The house of the Amulet

by Hilton, Margery

  The house of the Amulet by Margery Hilton

  When Melissa's sister Avril disappeared into thin air, somewhere in Morocco, Melissa lost no time in setting off in search for her. 'Fear not the desert, nor the destiny you deny,' a sand diviner had told her — but Melissa did fear the desert, and she feared the dark, arrogant Raoul Germont even more. Why was Avril carrying out such a fantastic masquerade on his behalf? And was Melissa too going to fall under his spell...

  Printed in Great Britain

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names.

  They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or, by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  First published 1970

  This edition 1978

  This edition © Margery Hilton 1978

  For copyright reasons, this book may not be issued on loan or otherwise except in its original soft cover.

  ISBN o 263 7284t 2

  CHAPTER I

  `I AM sorry, mademoiselle, I wish with all my heart that I could be of more assistance, but ...'

  Philippe St Clair's smile was rueful and his gesture eloquent as he looked at the young English girl who gazed at him so anxiously across the wide desk.

  Melissa managed a smile, even though disappointment was heavy in her heart, and stood up, offering her hand to the courteous young Frenchman. 'You've been very kind, monsieur, and I've taken up far too much of your time, already.'

  'But no!' Hastily he reassured her otherwise, a hint of regret mingling with admiration in a glance that at any other time would have assured Melissa that her fresh young charm lacked nothing to his Gallic eye. But at the moment her cornflower blue eyes were shadowed with worry, the same worry that caused her soft curved mouth to droop in a way that was infinitely appealing, had she but known it.

  Philippe frowned and checked his movement towards the door of the cool airy office that was situated in a quiet cul-de-sac in the business sector of Casablanca. He said, 'One moment—you have enquired at your Consulate, mademoiselle?'

  'Yesterday—I've asked everywhere,' she said despairingly. don't know where to start looking. My sister seems to have disappeared into thin air. I just can't understand it. She seemed to love her job here,

  and Casablanca, and—and everything. Why should she just throw it all over so suddenly and—and disappear? Without telling a soul where she was going? My mother's dreadfully worried. That's why I decided to come out and try to find her, before I start my new job and get tied up until I'm due for holidays again.'

  She sighed. 'But you are busy, I mustn't interrupt any longer. Thank you for being so understanding, especially as my sister hasn't been very considerate in leaving you at such short notice.'

  'It is of no consequence. You are not your sister. It is a pleasure ...' He held open the door and bowed. 'But, please, if I can be of any assistance in any way while you are here, do not hesitate to contact me. Promise?'

  She nodded, smiling her thanks again, and a moment or so later she emerged into the waves of heat laden air that seemed more acutely marked after the coolness of the air-conditioning in the young Directeur's spacious office.

  Impervious to the alien colour and bustle of the city, Melissa wandered along in the vague direction of her hotel. What now? And where? Oh, where was Avril? she wondered despairingly. Why hadn't she told them she was leaving her job, a job she'd pulled strings to land, playing blatantly on the indulgence of an old business colleague of their late father? The shadows veiled Melissa's eyes again. If only her father had been with them still; he would have known what to do, how to find Avril. He had been the only one who could ever make the wilful Avril see reason, who could command Avril's obedience. Certainly their

  mother couldn't, she was as ineffectual regarding her spoilt daughter as Melissa felt at that moment.

  She opened her bag and took out the last two letters Avril had written home. The first one told her nothing, merely a little about the apartment Avril 'adored' and'which Melissa had already located, only to find a stranger in residence who knew nothing of the former tenant, not even her name. There was a guarded reference to Philippe St Clair, whose charming features were still fresh in Melissa's memory, and a casual reference to someone called Sonia, who had a 'divine villa' at Rabat, and that was all. The rest of the scrappy letter consisted of a description of an Arabian silver snake bracelet she had bought in the souk.

  It was the second letter which was so disturbing, and which had caused their mother to write two anxious letters, neither of which had succeeded in eliciting any reply, and finally Melissa's decision to fly out to Morocco.

  Avril had written :

  'Just a line to tell you not to write me at this address after the fifteenth as I'm moving. I've got the chance of a super new job, temporary, but it is still worth packing in my present one because for one thing the financial end is terrific and I'll be living lush with practically nothing to do, also I'll be travelling, and you know my wanderlust. Honestly, darlings, I'd be an idiot to turn it down. However, I can't give you an address to write to as I don't know myself where I'll be and when, so I thought I'd better let you know, and if you do want to be bothered writing it'll have to be c/o American Ex

  press for a week or two. Think of me lotus eating love, Avril.'

  Lotus eating ! thought Melissa despairingly. Not a hint of what the wonderful job tonight be, where it might be, and, more important, with whom! Mrs Blair had been frantic, despite Melissa's own conviction that Avril was quite capable of taking care of her worldly self and was well aware of all the pitfalls poor Mrs Blair's fertile imagination could conjure forth. Really, Avril was the limit ! Why all the secrecy?

  But why were her letters still lying uncollected in their pigeonhole at the American Express? It wasn't only exasperating; it was frightening.

  Melissa returned to the name in the first letter. Sonia. A villa in Rabat. It was so little to go on. If only she knew the surname she might be able to trace the unknown Sonia, perhaps find some indication of Avril's plans, perhaps even some information which would help her to trace Avril. But with only the first name . . .

  Melissa sighed, still not aware that her steps had led in a totally different direction to that which she had intended taking. The pensive veil cleared from her gaze and a small exclamation escaped her as she took in the narrow, sun baked alley into which she had wandered. A woman shrouded in a black hooded djellaba, only her eyes visible above a thin dark veil, watched her silently from a doorway, a white robed man in a red fez brushed past, giving her a curious glance, and two emaciated dogs snarled over a scrap of decaying refuse in the centre gutter.

  Melissa quickened her step along the alley, con

  scious of the inky shadows lengthening and that she had no idea how far she had wandered. She reached the end of the alley, only to emerge into a street that was little wider than the one she'd just traversed, and looked uncertainly to left and right. She seemed to have landed in the native quarter. In the moments while she pondered turning back and trying to retrace her steps she heard the voices and saw the rush of urchins.

  Instinctively she moved towards the gesticulating group a short distance along the street, and then a cry of horror sprang to her lips as she saw the cause of the incident.

  The little street ended in a square on which converged the ends of two more dark l
ittle alleyways. From one of them had come a sadly overburdened donkey, to sink to its knees while the produce in the great panniers spilled and rolled in the dust. Three men gathered round, cursing the luckless animal, while the sticks rose and fell and the urchins crowded in to assist.

  Melissa's white shady straw hat slid from her head and revealed the glowing titian tints which had evolved a certain tradition she had no hesitation in living up to as she rushed on the scene. Unheeding that her angry protests might not be intelligible, or that the consequences of her action might have unfortunate results, she waded in and seized the goad from the hand of the man in the dirty white djellaba and red tar boosh.

  For a moment sheer surprise struck them silent and made them cease their belabouring of the poor brute. But it lasted only a moment before a torrent of Arabic

  broke round her head. The urchins began to jabber and the man in the tar boosh raised his hands.

  `Plis Eengleesh lady! What you do? He is lazy

  beast. Stubborn. Eat too much!' He made expansive gestures around his own scraggy girth and grinned at his companions.

  'That donkey's sick,' she cried, 'and half starved. How do you expect an animal to work if you don't look after it? Look!' She stared in horror at the pitifully thin flanks and the sores where the girth had frayed the dull coat raw over the ribs.

  One of the urchins jostled close to her and thrust out a hand. 'Baksheesh,' he demanded impudently. 'English missy give baksheesh.' The others took up the jeering chant as Melissa tried to brush them aside.

  She turned back to the men and said with a hint of desperation : 'That animal needs treatment. It's too sick to work, it

  They were all talking at once, drowning her protests, and now their grinning expressions had altered. The man in the tarboosh made a grab at the stick she still held and wrested it from her hand. He said, 'You see, missy, he soon work again. We make him move.' From under grubby white folds he produced a box of matches and proceeded to mime the lighting of a fire, grinning and touching the stick as though it were hot.

  For a moment she stared in amazement, then suddenly she understood and horror overwhelmed her. A dimly remembered anecdote returned ... they heated a stone, or a charred stick, and applied it to the unfortunate animal ... the practice had a name, she couldn't remember the term, and she found difficulty in believing that man could be so inhuman now she

  knew—and believed.

  'Nor she cried desperately. 'Listen, I—I'll pay for it to be treated. I'll find a vet—there must be one somewhere in—only don't dare'

  'English missy pay?' The man rolled his eyes. 'English missy mad. For that worthless, lazy spawn of a—'

  'If it's worthless I'll buy the poor creature !' she cried wildly. 'How much is it worth? I'm not going to stand by and let you illtreat it.' Her eyes flashing with an appearance of bravado and assurance she was far from feeling, she met the dark jeering gaze steadily. 'How much?'

  The grins had faded now. The men and the urchins had closed round her in a circle and the dark faces were too close to her own for peace of mind.

  'English missy has much money to buy very valuable animal? Worth many dirhans. How much will English missy pay?'

  How much! What did a sick, miserable donkey cost on current market value? A small pathetic creature which at this moment looked as though it wasn't very far distant from whatever resting place a benign Allah may have set aside for man's beast of burden.

  Melissa shook her head. She knew she had only about three or four pounds in dirhans with her at the moment. The rest of her somewhat limited funds was in travellers cheques at her hotel. She opened her bag, knowing as she did so how foolish was her action, as compassion and anger overrode cold common sense, and took out her purse.

  Dark eyes watched avidly as she tried to reckon the still unfamiliar currency, then the man in the tarboosh

  waved his hand. 'English missy cannot pay. Not

  enough money. But this . . .' A bony claw like hand

  fastened round her wrist and fumbled with her watch.

  Startled, she took a step back, trying to free herself, and the man grinned. 'Lady give watch. Take valuable animal. Lady get bargain.'

  'No !' Suddenly frightened, Melissa struggled. She could not part with her gold bracelet watch, her father's last gift to her, but it seemed she did not have any choice. The jeering urchins gesticulated triumphantly as the gold glinted brightly in the man's hand and the circle of dark avid faces closed in on her again, intent on the purse she clutched tightly.

  'English missy buy goods with donkey. We lose valuable animal. No sell our goods at market, and we very poor. Surely English missy have goodness of Allah in her heart and '

  Melissa looked round desperately, realising at last the predicament into which she'd walked so stupidly. They would 'persuade' her to part with everything of value she possessed and she hadn't a hope of escaping. She looked down at the hands importuning, sensed the determination that encircled her remorselessly, and gave a small cry as she tried to break out of the imprisoning group. Then her cry changed to a scream as she stepped on something and stumbled backwards, almost falling, and the hands scrabbled at her.

  'No r She tried to save herself and thrust them away, and then suddenly a sharp, imperious command cut into the gabbling voices and the dark clutching forms melted away.

  A long shadow fell in front of her and a strong grip closed round her arm. The same imperious voice said

  sharply : 'Are you hurt? Have they robbed you?'

  I ' Melissa took a deep breath, swaying unsteadily, and brushed a tumbled tress of auburn from her flushed face. `I—I— They took my watch, but ' She looked down, ascertaining that her purse was still clenched in her hand, then shook her head. No, but Have they gone?'

  She took an urgent step forward, blinking at the now deserted square, empty except for herself and her rescuer, then the grip on her arm brought her to a standstill.

  'One moment, young lady. You are surely not going in pursuit of that scum, or imagining that you will ever set eyes on them, or your watch, again? Or are you completely devoid of wits?'

  `No! It wasn't like that at all.' Melissa came out of her daze and for the first time looked full into the face of the man whose commanding grasp still held her arm. What she saw checked the spate of indignant incoherencies trembling on her lips.

  A dark compelling gaze burned down on her from the most arresting eyes she had ever encountered. They were so dark as to appear almost black at first glimpse, until one saw the topaz glints and the deep, tawny hazel irises under the frames of heavy black lashes, and their sheer male arrogance was complemented by a severely chiselled mouth and a jawline of which the set betrayed both dominance and an inflexible will. His skin was smooth and dark, tanned to the hue of mahogany, and evoked in Melissa a mind mirage of desert sands and wild winds under a blazing sun. Suddenly it came to her that his faultless English, the immaculate linen suit and the smooth assured

  demeanour of him were but a mere veneer, disguising a ruthlessness she sensed instinctively despite her present moment of stress. This man would prove an unshakeable ally—or a remorseless enemy—if ever ...

  asked if you were hurt.'

  `I—' She caught at herself, away from her strange thoughts. `No, I'm all right. Thank you,' she added as an afterthought, then hurried on : 'You see, it was because of that donkey. It's sick, and I wanted to stop them illtreating it, and ...' Trying to phrase her explanation concisely, she turned as she spoke and knelt by the prostrate animal. Then an exclamation of distress broke from her and she looked up at the stranger. `I—I think it's dead!'

  The long shadow fell across her and he said in incredulous tones : 'You mean this is the reason for your foolish intervention which resulted in—'

  'What else could I do?' she cried. couldn't stand by and watch those brutes ... do you know what they were going to do? They were going to ...'

  'You are English, of course,' he interrupted, a note of i
rony in his tone. 'Your concern over animals is notorious.'

  `Not as notorious as some people's treatment of them!' she flashed. `Oh, forget it. I must find somebody who will ...'

  `Do not distress yourself.' The touch on her shoulder was light but authoritative and the voice cool with command 'It must also be true that the English sense of humour is strictly a private national business. Now, if you will permit me to take charge of this unfortunate affair, I will find the somebody.' The irony was evident now in his slight smile, and Melissa flushed.

  He added, would like to prove to you that we are not all barbarians and remind you that no country in the world is without those whose behaviour is not all we would wish.'

  He moved from her and stooped over the donkey, his mouth compressing slightly then relaxing as he straightened. No, the animal is not dead, merely seizing this rare and unexpected opportunity to take a siesta.'

  Unbelievingly she looked and saw that indeed he spoke the truth. The thin flanks heaved gently and regularly and as she watched one of the ears gave a slight flicker. Relief flowed through her and for the first time she smiled at her rescuer. `Oh, I'm so glad. I thought the poor thing ... But what are we going to do? We can't leave it here. Do you know where ...?'

  He gestured. 'Come with me and do not concern yourself.'

  'But ...' She hesitated, seeing him move away with those arrogant strides, and then hurriedly followed. Surely he wasn't going to leave her now to deal with the matter as best she could on her own? But he had traversed only a few steps, to pause before an ornamental grilled gateway in the wall.

  He opened it and waited, obviously expecting her to enter, and wonderingly she passed through to find herself in a cool courtyard where a pool shimmered in the rich afternoon sunlight and masses of white roses tumbled from a great ornate urn that stood in the centre. From the inky shadows within the Moorish colonnade of the house a white robed figure came and hurried towards them. His thin bearded face was grave and scholarly as he greeted the stranger with a