If, on the other hand, I could go along with them until I learned what ‘Operation Beanstalk’ and ‘the loot’ were, I could present the police with the complete picture.
The sound of the kettle boiling merrily intruded on my brooding and I made my drink. Then, hands round the hot, soothing cup, I tried to marshal my thoughts.
On the plus side, Sinbad was already convinced of my identity; I could reel off a string of code names, and I had the plan. And Aladdin for his part would hardly be expecting a substitute.
The crux would come when the real Goldilocks arrived. When the expected approach wasn’t made, she would contact Jack, who’d get on to Sinbad.
Well – I straightened my shoulders – if it came to that, I’d have to brazen it out – say I’d thought it was a joke. Blondes were supposed to be dumb, weren’t they?
At best, I only had until Sunday; to have any chance of pulling off my deception, the proposed ‘reconnaissance’ must therefore take place tomorrow. After that, I should know exactly what was involved, and could decide my course of action. And with luck I could still be away before she arrived.
I glanced down at the letters. I was under orders to destroy them, but they and the notes were all I had to support my story and there was no way I was going to dispose of them.
Fumbling in my handbag, I took out the identical notes which had started the whole affair and slid them, together with the letters, into the buff envelope. Then, since I should later be showing the map to Aladdin, I obediently rubbed out the pencil markings on it with the eraser on my diary pencil and slid it back into the white envelope.
Now to find a suitable hiding-place. Sipping my cocoa, I carefully studied the room. Then, setting down the cup, I dragged the dressing-stool over to the wardrobe, climbed on it, and, reaching up, explored the top with my fingers.
It was lined with sheets of newspaper, screened from below by the bevelled edge of the ornate frontage. Ideal, I thought, and climbed down to retrieve the envelopes, which I carefully inserted between the newspaper and the top of the wardrobe.
Feeling like a character in a spy novel, I replaced the stool and checked that no sign remained of my dead-of-night manoeuvres. Then, confident that I had done all I could for the moment, I climbed back into bed, switched off the light, and prepared to wait for the dawn.
Chapter Five
‘Jack and Jill went up the hill …’
Nursery Rhyme
WHEN I opened heavy eyes the next morning it was as though I’d barely slept, though in fact I must have had four or five hours, since the hands of my clock pointed to seven-thirty. Breakfast, I’d been told, was from eight to nine.
Sighing, I reluctantly got out of bed and went to open the window. On the lawn beneath, the Mortimer children were again playing ball. There was the sound of a cow lowing, a sudden bleat from a sheep. In this normal, morning world, the night’s adventures seemed absurd and unbelievable.
I turned from the window to make myself a cup of tea. Today, at lunch-time, Aladdin would be here, but in the morning sunshine I could feel no more than a tingle of anticipation. Surely my imagination had run away with me – there must be a simple explanation.
I washed in cold water in an effort to wake myself and, by the time the breakfast gong sounded, felt, despite my lack of sleep, ready for the day ahead.
As I emerged from my bedroom the honeymooners were approaching the stairs from the opposite direction, and we went down together. Morgan Rees was in the hall, a bulky envelope in his hand.
“Clare,” – he came to meet me – “I’m so sorry, but I shan’t be able to make our walk after all. I’ve been waiting all week for these notes to arrive, and I really must work on them. In fact, I’ve had an early breakfast in order to get down to it straight away. Will you forgive me?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll explore by myself. I don’t envy you, having to work on a morning like this.”
I followed the Dacombes into the dining-room. Dick Harvey’s table was empty, a marmalade-smeared plate evidence of his impatience to return to his find. The Misses Jones, with a bowl of porridge apiece, nodded and smiled, and across the room the Americans were busy with their orange juice and soft-boiled eggs.
I sipped the hot coffee, my eyes following the school-teachers to their table. In spite of their reference to Aladdin, I couldn’t imagine them as a joint Sinbad, creeping round at midnight pushing envelopes under doors. For that matter, none of the guests seemed in the least sinister.
It was a pity about Morgan’s work; I’d have welcomed his company this morning. Nevertheless, I’d no intention of staying in the hotel, rushing to the window every time a car drew up. A little fresh air and exercise would do me good, and the breeze today alleviated yesterday’s oppressive heat.
When I came out of the dining-room, the Mortimer children were in the hall, a boy and girl, aged about ten and seven. They were nice-looking children, tall for their ages, with thick dark hair like their father. To my surprise, the little girl approached me with a smile.
“Would you like to play ball?” she inquired hopefully.
“Well, I—”
“Just for a few minutes? We’re going to the beach soon.”
“All right,” I said, “just for a few minutes.” It couldn’t be much fun for them here, I reflected, with no other children to play with.
We walked round the side of the house to the lawn under my window where I’d seen them earlier. I was informed that their names were Stuart and Emma, that I’d guessed their ages correctly, and that they lived in Surrey.
At Stuart’s suggestion we played a version of Pig-in-the-Middle, which, since the ‘pig’ was invariably Emma, didn’t seem too fair to me. After about ten minutes, Clive strolled round the corner.
“You’ve monopolised Clare quite long enough,” he told his offspring. “Off you go now, and get ready for the beach.”
“Thanks for playing with us!” Emma called over her shoulder as she ran after her brother.
“Lovely kids,” I said, watching them go.
“Of course – they take after their father!”
“Yes, I noticed that.”
I’d meant their physical likeness, but as soon as I’d spoken, realised that my comment could have – indeed, from his pleased expression, had – been taken as a personal compliment.
“What are you going to do with yourself today?” he asked as we walked slowly back towards the entrance.
“I thought I’d walk up the hill there and see what’s on the other side.”
He grinned. “Because it’s there?”
“Something like that.”
“All by yourself?”
“Yes, unfortunately, but I’ll take a book with me.”
As we went inside, Pauline and the children were coming down the stairs, armed with rugs, buckets and spades. I nodded goodbye to them and went up to my room to prepare for my own outing.
Ten minutes later I set off, planning, as I’d told Clive, to follow the path beyond the hotel and aim for the little pine wood I’d seen from my window.
The path itself petered out almost at once into a pebbly sheep track, climbing quite steeply up the rough grassy slope. The bracken, knee-high and already tipped with gold, brushed my bare legs with a feathery caress. A rabbit scuttled from almost under my feet.
After climbing steadily for a while, I turned to look back the way I’d come. Even from this height, the view was breathtaking. Below me and slightly to my left, the Carreg Coed lay sprawling between its gravelled car park and its neat gardens. The Dacombes, I saw, were back on the tennis court; I could just recognise their tiny figures.
Beyond the hotel, hidden in places as it dipped to follow the lie of the land, the white road along which I had come yesterday ribboned its way through the valley. On its far side, a patchwork of fields, separated from each other by low stone walls, lay in a motley of gold and green, stretching away to a cluster of buildings on the horizon, which must be the nearest v
illage.
My view to the right was obscured by a jutting of the hillside, but the road fell away in the direction of the Plas Dinas, fringed on this side by tall, spare pine trees, dark green in the mellow sunshine.
I drew a deep breath of mountain air, and resumed my climb. The next time I turned, the view was cut off by a bluff of rock – I was in a little dip on the fringe of the pine wood. When I came out above it, I should be able to see round the projection right down to the foot of the valley.
Behind me in the stillness, a twig cracked suddenly. I turned, my heart accelerating. There was no one in sight. Ahead of me, a bird flapped up out of the grass, squawking shrilly. Something had alarmed it – and I hadn’t moved.
Deliberately I relaxed my clenched hands. I was on a Welsh hillside, for goodness’ sake, not in some notorious no-go area. Nevertheless, danger stalked even remote woodlands these days – and perhaps, considering the night’s events, these woodlands more than most. Belatedly, it occurred to me that it had hardly been wise to come out alone.
Another twig cracked, and my control snapped with it. I turned swiftly from the shadows of the wood and started back up the slope as my imagination pelted me with possibilities: they’d discovered I wasn’t Goldilocks – Aladdin had arrived and somehow knew where I was …
The figure of a man loomed suddenly on the edge of my vision. I screamed and stumbled, and a hand snaked out and caught me as Clive Mortimer’s voice exclaimed breathlessly,
“Hey, hang on – I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I shook his hand off and stood panting, still poised for flight. Was this Sinbad?
He said, “I say, I did give you a jolt, didn’t I? I’m awfully sorry.”
The breath was still a hard knot in my throat. “Were you following me?” I demanded unevenly.
He shrugged smilingly. “You hinted back at the hotel that you’d welcome some company.”
I should have to watch my words more carefully; following the supposed compliment, he must have taken my unthinking remark as an invitation.
“I thought you were going to the beach?”
“Not I, ma’am. Pauline’s taken the kids with a packed lunch; it’s not worth going that far unless you make a day of it, and as I’ve a golf date with the Zimmermans at two, I had to opt out.”
My breath was steadying now. “I see.”
“Are you making for anywhere in particular?”
I hesitated. I wasn’t afraid any more, but nor did I want the company of Clive Mortimer and his dark, assessing eyes; though I could hardly say so.
“I was aiming for that crop of rocks; there should be a wonderful view from there.”
“May I join you?”
The question was perfunctory, since he was already walking beside me. Together we went back down the slope to the pine wood.
“You said last night you weren’t interested in climbing or golf,” Clive commented. “It seems a odd place to find a girl like you all alone.”
I thought of Aladdin and my determination to play along with him. If, as Jack said, we were to pretend to be lovers, it would be wise to establish that now. Also, whether or not Clive really was Sinbad, it might help to keep him at arm’s length.
So I said lightly, “I’m not really alone – or at least, not for long. My friend should have come with me, but he was delayed. He’ll be here in time for lunch.”
Intent on my lines, I hadn’t noticed the little trickle of water running under the trees and my feet slithered suddenly on a pile of wet leaves. Clive’s hand, warm on my wind-cooled arm, steadied me.
“Are you an item, then, you and this chap?”
I looked back at him with raised eyebrows and he gave an embarrassed laugh. “None of my business, eh? You’re right, of course. Well, he’s a lucky bloke. I hope he realises it.”
We were through the wood now and the wind, which had been sifting through the pinetops above us, met us head-on, making me gasp.
We scrambled up the rough ground, his hand under my elbow. The grey, flat-topped rock stretched like a natural platform, affording a magnificent outlook. Falling away from our feet went the rocky scree, dwindling farther down to isolated boulders and outcrops until it levelled out on the easier slopes with a covering of grass. In the distance, the valley road lay white and dusty, with a minute beetle-car crawling along it. Could that be Aladdin?
I tore my eyes away, scanning instead the far hillside where a quarry was eating away at its side like a wasting disease. And away to our right lay the indented coastline and the sea. Braced against the wind, my hair streaming behind me, I was filled with exhilaration at the beauty of it all.
“You look like some spirit of the hills,” Clive said unexpectedly. “You’d better come down, in case a sudden gust blows you off.”
My gaze returned to the steep rocks falling vertically from where I stood, and I took an involuntary step backwards. Clive had seated himself behind the shelter of some bushes, from where he could still see across the valley. Since it seemed churlish not to, I sat down beside him.
He fished in his pocket for cigarettes. “Do you smoke?”
I shook my head.
“Mind if I do?”
“No.”
He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, then leant his head back and blew smoke circles at the sky.
“Tell me about yourself,” he invited.
Dangerous ground; suppose he knew the background of the real Goldilocks, and this was some kind of test?
“Nothing very interesting,” I hedged, realising with dismay just how careful I would have to be.
“A mystery woman! That makes you even more exciting!” He reached for my hand, but I sat forward, managing to evade it without giving the impression of doing so.
“What about you?” I countered. “How long have you been married?”
“Not very subtle, lovely Clare! But since you ask, the answer is ten years. Which doesn’t automatically blind me to other women’s attractions. However,” he continued when I didn’t speak, “I have the feeling that won’t cut much ice with you. Right?”
“Right.”
“Oh well, win some, lose some. You can’t blame me for trying.”
Curiously, the wariness between us fell away and we both relaxed. It was as though his macho self-image forced him to try his luck, but having failed, he bore me no ill-will. Further, he proved, surprisingly, to be an interesting and informative companion, naming the various hills and bays that lay spread before us.
By now completely at ease with him, I’d have welcomed his company at the hotel during the wait for Aladdin, but he was lunching at the golf club with the Zimmermans.
I glanced at my watch. It was already after eleven-thirty, and some of the anxiety of the previous night returned, producing a leaden feeling inside me.
Clive had seen my movement, and consulted his own watch. “Yes, it’s time we were getting back. Mustn’t keep the boyfriend waiting!”
He took my hand and this time I made no attempt to withdraw it. It was oddly comforting. Side by side, we went back down the slippery hillside to the Carreg Coed and parted at the gateway. Since Pauline had taken the car, he was intending to catch the hourly bus along the main road. I stood looking after him and he turned at the corner, raising his hand in a wave. Then he was gone.
With a tightening of my stomach muscles, I turned and walked into the hotel.
The hall was deserted, and a faint smell of cooking came from the kitchen. Through the glass wall I could see the old ladies placidly knitting in the lounge. I started up the stairs, realised I hadn’t collected my key, and went back down again. It was twelve-fifteen. Had he arrived?
Reaching for the key, I wished passionately that I’d never come to this wretched place, and was safely at home in my cheerless, impersonal flat. My moment of panic on the hill had shown how flimsy was my attempt at bravado. How could I have imagined for one moment that I could beat these people at their own game? I must have been insane! I
should have left after breakfast, as I’d first intended, and been miles away by this time. Now, it was too late. I would have to go through with it.
As I was turning away, my eyes lit on the postcard rack on the desk. I picked out three at random, dropped some coins into the box provided for the purpose, and went back up the stairs.
The door of the room next to mine stood open, awaiting the arrival of its new occupant. So he wasn’t here yet. I glanced inside as I passed, and came to a sudden halt as I caught sight of a piece of paper propped up on the dressing-table.
Another note from Sinbad? Without conscious thought I darted into the room, snatched it up and crammed it into my pocket. Then I was outside and fumbling at my own door.
I closed it firmly and leant against it, breathing deeply as I withdrew the crumpled paper and smoothed it out with trembling fingers.
Not from Sinbad, anyway. It was typed on hotel stationery and read: Miss Lawrence unavoidably detained after slight road accident, but hopes to arrive tomorrow. It was signed G Davies.
I released my breath in a long sigh. The fates were with me. If Aladdin had read that, he wouldn’t have established contact with me, and Sinbad would have wondered why.
Once more I climbed on the dressing-stool and stowed my latest trophy away with the others. It was unlikely Mrs Davies would refer to it, she’d naturally assume he’d received it. I wiped wet palms down my shorts. Now, all I could do was try to fill in the time until he arrived.
I washed, changed into a dress, and sat down on the window-seat to write my postcards.
I addressed the first one to Matthew, explaining my inadvertent change of itinerary. (If only I’d gone to Somerset!) Then, trying to think of something bland to say, I wrote another to a girl at work.
I’d just finished the second card when there was a tap on the door. My head snapped up.
“Yes?”
“It’s Morgan, Clare. I was wondering if you’d join me for a drink before lunch?”
“Oh Morgan, I’d love to!” A wave of grateful relief washed over me; I shouldn’t after all have to sit waiting by myself.
Dangerous Deception Page 5
