by Fiona Walker
‘Legs was very kindly looking after me,’ Byrne was a far better actor than her, wandering out onto the landing looking very ill indeed. ‘I told her not to bother, but she’s got too kind a heart.’
‘Very true. She’s had pneumonia herself; I’ve been looking after her,’ Francis hissed. ‘She can’t risk a set back. Are you OK darling?’ He felt her forehead. ‘Do you need a rest?’
‘I think Jago’s the one who needs to lie down,’ Legs spluttered.
‘Of course – use my room,’ Francis stepped aside and beckoned him through the doorway. ‘Imee’s rather busy, but I’ll get her to bring you up some herb tea when she gets a moment. There’s poetry by the bed there if you want something to read.’
The moment Byrne was through the door, Francis slammed it shut and gripped Legs viciously under the arm, steering her back along the landing. As he did so, the signet ring slipped from her little finger. She fumbled to grab it, but it dropped out of reach, ricocheted off Francis’s bandaged foot and flew back along the corridor.
Craning to watch its progress over her shoulder Legs let out a whimper as it rolled to a halt in front of the recently slammed door. Not noticing, Francis marched her downstairs at high speed.
‘Be careful around that Jamie-go, darling,’ he said stiffly as he limped alongside her. ‘He’s very underhand, and frankly I think he’s unbalanced.’
‘I’m fine,’ she snapped, unable to think about anything but running away with Byrne.
‘We both know there’s a lots of ill-will against this family out there at the moment, and I’m here to look after you. I’m not letting you out of my sight again.’
‘I don’t need looking after!’ she bleated.
They had almost reached the dining room doors, beyond which Poppy’s guests were already laying into the first course.
Drawing her aside, he fished in his pockets. ‘I think you should see something that came through the letterbox today.’
‘Poppy’s already shown me the letter.’ She turned away, knowing Byrne could never have written prose like that. ‘And I know it was addressed to me, although she kept quiet about that. Were they all meant for me?’ She shuddered, longing to get away from Farcombe more than ever. Byrne would protect her; she trusted him with her life.
‘We didn’t want to alarm you, darling. Conrad is certain it’s the same crank who’s been targeting the agency, misguidedly using you to get to Gordon Lapis. But now this has arrived, which rather changes things.’
The piece of paper he thrust into her hand was a supermarket receipt. On one side it itemised six bottles of scrumpy, discounted chicken thighs, Ptomemy Finch and the Raven’s Curse and a magazine called True Life Crime. On the back of the receipt, in jagged biro was written ALLEGRA NORTH WILL CHECK OUT TONIGHT.
‘I’m not letting you out of my sight,’ Francis repeated in an undertone, taking her arm and leading her into the dining room with his usual impeccable manners as he saw her to her chair before taking his own place, apologising politely to those around them for being so late.
‘Francis and Allegra have recently rekindled their romance, so we can forgive them a little unpunctuality,’ Poppy announced theatrically, reaching for her glass and peering short-sightedly along the table at her wayward husband.
‘Hear hear!’ Hector thrust his Chablis in the air, inadvertently emptying most of it over Gayle Keiller-Myles. ‘Let’s all raise a toast to rekindling!’
While the Protheroes smouldered lovingly at one another through the candles, silverware, zinnias and the blur of short sight in Poppy’s case, Legs avoided Francis’s watchful gaze across the table. To her right was Byrne’s empty seat. She could imagine him already in his running shoes, heading out across the parkland to the cliff path. Her own feet, crammed into tight Moroccan pumps, were jumping and tapping beneath the table as they subconsciously ran alongside him.
Somehow, Legs got through the first two courses of dinner, her mind in a haze as she pushed the uneaten clear soup around her bowl and occasionally inserted a finger beneath her pearl choker to ease her breathing. All the time, she was aware of Francis’s gaze on her like a jailer.
For once, Poppy wasn’t holding court and regaling her guests with monologues; instead, their hostess gazed lovingly and shortsightedly the full length of the table to Hector gazing adoringly back. Conversations cross-currented around Legs like eddying waves pushing a little boat further out to sea. Mostly talk was of Gordon Lapis.
‘Quite unbelievable to have him come here.’
‘Literary coup of the century.’
‘It’ll put Farcombe on the map.’
Not caring that Gordon’s publisher and agent were both present, Yolande Hawkes was taking no prisoners in her outspoken criticism of the festival’s star turn. Sporting a feathered yellow turban that looked like a dayglo cycling helmet with a fluffy aerial, she was holding forth from her seat between Francis and his father: ‘The real Gordon Lapis is bound to be a dreadful little weirdo; look at all the undesirables he attracts amongst his devotees. Howard once wrote a pamphlet entitled The Pseudo-Intellectual Pseudonym which shows that writers hiding behind pen names usually harbour inadequacies.’
‘Or just have the misfortune to have been christened Phyllis Stein,’ Édith muttered, exchanging a long-suffering look with Kizzy, with whom she appeared to have made forever friends again.
‘I have only had one book published,’ Yolande droned on. ‘A slim volume about the hidden misogyny of the Suprematism Movement, but I was always incredibly proud to see my name on the cover.’
‘Which is a relief given you still have twenty boxes of unsold copies at home in the garage, my darling,’ said Howard, earning himself a black look from his wife which grew blacker when he lent across to Legs and whispered. ‘Not a patch on Jean Poole’s pamphlet.’
‘I’m sure both are very good reads,’ she said vaguely, glancing along the table and noticing that Conrad had laid down his spoon and was fumbling in a strange way beneath the tablecloth. Opposite him, Kizzy’s chair was empty, the soup barely touched. Legs’ first illogical thought was that the redhead must have dropped her napkin as an excuse to dive beneath the table where she was currently either biting her boss’s ankle or performing a nefarious act. But that hardly rang true in the light of the emotional reunion she’d just witnessed. She had a chilly feeling of déjà vu.
As Conrad pushed back his chair slightly, she spotted his BlackBerry on his lap and realised he was reading a message. She knew immediately it wasn’t good news; all the veins were sticking up on his neck and his thumb was scraping the little device’s touchpad as urgently as a bankrupt with a scratch-card as he scrolled down. Moments later, he made a polite apology to his hostess then hurried around the table to summon Piers Fox before both men left the room.
‘You would definitely enjoy Black Circles and Menstrual Cycles, Allegra,’ Yolande was enthusing. ‘I’ll look you out a copy. It’s a marvellous read, isn’t it Poppy?’
‘Mmm, yes darling,’ murmured Poppy, who had been smouldering at Hector throughout the conversation, neither giving a hoot that three dinner guests were now missing. ‘Riveting stuff.’
Suitably encouraged, Yolande launched into the reason why the revolutionary Russian art movement had led her to associate its geometric shapes with female oppression.
Legs stopped listening. All she wanted to do was get to Eascombe Cove to meet Byrne. She felt increasingly sick with excitement and nerves. She barely noticed that Kizzy had reappeared and was staring straight at her, white-faced. She no longer cared what was going on with Conrad and his posse. Grateful that Édith’s card-swapping meant she was sitting six places down from Francis and didn’t have to look him in the eye, she counted down the seconds and mouthfuls until she was safe to leave the table.
Excusing herself straight after dessert, she bolted to a downstairs loo, where she drew deep, galvanising breaths and splashed her face with cold water before creeping back out. She half expected
Francis to be waiting there for her, but to her relief he was still trapped in his seat at the table, politely listening to Yolande Hawkes as she told an interminable story about authenticating an unattributed Malevich painting. She knew she’d had no time to spare to make a run for it along the sea passage, but she had to retrieve Byrne’s ring first.
Gathering up her coral skirts, she dashed across the main entrance hall towards the stairs, then slid to a horrified halt.
Kizzy was barring her way. She reminded Legs of a mermaid more than ever as she curled around the huge stone newel post like a siren on a rock, red hair spilling over her shoulders, face trembling. ‘Don’t abandon him, Legs.’
‘Abandon who?’ she bluffed.
‘You are Tristan and Isolde! Liz and Hugh! Sartre and de Beauvoir, Brangelina! Please stay!’
‘Who says I’m going anywhere?’
‘I watched you just now at dinner.’ Her pretty face softened with sympathy, reminding Legs how sweet and sensitive she could be. ‘I know the signs. I ran away myself, remember?’
‘Then you’ll understand why I have to do this,’ Legs shook her head, trying to pass, but Kizzy threw out a deep sea tentacle arm, barring her way.
‘You mustn’t leave the house tonight.’
‘Why not?’
The green eyes blinked fearfully, brimming with emotion. Her voice dropped to an urgent whisper. ‘My mother’s a brilliant woman, but she’s a total fantasist at times. She can’t tell the difference between fiction and real life. Right now, she’s totally out of control.’
Legs glanced in the direction of the dining room, praying that Yolande’s Malevich anecdote was still going strong. She personally didn’t care whether it was a fantasy or not as long as it kept Francis distracted.
‘She believes her book is a work of total genius,’ Kizzy went on, still barring the way. ‘She lives and breathes it; she thinks it’s real.’
‘Well it was non-fiction,’ Legs said distractedly, knowing she’d tuned out most of Yolande’s monologue about art. ‘Please let me past, Kizzy.’
‘No!’ She shook her head so violently that red Medusa curls whipped Legs across the face. ‘You don’t understand! I thought it was just Gordon she was targeting, and he’s protected by anonymity, at least for a little bit longer. I had no idea until this evening that you were a part of it.’ She took Legs’ hands in hers, which were shaking and clammy. ‘She’s here right now, and she’s determined to catch your attention.’
‘Well, that yellow turban is certainly a show-stopper.’
Kizzy didn’t appear to be listening as she rattled on. ‘It’s my fault for encouraging her. The book is brilliant; she read it to me. I know it has something truly magical about it. But now you’ve taken an interest, it’s become dangerous.’
Legs hardly thought a slim volume of feminist criticism about paintings of squares and circles worthy of the fear staring at her from Kizzy’s eyes right now.
‘She’ll stop at nothing,’ she breathed. ‘She knows all about the coast here, the cliff caves and this house, where to hide and where to run. She’s been here in secret many times this past year, watching me as I walk and compose and sing. I never knew. She’s always one step ahead. She’s like a wild animal.’
Legs was amazed at Yolande’s stealth; she’d never seen her without a twenty litre handbag, a technicolour pashmina and at least one mobile phone ringing non-stop.
‘She calls it a “paperchase of clues full of hidden meanings”,’ Kizzy went on. ‘I put everything in my poems, and she’s so clever that she sees straight through the metaphors. We’re just the same like that. She was the only one who guessed about Édith, who’s written in every line.’ Her green eyes were brimming. ‘But she hates Édith almost as much as she hates Francis.’
At last, Legs thought she could guess what this was about. ‘I won’t betray you to your parents or anybody else, Kizzy, I promise. You two have every right to keep your relationship private. I adore Édith.’
She started to cry in true Kizzy fashion, with trails of snot and red, blotchy skin. ‘Édith will never forgive me if you get hurt. She loves having you in this family. She has no idea who’s really behind the letters and why. That’s why I have to put a stop to it, don’t you see? You mustn’t leave. You mustn’t leave!’
‘The letters?’ Legs froze, not liking the amount of bloodshot whites showing around Kizzy’s wet eyes right now. With a jolt like a lead bar in the back, she remembered Francis saying that Kizzy had wanted to talk about the letters.
‘They got terribly out of hand,’ she was wailing, ‘I know how frightening they must have been. I’m so sorry. There was really no harm meant; they were just supposed to set the mood.’
‘I’d call a death threat quite harmful.’ Legs started backing away. ‘For mood setting, I prefer scented candles and background music.’
‘But you asked for it! They were written with love and attention.’
Legs gaped at her, deciding that Kizzy was a very serious threat right now. If she was behind the letters, as seemed increasingly likely, then she had to get away from her, and fast.
She took a deft side-step, almost at the first stair tread. ‘Just let me get past, Kizzy, and I’ll be out of your hair for good.’
‘You can’t leave the house tonight!’ Kizzy lunged forwards, Titian tresses lashing Legs in the face and blinding her so there was no getting out of her hair, let alone up the stairs. Two small but vice-like hands gripped at her wrists. ‘My clairvoyant warned me this would happen. She turned the Death card in the tarot deck three times. I will stop you! It’s for your own good.’
Seeing nothing but red mist and red curls, Legs struck out her arms in a maddened star jump that was probably more Village People than martial arts, but succeeded in loosening Kizzy’s grip long enough for the red hair sea to part and her route past the manic mermaid to present itself.
Adrenalin coursed through her. Suddenly she felt like Julie Ocean on a mission. She knew exactly what to do to get away. Reaching up to her neck, she gripped the tight pearl choker and gave it a hard yank. A split second later, with satisfying hail-like thuds, five strings of liberated pearls were raining down around them.
‘Oh, your beautiful necklace!’ Kizzy dropped straight to her knees to start gathering them.
Pushing her way past, Legs scaled the stairs as fast as she could in the Moroccan pumps, which were now causing such cramps in her feet that she had to almost bunny hop up sideways. Halfway up the stairs she kicked them off and let the mousetraps of her curled toes spring out to sprint up the rest. Running the length of the landing, she searched around for the signet ring, but it was no longer there.
The door to Francis’s old bedroom was open in front of her. There were loose pages scattered across the bed. Stepping inside, she saw the ring sitting on top of one of the six crumpled sheets of writing paper spread out there, the top page of a long, heartfelt letter. She recognised her own handwriting straight away.
Stifling a sob, she snatched up the pages and started to read.
My darling Francis, I have made such a huge mistake, I hardly know where to begin. You are the lost part of my soul. I love you with all my heart. To quote Donne—
‘No!’ she shrieked. ‘Not Donne!’
It was worse than she’d thought.
Tears rising faster than floodwater on already saturated ground, she skimmed in horror through the sprawled pages, complete with her crossings out and mawkish prose. There were even asterisks and footnotes. And she suddenly realised what she was looking at. This wasn’t the letter that she had sent to Francis a year earlier. These were the notes she’d made, her first rough copy, ten times as sentimental, mawkish and tear-stained. And Byrne had just read it.
It had been in the trunk in her bedroom at the Ealing flat, she realised in shock, buried and forgotten beneath photos and diaries. The only person who could possibly have got access to it was Kizzy.
But that hardly mattered because
Byrne had gone. He’d gone.
She could hear raised voices as footsteps rang out from the main stairs. Francis was calling out her name.
Slotting the ring back on her little finger and closing her fist tightly over it, she raced out onto the landing and through the baize door to the back stairs before anyone spotted her. She knew, however blind her hope, that she must make it to the beach at Eascombe Cove.
Chapter 41
Still dressed in the coral ballerina shock-frock and turban, Legs stole down along the back stairs and through the Farcombe Hall service passages, this time slotting her bare feet into a pair of plastic gardening clogs lying amid the piles of boots in the rear lobby. Through the glass pane of the courtyard door, she could see the contingent of smokers gathered beneath a coach-light on the cobbles just a few feet away, Kizzy amongst them, her hair gleaming in red corkscrews, like Medusa sporting corn snakes.
She turned silently to the cellars, hooking down the key to the sea passage from the little candle alcove beside the door, clutching it tightly in her palm to stop her shaking fingers from dropping it.
Tripping down the stairs in the dark, she made it across the uneven flagstones and fumbled with the padlock. The wind was whistling up through the passage like a giant’s mournful blows through a longhorn.
She’d only just managed to slot in the key when she heard voices behind her that made her dive into one of the narrow wine stores, leaving the key dangling.
The lights flashed on with a buzz of tungsten.
‘Come quickly, before anyone spots we’re gone …’ It was Poppy, obviously three parts cut.
‘What are we doing here?’ came Hector’s deep drawl, infused with several large cognacs.
‘Darling man, I have a very little something to show you which I think you will like. I believe it is quite my best work to date.’
Nose-to-nose with a row of dusty claret bottles, Legs held her breath in disbelief, waiting for the deafening bellow of outrage when he spotted the stone statue and its miniscule manhood.
