Dangerous Deception

by Anthea Fraser

  Mr Davies came in, and from behind the curtained window we heard the police car drive away.

  Pauline stood up. “I’ll just go and make sure the children have settled. The gale was keeping them awake.”

  She went out. Morgan said in a low voice, “I don’t suppose any of us will get much sleep tonight.”

  His eyes slid past me, and I turned to see Philip at my side.

  “May I have a word with you, Clare? Privately?”

  I hesitated, but his eyes held mine steadily.

  “Excuse me a moment,” I murmured to Morgan, and he rose as I left my seat. The hall felt cool after the heat in the cocktail lounge, and I shivered a little.

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve still not seen that plan. I’ll come up with you now.”

  “If you want to look at it,” I said carefully, “I’ll bring it down. You’re not coming to my room at this time of night. What would the old ladies think?”

  He smiled unpleasantly. “Still the same, arm’s length Clare? That’s not what I hear from Bryn.”

  I said icily, “Do you want to see the plan or don’t you? Can’t it wait till morning?”

  “No, it can’t. And where can I look at it, then? Hardly in there.”

  He nodded towards the glass wall of the lounge. The old ladies must have retired to bed, but Miss Norton and Miss Bunting had pulled out a table and were engaged in some card game.

  “The TV room will probably be empty.”

  “In here?” Philip pushed the door open. The set was switched on, but the occupants of the room were not watching it. At the sound of the door there was a flurry of arms and legs on the sofa, and little Mair, the chambermaid, her fingers fumbling at her blouse, scrambled to her feet. More slowly, the tall figure of Clive Mortimer uncoiled and rose to his.

  Mair’s horrified eyes went to our faces, then dropped to her feet. She said in a small, choked voice, “I’ll get your coffee, sir,” and slipped past us, cheeks scarlet and eyes still downcast.

  Clive said amiably to Philip, “You might try knocking, old man.”

  He winked at me and went past us into the hall as Pauline came down the stairs. I held my breath; had she seen Mair? She paused fractionally, then came on towards us.

  “Oh, there you are, Clive. Come and have your coffee.”

  They went together into the bar and Philip said, “So that’s who you went walking with! You’re certainly playing the field.”

  “I’ll get the brochure.” I ran across the hall and up the stairs. My mind was still on Clive – could he be Sinbad? – and I was into the bedroom before I realised firstly that the door hadn’t been latched and secondly that I was not alone. The boy Evan, whose shifty eyes I’d distrusted on my arrival, turned swiftly from the bed. I had the distinct impression that his hand had been groping under the mattress.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded, shrill with fright. “Why are you in my room?”

  “Turning down the bed, miss. Mair’s helping out downstairs this evening.”

  Which was one way of putting it, I thought acidly.

  “Well, will you go now, please.”

  Only too willingly he sidled past me and out of the room. As the door closed behind him, I ran to the stool and, climbing on it, felt anxiously for the envelope, weak with relief to find it was still there. I glanced round the room, wondering where else Evan’s searching fingers had intruded. The few valuables I had with me – a gold chain and bracelet – I was wearing, and a quick check showed nothing appeared to be missing. Perhaps I’d disturbed him just in time. I resolved to lock everything away in my suitcase in future.

  When I returned downstairs, Philip was standing in the television lounge, staring at the set.

  “Close the door,” he said without turning round. I did so.

  “Evan was in my room,” I told him unevenly. “I think he was feeling under the mattress.”

  Philip turned then, his eyes going to the brochure in my hand. “He didn’t find it.”

  “No. You think that’s what he was looking for?”

  Philip shrugged. “Search me. Now, sit down.” He gestured towards the sofa, but I made my way over to a chair. He stopped me, none too gently.

  “Don’t be a bloody fool, Clare, I’m not going to molest you. We have to look at the thing together, for God’s sake!”

  Stiffly I seated myself at one end of the sofa. The cushions were still warm and dented from the previous occupants. Philip sat down beside me, took the plan out of my hands and spread it over both our laps.

  “I thought you said it was marked?”

  “I rubbed it out, as instructed. It was there.” I laid my finger on the spot.

  “Looks like a long stone passage. What’s the description of the castle?” He ran his finger quickly down the printed lines.

  “Site might have been occupied by the Romans … Rhys ab Tewdwr – Where are we? Ah – set round a small courtyard – solar at the west end of the hall. Here we are … a long corridor formed by a natural fissure in the rock. This extends almost two hundred feet and is lit by spy holes cut in the rock.”

  I bent forward to look more closely, and, as my hair brushed against his face, heard his indrawn breath. “Still wearing Cabochard, I notice.”

  “You’ve got the final directions, haven’t you?”

  He laughed shortly. “Down, Fido! Yes, I have them: four paces from the ninth spy hole, on the wall opposite. The stone with a chip out of it is loose and, surprise, surprise, it pulls out.”

  “And it – they fit in there?”

  “Easily. They’re in cardboard tubes.”

  Drugs, diamonds, in cardboard tubes?

  I said, “How deep is the cavity?”

  “Oh, the walls are eight feet thick in places – never less than four. They knew how to build in those days. Well, we’ll find out tomorrow how the land lies. We need to establish what security measures are taken at night, how close in we can take the car, and so on. Then, all systems go for Beanstalk.”

  But tomorrow Goldilocks would come. In all the tumult of the day, I kept forgetting that. What would happen when there were two of us? And for her part, if no one approached her, she’d lose no time contacting Bryn. How could I have imagined I would get away with this?

  I gazed unseeingly at the flickering screen, thinking of the red-faced sergeant who’d just left. Had Dick’s death really barred me from going to the police? And what would happen to Philip – and, through him, to Matthew – if I did?

  Yet if I didn’t, I myself could be in danger. Even if I helped Philip retrieve whatever it was, sooner or later they’d discover I wasn’t Goldilocks. Then what? If they had killed Dick Harvey, it was an indication of how highly they valued their operation. I wondered detachedly if Philip would let them kill me.

  Turning my head, I found him watching me. As our eyes met, he said briskly, “Well, that’s all. You’d better go.”

  Still bewildered by my musings, I said blankly, “Go where?”

  “Out of this room – anywhere.” He stood up. “Your admirers will be waiting impatiently in the bar.”

  I flushed. “There’s no need to be offensive.”

  “I assure you I could have put it far more crudely. But if you will wear dresses like that, and perfume like that, and look – like that – you must be prepared to take the consequences.”

  I stood up, the unfolded plan dangling from my hands. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” My voice was shaking.

  “Then go, before you find out.”

  His eyes, hard and unwavering, held mine, and in the stillness between us, the door handle rattled suddenly. In a panic my eyes dropped to the booklet. Where could I hide it in the split-second left to me?

  I’d half turned towards the sofa, but Philip moved faster. In one movement he pulled me swiftly towards him, the incriminating map concealed between us, and his mouth came down on mine.

  And this was nothing like his old, milk-and-wa
ter kisses that had made me sleepily romantic after tennis club dances. This was neat alcohol. I gasped, lost my breath, but his grip didn’t slacken. Behind us the door had opened and, after a moment, gently closed, and still he went on kissing me, roughly and ruthlessly, as though punishing me somehow for being what he thought I was.

  Finally he released me, turning away so abruptly that the map fell unheeded to the floor. My hands went to my bruised mouth. I said stupidly, “Philip!” and he gave a harsh laugh.

  “That surprised you, didn’t it? Is that how Bryn kisses you? No – don’t answer that, I don’t want to know. You should have gone when I told you. For God’s sake go now.”

  I went. Out in the hall, I put a hand to my face and found my cheeks were wet. I leant back against the door, helplessly wiping away the tears and trying to stop the weakening, bone-melting shaking that possessed me.

  A voice said, “Miss Laurie – is something wrong?”

  I turned to meet the concerned eyes of Andrew Dacombe, and tried to smile.

  “Everything’s been a bit of a shock, that’s all.” I prayed he’d think I meant Dick Harvey.

  “I know. Mrs Davies brought us fresh coffee, if you’d like to come to the lounge. It might help to steady you.”

  Since my own cup had been left, barely tasted, in the cocktail bar, I let him take my arm and lead me across the hall, wondering dully who had opened the door and seen me with Philip.

  The school-teachers, having put away their cards, were talking to Cindy, and Mair was in the act of removing the cold coffee urn. Her face reddened when she saw me, and she hurried out, avoiding my eyes.

  “What’s the matter with the girl?” Miss Bunting inquired, blinking nervously. “She seems very much on edge tonight.”

  “We all are, my dear,” boomed Miss Norton.

  Joan Bunting flushed. “Oh dear, how stupid of me!”

  “I’ll pour,” I said, for the second time in fifteen minutes, glad to have something to occupy me. My hand was no steadier than before, but no one made any comment. Andrew switched on the electric fire which stood in the hearth.

  “Ah, that’s better, Mr Dacombe!” Miss Norton drew her chair closer. She was still wearing that terrible puce.

  Cindy said, “It’s starting to get cooler in the evenings, isn’t it?”

  “It’s hardly evening, my dear; must be at least eleven o’clock.”

  “That late?” Miss Bunting twittered. “I hadn’t realised; I hope the coffee won’t keep me awake.”

  “Everyone’s delaying going up tonight,” Andrew said, his comic clown’s face serious.

  “And to think,” Miss Norton intoned, “that only last evening, poor Mr Harvey was sitting where you are now, Joan.”

  Miss Bunting jumped nervously and looked behind her.

  “No man knoweth of his sepulchre!” said Miss Norton with relish.

  “Oh, please don’t!” Cindy protested. She sounded close to tears.

  Andrew said quickly, “I was fascinated to hear of your research, Miss Norton. Do you travel all round the world in search of fairy stories?”

  I swallowed the hot coffee, my mind spinning. Andrew? Was this return to the subject for my benefit, or was he simply changing the conversation? I hadn’t seriously considered him as Sinbad, but perhaps that was a mistake.

  “Not, I fear, on a teacher’s salary, Mr Dacombe,” Miss Norton was saying. “But during the holidays—”

  As he politely listened to her, I studied him more carefully – the red-brown hair that wouldn’t lie flat, the short nose and flared nostrils, the wide mouth. Not, surely, the face of a murderer? For if Dick Harvey’s death had indeed been deliberate, it must surely be Sinbad who was responsible.

  Cindy stood up and laid her cup and saucer on the tray, her pony-tail swinging over her shoulder as she bent forward, her long, bare legs glowing redly in the light from the fire.

  Could she be Goldilocks? I thought suddenly, as everyone’s identity shifted in my mind yet again. If Bryn was as devious as Philip said, perhaps it wasn’t ‘the Lawrence girl’ after all.

  Cindy – Cinderella—

  “I think I’ll go up, darling,” she was saying. “Somebody’s got to make a move.”

  Andrew nodded and got to his feet.

  “So will I,” I said, unwilling to be left with the school-mistresses, and in any case anxious for this troubled and confusing day to end.

  I followed them up the stairs, said good-night as we turned in opposite directions, and went into my room. At least this time it was empty.

  I stopped suddenly. The brochure! I was supposed to be in charge of that! Had Philip got it? I’d been in no condition to think of it when I’d stumbled from the room. Suppose it had been kicked under the sofa and he’d forgotten it too?

  I turned and ran quickly back down the stairs. The door to the television lounge was open and I ran straight in before I realised that someone had beaten me to it. Andrew Dacombe, whom I’d just left upstairs, turned quickly at my approach. For a moment we stared at each other. Then he said,

  “Forgotten something?”

  “I – can’t find my hanky. I thought perhaps—”

  “Sorry, I haven’t seen it. Well, good-night again.”

  “Good-night,” I echoed, watching him go from the room. It was hardly worth looking now; if the pamphlet had been here, Andrew would have found it. He’d seen me leave this room earlier – was that why he’d come back?

  I shivered, uneasy at being alone down here. Quickly I ran my hand under the sofa and then, with an eye on the open door, felt between the heavy cushions. Nothing. I could only hope Philip had it, but there was no way I was going to ask him tonight.

  I turned and almost ran from the room. Voices still came from the bar – perhaps Morgan was waiting there with my undrunk cup of coffee – but the lounge lights were off now. I ran on up the stairs.

  Almost in my ear, a voice said, “Good-night, my dear!”

  I whirled with an involuntary cry, to see Miss Hettie – or Miss Olwen – the light was too dim to distinguish any brooch – smiling at me. One thick grey plait hung over her shoulder, a horrible travesty, to my tortured mind, of Cindy’s golden pony-tail. Youth and age.

  The old lady nodded to me and continued on her way, her sponge-bag in her hand.

  “Good-night,” I stammered belatedly, “Miss—”

  “Hettie,” she supplied, and added as she closed the door, “the younger one.”

  With shaking fingers I began to undress, and had just slipped on my dressing-gown when there was a tap at the door.

  Instantly I froze, all the fears of the previous night sluicing over me as I gazed, mesmerised, at the knob, waiting for it to turn. It did not, and after a minute the tap came again, accompanied by Miss Norton’s voice.

  “Miss Laurie? You’re not in bed already?”

  The breath tearing at my lungs, I unsnipped the door and opened it a crack. She was standing smiling at me, a thick book in her hand.

  “Sorry to disturb you, but I thought this might provide some bedtime reading. Volume One, as promised. I hope you find it interesting.”

  I reached out to take it. “Thank you, I’m – sure I shall.”

  She nodded. “Good-night to you, then.”

  I closed and relocked the door, clutching the heavy book against me, and as my chaotic breathing quietened, sat down on the bed and opened it.

  Unfortunately, my initial interest soon waned; though the subject was undeniably fascinating, the style of writing was so heavy and ponderous that I decided unfairly the only way it would form part of my bedtime reading would be as a substitute for sleeping pills.

  Laying it on the table, I climbed into bed and switched off the light.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘The splendour falls on castle walls …’

  Tennyson: The Princess

  SOMEHOW, the night passed. The events of the day, which surely must have been the longest I had lived through, circled endle
ssly in my head: my walk on the hill with Clive; waiting for Aladdin and meeting Philip; the miserable afternoon at the beach, the news about Dick Harvey and, finally, the trauma of Philip’s kiss. It was this last which was uppermost in my mind.

  At length I flicked on the light and poured myself a glass of water. The hands on my little clock pointed reproachfully to ten past three. I drank the whole glassful in small, cold sips while I tried to reason with myself.

  Philip’s opinion of me was unchanged. I was, like him, an accessory to some sort of crime, hand-in-glove with the leader; the kind of girl to whom one kiss more or less was of little consequence – and his prime concern, let it be remembered, had been to conceal the brochure.

  It was also as well to remind myself that he was himself ‘up to the neck in this unsavoury business’, as he’d accused me of being. So, I reasoned, if this hostile, cold-eyed stranger had stirred me more with one brutal kiss than his counterpart had in over four years of gentleness, then that was my bad luck, and the sooner I forgot about it, the better.

  I snapped off the light with a little click of finality, lay down again, and willed sleep to come. Eventually, it did.

  It was cooler in the morning after all the rain, and I selected a pale yellow jumper and matching linen skirt. Today we were going to storm the castle, and dank stone corridors are apt to be chill.

  Before going down to breakfast I shook out the dress I’d worn the previous evening and hung it in the wardrobe, leaving exposed on the chair the sweater Philip had lent me in the storm.

  I picked it up carefully, as though it might bite me. It was still a little damp and smelled faintly of after-shave, and I put it hastily back on the chair. I could give it to him after breakfast; first, I had to face the ordeal of meeting him again, after our parting the night before.

  I checked in the mirror that my two disturbed nights did not call for additional make-up, but I looked remarkably well. Only the shadows under my eyes, which I’d brought with me from London, had still not disappeared.

  Philip was already in the dining-room, reading a Sunday newspaper. Dick Harvey’s table, which yesterday had borne the marmalade-smeared plate, was bare. I averted my eyes as I went to join Philip. He stood up and pulled out my chair, his eyes wary.