Dark Castle

by Anne Mather

  'No.' He moved away from the door and as this movement brought him nearer to her, Julie bumped down rather jerkily into her chair again. 'I came back about a year ago. I lived in London for a time, working on my novel, and then when my grandmother died I came here.'

  'You - were - in London?' Julie made a helpless little gesture. 'I didn't know.'

  'Why should you?' His eyes challenged hers. 'I was the last person you wanted to see, wasn't I ?'

  Julie looked down at her hands, regretting her momentary lapse. But she had always had the feeling that if ever

  Jonas returned to live in London she would know about it, sooner or later.

  'I still don't understand why, if it was going to create so many difficulties, you insisted that I came here.'

  'Did I say it created difficulties?'

  'No, but—' Julie moved her shoulders indifferently. 'So - if I accept your reasons for revealing my identity, unnecessary though they seem, what do you intend telling Mrs. Macpherson when I leave tomorrow?'

  Jonas walked to the hearth and stood with his back to the fire, feet apart, the cheroot between his teeth. For a few moments he seemed to be considering what she had said, staring broodingly towards the heavy oak door. Then the dark eyes were turned on her.

  'Let's face that when we come to it, shall we?' he suggested evenly.

  Julie pressed her lips together. She didn't altogether trust him or his motives. She could imagine her mother's and Angela's horror if they could somehow see her now. In their estimation there would be absolutely no excuse for her being there. And even Julie herself had found no good reason for Jonas's insistence of her taking this interview. Not to mention the disturbing question of those clothes ...

  Her head was beginning to ache from so much confused thinking. With a sigh, she got to her feet again.

  'Would you have any objections if I went to bed now?'

  Jonas threw the end of his cheroot into the fire. 'But you haven't had your coffee,' he pointed out.

  Julie looked down at the exquisitely arranged tray. Mrs. Macpherson had obviously taken a great deal of trouble with it, but she could not stand any more of this ambiguous conversation. She needed to be alone for a while, to absorb what had been said, to try and make some sense of it all.

  'I really don't think I want any coffee, thank you,' she replied tautly. 'I know my way to my room. So - so I'll say - good night.'

  'Good night, Julie.'

  Jonas inclined his head enigmatically and she moved towards the door. For a moment she was tempted to reveal her feelings, to confront him with her fears and suspicions, to see how he would react. But then reason prevailed. Unless she included the summons that had brought her here, he had done nothing to arouse her antagonism. Since her arrival, he had been unfailingly polite, and the accommodation he had provided for her was more than adequate.

  Why then did she continually suppose there had to be some ulterior design behind it all? Had her own traitorous reactions to him in some way coloured her reasoning? She had known it would not be easy before she came here. Jonas had been, and would always be, a disturbingly attractive man, and it was natural that she, who had once been his wife in every sense of the word, should still experience a certain amount of awareness of his physical attractions. She could have refused to come, she admitted that now. But she had wanted to prove to herself that anything she had felt for him really was dead, and not just numbed by the shock of his guilt at the time of his betrayal.

  She opened the door and looked back at him. He was standing staring into the fire and for a moment was unaware of her scrutiny. There was a curiously vulnerable twist to his lips as he stood there, and something inside her contracted painfully.

  With a jerky movement she put herself outside the door and closed it behind her, closing her eyes for a heart- stopping moment. No, she told herself vehemently, no! Jonas knew every trick in the book, and she would not be fooled again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  WHEN Julie awoke next morning it was to the sound of the wind whistling eerily round the battlemented towers of the castle. The sound momentarily distracted her, arousing a feeling of warmth and security which was quickly dissipated as she remembered where she was. She blinked rapidly and reached for her watch from the bedside table, unable to judge from the dull light probing the heavy curtains exactly what time it might be.

  The astonishing discovery that it was after eleven brought her upright in the huge bed, hugging herself as the chilliness of the bedroom swept over her. The fire had gone out and the heating wasn't sufficiently powerful yet to have taken the iciness from the air. She crossed her arms protectively across her breasts, and as she did so she saw a tray of tea standing on the table on the opposite side of the bed.

  She frowned, then she leant across and put tentative fingers against the bowl of the teapot. It was cold. Whoever had brought the tea had brought it some time ago. She quivered. Had it been Jonas? Had he stood beside the bed and watched her sleeping? The thought was disruptive, although looking down at the plain cambric nightdress she thought she had been more than adequately covered. But no, it would have been Mrs. Macpherson, and she had clearly decided to let her sleep on.

  But now Julie was alarmed. She had yet to see Jonas and conduct that interview with him. She had notes to make and questions to be answered, and very little time to

  do it in.

  She pushed her feet out of bed and stood for a moment llooking about her. Then, unable to resist the impulse, she ran across to the window and pushed aside the curtains. [ The view that confronted her was not inspiring, shrouded as it was by a grey curtain of steadily falling rain, but she could imagine the beauty of the loch deepened to blue by a clear sky, and the distant hills shadowed with purple heather. The mainland was vaguely visible, but it seemed quite a long way away, and there was no sign of life either there or on the fir-clad slopes that fell away below her I windows.

  With a grimace, she opened the curtains to let a little more light into the room and went into the bathroom to wash. The water was reasonably hot and the activity warmed her. In the bedroom again, she knelt to her opened suitcase and took out some fresh underwear. Then she began to dress, reaching automatically for the white blouse and tweed suit. But they weren't there!

  She frowned, shivering a little in her flimsy undergarments, and made a thorough examination of the room. But it was useless. The blouse and suit had disappeared. Her lips tightened. Someone had taken them away. And she didn't think she had to be a mind-reader to guess who that someone was. She seethed. How dared he? He had criticized her clothes last evening, but that was quite a different matter from stealing them. Or perhaps stealing was too strong a word - confiscating them was nearer the mark.

  Her fists clenched. Just what did he hope to gain by it? Did he imagine he had any rights to dictate what she should or should not wear? And what did he expect her to do now that he had taken her only outer garments? She could hardly go downstairs in her pants and slip!

  She felt furiously angry, and her weakening response to his assumed vulnerability of the night before seemed like a betrayal of herself. What was she going to do now? She badly wanted to see him, to confront him with his duplicity, but she was confined here because she had no clothes.

  She stared angrily round the room, wondering whether she could cover herself with the bedspread, when her eyes alighted on the wardrobe. There were clothes in there in plenty and surely some of them might fit her. Why shouldn't she see if there was something she could wear? Anything was better than having to remain here like a prisoner until he chose to come and release her. Unless... Unless he had locked her in!

  The thought sent her scurrying to the door, but it opened to her touch and she sighed with relief, closing it again and leaning weakly back against it.

  She opened the wardrobe. What should she choose? Something plain and simple, but what? She sighed. It might be as well to see if anything fitted her first. She took out a cream slack suit and pull
ed on the trousers. They fitted very well, only the waistline being a little big for her. The jacket was the same. It could have been made for her, or perhaps for her as she had once been ...

  She thrust the idea aside and considered her reflection in the mirror. The suit needed no shirt or blouse, and she decided it would do. She suddenly had no desire to try on any more of the clothes.

  With trembling fingers she brushed her hair and coiled it on to her nape. But her fingers were shaking so much that she couldn't get the hairpins to stay in place and it kept falling silkily about her shoulders again. She sighed frustratedly. Oh, damn, she thought, was nothing to go right for her today? She would have to leave it loose.

  She took another reluctant look at her reflection before leaving the bedroom. The image confronting her was utterly different from yesterday. She had always suited slack suits, and the warm creamy colour accentuated the glow of her skin. The smudges had gone from beneath her eyes and the loosened hairstyle made her look younger than her twenty-four years, deepening the colour of her eyes, drawing attention to the full beauty of her mouth. She was not beautiful, she knew that, indeed it had always been a source of amazement to her that Jonas Hunter should ever have shown any interest in her. Angela was much more his type of woman, tall and lissom, with a classically beautiful face and figure, and the kind of silvery hair that always attracts attention.

  But Julie was apt to judge herself rather harshly against Angela's more obvious charms, and failed to realize that the warmth and personality which emanated from her more than made up for a conventionally pretty appearance.

  Now she picked up her briefcase and handbag, and balancing the tray with one hand went along the gallery and down the spiral staircase. She could hear the rain beating against the windows as she descended and couldn't help thinking how cosy the castle would be on a winter's evening.

  Reaching the hall, she looked about her and then walked determinedly towards Jonas's living-room door. But the living-room was empty and she frowned, setting down the tray, which was beginning to weigh heavily on her arm, on the table where they had eaten the night before. She sighed. Where was he? Then she nodded. Of course - he was probably working. He had told her that his study was next door.

  She walked out of the living-room and knocked im- patiently at the study door. She was tempted just to barge in, but her confidence would not stretch that far, resentful though she was.

  'Good morning, Mrs. Hunter. Are you looking for your husband?'

  Mrs. Macpherson's voice behind her was gently querying. Julie turned. 'Oh, good morning, Mrs. Macpherson. Yes. Yes, I'm looking for - for him. Do you know where he is?'

  'Of course, madam. He's away to Achnacraig—'

  'Achnacraig!' Julie was horrified.

  'Yes, madam.' Mrs. Macpherson frowned. 'Is anything wrong? He told me you were still sleeping and that he didn't want to disturb you. Was there something you were wanting?'

  Julie opened her mouth to tell her, to denounce Jonas and his double-dealing, and then she closed it again. 'I - no. No, not really.' She sighed. 'My - er - the tray's in the living-room. I brought it down. I'm afraid it was cold when I woke up.'

  'Ah!' Mrs. Macpherson nodded. 'You slept well?'

  'Very well.' Julie was short. She twisted her hands together. 'Er - when - when will Mr. Hunter be back? Did he say?'

  'I don't suppose he'll be long, madam,' Mrs. Macpherson smiled. 'If you'll go into the living-room, I'll make you some more tea. Or perhaps you'd prefer coffee. And a lightly boiled egg, perhaps?'

  'Oh, really, no.' Julie shook her head. She felt sick. She couldn't eat a thing. 'I - some coffee would be just fine, Mrs. Macpherson, thank you.'

  'Coffee it shall be.' Mrs. Macpherson ushered her into the living-room and collected the unused tray of tea. 'Now you sit here by the fire and keep warm. It's a ter- rible morning. I'll bring the coffee directly.'

  'Thank you.'

  Julie obeyed. There was little else she could do. She wondered if Mrs. Macpherson had noticed the suit she was wearing and whether she had recognized it as belonging to someone else. She ought to have asked the housekeeper what had happened to her own clothes, but perhaps it was as well not to involve anyone else in what was purely a personal matter.

  She seated herself in the armchair where she had been sitting the night before and occupied herself by bringing out the file she had been studying on the train. But somehow the file and its connotations seemed totally unreal this morning.

  The coffee was hot, strong, and she drank it black. She needed a clear head and a sharp tongue when Jonas returned. What game was he playing? What the hell did he think he was doing? How dared he take her clothes and then go off to Achnacraig when he must know she would be expecting to speak to him? Speak to him! She felt as if she would like to break his neck!

  She looked at her watch. A quarter past twelve. What time did the last train leave for Inverness? She was determined to be on it, clothes or no clothes!

  'At one o'clock she was pacing irritably about the room when the door opened. She swung round, ready to blaze at Jonas, and found Mrs. Macpherson standing there.

  'Och, I'm sorry, Mrs. Hunter,' said the housekeeper apologetically, 'but he's not come back yet.'

  Julie made an impotent gesture. 'How much longer do you expect he'll be?'

  'I really couldn't say, Mrs. Hunter. When Mr. Hunter gets talking—'

  'Talking? Talking to whom?' 'To Hamish Alexander, Mrs. Hunter.'

  'Hamish Alexander?' Julie frowned. 'Who is he?'

  'He's a friend of Mr. Hunter, madam.' Mrs. Macpherson looked concerned. 'Has he not mentioned him to you-'

  'I - I—' Julie reddened. 'He may have done.' She sighed. 'And is there any way we can get in touch with them?'

  Mrs. Macpherson shook her head. 'Not unless someone goes across to the mainland and contacts them, Mrs. Hunter.'

  'And can we do that?'

  Mrs. Macpherson cast an expressive look towards the windows against which the rain was driving unceasingly. 'In this weather, madam? The only other boat there is has oars. You wouldn't be expecting Rob to row to the mainland, would you, madam?'

  Julie pressed her hands together. 'No ... no, of coursc not, Mrs. Macpherson. I shouldn't trouble your husband. I'd row myself. I'm perfectly capable—'

  'We couldn't let you do that!' The housekeeper was horrified. 'Besides, why should you want to? Mr. Hunter will be back shortly, I'm sure of it. Don't worry, my dear, he'll be all right. I just came to tell you that I've served your lunch in the small dining-room.'

  Julie waved a hand helplessly. 'Mrs. Macpherson, I - I—' She broke off. She had been about to tell her that she was leaving that afternoon, but the words stuck in her throat. She turned away, her hands covering her cheeks. Why should she have to make explanations? This was all Jonas's fault. Let him do it.

  The housekeeper shifted from one foot to the other. 'Come and have some lunch, madam,' she appealed. 'You'll feel much better with something warm inside you.'

  Julie squared her shoulders. It was obvious that Mrs. 'Macpherson saw her concern about Jonas as something utterly different from what it really was. And how could she disabuse her without creating all sorts of difficulties?

  She turned back. 'All right, Mrs. Macpherson,' she agreed, resignedly. 'Will you show me the way?'

  'Of course.' Mrs Macpherson was clearly relieved. 'And after lunch perhaps you'd like to see over the castle? It's only right that you should know where everything is kept. Since Mrs. Drummond died, Mr. Hunter has left the organization of the household to me, as you know, but now that you're here—'

  'Really, Mrs. Macpherson, you carry on!' Julie was fervent. The last thing she wanted was to get involved on any level. 'I - we'll discuss it some other time.' i 'Very well, madam.'

  Mrs. Macpherson seemed genuinely disappointed and Julie reflected that there couldn't be too many housekeepers prepared to give up their authority so thoughtfully. They walked along the carpeted corridor t
o a small ante-room which had been attractively converted. It was cooler in here, there being no open fireplace, but a gas fire had been placed to throw out as much heat as possible. A circular table had been laid with a spotless white cloth, and a bowl of soup was giving off an aromatic odour.

  'I'll go and see about the chicken,' Mrs. Macpherson said, when she had seen Julie comfortably seated. 'Have you everything you need?'

  'Yes, thank you.'

  Julie managed a smile and picked up her spoon. In a basket beside her, warm rolls smelt delicious, and she found her appetite returning rapidly. It was no use starv-

  ing herself, she thought, justifying the enjoyment she was getting from the hot soup. She would be far more capable of coping with Jonas with a good meal inside her.

  Before she had finished the soup, Mrs. Macpherson returned with a plate of flaky rice on which reposed some golden fried chicken and vegetables, and to finish there was a jam roll.

  'I'll get fat,' Julie protested at the end, refusing a second helping of jam roll. 'I'm not used to such enormous meals. Back home, all I have at lunchtime is a sandwich.'

  She had spoken unthinkingly and she wished she could withdraw the words when the housekeeper said at once: 'That's because you've been living alone. It's not good for a woman to be living alone. Not when she has a husband to care for. It's unnatural!'

  Julie's nerves were taut. 'No - well, my work is in London, Mrs. Macpherson—'

  'A woman's place is with her husband,' declared Mrs. Macpherson, and then coloured. 'I'm sorry, Mrs. Hunter. It's nothing to do with me, of course. I'm old-fashioned, that's all.'

  Julie rose jerkily to her feet and stared through the window. 'Do you think my - my husband is having lunch with this - this Mr. Alexander?'

  'Probably,' agreed the housekeeper, imagining Julie wanted reassurance, but that news didn't reassure her at all. 'It's a shame, and on your first day and all. I expect Mr. Alexander persuaded him to delay his departure to see if the weather would break.'

  Julie's fist clenched. She didn't believe that. Jonas had left the island deliberately and was delaying his return for the same reasons. What did he hope to achieve? To delay her another day? What good would that do?