Dangerous Deception

by Anthea Fraser

  “Wanted to know if you’d left for the Carreg Coed. I asked Bronwen and she said you had.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser. Well, thanks, Gareth, but I’m no wiser than you are. Sorry you had a wasted journey. Have a drink on me when you get back.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that miss, specially if it’s not for you after all.”

  I smiled. “Then put it towards a night out with Bronwen!”

  He grinned delightedly. “That obvious, is it? Well, thank you, miss, and sorry to have troubled you.”

  The slip of paper had dropped to my lap and I hastily held it out, but he was already revving up his bike, and with a raised hand roared past me back down the road to the Plas Dinas.

  I re-read the message, hoping that the treasure-hunt could proceed without it. Then, with a shrug, I slipped it into my bag and started the car again.

  It was only a few minutes later that I came to a side road on the left, with a notice-board proclaiming Carreg Coed Hotel 200 yards. Full Board, Morning Coffee, Lunches, Teas, Dinners.

  I turned the nose of the car on to the unmade private road and bumped gently along until I came to the hotel gateway on the right. The road ahead petered out into a footpath leading up the hill and as I turned into the gravelled drive I had my first sight of the Carreg Coed, a rambling stone building against a background of shrubs and rocks.

  As Bronwen had said, it was altogether bigger than the modest little Plas Dinas and there were more signs of life about it. Two children played on the grass, bags of golf-clubs and fishing tackle were stacked in the porch, and on a tennis court behind the car park, a young couple were engaged in an energetic game. The sound of their voices came through the open car window.

  It all looked much as I’d expected, a comfortable hotel catering to the tourist trade, and there was certainly no ripple of unease, not the faintest premonition that I was about to be catapulted into danger.

  I parked the car and, with absolutely no thought of the consequences, went inside.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow …’

  Shakespeare: Macbeth

  THE HALL, unlike that of the smaller hotel, was large and bright, the woodwork all painted white. There was a reception desk across from the door with what looked like an office behind it, and, on the counter, a visitors’ book and a bell.

  To the right, a glass wall separated the lounge from the rest of the hall. My quick glance took in a couple of old ladies and a man studying a map. I rang the bell, and almost immediately a pleasant-faced woman appeared from the office.

  “Good afternoon. Can I help you?”

  “I hope so; someone phoned from the Plas Dinas to reserve me a room.”

  “Ah yes.” She pulled a book out from under the counter. “You’re in luck, we’ve had two postponements today, both singles. The lady in number five won’t be here till Sunday, which will give you two nights. If you decide to stay longer, I’m sure we can fit you in somewhere.”

  She raised her voice. “Evan!” A boy appeared at the office door. “Bring in the lady’s case, would you, and take it to number five.”

  “The boot’s open,” I told the boy. “It’s the blue Golf.”

  He nodded sullenly and went through the swing doors.

  “Would you mind signing the visitors’ book? We don’t seem to have a note of your name.”

  “It’s Laurie,” I said, scrawling it, together with my address and the car registration number, in the appropriate columns.

  She lifted the counter and came out into the hall. “I’ll take you up. I’m Mrs Davies, by the way – my husband and I are the proprietors.”

  I followed her up the wide, shallow staircase which adjoined the glass wall of the lounge, self-consciously aware of the interested gaze of the old ladies. At the top she turned left, stopped at a door and unlocked it.

  The room we entered was small but comfortable. There was tea-making equipment on a stand and its single bed was neatly covered with a green spread.

  “Not many places have single rooms now,” Mrs Davies remarked, following the direction of my eyes. “Being an older establishment we still have a few, and I can tell you they’re in great demand.” She smiled. “On the debit side, though, I’m afraid there’s no en suite bathroom, but you’ll find a couple at each end of the corridor.”

  She gave a quick, professional glance round the room and turned to go. “If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask. Dinner is served at seven.”

  There was a tap on the open door and the boy Evan came in with my case. He avoided my eye when I tipped him, and I found myself regretting the engaging Gareth and his Bronwen.

  Then I was alone. Now what did I do? I wondered, with a feeling almost of panic. Nothing at all, for ten days? I’d be mad with boredom by the end of three!

  Dispiritedly I started to unpack. Then I changed out of my creased blouse and skirt into a dressing-gown, settled myself on the wide window-seat, and determinedly opened the new paperback I’d brought with me.

  The sun was hot on the back of my neck, and after a few pages I turned and sat gazing out across the little garden and, beyond, the dry grass and rocks and rising hills, to the blue wedge of sea.

  Below me, the children were still playing with their ball, but an altercation had broken out. Voices were raised, then a wail of protest.

  I only half heard them. My thoughts were slipping away again, the warmth and my physical tiredness relaxing the willpower that, for the last half-hour or so, had kept them away from Philip.

  Our engagement had made little difference to our lives. I was in no hurry to marry and Philip didn’t press me. The months passed uneventfully, and if I was aware of a small, nagging discontent occasionally, I pushed it to the back of my mind and refused to examine it.

  Then, three weeks before my twenty-third birthday, disaster struck: my parents were killed in an air crash returning from holiday. My world teetered, rocked, shattered into fragments, and of course it was Matthew and Philip who picked up the pieces.

  “You still have us, Clare,” Matthew kept saying, those first dreadful weeks. I knew his grief almost equalled mine; he and my mother, as twins, had been very close, and it was to him I turned for comfort during the worst times. Once or twice, as his arms folded round me, I caught a glimpse of Philip’s white, anguished face and felt a passing guilt.

  They were both anxious to bring the wedding forward, to give me extra, much-needed security; but, perversely, it was then that I started to have serious doubts about my feelings for Philip.

  After the tragedy I had moved temporarily to Conningley, where I found his constant presence an irritation – a reaction that filled me with panic. If only it could be just Uncle and me, I caught myself thinking more than once, and was appalled.

  His unfailing good humour began to grate on raw nerves until I longed for him to disagree with me, to assert his own opinions once in a while. And when, as I came to do, I automatically disagreed with everything he said, he’d merely smile and reply, “No doubt you’re right, darling!”

  At last I could stand it no longer, and after dinner one evening I braved Matthew in the library. “It’s been sweet of you to have me here,” I told him, “but I think it’s time I stood on my own feet.”

  He looked up in consternation. “You’re not going back to that empty house?”

  “No, but I’ve seen a furnished flat advertised which sounds ideal. I—”

  “But Clare, why? I hoped you’d be staying on here till the wedding.”

  I shifted uncomfortably. “It’s just that Philip and I are rather on top of each other,” I said. “I – need a bit of space.”

  “But we’re out all day,” he protested. “Anyway, I thought two people in love couldn’t see enough of each other.”

  I bit my lip. “Please try to understand. You know how much you mean to me—”

  “And Philip?”

  “Of course,” I said quickly, “bu
t he wants me to settle on a wedding date and I’m not ready yet. Honestly, I think I’d be better away for a while.”

  “You must do as you think best,” he said heavily, “but I admit I’m disappointed. Still, these things can’t be hurried – take as long as you need.”

  So with his reluctant agreement and to Philip’s obvious dismay, I moved to my flat and breathed more freely.

  Slowly, life returned to what passed for normal. I still worked on the local newspaper and, telling myself it was what I wanted, spent most evenings alone in front of the television.

  Philip phoned every day, though sometimes, guessing it would be him, I let it ring unanswered. Once, when he called at the flat, I stood watching him from behind a curtain and didn’t let him in; and when I did see him, I increasingly turned away from his kisses, making excuses.

  It was a difficult time in other ways, too. After discussions with Matthew and the family solicitor, I’d decided to put my old home on the market, which involved the heart-breaking task of going through my parents’ things, sorting out which of the books, ornaments and furniture I’d known all my life would now have to be sold.

  This was made even harder by the fact that the flat, convenient as it was, didn’t feel like home and I couldn’t settle in it. I wasn’t sleeping well, and the doctor, approached in desperation, murmured platitudes about delayed shock. I was wondering just how much longer I would drift in this limbo when, out of a clear sky, the scandal broke.

  My back went rigid against the warm wood of the window frame. Well, here we were, full circle, back to the point I’d been fighting to forget for the last three months.

  Somewhere out on the hill a sheep bleated and was answered by another. The children had long since vanished inside. The first shadows were beginning to creep across the garden and, far above me, a silver microdot that was an aeroplane droned its way over the limitless sky. I drew a deep breath and let the memories come.

  The first inkling I had of anything wrong was an early-morning phone call from Matthew, cancelling an invitation to lunch in town. He sounded strained.

  “Something’s come up which must be dealt with at once. Until it’s sorted out, I shan’t be very good company, my dear. I’ll be in touch again soon.”

  And before I could question him, he rang off.

  I was not unduly worried at this stage, but it did cross my mind that it was about ten days since I’d seen Philip, though my reaction to his absence had been only relief. I pushed my uneasiness aside and left for the office.

  In the middle of the morning, Tom Bailey, one of our newer reporters, tapped on the door, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

  “So you have come in today! Good for you! I never thought you would.”

  I looked up with a frown. “Of course I’ve come in; why shouldn’t I?”

  “Well, OK, so the story’s not out yet, but you must know we have it and it’ll be on the streets by lunch-time.” He eyed me curiously. “Any chance of an inside angle, since you’re here?”

  “Tom, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Now leave me alone; I’ve got work to do, even if you haven’t.”

  To my annoyance, he hitched himself on to a corner of my desk. “Well, you’re a cool customer, I’ll give you that.”

  “Look, what is this?” I burst out irritably. “What are you getting at?”

  “Oh, come on now! Family loyalty is one thing, but the nationals have it now, and we can get an exclusive slant if you’ll play ball. After all, you’re engaged to the guy.”

  My impatience was suddenly swallowed up in concern. I said urgently, “Tom, what is it? Has something happened to Philip?”

  He looked up from the notebook he’d opened, his face a mask of amazement.

  “You’re not seriously telling me you don’t know?”

  “Know what? What is it, for pity’s sake?”

  He slipped off the desk, hastily pushing his notebook into his pocket. “God, Clare, I’m sorry. I’d no idea – I mean, I just naturally assumed – and when you seemed so cool about it, I thought there wouldn’t be any harm—”

  I stood up and leant over the desk. “Tom Bailey, if you don’t stop beating about the bush I shall scream! Tell me everything you know, at once.”

  He was plainly embarrassed now. He cleared his throat.

  “Well, of course nothing’s actually been confirmed. There’ll probably be an official denial any minute.”

  “Tom—” I began warningly.

  He avoided my eyes. “Well, it seems there’s been an almighty bust-up between Philip Hardy and his step-father.”

  “Bust-up?” I repeated stupidly.

  “That’s the story going round. The old man discovered some discrepancies somewhere and it looks as though Philip was responsible.”

  I said out of a dry mouth, “That just isn’t possible.”

  “Look here, Clare,” Tom said awkwardly, “let me at least verify it before I say any more.”

  “No, go on,” I insisted, and my voice seemed to be coming from a long way away. “I don’t believe it, but I want to know what’s being said.”

  “Well, several things have come to light, but the climax was the business with these clients – antique dealers, I think. They’re heavily insured with your uncle’s firm, and Philip handles their account. They were broken into the other night, and some new pieces which hadn’t been valued were taken. There seem to be grounds for believing Philip was the only one who knew they’d arrived and where they’d been stored.”

  “They’re saying Philip stole them?” I couldn’t take it in.

  “No, not personally—that he sold the information to someone else. They’ve got hold of some character who insists he got the gen from him.”

  “But didn’t he tell them all to go to hell?”

  “It seems not. At first his step-father refused to believe it, but the story goes that when he asked Philip for an explanation, he flew off the handle and resigned from the firm.”

  I said slowly, “This is quite ludicrous.”

  “Yes – well, there it is. I’m sorry, Clare. If I’d realised you didn’t know, I’d never have busted in like that.”

  “It’s all right.” My voice was quite steady. “Now, would you mind leaving?”

  “Sure.” He went quickly from the room.

  With cold hands I pulled the telephone towards me, but it was a full ten minutes before the lines were clear to take my call, and even then I learned nothing.

  “I’m sorry, neither Mr Bennett nor Mr Hardy is available today,” said the clipped voice of the switchboard. “I could put you through to their secretaries—”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  I walked through the outer office with head high, aware of quickly stifled whispers as I passed. The streets were busy with mid-morning crowds, but I drove on auto-pilot, my mind seething with my conversation with Tom.

  There must be some mistake. He’d misunderstood. There couldn’t possibly be any truth in it.

  Conningley lay basking in the June sunshine. I drew up at the door and walked straight in. Mrs Withers, the housekeeper, was in the hall, her eyes red-rimmed. I remembered for the first time in years that it was my mother who’d engaged her, when Aunt Margot died.

  “Oh, Miss Clare—” she began, her voice breaking.

  “Is Philip here?”

  “He’s in his room, but I don’t—”

  I walked past her and up the stairs, conscious of her staring after me. I tapped on Philip’s door and, without waiting for an answer, went in.

  He was at the far side of the room, putting things into a suitcase. He turned quickly, and I was shocked by his face. For the first time, I wondered if the rumours could be true. He stepped quickly towards me, but I didn’t move.

  “Clare!”

  He stopped and for a moment we stared at each other. Then he gave an odd, lopsided little smile. “Well, Clare?”

  I moistened my lips. “Is it true?”

&nbs
p; “That I’ve left the firm? Yes.”

  “But Philip – why?”

  He turned sharply away. “If you’ve heard so much, you must know the rest.”

  “But – it isn’t true?” I was pleading more for Matthew’s sake than my own.

  He turned back to me. “Do you believe it?”

  I stared into his burning eyes. At that point I honestly didn’t know what I believed, but I’d hesitated too long. He gave a harsh laugh.

  “So! ‘Woman’s faith and woman’s trust’!”

  I whispered, “It will kill your father.”

  “He’s not my father.” A far-away echo, which at the time I didn’t stop to pinpoint, underlined his conviction.

  “But he’s been like one to you,” I said shakily. “All these years he’s loved you, been proud of you—”

  “All these years,” he repeated bitterly, “I’ve bowed and scraped to him – yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir. No question of asking what I wanted to do. No matter if insurance bored me stiff, I was expected to comply with his wishes. Well, I’ve had it – and him – in a big way.”

  He looked at me challengingly. “Which leaves the million dollar question: what about you?”

  I felt my mouth go dry. “Me?”

  “Yes; who gets your vote, him or me?”

  “You’re asking me to – choose between you?” The words sounded stiff and melodramatic, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was very still.

  “I suppose I am.”

  Even in my dazed state, I was aware of the undercurrent in his voice. This wasn’t the light-hearted, debonair Philip I knew. His face was stiff and cold but his eyes held mine with a desperate appeal that was more than I could bear.

  “Please don’t, Philip!”

  He moved at last. “As I thought. He wins, hands down. Very well. In the circumstances, I can hardly expect you to share my disgrace.” He forced a laugh. “I hereby release you from any commitment. Is that the right wording? Anyway, it’s your cue, if you feel so inclined, to whip off your ring and hurl it at my feet.”

  I made one last, frantic attempt. “Philip, if we all talked it over, surely—”