Alec Dewhurst, in his turn, regarded the duchess with a mixture of scorn and disdain. How easy it was to bring her to heel, he thought. He had only to play on the shame that consumed her. He was half tempted to persist with this form of ill-treatment. On reflection, however, and for no other reason than to further his own ends, he concluded that it might be wise to show a small degree of compassion. After all, these aristocratic types required careful handling. It would not suit his purpose should the wretched woman get it into her head to take to her bed in a fit of sobbing. An unexpected fit of impetuousness and devilment, however, made him suddenly act recklessly.
‘The other guests have been enquiring after you. They think it jolly odd that you keep to your rooms. It is causing a great deal of speculation, I can tell you.’
His companion started and said rather helplessly: ‘What else can I do?’
‘You could join me for dinner this evening.’
The duchess put her hand up to her mouth, as if to stifle a scream. ‘But Lord Belvedere –’
‘Will keep your secret,’ said Alec firmly. ‘I can’t imagine he’ll be anything but civil to you in public.’ He noted the look on her face and laughed; it was not a pleasant sound. ‘He won’t denounce you in front of everyone, if that’s what you’re worried about.’ With a note of contempt, he said: ‘I’ve been studying our dear young earl and he seems a decent sort.’
‘You can’t ask –’
‘Oh, but I do!’ cried Alec Dewhurst, a note of urgency creeping into his voice. Met with a face frozen with horror, he decided to change tack, as was his habit with her, and adopt a more gentle approach. ‘Look here, don’t you see how your continued absence does nothing but draw attention to us? Surely that is not what you want?’ She shook her head rather grudgingly. ‘I am thinking only of you and your reputation,’ he said, putting as much tenderness into his voice as he could muster. He looked at her reaction, sensing he was gaining ground. ‘Really, there is nothing to fear. I will introduce you; as my sister, of course. You need only remain a short while. You can retire early feigning a headache or some such ailment.’ He held out his hand to her, but she remained where she was by the window. ‘Surely you can see that it is for the best?’
Despite his best efforts, he was conscious that the wretched woman was still wavering, drifting between a desire to comply with his wishes and the urge to resist this particular request. He appealed to her vanity.
‘I daresay you’ll soon have the vicar eating out of your hand, and the Trimble biddy will be quite beside herself that you have deigned to talk to her.’
Still her resistance remained. He could sense its presence as readily as any tangible object. He bit his lip and tried to hide his impatience. Inwardly, he was seething, though outwardly he managed to arrange his features into a pleasant expression. His face ached with the effort, so at odds with his natural feelings. Damn the woman, he thought. He felt the anger surging up inside him. Afraid that it would erupt before he could rein in his temper, he played the card that he always kept up his sleeve for just such contingencies.
‘You are ashamed of me. I daresay I could hardly expect anything less and yet …’ He paused a moment, lowering his gaze and adopting a woeful manner. ‘You must return to your husband. I doubt any real damage has been done.’
‘No!’ The Duchess of Grismere sprung forward like some unleashed animal. With wild abandonment, she clutched at his arm. ‘You must never say such things. I could no more leave you than … You know that there is nothing I would not do for you.’
‘Very well,’ replied Alec Dewhurst, slightly louder than was strictly necessary. He gently disentangled himself from her grasp. ‘Join me at dinner tonight.’ He phrased the sentence as a statement, rather than a question, now that he was sure of his ground.
His companion remained silent. This fact did not bother him too much, for he knew from her demeanour that he had won this particular battle. And, as was her habit, she would no doubt insist he accept a gold trinket from her. A small token of her affection, as she always called such things. It was rather amusing, when one thought about it, that such gifts should follow a quarrel. It had become something of a ritual. Still, he must be cautious not to overplay his hand. He did not wish her to ask too many questions which might prove awkward to answer, or pry too deeply into his private affairs. That would never do. He gave an involuntary shudder, aware too late that the duchess was eyeing him curiously. He bestowed on her a disarming smile, which had the desired effect. She lowered her guard and some colour returned to her cheeks. Nevertheless, Alec thought, he must tread carefully. With this object in mind, he focused his thoughts on the fortune he was slowly amassing. It produced in him a genuine smile, which was reciprocated by his companion.
He picked up his discarded tennis racquet and, swinging it idly by one hand, made his way leisurely to his bedroom to change. It struck him then how clever he had been. Not for one minute had it occurred to the duchess that he might have had an ulterior motive for requiring her presence at dinner that evening. It had all been accomplished most satisfactorily, and he was just in the act of congratulating himself when he heard a scream.
It came from the sitting room and it was a matter of a few seconds for him to retrace his steps and throw open the door. The spectacle that greeted his eyes rendered him momentarily speechless. When he had left the room only a few moments earlier, the duchess had been perched on the end of the sofa contemplating the ordeal that lay ahead. During his absence, she had apparently leapt up from her seat and was now cowering against the wall furthest from the window, her hands behind her, her fingers pressed hard against the wall. It was obvious, even to the most nonchalant observer, that she was recoiling from some hidden terror. That it lurked outside the building was evident, for her eyes were drawn to the window as if transfixed by some awful apparition.
Alec, following her gaze, ran up to the window, threw open the casement and peered outside. Somewhat to his disappointment, the view afforded him revealed nothing more sinister than the terrace, empty of everything save a scattering of wrought iron tables and chairs. He turned and regarded his companion with something of a quizzical look. She was still staring at the window, her arm outstretched as if she were pointing at some ominous presence.
‘There was a man … I saw his face; it was horrible …’ As Alec took a step forward, as if to comfort her, she added, her lip trembling: ‘He … he had a camera. He … he was spying on us!’
Chapter Eleven
There was an air of anticipation in the dining room that evening, which infected each guest in turn, like a creeping miasma, as they entered the room. The fact that Alec Dewhurst had not appeared at his usual hour had not gone unnoticed and served only to add to the palpable tension. Perhaps not surprisingly, the first person to comment on the young man’s absence was Mabel Adler. Having consulted her wristwatch rather fretfully several times, while adjusting, with one hand, the new pearl earrings that were screwed fetchingly, but rather painfully, to her ears, she declared to her father that the young man was late. Five minutes followed, and then another, and in that time the girl had asked a good seven times: ‘What has happened to Mr Dewhurst?’
To begin with, her parent had given this question the due attention it deserved and mumbled a reply which expressed suitable bewilderment. On the eighth time of asking, however, Father Adler’s patience had most definitely run out, though he gave no outward sign of this fact. If he appeared a little quieter and reflective that evening, it can hardly be wondered, for Miss Hyacinth’s warning was still fresh in his ears. Indeed, he was still reeling from the revelation that Mr Dewhurst was not the respectable young man of wealthy means whom his manners and appearance suggested him to be.
‘What –’
‘My dear,’ said the vicar hastily, fearing that the same question was about to be put to him for the ninth time, ‘can we not talk about something else? I am sure that Mr Dewhurst has a perfectly good reason for not being here
. Perhaps he is feeling unwell, or his sister has had one of her turns and he is reluctant to leave her by herself.’
‘But he promised,’ Mabel said petulantly. Even her over indulgent father was reminded of a spoilt child who had failed to get its own way.
‘Oh, Vicar,’ cried Miss Hyacinth from her table, ‘and Mabel, dear, are you quite recovered from your tennis? If you don’t mind my saying, you do still look a little flushed. Of course, you must have got frightfully hot playing your game, and really it is quite stifling in here.’ She turned to smile fleetingly at Miss Peony. ‘I was only saying to my sister that we could do with some more ceiling fans.’ She cast a look around the room. ‘No Mr Dewhurst this evening, I see?’ She looked questioningly at Mabel, but the girl remained silent. She caught the vicar’s eye, gave him a meaningful look, and said in a lowered voice which was nevertheless clearly audible: ‘Well, I daresay it’s for the best.’
‘What exactly do you mean by that?’ demanded Mabel, scowling, for the exchange of looks between her parent and Miss Hyacinth had not gone unnoticed. Indeed, it had aroused in her a feeling of indignation.
‘Oh, nothing, dear,’ said Miss Hyacinth hurriedly, fearing a scene in which she would be forced to play a principal part. ‘Ah, Lady Lavinia, what a very beautiful dress. Tell me, is that what people call beaded net?’ With that, she floated away to the Belvederes’ table to examine the gown in question, much to that young woman’s delight.
Mabel Adler and Miss Hyacinth were not the only ones to query Alec Dewhurst’s absence. Rose had spotted that his table was vacant as soon as she had entered the dining room and had remarked on the fact to her husband.
‘I say, do you think they have taken it upon themselves to leave the island?’ Cedric asked hopefully, careful to lower his voice so as not to be overhead by Lavinia and Miss Hyacinth, who were still at the table discussing the younger woman’s gown. ‘Hello? Where’s old Vickers? It’s not like him not to be here. I suppose he’s still in the next room, propping up the hotel bar. I don’t know why Kettering … Good lord!’
From Alec Dewhurst’s perspective the evening had not begun agreeably. Ever present in the back of his mind was the knowledge that it was only a matter of time before Fleet Street, or her various representatives, descended upon them, and then the game would surely be up. That in itself did not cause him undue anxiety. For one thing, he was rather bored of it all and, for another, it was this evening that mattered to him. What happened after that was almost irrelevant. Besides, if indeed a photograph had been taken, he was safe in the knowledge that it had not captured his image. No, it was not the Peeping Toms of the press that caused him concern as such. More, it was the effect that the sudden appearance of the man at the window had produced on his companion, whose nerves were already on edge.
For such was the duchess’ fear of discovery that she had immediately reverted to her original position of refusing to accompany him to dinner. A series of cajoling had followed, predominantly of a bullying nature. And when finally the woman had relented, from sheer exhaustion at Alec’s persistent and clumsy efforts to persuade her, as much as for any other reason, she had collapsed resigned on to the sofa, her demeanour very much that of an animal at bay.
Alec Dewhurst eyed her apprehensively, fearing her mood did not bode well for the evening ahead. He glanced impatiently at his gold full hunter pocket watch, one of the many gifts the duchess had given him, his initials engraved flamboyantly on its outer casing. He frowned, for it was later than he had thought. In all likelihood, the other guests would already be seated in the dining room. Above all else, he had not wanted to make a spectacular entrance. Inwardly, he seethed, alternating between cursing what he viewed as the duchess’ unreasonable mulishness, and reviling the shadowy figure of the photographer for his ill-timed intervention, which had caused all the consternation.
This exclamation was sufficient to cause Rose to turn in her seat and follow her husband’s gaze. Alec Dewhurst had finally appeared in the doorway to the dining room, looking uncommonly agitated. It was not the young man’s rattled demeanour or his late entrance, however, that had caused the earl to give a startled cry. Rather, it was the arrival of his companion that had precipitated the exclamation. Rose did not doubt for a moment that it was the duchess, not Miss Dewhurst, who clung rather nervously to Alec Dewhurst’s arm, looking for all the world as if the last thing she wanted to do was enter a room full of guests. To Rose’s way of thinking, it was a remarkably odd thing for her to do. The woman was either very blasé or very brave, yet her rather pathetic demeanour suggested otherwise. Whatever the reason for her sudden appearance, it afforded Rose an opportunity to study the woman closely, though she took considerable pains not to appear as if she was staring. A quick glance at Lavinia revealed her sister-in-law to have no such qualms, for she was positively gaping at the duchess. Rose cast her a reproachful look which the girl very pointedly ignored. Rose returned her gaze to the duchess. She was a tall, well-groomed woman who appeared to be in her early forties. While she looked remarkably distinguished and had the same fragile, aristocratic beauty that Lavinia possessed, to Rose’s eye, she and Alec Dewhurst made an odd couple. It was not just the disparity in ages, but rather that there was something rather flamboyant and gaudy about the young man which was at odds with the reserved and refined creature who clung timorously to his sleeve.
Rose surveyed her fellow diners, careful not to catch Lavinia’s eye. She wondered how many of the other guests were staring at the newcomer completely enthralled, doing little to hide their curiosity. Most, she noted, were having difficulty concealing their surprise. The vicar and Miss Hyacinth were staring rather stupidly, their mouths wide open, while Miss Peony was frozen in the act of raising a fork of food to her mouth. Even Ron Thurlow looked rather taken aback by the course of events. Rose felt a stab of pity for the duchess. While it could be argued that she had brought it upon herself, the woman could hardly be oblivious to the fact that her appearance had caused a sudden hush to fall over the room. It occurred to Rose then that, had she taken a revolver from her bag and fired it, the effect could not have been more devastating.
It was Mabel Adler who was the first to recover her wits, possibly for the reason that she alone was ignorant of the woman’s real identity. Indeed, if she was aware that an odd silence had befallen the room, then she betrayed no sign. Rather, she gave the impression of having been too deeply absorbed in her own thoughts to notice what happened about her, and it was Alec’s appearance, not the duchess’, that piqued her interest. Instead of astonishment on observing Alec Dewhurst’s companion, the expression on her face was one of mild acceptance. While the other guests merely stared, surprised into a stunned silence, she leapt up from her chair and came forward, her hand outstretched towards the duchess, as if she had every intention of coaxing her to come into the room.
‘I can’t tell you how much I have been looking forward to meeting you,’ said Mabel, with enthusiasm. The woman she addressed merely looked bewildered, as if she had just awoken from a strange dream. It is quite possible, in her eagerness, that the vicar’s daughter did not notice her dubious reception, or possibly she did, and that was why she spoke hurriedly. ‘Your brother has told me so much about you.’ Was she aware that the woman visibly started at this piece of information or that she cast an anxious look at the young man at her side?
‘Alec,’ Mabel continued, ‘pray, won’t you introduce us?’
‘My dear,’ said Alec to the duchess, a little amused by Mabel’s enthusiasm, ‘may I introduce Miss Adler? Miss Adler ... ,’ this followed by a sweeping gesture towards the duchess, ‘may I introduce my sister, Miss Dewhurst?’
The introduction, while blatantly false to everyone but Mabel, had the effect of diminishing some of the high tension in the room. For, by introducing the duchess as his sister, Alec Dewhurst had taken the wind out of the sails of those minded to gossip. While it was a pretence, it was at least a palatable one, suggesting as it did tha
t there was no need for any unpleasantness or awkwardness providing everyone saw fit to play the game.
The hotel guests, on the whole, were quite happy to do so, and breathed a collective sigh of relief. They turned to their neighbours and resumed their various conversations. The odd, furtive glance was still cast in the duchess’ direction, but there was no accompanying commentary. Even the Misses Trimble were at pains not to be seen to be whispering or pointing, with Miss Hyacinth making quite a performance of reading the menu loudly to her sister.
Rose glanced at her husband. His face was pale under his tan, but even he looked as if he had been given a temporary reprieve from a tricky situation. Lavinia, as was her nature, was bursting with curiosity, though she was evidently trying hard to disguise the fact, her fingers absentmindedly playing with one of her gold filigree earrings. The vicar, it was true, looked a little uncomfortable, like one suffering from indigestion. Mabel had insisted that Alec Dewhurst and the duchess join them at their table for dinner, and it was evident, even to a casual observer, that her father was deliberating on the propriety of the situation, while attempting to make polite conversation.
It was Ron Thurlow’s conduct, however, that aroused Rose’s interest the most. The young man was as pale as a corpse and was staring down at his plate with a rigid fascination, as if nothing would tempt him to lift his gaze from the crockery. For a moment, she wondered if he were merely deep in thought, and so unconscious of his surroundings. A minute or two later, and she had the distinct and unsettling impression that he was almost afraid to lift his head. Whether this was because he feared being seen or dreaded what he might see she was unable to determine. What was patently obvious, however, was that the young man wished above all else not to be there in the dining room while Alec Dewhurst and the duchess were present.
Murder on Skiathos Page 10
