by J F Straker
Henry Mallett was the mainstay of the conversation, as he was at most gatherings. A big, burly man with a straggling grey beard and a rich, fruity voice, he possessed a fund of stories. He loved to reminisce about the days when he and his brother had taken over their father’s business, then a small shop and workshop in the Radcliffe Park district, the eastern and poorest quarter of the town, before expanding it into the present flourishing concern. There was talk too of the party the Malletts had given on the Tuesday evening; not in celebration of any particular occasion, Kate Mallett said, but simply because they had felt in party mood. ‘And it was fun,’ she said. ‘Impromptu affairs so often are, aren’t they?’ Seated on Robin’s right, she put a beringed and rather bony hand on the arm of his chair. ‘A pity you two couldn’t come. I’m sure you’d have enjoyed it.’
‘I’m sure we would,’ Robin agreed. ‘Unfortunately I was in London. It was close on midnight when I got back.’
‘To find Karen missing, eh?’ Henry Mallett chuckled. ‘Simon told us. I gather it gave you quite a turn, not knowing where she’d got to. Did you actually call the police? Simon said you were thinking of it.’
‘No.’ They had discussed this before-hand, aware that reference to Karen’s absence was almost bound to arise. ‘Karen got through to me just in time.’ Keen to change the subject, he looked round the table for an empty plate. ‘Let me get you some more fish, Adele.’
‘Please!’ Kate apart, the Malletts were hearty eaters. ‘What is it, Karen? It’s delicious.’
‘Red mullet,’ Karen told her, glad of the opening. ‘Cooked in white wine with olives and paprika. It’s good cold, too.’
‘Thanks.’ Adele beamed up at Robin as he returned her plate. ‘By the way, Karen, why did you rush off in such a hurry Tuesday evening? Or shouldn’t I ask?’
You shouldn’t ask, you bitch, thought Robin. Neither he nor Polly could remember exactly what they had told Simon on the Wednesday morning, or whether they had told him anything. Temporising, he said, ‘Didn’t Simon explain?’
‘Simon didn’t know. Or he said he didn’t.’
Karen told them about her mother’s fictitious heart attack. ‘Actually, I think my sister panicked,’ she said. ‘It was only a mild attack. But as I was there it seemed sensible to stay, just for a couple of nights. I’m afraid I don’t visit her as often as I should. We want her to move nearer, but she won’t.’
‘You should have told us you were on your own, Robin,’ Kate said. Although her once blonde hair was practically white and the prominent bones of neck and shoulders gave her a skeletal look, there was evidence that in her youth she had been a beauty. ‘We’d have asked you in for a meal.’
‘Oh, Robin wasn’t on his own,’ Adele said. ‘He had Polly to look after him. Eh, Polly?’
‘No,’ Polly said, resenting the obvious insinuation. ‘He had Mrs Huntsman. I’m his secretary, not the housekeeper.’
The acerbity in her voice brought an awkward silence. Kate, not Henry, filled it. Turning to Martin, she said, ‘I understand you and Robin are old friends, Mr Beck.’
‘Very,’ Martin said. ‘We more or less grew up together.’
‘Did he show any youthful signs of becoming a famous author?’
‘Not as I remember,’ Martin said. ‘In those days he was mainly interested in fishing. He also had a marked propensity for lazing.’
Robin laughed. He had been relieved to see Martin arrive that evening. So had Karen. They had feared that their refusal to let the police investigate the kidnapping might have soured their friendship.
‘That’s slanderous,’ he said. ‘Martin was the energetic type and dismissed reading as laziness.’
It was during the sweet course that the subject of Karen’s fictitious visit to her mother cropped up once more. Temporarily Robin had dropped out of the conversation and was gazing down the table at his wife. Mindful of the doctor’s warning about possible after-effects, over the past two days he had watched her carefully. Was it his imagination, or had she been a little less even-tempered, a little more inclined to be irritated by petty inconveniences? It was hardly surprising if she had. Two days was surely too short a time in which to recover from such a traumatic experience. Perhaps in a week or two — maybe a month...
‘Robin.’ It was Polly’s voice. ‘Simon was asking about the car. The Porsche.’
‘Oh? What about it, Simon?’
‘Well, nothing really.’ Simon gave a deprecatory shrug. ‘I was wondering how it got back, that’s all.’
‘Got back from where?’
‘From the station.’
Robin shook his head. ‘Sorry, I’m not with you. When, for instance?’
‘Tuesday evening, after Karen had driven it to the station to catch her train. It was here the next morning when I called, and I was wondering how it got back, that’s all.’ Simon looked even more embarrassed. ‘Not that it matters, of course. Just idle curiosity, I’m afraid.’
His father laughed. ‘Simon’s curiosity is never idle. Not to him. It’s just that he can’t abide loose ends, likes everything cut and dried. I remember once —’
He launched into a tale of Simon’s childhood. Odd, thought Robin, that the discrepancy, as Simon saw it, had not occurred to him. Luckily there was a simple explanation, although it annoyed him that he felt obliged to give one. Why should he pander to the young man’s curiosity?
‘Well, there’s no mystery about the Porsche,’ he said, when Henry Mallett’s reminiscence had ended. ‘I rang the garage first thing Wednesday and asked them to collect it.’
Now all I need, he thought, is for someone to tell me the damned car was seen in the drive Tuesday night.
Over coffee and liqueurs they discussed Robin’s latest book. Simon had not read it — he wasn’t a great one for reading, his father said — but Henry and Kate were fulsome in their praise. Adele thought it clever, but sheer escapism. What’s wrong with escapism? Polly demanded; that’s what entertainment’s about, isn’t it? While the two girls argued Henry embarked on a story about a former salesman. ‘Neither my brother nor I really took to him,’ Henry said. ‘Too smarmy. And it struck us as odd that he would call in at a small arts and crafts shop practically every day, although they only gave him an order once in a blue moon. We reckoned he must have a crush on the buyer, and when I asked him he admitted it. This was just before Christmas, and he said he’d like to give the buyer a present and could he have one of our more expensive wallets at cost price. Well, naturally I said he could; but I suggested his inamorata might prefer a handbag. Not in this case, Mr Mallett,’ he said. ‘I’m pretty sure he’s already got one.’
They all laughed. Adele said, ‘That reminds me, Simon. Did you return your girlfriend’s scarf?’
‘Simon has a girlfriend?’ Polly exclaimed. ‘Did you hear that, Karen? Your faithful squire has been cheating on you.’
‘I’m devastated,’ Karen said, smiling. ‘Say it isn’t true, Simon.’
‘Well, it isn’t.’ Simon’s fair skin flushed easily. ‘She’s my tennis partner, not my girlfriend.’
‘You didn’t invite her to the party to play tennis,’ Adele said. ‘Although you were absent long enough after supper to have played at least one set.’
‘Rubbish!’ Simon protested. ‘Anyway, I wasn’t with Dilys.’
‘Dilys being the girl under discussion, eh?’ Polly said. ‘What’s she like, Adele? Pretty?’
Adele shrugged. ‘Not bad, I suppose. The type men seem to go for. You know — all tits and bum.’
‘That’s unkind, Adele,’ her mother chided. ‘Dilys Armstrong is a charming and most attractive girl. Hardworking, too.’ She turned to Karen. ‘She’s a nurse at the Emsley Clinic.’
‘She’s nosey,’ Adele said. ‘And she talks too much.’
Talk about the pot calling the kettle black, Robin thought. He disliked Adele; in addition to being a mischief-maker he considered her shallow and intolerant and something of a bore. He was unce
rtain about Simon, but he liked the parents and Kate in particular. Kate, he thought, had a warm heart and an intelligent mind.
The Malletts did not stay late. Robin was not sorry to see them go, for their presence had put a strain on him and, he suspected, on Karen. Martin, of course, would be more accustomed to verbal fencing and Polly had probably enjoyed it. He stood with Karen on the portico and watched them climb into Henry’s Daimler for the short drive down the lane. Simon was behind the wheel and as he engaged bottom gear he called out something that Robin did not catch. Then the car rolled smoothly down the drive, its tyres crisp on the gravel.
‘What was that about a handbag?’ Karen asked, as they joined Polly and Martin in the sitting-room.
‘Handbag?’
‘Yes. Simon called out something about a handbag.’
‘Oh, yes!’ Polly said. ‘I forgot. He brought it back Wednesday morning. I’ll get it. It’s in the study.’
Returning, she handed the handbag to Karen. ‘He found it in his car, after he’d taken you shopping on Tuesday. Didn’t you miss it?’
Karen examined the bag. ‘It isn’t mine,’ she said.
‘It isn’t? Really? Simon seemed certain it was yours.’
‘Did he?’ Karen frowned. ‘Oh, yes! Yes, I remember. I bought it that afternoon.’
‘Ah! That explains why it was empty,’ Polly said. ‘I wondered about that.’
All the same, she thought, it was strange that Karen had not missed it. Stranger still that she had not recognised it. It was a most distinctive and expensive-looking bag.
* * *
Despite Karen’s ethereal appearance, Robin had been gratified to discover after their marriage that she could also be extremely practical. She had taken over management of the Hall with confident efficiency and very little fuss, with only Mrs Huntsman to help her in the house and Fred Mitcham, an ex-miner, in the garden. The house was kept spotless and gay with flowers, meals were carefully planned and prepared; yet when Robin needed her company she was seldom too tired or too busy to give it. She was warm and passionate in bed, dexterous in the arts of love; and if, as occasionally happened, she retired early and was asleep when he joined her, she would turn in her sleep and snuggle close as if he were some sort of irresistible human magnet, and it would not be long before she was ready for him. Only one in a thousand marriages can be as near perfection as that, Robin had once remarked to Martin. I wonder what kind Fate chose mine to be the one.
That was how it had been before the kidnapping. Now, as the days passed, it became increasingly obvious that all was not well with Karen. Whereas before she had been happily free from minor ailments, now she began to complain of headaches and other indispositions. She became forgetful or neglectful of little everyday tasks, like tending the flowers or winding clocks or paying bills. Trivial inconveniences or errors, whether of her own or another’s making, which she would previously have dismissed with a laugh, now irritated her. Mrs Huntsman was fond of Karen, who treated her more as a friend than as an employee, and if she noticed the change she made no comment; but Robin had the shrewd suspicion that greater responsibility and more work fell on the woman’s shoulders than hitherto. Certainly she was keeping longer hours. It seemed that only in bed was Karen able to relax completely. If anything her love-making was even more passionate, as if she were trying to compensate at night for the inadequacies of the day.
It was not until an evening some two weeks later that he decided to confide in Martin. Martin had dined with them and, perhaps because she had exerted herself for his benefit, Karen had been more like her old self at dinner. But she retired to bed early, saying she knew how they liked to reminisce and that she had a book she wanted to finish. ‘Don’t keep Martin up too late,’ she cautioned. ‘He’s a working copper, remember.’
‘So what?’ Robin said. ‘I’m a working writer.’
‘That’s different. Your time’s your own. His isn’t.’ As she bent to kiss him she whispered in his ear. ‘Besides, I may need you.’
‘She looks fine to me,’ Martin said, when Karen had left them. ‘What’s the trouble?’
Robin told him. ‘And Ebbutt’s not much help. Wants her to see a psychiatrist, which she flatly refuses to do. She maintains, of course, that there’s nothing wrong.’
‘And you think there is?’
‘Yes.’ Robin sighed. ‘A holiday might help. I’m working on it, anyway.’
‘Barbados?’
‘Yes. It’s a good time to go, March is one of the driest months. I’d like to stay at Sam Lord’s, if Derek’s uncle can fix it. Karen would love the castle. Care to join us? On the house, of course.’ He grinned. ‘The fishing’s great.’
‘I know,’ Martin said. ‘And I’d definitely care. Unfortunately my betters wouldn’t.’ Had the invitation been serious, he wondered? ‘How long would you reckon to be away?’
‘Three — four weeks. Depends on how Karen responds. I know a holiday isn’t the complete answer, but it might help. And what else is there? Time and patience, I suppose. It’s a mind thing, isn’t it?’
Martin watched him refill their glasses. ‘Starting a family might be another solution,’ he said. ‘Karen loves kids. One of her own —’ He shrugged. ‘It’s just a suggestion.’
Robin smiled. ‘Karen and I had the same idea,’ he said, handing Martin his glass. ‘Oh, not in connection with the present situation. But we’ve often discussed having a family, and now seems a good time to start. After all, I’m thirty-eight. If we leave it much later I may not be around to see my grandchildren.’
‘So get cracking, then,’ Martin said.
‘We already have. Been at it a month or so. For all I know there could already be a kid on the way.’ Robin raised his glass. ‘So here’s to Martin!’
‘Eh?’ Martin looked bewildered. ‘Why me?’
‘Not you, you dope! Young Martin. Your future godson.’
Eight
Karen disliked flying and she was in a jittery mood when they landed in Barbados. But as they drove along Highway 7 through the rolling countryside to Sam Lord’s, where Derek Foley’s uncle had booked them a suite in the castle, she soon relaxed. And the castle itself, with its elegant decor and its antique furniture, delighted her. ‘You know the loveliest people and the loveliest places,’ she told Robin, stretching herself out on the imposing four-poster and opening her arms to him. ‘And I love you, darling.’
‘You think you’ll like it here?’ he asked, accepting the proffered embrace.
‘I know I’ll like it here,’ she murmured, her lips moving against his.
He hoped fervently that she was right. His previous visit to the island, with Derek Foley, had been some years before when success was in its infancy, and because neither had had money to burn they had stayed with Derek’s uncle and had been frugal in their spending. Now it was different. Money was no object, they could enjoy everything that Barbados had to offer. Only time would show whether that was enough to restore the happy stability and peace of mind that had been Karen’s before the kidnapping.
It seemed that it might be. The blue skies and the sunshine and the climate that stayed in the middle seventies provided a welcome change from the rain and the chill winds of an English March; warmed by the friendliness of the Bajans and their obvious pride in their island, she was soon chatting freely with natives and visitors alike. For the first few days they spent much of their time on the pink-and-white beach of the hotel beyond the trees, lazing on the clean, soft sand under the shade of an enormous multi-coloured umbrella (Karen’s fair skin was quick to blister and peel when exposed too freely to the sun), or bathing in the surf, or cruising in one of the hotel’s yachts and watching the scuba divers diving for coral. They ate well, relishing the variety of fresh seafoods. Most evenings they attended one of the numerous entertainments provided by the hotel: a film show, dancing, or a barbecue on the beach. On others they went early to bed, happily tired after a day in the sun.
On the f
ourth day Robin hired a Mini Moke and they started to explore the island. Karen was fascinated by its apparent Britishness, with its seaside villages and 17th-century country churches, the tables set ready for afternoon tea in hotel lounges, the children’s school uniforms, Nelson’s statue in Bridgetown’s Trafalgar Square, the resplendent police band playing Gilbert and Sullivan airs on the Esplanade, the Nelsonian uniforms of the harbour police, complete with wide-brimmed and beribboned boaters. They spent a whole day in Bridgetown, dodging the traffic as they wandered round the maze of one-way streets to inspect the lovely old houses, the attractive warehouses with their recessed balconies, the public buildings built of local coral stone. They watched the boats in the old harbour and admired the antique memorial tablets in the cool of St Michael’s Cathedral. And they shopped in Pelican Village, buying local souvenirs in coral and tortoiseshell and cuscus to take home as presents. Karen was always generous in her giving and forgot no one, from Fred the gardener to Robin’s parents.
Later they went further afield. They spent two days on the Platinum Coast north of Holetown, staying the night in a pretty hotel built of coral stone, its terrace open to the view and the warm trade winds from the west; swimming in the sea off Gibb’s Beach, the buoyant water so clear and gentle that it felt like silk against the skin, or paddling around on float boards. They drove past cane-covered hills and old plantations to the craggy northern highlands and a revelation of sweeping valleys and a sea framed by ancient mahogany trees; and they visited the Animal Flower Caves, where the floor was covered by colourful sea-urchins that closed at a touch. They admired the stunning views from Farley Hill National Park, the Jacobean architecture and furniture of St Nicholas Abbey, the full-sized lion carved from the rock of Gun Hill by a 19th-century British army colonel, the beauty of Welchman’s Hall Gully, where plants grew that were to be found nowhere else on the island. And on the last day of their second week they drove along the wide eastern highway, where the coastline was hilly and rugged, the shore pounded by the gigantic rollers of the dark blue Atlantic, and lunched off stuffed flying fish and luscious soursop ice cream in a typical Bajan dining-room overlooking the small fishing village of Bathsheba.
