Dangerous Deception

by Anthea Fraser

  “The Misses Jones – Olwen and Hettie. They keep pretty much to themselves.”

  I looked round the room. “And of course, the school-teachers.”

  “Indeed. Norton and Bunting by name. Norton’s all right, in a jolly-hockey-sticks sort of way, but Bunting looks as though she might die of fright if anyone said ‘Boo!’ to her.”

  “And this is the full complement of the hotel?”

  “Apart from the Mortimer brats. There’s one vacant room, but I believe it’s booked. I heard Wynne Davies say the chap can’t get here till tomorrow.”

  ‘Aladdin’ again?

  “And what about you, Morgan?” I asked, turning to him with a quick smile. “You’ve given me thumbnail sketches of everyone else – what do you do?”

  “I’m a writer for my pains, strictly non-fiction. At the moment, I’m working on a biography of Owen P. Thomas.” He glanced at me and laughed. “Go on, admit it – you’ve never heard of him!”

  “Should I have done?”

  “Not really; he was a Welsh politician during the last century.”

  “Why does he interest you?” I asked curiously, but before he could reply, Mr Zimmerman’s voice reached us from across the room.

  “Well, I admire you, Dick, I truly do. If you have struck gold, you sure deserve it, after all the slogging you’ve been doing, year in, year out.”

  “And so say all of us,” Miss Norton confirmed. “You’ve earned your Aladdin’s cave, Mr Harvey.”

  I jerked involuntarily and the coffee spoon rattled in the saucer I still held. Morgan took it from me and laid it down on the table.

  Could the school-mistresses be responsible for the notes, I wondered incredulously, taking a leaf from children in their class?

  No, that wouldn’t work; it didn’t take account of the man who’d phoned Plas Dinas. Then there was the waiter, who’d assumed I was here to meet someone. I shook my head to free it of the questions which suddenly filled it like a swarm of bees.

  Across the room, one of the old ladies rose slowly to her feet and started to make her way towards the door. As she passed me her knitting bag slipped from her grasp, and as she fumbled to catch it, a ball of wool dropped out and rolled under my chair. I bent to retrieve it and handed it back to her.

  “Thank you so much, Carol my dear. I may call you Carol, mayn’t I?”

  “Clare,” I amended quietly. “Please do. Good-night, Miss Hettie.”

  “Olwen,” she corrected in her turn. “I’m the elder one.”

  I looked after her as she went out, and turned back to find Morgan Rees laughing at me.

  “The only way to tell them apart,” he informed me, “is to look at the brooches they wear. Miss Hettie has a cameo and Miss Olwen an amethyst. At least, I think that’s the right way round. All this nonsense about the younger and the elder – they’re twins, of course.”

  “How sweet that they still dress alike, at their age.”

  Talk became more sporadic and I felt my eyelids growing heavy. It had been a long day. Finally Morgan stood up and stretched. “I’m going outside for a breath of air – it’s not ten o’clock yet. Anyone care to join me?”

  No one responded and he laughed. “Lazy lot!” He looked down at me. “Perhaps you’ll let me show you round in the morning, then? There are some lovely walks if you don’t mind a spot of climbing, with spectacular views.”

  “Thanks, I’d enjoy that.”

  “Good-night, then. Pleasant dreams.”

  He left the room. Pauline was still talking to Dick Harvey and Clive had disappeared – probably to the bar. My eyes slid to the newly-weds, laughing softly together, and I felt a sudden twist of pain. There were obviously no doubts for them, their happiness was like a warm radiance.

  I looked quickly away, and caught the curious gaze of the fluttery Miss Bunting. Embarrassed at being caught watching me, she bent her head lower over her crochet-work.

  Suddenly, with a crawling sensation on my scalp, I knew I was still being watched, though less openly. My eyes darted swiftly round the room, but no one here was looking in my direction. I turned my head and my eyes were drawn up the glass wall to the staircase which rose alongside it. The lower steps were brightly lit from the hall and the lounge itself, but beyond the bend there were shadows and surely, as I looked, a pale smudge that could have been a face darted out of sight.

  The hairs rose slowly on the back of my neck. Who was up there in the darkness, watching the brightly lit room below? And who in the lounge warranted such surreptitious spying?

  I stood up suddenly, telling myself I was over-tired and imagining things. The sooner I was in bed, the better. Pauline looked round and I smiled apologetically.

  “I think I’ll go up now, if you’ll excuse me. Good-night.”

  “Good-night, Clare. Sleep well.”

  The hall was deserted, but there was the sound of voices and laughter from the cocktail lounge. I leant over the reception desk, lifted my key off its peg and started up the stairs, my heart still thumping. Just short of the bend, I in my turn halted and turned to look down.

  As I’d thought, standing here I could see the whole room below, like a television producer in his box high above the set – the Americans, the teachers, Pauline and Dick. And remembering his sudden reluctance to speak of his find, I wondered fancifully if some imaginary producer in his head had shouted “Cut!”

  The thought had just formed when my heart suddenly lurched into my throat. Someone was coming down the stairs! I froze, telling myself I was in full view of anyone who chanced to look up, and therefore quite safe. Safe from what, I couldn’t have said.

  Had I been calmer, I’d have realised there was nothing furtive about the footsteps above me. In another moment, their owner had run lightly round the bend in the staircase and cannoned into me. It was Morgan Rees.

  His hands caught and steadied me. “Clare, for goodness’ sake! Did I hurt you?”

  “I thought you’d gone out!” I said accusingly.

  “I’m just on my way. I popped into the television lounge to watch the headlines, then remembered I’d left my sweater upstairs. Did you know we’ve a television lounge, by the way?”

  “No.” My heartbeats were gradually decreasing.

  “Down there on the left of the entrance – on the opposite side to the cocktail lounge.”

  “It can’t be very well patronised.”

  “No, most people want to get away from TV on holiday. Sometimes the Americans and the schoolmarms play bridge in there, if the lounge is occupied.”

  We stood awkwardly for a moment.

  “Well—” we both said together – and laughed.

  “Good-night again, then.”

  “Good-night, Morgan.”

  He stood to one side and I passed him and went on up the stairs.

  I undressed slowly. I was tired, yet my brain was too active to allow me to relax and I was still unsettled by the unseen watcher. I switched on the bedside lamp, turned off the main light, and drew back the curtains.

  Outside, all was dark and still. An owl hooted suddenly near at hand, making me jump. The room was still hot with the day’s stored sunshine and I opened the window as wide as it would go and pulled the blankets off the bed. Then, with a little sigh, I climbed in, pulled the sheet over me, and began to read. It was about ten-thirty.

  Chapter Four

  ‘I have not slept one wink.’

  Shakespeare: Cymbeline

  I READ for a long time, hoping it would make me drowsy. It didn’t, which was frustrating. I was determined to wean myself off the sleeping pills while I was away, and had no intention of giving in on the first night.

  Footsteps and muted voices passed my door from time to time as the other guests came up to bed. Finally, I put my book down, turned off the lamp and resolutely lay down. But immediately, behind my closed eyelids, winding country lanes rushed past me, bends appeared and my body turned into them. Acknowledging that it was hopeless, I opened
my eyes again.

  After a minute they adjusted and I could make out the unfamiliar shapes of furniture, faintly visible in the light from the uncurtained window. I lay motionless, my head turned to the pale rectangle, watching the black ragged clouds skid over the sky.

  And inevitably, my thoughts reverted to Matthew and Philip. Since that blistering hour before dinner, I’d been too occupied with my fellow guests to think of them, and I didn’t want to start now. Safer by far to concentrate on Morgan and the Mortimers and the old ladies. Miss Hettie had the cameo, Miss Olwen the amethyst. Or was it the other way round?

  An owl hooted again, and again I jumped. What was making me so nervy tonight? Admittedly there’d been one or two riddles during the last few hours, but they were puzzling rather than sinister.

  Mentally I ran through them, in case any could account for my unease. The first, of course, was the note Gareth had brought me, with its childish references to Aladdin and Jack and the Beanstalk. Easy enough, at that point, to accept as a game of some kind – indeed, Gareth had said as much.

  But the arrival of its duplicate gave it added significance, specially since there was no way to account for its presence in my room. Perhaps that was subconsciously causing my edginess.

  More nebulous was that feeling, in the lounge, of being watched, and the glimpse of what I’d thought to be a face disappearing up the stairs. It could have been imagination, but it was directly responsible for my near panic when Morgan came innocently down the stairs. Really, I told myself severely, I was becoming neurotic.

  The bar of brightness under the door disappeared as the light in the corridor was switched off. The hotel settled itself for the night. Still I lay there, willing myself to sleep with increasing desperation, and eventually, after what seemed aeons, I sank at last into the longed-for drifting between wakefulness and oblivion.

  Then, from one second to the next, I was wide awake, lying rigid, heart pounding, eyes staring, wondering what had disturbed me. And in that moment it came again – a faint, metallic click.

  My head swivelled to the door. Beyond the window, the clouds raced away from the moon and its pale light gleamed on the polished knob. And as I watched it, it moved.

  I clutched the sheet tightly to my chin, staring with unblinking eyes at the slowly turning handle. When it had reached its full extent, the door creaked softly as pressure was put against it. Thank God I’d snipped down the lock. Two keys, Mr Davies had said, mine and the chambermaid’s. Then who—?

  After a timeless interval, the knob silently returned to its original position. Drenched in perspiration, my heart hammering, I waited, and my straining ears caught a faint rustling and scraping.

  I sat up, scarcely breathing, in time to see a white oblong appear under the door. It was pushed farther into the room and another, less white, followed. Then there was a creak of the boards as my unknown visitor stole away.

  My hand shot out for the lamp and the room sprang to life, reassuringly normal, with my clock on the bedside table and my clothes over the chair. But on the carpet just inside the door lay two envelopes, one white, one buff.

  I gazed at them as though they might explode any minute. Then I was out of bed and at the window, my fingers fumbling with the catch as I closed it and pulled the curtains securely across. The airlessness would be stifling, but I would rather suffocate, I told myself grimly, than sleep with the window open tonight. There was a most convenient drainpipe just outside.

  Cautiously I approached the envelopes and picked them up, feeling them between my fingers. The buff one was flat, with the flap casually tucked inside, but the white was quite bulky and had required some manoeuvring to ease under the door – the scraping sound I’d heard. There was, I saw now, a gap of at least an inch – one disadvantage of old buildings that Mrs Davies had omitted to point out.

  Quite definitely I could not have received these by mistake; someone obviously thought it was I who should have them, and the explanation of a treasure-hunt was becoming progressively less convincing.

  Useless to hand them in; the hotel staff had been unable to help with the note. But why should I be singled out? Was it a subtle attempt at harassment?

  Suddenly anger replaced fear. What the hell did they think they were playing at, creeping about at dead of night and scaring the life out of me? I’d show them I could play games too! I’d write a note from Goody Two Shoes and pin it on the hall notice-board. That should silence them!

  I sat on the bed, ripped open the white envelope and pulled out a folded wad of paper. I don’t know what I expected, but certainly not what I now held. It was a small booklet entitled Cefn Fawr Castle and on the front, scrawled in pencil, were the words X marks the spot!

  Had I, after all, been too quick to dismiss the treasure-hunt? I opened it curiously. It was one of those pamphlets on sale at ancient monuments, full of references to the Great Hall, the Keep and the Norman Tower. At the back was a plan of the castle, with what appeared to be a long passage down one side, and almost at the end of this was a pencilled cross. Written faintly across the top of the page were the words Rub out immediately.

  A folded sheet of paper had been slipped into the back of the booklet. I opened it and read:

  Sweetheart: I’m passing this to Sinbad to await your arrival. By the time you read it, the full company should be there. Aladdin has directions to the loot, but needs your input as to location. Remember you’re supposed to be lovers, but in public only – no shared room! You know the initial impact you have on people, so keep him in check and remember I’ve a very jealous nature! Seriously, darling, take care. We’ve worked so long for this. Shipment arranged according to plan. Burn this when you’ve read it. As always – ‘Jack’.

  I stared at it for a long time, while my anger ebbed away and panic spread its sticky tentacles over me. The game wasn’t a game any more. I wished vehemently that I’d not opened the envelope. But I had and whoever had pushed it under my door – Sinbad, presumably, whoever he might be – would know that I had.

  My fingers were shaking so much I had difficulty in refolding the paper. I slipped it and the booklet back in the white envelope, and only then did I remember the buff one. Since the damage was done, I might as well open it, too.

  It contained a single slip of paper, printed in the same hand as the note on my dressing-table.

  How now, Goldilocks! it began breezily. Glad to report Aladdin will be with us by lunch-time tomorrow. Operation Beanstalk scheduled for Tuesday – reconnaissance necessary Saturday or Sunday among holiday crowds. Can’t disclose identity except in emergency – you know the rules! – but will be on hand if needed. Good luck! Over and out.

  ‘Sinbad’

  Snippets of conversation flitted through my brain like crossed telephone wires: The young lady won’t be here till Sunday. Evidently someone didn’t know that. When the gentleman joins you … The chap can’t get here till tomorrow.

  So what could I make of it all? I wondered feverishly. It seemed a man and woman should have arrived here today, but had been independently delayed. Jack had phoned the Plas Dinas – where, perhaps, they’d arranged to meet and come on together? – to let her know ‘Aladdin’ had been held up, but was told she’d already left for Carreg Coed. So he’d phoned Sinbad – on his mobile, presumably, since the hotel knew nothing of the call. And Sinbad, not knowing the girl’s arrival had also been postponed, assumed, like Gareth before him, that I was she.

  But what lay behind it all? What did the cross on the plan of the castle signify, what was ‘the loot’, and what, in heaven’s name, was ‘Operation Beanstalk’? In a macabre way, the use of these nursery names made the whole affair more menacing.

  My first basic instinct was flight. If I left straight after breakfast, with luck no one but the Davieses would miss me till lunch-time, and by then I could have got clear. But Sinbad, having delivered his message, might well be keeping an eye on me.

  I had a terrifying vision of the little car racing
for its life up the tortuous mountain roads, with Aladdin and Sinbad, in grotesque pantomime masks, hot on my heels.

  Anyway, where could I run to? My name and address were in the hotel register – there was nowhere I could hide indefinitely.

  Useless, now, to plead innocence. From whatever motive, I had opened the envelopes and seen the plan. I couldn’t in any event appeal to Sinbad, because I didn’t know who he was. For that matter, I couldn’t trust anyone at the hotel, for if ‘the full company’ was gathered here, there was no saying how many were involved.

  There remained the police, but what could I tell them? I didn’t know anything, I had only a plan with a pencilled cross, and I could imagine official reaction to stories about Sinbad and Aladdin.

  There was also still a very faint chance that the danger was imaginary; it could still be an elaborate scavenger-hunt, organised by a rambling club or some such, as Jack had told Gareth. In which case, I’d look very silly if I ran to the police about it.

  The argument, rational though it might be, didn’t convince me. Despite the closeness in the room, I was shivering with apprehension and it was imperative to steady myself so I could think clearly. A hot drink might help.

  I flicked through the assorted packages of beverage on the stand, selected one containing chocolate powder and tipped it into a cup. Then I filled the kettle at the basin and, despite the proverb’s warning, stood watching as it came to the boil, my mind going round and round this latest development. Was there anything of significance that I’d missed?

  Yes! A sentence came back to me, offering a pinpoint of hope. Abandoning the kettle, I hurried back to the bed and opened Jack’s letter again. You know the initial impact you have. Initial impact! Then Aladdin had never met Goldilocks!

  Slowly a fantastic idea was forming. Could I – dare I bluff him into believing I really was her? Because otherwise, things might get very unpleasant. I had, after all, been handed what could be regarded as incriminating evidence, and even if I told him of the mix-up, he’d realise I knew too much.