Oriental Hotel

by Janet Tanner

  Bello:

  hidden talent rediscovered

  Bello is a digital only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe life into previously published classic books.

  At Bello we believe in the timeless power of the imagination, of good story, narrative and entertainment and we want to use digital technology to ensure that many more readers can enjoy these books into the future.

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  Contents

  Janet Tanner

  Dedication

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  PART TWO

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  PART THREE

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Janet Tanner

  Oriental Hotel

  Janet Tanner is a prolific and well-loved author and has twice been shortlisted for RNA awards. Many of her novels are multi-generational sagas, and some – in particular the Hillsbridge Quartet – are based on her own working class background in a Somerset mining community. More recently, she has been writing historical and well-received Gothic novels for Severn House – a reviewer for Booklist, a trade publication in the United States, calls her “ a master of the Gothic genre”.

  Besides publication in the UK and US, Janet’s books have also been translated into dozens of languages and published all over the world. Before turning to novels she was a prolific writer of short stories and serials, with hundreds of stories appearing in various magazines and publications worldwide.

  Janet Tanner lives in Radstock, Somerset.

  Dedication

  To Terry with all my love

  PART ONE

  1983

  Chapter One

  As the executive jet approached the airfield, brilliant July sunshine made the white-painted fuselage glint like Alpine snow and turned the bright yellow Cormorant insignia painted on the tail-fin to sparkling golden fire.

  On the flight deck, Stuart Brittain eased his long back into a slightly more upright position against the smooth leather of the pilot’s seat and flexed strong tanned fingers on the controls.

  He was enjoying himself; enjoying the feeling of dominance over the powerful, man-made bird and the depth of concentration necessary to bring her in to land safely. He piloted the jet whenever he could and never failed to gain pleasure from it – or from knowing that it belonged, along with the other assets of Cormorant Trading, to himself and his family.

  Not even here at Bristol, where he had to be talked in by a radar controller, did he have any intention of handing over to Captain Nicholas Thorne, who was employed by Cormorant to fly the Lear jet. There were many things on his mind, both business and personal, most of them connected with this visit to England; but for the moment he was giving not a thought to any of them. Nick Thorne had been relegated to the co-pilot’s seat and he, Stuart Brittain, was in control. And he intended to relish every second. His hazel eyes narrowed slightly as he listened to the disembodied voice of the radar controller and made the necessary adjustments.

  Beneath him he could see the green Somerset countryside, the blue expanse of the Chew Valley Lake sparkling in the sunshine, the grey ribbon of road. The aerodrome was bounded to the north by raw, rough-hewn quarry walls; to the west, beyond the softly undulating hills, was the greyish water of the Bristol Channel.

  ‘On track, range half a mile from touchdown …’ droned the voice of the radar controller and then the aerodrome was almost beneath his wheels, the main airport building startlingly white in the sunshine against the bright, fluttering flags and the kaleidoscope of vehicles in the car park. Runway Zero-Two-Seven stretched ahead of him, cutting a broad grey path through the green. He came in smoothly, with only the slightest bounce as wheels touched on tarmac, and as his speed slowed to a gentle taxi the exhilaration began to ebb in him.

  It had been a long flight from Hong Kong and Stuart had been at the controls since the last fuel stop in Cairo. He had enjoyed every moment, but now it was time to cease being a jet pilot and resume the mantle of high-powered business. He could never forget for long that he was last in line of the Brittains of Cormorant – the Brittains who were Cormorant – one of the most powerful trading companies in Hong Kong, with fingers in so many pies that it sometimes seemed to Stuart he would lose count of them – banking, electronics, clothing, plastics and a network of imports and exports.

  But he did not lost count. He did all that was expected of him and more: travelling the world to set up new contracts, opening a depot here or signing a take-over deal there. And if he did not gain quite the same thrill from executing business deals as he did from flying a jet, at least he had the grace to acknowledge his debt to the company. Without it there would be no private plane, no Porsche car, no racing yacht nor any of the other assets he enjoyed.

  Only twenty-eight years old, Stuart Brittain was already something of a legend. Tall, with thick dark hair and a lean strong face, he was not particularly handsome – though many women would have been prepared to swear that he was – but there was something about the humorous mouth above a deeply cleft chin, the hint of amusement in the hazel eyes and the deceptively lazy strength which ensured that those who met him remembered him.

  There were some who, taking note of the fact that all the pursuits he enjoyed outside business were potentially lethal, murmured that he must have a death wish. Why else should he enjoy racing motor cars and power-boats, wind-surfing and hang-gliding, when most of his acquaintances preferred fast women, strong wine and the gambling table? But when this was put to him, Stuart only laughed. He certainly did not want to die – he enjoyed living too much. But he also enjoyed speed and danger, and with no one to please but himself saw no reason why he should not do exactly as he wished.

  If he had had a wife and family, of course, it might have been different – and this was one of the reasons Stuart had avoided marriage. Freedom was important to him – the freedom to go where he liked and do as he chose. Cormorant was constricting enough; from the time he could walk and talk he had known the company was there waiting for him, a way of life he could never escape. And though he had grown to accept that, he had felt unable to face committing himself to marriage too.

  Sometimes he felt a stab of envy for those of his friends who were happily married, it was true, but the mere thought of being accountable to one person for the rest of his life was enough to make him feel panic-stricken. For he firmly believed that marriage should be a commitment for life. He had seen too many failed marriages to want to risk this happening to him. And he had yet to meet, the girl who could make him want to commit himself so completely.

  Helen, he supposed, had come closest to persuading him away from his bachelor state – Helen Shaw, who had joined Cormorant a year ago as personal assistant to his grandfather, Charles Brittain. She was bright, pretty and confident, good at her job, good with the people who mattered, good
with everything in fact. Even after a long business meeting or a late session entertaining, she still looked perfectly turned out next morning, groomed and made-up like a model for Vogue magazine – every hair in place, nail varnish unchipped, as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as if she had been in bed by ten. During the year she had worked for his grandfather, he had never known her to have to apologise for anything. Others made mistakes but Helen sailed confidently on.

  If he was honest, Stuart thought, Helen’s perfection was one of the things about her which he found slightly daunting. Everything she did was so perfectly measured; even when she was in his arms he felt that she was reacting to his kisses with her head and not her heart.

  The jet was at a standstill now and on instructions from the control tower he turned her, taxiing gently towards the apron outside the airport buildings.

  Beside him, Nick Thorne stretched luxuriously.

  ‘Well done! That was a good flight. Do you want me to take care of the formalities?’

  Stuart nodded briefly. ‘Yes. Tell them we shall be here for two nights certainly, maybe three. Someone from Roydell Enterprises should be here to meet me, but you know what these business trips are. I doubt if we shall get down to any serious discussion until tomorrow. And while I’m in this pan of the world I have a little private business to attend to as well.’

  In spite of the long flight, Stuart’s voice was vibrant with barely suppressed energy and Nick Thorne threw him an amused glance. ‘Oh yes? For ‘‘private business’’read ‘‘woman’’ I suppose?’

  It was Stuart’s turn to smile. ‘It is a woman I want to see, yes, but it’s not quite what you are thinking, my friend. In fact, it’s not at all what you’re thinking!’

  ‘And what would Helen think if she knew?’ Nick asked wryly. ‘I thought she looked pretty grim when she saw you off, actually. She wanted to come along and keep an eye on you, I suppose?’

  ‘Probably,’ Stuart said easily, but he was thinking: So Nick has noticed it too.

  Lately he had been uncomfortably aware of a certain possessiveness in Helen’s manner, though he had hoped he was mistaken. But certainly she had come up with a hundred and one good reasons why she should accompany him to Bristol and it had taken great firmness on his part to assure her she was not needed and that he could handle the deal with Roydell alone.

  ‘So who is this woman you want to see?’ Nick asked curiously.

  Stuart grinned. ‘It’s a long story, Nick, far too long to tell you now. And to be honest, it sounds so far-fetched I doubt if you would believe me if I did tell you. But if you’re still interested, I’ll bore you with it on the way home. Now, to business! You’ll deal with refuelling, won’t you – and landing fees? Get an account – it could be anything up to a hundred English pounds and I don’t want to run myself short of sterling.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I can see to it,’ Nick assured him. ‘And I shall look forward to hearing that story. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ Stuart agreed. ‘By that time I might even know the end of it!’

  With the jet satisfactorily parked, the two men climbed down on to the tarmac and walked towards Immigration and Customs – one formality which not even Stuart Brittain could evade. Then they made their way to the reception lounge and stood together for a moment at the foot of the curving staircase leading to the Landing Office: Nick Thorne a slightly built man with the gold braid of a captain on his uniform; Stuart Brittain a head taller, wearing an uncrushable lightweight suit that barely concealed the hard muscular strength of his broad shoulders and narrow hips.

  ‘Am I right in thinking you are Mr Brittain?’

  A dapper middle-aged man crossed the lounge, extending his hand as Stuart confirmed his identity. ‘I’m Grantly Hedges of Roydell. I’m so pleased you were able to come. Did you have a good flight?’

  ‘Fine, thank you. I’m glad to be here.’ As Stuart followed him outside to where a dark blue Mercedes was parked carelessly in a ‘No Waiting’ area, all private matters were momentarily forgotten. ‘I hope we shall be able to finalise some arrangements which will suit us both.’

  ‘I certainly hope so.’ As Grantly Hedges threw open the passenger door of the Mercedes, his forced cheerfulness and slightly ingratiating manner brought a smile to Stuart’s lips. Instinct told him that Roydell wanted this deal badly, which meant he was likely to enjoy negotiating it.

  As they drove, however, and Grantly Hedges was forced to concentrate on dealing with the late afternoon traffic, Stuart’s mind returned briefly to Helen Shaw.

  Why, he wondered, did women always suppose they could change a man? Helen had know from the beginning where he stood on marriage and commitment. He had never made any secret of his attitude. But clearly she hadn’t accepted it – or at least, she had supposed that with her things would be different.

  But they would not be.

  It’s unlikely I shall ever meet a woman who will change me, Stuart thought; but if I do, I shall know. And even then I shall probably fight her – and myself – all the way …

  The Mercedes was halted by traffic lights and Grantly Hedges glanced sideways at him.

  ‘We’ve booked you into the best hotel in Bristol; you should be comfortable there. And I’ve arranged for a car to pick you up tomorrow at nine-thirty to bring you along to our offices.’

  ‘I should prefer to drive myself,’ Stuart said easily. ‘If you haven’t a company car available, then I can hire one.’

  ‘Oh, but … will you know your way around?’ Grantly Hedges enquired.

  ‘I can find out,’ Stuart said carelessly and then, noticing the dark flush creeping up the other man’s cheeks, added: ‘There’s a private visit I want to make while I’m here, so I’ll need a car for that.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, I’m sure it can be arranged …’

  Stuart nodded. ‘Thanks. Actually, the place I want is called Durscombe Park. It’s in Gloucestershire, I believe.’

  ‘Durscombe Park? That sounds familiar,’ Grantly murmured.

  ‘It’s owned by a Mrs Sanderson,’ Stuart continued. ‘ Mrs Elise Sanderson.’

  ‘Mrs Sanderson?’ Grantly’s voice was sharp suddenly; he had almost missed the flow of traffic and behind him someone hooted impatiently.

  ‘You know her?’ Stuart enquired.

  ‘I know of her. Everyone knows of the Sandersons.’ His voice was still clipped and with reawakening interest Stuart wondered why. He had come to Bristol on business – the visit to Mrs Sanderson was an extra indulgence only. But quite suddenly he had the feeling that the priorities might yet change.

  ‘When were you planning to see her?’ Grantly asked, executing a smooth gear change.

  In his pocket Stuart’s fingers closed over the leather-bound address book in which he had written the address and telephone number.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘ But I think I may telephone her tonight.’

  Chapter Two

  Summer sunlight dappled through the trees and made patches of light and shade on the luxuriant lawns of Durscombe Park.

  To the front of the house the grass was rougher – parkland bisected by a broad gravel drive and ending suddenly at the edge of the forecourt where carriages had once assembled; here at the side the lawns were softer and more private, sloping gently away towards the wooded valley.

  The swing-seat was positioned just on the rise, within sight of the drawing-room windows, yet secluded from them so that no one in the house could see the occupant.

  Elise Sanderson liked it that way. During the last four years, since she had reached the age of sixty, comfort had become increasingly important to her; but it was not yet as important as her privacy.

  She sat now on the padded cushions which were softly upholstered in a mixture of delicate pinks and greens; a slimly-built woman with a bone structure which would retain its perfection to the end of her life. Her eyes were still beautiful too – wide, amber-coloured and fringed by thick lashes – and her hair, though it had long s
ince lost its once-glorious glow of honey, was now a mass of soft silver curls. As she reached up to adjust the deep fringing on the canopy of the swing-seat she smiled to herself, remembering the relentless suns which had beaten down on to her face forty years ago. She had been careless then, not thinking of how they would dry her skin and start fine lines. Now, when she looked in her mirror, she regretted her rashness. And yet, she thought, so many of her contemporaries who had worried constantly about their appearance now had tight-drawn skin too smooth for their years and tell-tale tucks hidden beneath the hairline. Elise had never contemplated having a face-lift, nor would she do so; it seemed to her the height of vanity. But nowadays sheltering from the sun was only sensible.

  With a faint sigh she returned her attention to the file of papers lying on the swing-seat beside her. All were connected with the running of Sanderson International, the vast company which had given her – among other things – Durscombe Park. There was no longer any need for her to take an active part in the running of the company, she knew. Her son Alex, and David Fletcher, her son-in-law, were in the driving seat now. But when her husband Gordon had died ten years ago, Elise had made up her mind she would not allow herself to vegetate. It would have been all too easy to remain here simply as the lady of the manor, waited on hand and foot and with her every whim catered for. But that was not her way. Despite all their efforts to try to ease her out, Elise had kept her finger on the company pulse. It gave her a sense of purpose and prevented her from feeling old and useless. And they humoured her, Alex and David and the rest of the board; they pretended her voting shares were of importance – though she knew they could outmanoeuvre her any time they decided to act in concert – and asked her opinion on all manner of things from the decor for the new suite of offices in a London tower block to the final design on the company Christmas cards.

  She still entertained for Sandersons, too, and it gave her the excuse she needed to justify keeping on Durscombe Park. She loved it; she couldn’t have borne to see it sold, but it was much too large for her to live in alone. As a setting for dinner parties and working weekends, however, it was ideal: a rambling Georgian house set in fifteen acres of parkland, with breathtaking views across a valley populated only by grazing cows and a pony or two, yet within easy reach of the motorway. And Elise did so enjoy entertaining, planning menus, mixing guests and engineering conversation. Her dinner parties were always a success and invitations to a country weekend eagerly accepted.