dewhurst.
‘Such a charming young man,’ her father remarked rather abstractedly, much in the same vague tones he had previously spoken of Ron Thurlow. ‘I suppose,’ he added rather hesitantly, ‘one ought to enquire after his family ...’
Miss Hyacinth shot him a bewildered glance. It had not occurred to her that the vicar would seek to encourage his daughter’s infatuation with the young man, or still yet that he envisaged a satisfactory outcome. In a state of considerable apprehension, she removed her straw hat and used it to fan her flushed cheeks.
‘I suppose,’ Father Adler was saying, ‘he is a young man of independent means …’
‘Oh dear,’ cried Miss Hyacinth, the knowledge she possessed gnawing at her conscience. In her mind’s eye, she saw the wretched photograph that she had waved so triumphantly in the faces of the Belvederes; she heard again her sister’s cackle of laughter at her own naivety in suggesting that Alec Dewhurst might in fact be the Duchess of Grismere’s sibling.
She wondered later what she would have done had Mabel Adler not looked up at that very instant, caught her father’s eye and smiled. This act had done nothing to allay Miss Hyacinth’s fears. If anything, it had strengthened them, for she realised with a sharp stab of horror that the girl was as trusting as her father. Even then, all might have been well had she not spied the gleam of mischief in the young man’s eyes. Had his expression been benign, might she not have looked away and held her tongue, deeming it none of her business? Instead, she had opened her mouth and spoken. If asked afterwards, all she could say was that she was suddenly conscious of the presence of evil. Danger lurked half concealed in the Mediterranean air. She was faced in that moment with two opposing paths that seemed to loom up in front of her. She almost felt her dead father’s presence guiding her hand to choose the right course, and for once she knew that Peony, for all her vulgar outspokenness, would concur with her choice.
Bending forward a little in her chair, she took a deep breath and said in a lowered voice: ‘Oh dear. It is a rather delicate matter, and of course, really, one hardly knows how to begin, but I feel that it is my Christian duty to tell you …’
Chapter Ten
‘I say,’ said Alec Dewhurst, entering the private sitting room he shared with his companion, his cheeks flushed in rather a becoming fashion following his recent exertions on the tennis court. ‘It’s frightfully hot out. All one wants to do on a day like this is go down to the beach and swim.’
The Duchess of Grismere’s greeting was hardly encouraging. She had been awaiting the young man’s return impatiently and had spent the better part of the afternoon anxiously pacing the room and casting quick, furtive glances out of the window at the terrace beyond, careful always not to be observed. In the ordinary course of events, she might have remained silent, if a little cold and terse in her manner towards him. This afternoon, however, she felt disinclined to be tolerant. It might have been that she felt oppressed and suffocated by the heat, magnified by being cooped up in her rooms, or the realisation that her companion’s absences were becoming more frequent. Whatever the reason, it had the effect of loosening her tongue, and words of reproach escaped from her lips before she could recall them.
‘I’ve been by myself for ages. Where have you been? I thought something awful had happened to you.’
The sentences had come tumbling out on top of each other with hardly a breath in between. Even to the duchess’ own ears her voice sounded shrill and unreasonably petulant. She took a step back, as if to distance herself from her words, and clenched her fists. The damage, however, was done. She was all too conscious of the sneer that had crept on to her companion’s face. The dark eyes flashed at her, barely concealing a look of irritation and another emotion, which she could not interpret but she feared might be contempt.
‘I was playing tennis,’ Alec Dewhurst answered curtly. He had entered the room in a jovial mood, but now he sounded put out. ‘Of course, it was quite the wrong time of day to play, but Miss Adler insisted.’
‘Miss Adler? The vicar’s daughter?’
‘That’s her. Rather a pretty little thing, if a bit dull. Still,’ Alec paused for a moment, as if to ascertain her reaction, ‘it helps to pass the time of day while we’re holed up in this wretched spot.’
A wave of repulsion washed over the woman. She knitted her hands together in an odd gesture that was peculiar to her in times of anguish. Not for the first time, she stared at Alec Dewhurst feeling rather dazed and disgusted. Her head throbbed painfully from worry and a lack of fresh air. The unpleasant thought lingered in her mind that this was the man for whom she had ruined her life. Despite his good looks and transient charm, he seemed to her now rather a sorry specimen of a creature. For she now knew him to be sly, manipulative and fickle. If only she h
ad suspected before that his air of respectability was no more than a cheap veneer. Yet, even now, despite these deficiencies, she felt the same raw tenderness towards him that she had experienced during their initial acquaintance. Averting her gaze, she said rather miserably:
‘Must you be so very cruel?’
‘Cruel?’ Alec feigned a look of surprise. ‘I would hardly call it that.’ He tossed his tennis racquet carelessly on to a convenient chair. ‘I wouldn’t say as much to her face, of course. About her being dull and ordinary, I mean, if that’s what you’re getting at?’
His companion remained silent, turning her gaze instead to the window. It was this action, and not the words of admonishment that preceded it, that had the effect of angering the young man. Interpreting the gesture as a form of dismissal, he glared at her.
‘How you have the audacity to call me cruel,’ he said, his temper rising.
He had no need to elaborate, for his words had the desired effect. The woman spun round, her hand clutched to her breast, her face pale despite the heat.
‘Don’t,’ she cried. ‘Please don’t. I know you can never forgive me.’ Her words were met with a resolute silence. Undeterred, she continued valiantly, though her voice faltered a little and her hands clenched and unclenched. ‘I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. If only you knew how very wretched I have been ...’ Her sentence died in her throat. Her eyes searched the young man’s face.
Murder on Skiathos Page 9
