by Janet Tanner
Kirsty shrugged, adopting her woman-of-the-world pose, though those high spots of colour in her cheeks belied her attitude. ‘ I wouldn’t put it quite that strongly. But I think I might be able to influence him, yes.’
‘Well I absolutely forbid you to do anything of the kind!’ Sarah stormed. ‘ It’s a dreadful thing to suggest!’
Kirsty’s flush deepened. ‘Just now you were ready to do the unthinkable in a good cause.’
‘My dear child, that is quite different! I wouldn’t dream of allowing you to compromise yourself with Guy. Even if I thought it would do any good, which I’m quite certain it would not. Guy might like his fling but he is a businessman through and through, ruthless where his ambitions are concerned. He might make you promises if he thought it would get him anywhere with you but it’s almost certain he would fail to keep them. For goodness sake, Kirsty, put such a notion right out of your head or you really will upset me.’
Kirsty said nothing.
‘Promise me!’ Sarah demanded.
‘Oh very well,’ Kirsty said, but her eyes did not meet her grandmother’s and Sarah thought: she’s not so easily dissuaded. She is as wilful and headstrong as I was when I was her age – and she’s worried about me. Oh, why did I tell her? Why didn’t I keep it to myself, at least until I’d exhausted every possible avenue?
Kirsty finished her tea and set down the cup.
‘I’m going to have to go, Granny. I hate to leave you like this but …’
Sarah nodded. ‘I know. You expected to spend the afternoon with me, not half the evening. Have you got a date?’ she asked, hoping still to forestall the nonsense of any ideas Kirsty might still have about Guy.
Kirsty laughed. ‘Not in the way you mean it. But a crowd of us are going to a Blues Session down in the Cellar Bars.’
Sarah wrinkled her nose. ‘That sounds perfectly dreadful, but I dare say you’ll enjoy it. Anyway, sad as I am to see you go, I suppose I musn’t sit too long over tea either. As I said earlier I have a dinner party tonight and there are still one thousand and one things to see to.’
‘And you need a rest first too,’ Kirsty said solicitously. ‘Don’t worry, Granny, I’ll see myself out. My little Mini is parked around at the back.’ She dropped a kiss on Sarah’s forehead. ‘Take care, Granny. And don’t worry too much. I’m sure everything will work out.’
‘Yes. Drive carefully, darling. And come and see me again soon.’
‘I will.’
When Kirsty had gone and Sarah had watched her little white Mini disappear up the drive she stood for a moment at the window looking out at the falling dusk. How beautiful it all was – the grey misty light softening the curve of the hills, the daffodils making splashes of brightness beneath the trees whose bare branches were, she thought, beginning to sprout tender green. Out in the deer park the small herd clustered together; from the grass a single magpie rose, shiny black and white, flapping up with lazy grace. One magpie. The old adage rose unbidden in her mind: One for sorrow, two for joy …
Oh what nonsense! Sarah thought. Luck does not depend on magpies! Luck depends mainly on our own actions.
For a moment the events of the afternoon weighed heavily upon her once more, then with a determined movement she shrugged them off.
If before she had been determined to save Morse Bailey now she had an extra reason – one which demanded urgent attention. She must do what she had to do quickly and so forestall any stupid heroics on the part of her beloved granddaughter.
With a decisive step, her arthritic knee forgotten, Sarah left the dining-room and crossed the hall to the study. Settling herself in the big comfortable swivel chair she reached for the leather covered address file and opened it to the page she required.
Strange that Alicia’s number should still be listed here though it was so many years since she had spoken to her. It was almost as if she had subconsciously known she would need it one day.
Drawing a deep breath Sarah reached for the telephone.
She knew what she had to do. She supposed she had known ever since the meeting.
Though the tension was singing in her ears her fingers were quite steady as she began to dial.
Chapter Two
Alicia, Countess von Brecht, had already finished afternoon tea when the telephone rang in her Kensington town-house. Its shrill insistent note carried up the staircase to the small sitting-room where she sat in one of a matching pair of wing chairs idly smoking a Black Russian cigarette and stroking the ball of soft fawn fur which was curled up on her knee. Ming was her Pekinese and the term lap-dog might have been coined especially for her. Until Guy, Alicia’s son, had given her Ming as a birthday present four years earlier, Alicia had had little time for small dogs, preferring the labradors and retrievers which had always been part of the scene when she had lived in the country but which would have made impractical pets in the heart of London. But after her initial reservation she had simply fallen in love with Ming. She was so intelligent and affectionate and her small pushed-up face made Alicia feel fiercely protective towards her.
‘She’s my baby,’ she would say self-deprecatingly to friends who came to visit and remarked on the fact that they had never seen Alicia and Ming separated for more than a few minutes, but in truth it was more than that. Alicia’s life had been marred by a series of turbulent relationships; Ming was an outlet for all her frustrated affection, a living creature who was excellent company and loving friend, who demanded little more than warmth, comfort and love – and the most tempting delicacies Fortnum and Mason could provide. Ming was a far more satisfactory companion than either of her husbands had been, Alicia often thought, for Adam Bailey, with whom she had fallen in love when she was no more than a girl, had been far more interested in producing and flying aeroplanes than he ever had been in her and the Count von Brecht, whom she had married after the collapse of her union with Adam, had been a wastrel whose taste for the high life had almost ruined them. Whereas Ming …
Alicia’s heart softened with love. She stretched out a be-ringed scarlet tipped hand and extracted a chocolate from the box which stood open on the small pedestal table beside, her chair. She seldom ate chocolates herself but Ming adored them; the hand-made Belgian confections had been purchased especially for her. Alicia offered Ming a rum truffle and the dog took it delicately from her fingers without the least suggestion of a greedy snatch.
‘Good baby,’ Alicia cooed. ‘Did you like that?’
For answer Ming snuffled gently in her hand and Alicia reached for another chocolate.
Behind her the sitting-room door opened and Irene, her maid, entered the room.
‘Telephone, Madam, for you.’ Her voice was stiff and deferential; Alicia had never chosen to encourage the slightest hint of familiarity with her servants.
‘Who is it?’ Alicia asked, holding the second chocolate within reach of Ming’s eager mouth.
‘I don’t know, Madam. They wouldn’t say.’
Alicia raised one well-defined eyebrow a fraction.
‘How very odd. Is it a man or a woman?’
‘A woman, Madam. A lady, if her voice is anything to go by.’
The eyebrow arched a shade higher and Alicia stood up, tucking Ming beneath her left arm.
‘Thank you, Irene, I’ll take the call in here.’
She set her Black Russian down in the bell-boy ashtray and crossed to where the telephone sat on the bureau in front of the window, a slender woman in well-tailored grey slacks and a coral blouse. Alicia was now seventy-five years old but she had retained the striking looks of her youth; her hair, which had once been so black, shining and straight that one of her more romantic suitors had likened it to a raven’s wing, was twisted into a sleek chignon at the base of her neck and was streaked only lightly with grey where it was strained tightly away from her temples; her forehead was remarkably unlined – perhaps a lifetime of that severe style had helped to keep it smooth and taut. The coral of the blouse, the collar of whi
ch was finished in a large soft bow to hide the slight crepiness of her neck, flattered her pale skin, as did the matching lipstick which defined the slightly too-thin lines of her mouth, and only the web of fine lines around her eyes and the deep creases linking nose and mouth undeniably showed the passage of the years.
It had often been said that Alicia looked a little like a retired prima ballerina and because such an idea flattered and amused her she had decided to play the role to the full.
Now she reached for the telephone, waited a moment until the door had closed after Irene, and then spoke into it.
‘Alicia von Brecht.’
‘Alicia. I expect this will be something of a surprise to you.’ The voice was familiar yet not immediately recognisable, a teasing echo of the past. ‘ It’s Sarah.’
Breath seemed to catch in Alicia’s throat. My God, she thought, I don’t believe it. Someone is playing a joke on me.
‘Sarah?’ she said woodenly. ‘Sarah Bailey?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry to spring myself on you unannounced but I thought it was the best way.’
It’s not a joke, thought Alicia. It is Sarah. A small tremor of shock ran through her and with it a stab of annoyance that her composure could be so completely shattered and the beginnings of something very like outrage. How dare Sarah telephone without warning, after all this time, in spite of all that had happened between them? How dare she cheat her way into Alicia’s private sitting-room? Small wonder she had declined to give her name to Irene. She must have known Alicia would certainly have refused her call had she announced herself.
‘What do you want, Sarah?’ she asked, her tone icy.
There was the slightest of hesitations at the other end of the line and Alicia felt Sarah’s reluctance to begin as an almost tangible entity. Her confidence grew and sensing an opportunity to dominate her old adversary she demanded haughtily: ‘Are you still there, Sarah?’
Her attack brought immediate response. ‘Of course I am, Alicia.’ No hint of hesitation in Sarah’s voice now. It was the old Sarah, firm, determined, confident. Sarah the go-getter, Alicia thought, surprising herself by her own bitterness.
‘Well?’
‘I must confess this isn’t easy after so long,’ Sarah said disarmingly. ‘And I’m well aware I’ve taken you by surprise. However, I think it’s insulting to you to waste your time on too many preliminaries so I’ll come straight to the point. I wanted to ask if you would be prepared to meet me.’
Alicia froze and she was gripped by an overwhelming feeling of revulsion. She had no desire to see Sarah ever again and she had thought Sarah felt the same way. For a moment words escaped her and into the silence Sarah said: ‘Something has happened, Alicia – something which makes it imperative that we talk.’
Alicia found her voice. ‘What could we possibly have to say to one another?’ she demanded.
‘I really would prefer not to discuss it over the telephone for all sorts of reasons. It’s something which needs to be talked about face to face. That’s why I was hoping you would agree to meet me, though I realise it is asking a great deal.’ Sarah’s voice was level, utterly calm and reasonable, but it only served to infuriate Alicia still further.
‘I’m sorry, Sarah, but you cannot seriously expect me to see you after all this time without having a single inkling of the reason for it,’ she said decisively.
There was another slight pause then Sarah said briskly: ‘Very well, Alicia. It’s about the business. I want to talk to you about Morse Bailey.’
‘I have nothing to do with the business these days,’ Alicia snapped, surprised and irritated. ‘Guy deals with my interests. You must know that.’
‘Yes, I’m aware of it,’ Sarah countered smoothly. ‘But this is something I think you should know about before it’s too late.’
‘Are you implying there is something my son is keeping from me?’
‘I’m not implying anything. I’m simply saying it’s vital that we should be able to talk. Oh Alicia, I know we’ve not been the best of friends these past years. But I beg you, in the interests of Morse Bailey, please agree to meet me. I’m willing to travel up to London to put you to the least possible inconvenience and I’ll meet you wherever and whenever you choose. Only please don’t refuse. This is too important to both of us.’
In spite of herself Alicia was aware of a twist of curiosity. Sarah Bailey – begging to see her? Sarah, who to her knowledge had never begged for anything in her life? Stolen, perhaps. Taken wealth and power – yes and people – to whom she had no right. But begged? It was totally foreign to her nature.
What the hell can it be that is so important to her? Alicia wondered. But the antagonisms of the past were still too strong, the pattern too indelibly set, to be ignored.
‘I’m sorry, Sarah, but I don’t wish to meet you,’ Alicia said with cold decision.
‘Alicia …’
‘That is my last word on the matter,’ Alicia snapped, ‘except to say I do not appreciate you contacting me in this arbitrary manner. I trust I make myself clear. Goodbye, Sarah.’
She replaced the receiver with a thud and only then realised her hand was trembling. Tucked still into the crook of her arm Ming shifted restlessly as if she was aware of her mistress’s change of mood and Alicia set her down on the sofa and crossed the room to her own chair. The Black Russian had burnt down now; Alicia stubbed it out, took another from the rosewood cigarette box and lit it, drawing deeply on the strong-tasting smoke. She felt shaken, more shaken than she could remember feeling in years. But that was hardly surprising. To take a telephone call, totally unprepared, and to hear Sarah’s voice … after all this time. The sheer bare-faced nerve of the woman was breathtaking. Alicia sat down, stood up again and crossed to the window, looking out into the fading light of the March evening, at the familiar skyline of roofs and chimney pots silhouetted dark against the misting grey sky, and saw only the face the years had taught her to hate. Sarah Bailey – Sarah Thomas as she had been when Alicia had first set eyes on her, beautiful, bold, determined. Sarah who had come into her life as unexpectedly as this afternoon’s telephone call and taken as her right everything she had wanted.
Abruptly, Alicia turned away from the window. It was dim inside now. She crossed to the door, flicked the light switch and three pairs of wall lights came on, illuminating the room with soft brightness. A slightly austere room, perhaps, but this was the way Alicia liked it – the walls and drapes a rich rust red, the wall-to-wall carpet palest beige. When she and her husband the Count had first bought the house it had been filled to overflowing with the various pieces he had loved to collect – oriental china and jade, an ivory elephant from India, an ornate French anniversary clock, Victorian bric-a-brac, some bought at auction for thousands of pounds, some picked up for a song in out of the way antique shops and stalls in Petticoat Lane or the Portobello Road. Alicia had found the collection claustrophobic and she had not been sorry as the pieces disappeared, one by one, to pay for her husband’s gambling debts. It was for her the one saving grace of his addiction. Klaus may have come close to ruining them; at least it meant she no longer had to live surrounded by what she regarded as clutter.
For the most part of course his degeneration into virtual mania had been something of a nightmare, his physical and mental deterioration causing her as much pain as his increasingly manic behaviour. Towards the end she had rarely seen him – he was at his various gaming clubs and casinos from the time they opened their doors until the small hours and he would then sleep until well into the afternoon. But he had not always been able to keep from her the demands of his creditors, although it was only after his death that the full scale of his losses had become apparent to her.
Why did I marry him? Alicia wondered sometimes – and told herself it was one more disaster that could be laid at Sarah’s door. Alicia had been lonely, more hurt than she would ever admit, and Klaus had been charming, the perfect Teutonic gentleman, last in line of one of the oldest a
nd noblest German families. He had kept his penchant for excesses well hidden from her until it was too late. But at least marrying him had helped her to salvage something of her fierce pride. No-one in the family, with the exception of Guy, her son, had known what a disastrous mistake she had made, and at least Klaus had had the decency to die before completely devouring her personal fortune.
Poor Klaus, she had thought in moments when his charm was clearer in her memory than his vices, he had not been a happy man. To the end he had missed his beloved fatherland; perhaps it was homesickness that had driven him to drink and gamble and find solace in the arms of as many different women as possible. But the fact that he had been estranged from his family for many years pointed to some old indiscretion of which she knew nothing and she was aware that to make excuses for his behaviour was like making excuses for Old Nick himself.
Klaus’s death had brought her freedom and she had made up her mind she would never lose it again. Men had brought her nothing but trouble, husbands were a source of unhappiness and disillusion. As if to exorcise Klaus forever she had disposed of as much of his collection as his creditors had left and the town-house had ceased to be an oppressive place. Furnished in the way in which she liked it, run on the ordered lines which suited her, Alicia had begun to feel that at least now, in what might have been her declining years, she was mistress of her own fate. Her business interests, which had always bored and irritated her, she had turned over to Guy, her son, and she occupied her time now with her small circle of friends and the charity work which had become her life. Her name appeared as patron on the headed notepaper of countless charities, she headed at least half a dozen committees and her home was thrown open several times a year for coffee mornings and the private soirées for which she was famous to raise funds for her favourite causes.
All in all it seemed to her that at last she had put the past behind her, successfully eliminating every link with events – and people – who had caused her pain.
