Kingdom of Shadows

by Barbara Erskine

  Beside her Paul had sat up at last. For a moment he didn’t move and she tensed, pressing her face into the pillow, holding her breath. She felt his weight shift, then he climbed out of the bed. A moment later the bathroom light went on. She hunched over, her back to the door, clutching her pillow miserably as the past receded completely and the memory of all that had happened the night before came flooding back and with it the realisation that her marriage was over. After what Paul had done to her last night she never wanted to see or speak to him again.

  She tensed as he came back into the bedroom, clenching her eyelids tighter, but he did not approach the bed. She could hear the faint sounds as he pulled on his clothes, then the noise of the bedroom door opening and closing and then silence.

  She did not move for a long time. Only when she heard the front door bang downstairs did she at last climb slowly out of bed. Going to the window she lifted the corner of the curtain and peered out into the darkness of the early morning. She could see Paul walking slowly down the hill beneath the street lights, his broad shoulders hunched against the rain. He was carrying his briefcase.

  It took her five minutes to shower and dress. Throwing her case on the bed she glanced round the room. Her party clothes, her silk dresses, she would not need. All she wanted were sweaters and trousers, a skirt, her boots. The rest of her clothes were at Bucksters – she would collect them some other time. She threw in her make-up and a couple of fine wool dresses and that was all. Her sapphires and the slim gold watch she left where she had dropped them the night before, on the shelf above the towel rail in the bathroom.

  Leaving the case in the hall she ran down to the kitchen. Casta was lying under the kitchen table, nose on paws. She got up and stretched, her tail wagging as Clare appeared.

  Clare knelt down and hugged her. ‘Breakfast, darling, then we’re going to Scotland.’ The dog licked her face.

  Clare was shaking from lack of sleep. She heated the coffee and cut herself a piece of bread, glancing at the kitchen clock. She had told Sarah not to come back until the evening, but one could never tell with the woman. If she had what she called ‘words’ with her sister, then she might arrive back any second.

  She spread honey on the bread with trembling hands and forced herself to sit down on the bar stool to eat it. She had a seven-hour drive ahead of her and she had to gather every bit of strength before she set out.

  She had nearly finished her breakfast when Casta sat up and pricked her ears. Clare froze, her bread halfway to her mouth. There was a noise upstairs in the hall. As the dog flung herself barking towards the door Clare stood up and tiptoed towards it, holding her breath. Was it Sarah or had Paul come back? She opened the door and saw the golden body of the dog streak up the steep staircase ahead of her.

  Cautiously she peered into the hall. There on the pale oatmeal carpet next to her suitcase lay Paul’s copy of the Financial Times. The paper boy had been.

  Almost weeping with relief Clare sat down on the top step, her head in her hands. Seconds later Casta, tail wagging, dumped the newspaper unceremoniously into her lap.

  They left ten minutes later. Clare loaded her case into the boot of the XJS before opening the door so that Casta could jump into the back of the car and lie down obediently on her rug on the narrow back seat. Folding her mink coat on to the passenger seat beside her Clare stared down at it. It was another of Paul’s presents. Wouldn’t it be better to leave that behind as well? But Paul had bought her everything she owned: her clothes, her jewellery, even the suitcase in which she had packed her clothes. The matched set of Gucci luggage had been a present two Christmases before. She shrugged. She was loath to part with the coat; she adored its soft silkiness, so it would be stupid to throw it back at Paul as part of a principle. No, she would keep it. That and the car. She threw in her handbag after it, the handbag he had brought her back from Florence, then she glanced back up at the house. The front-door keys were still in her hand. Walking back up the short front path in the rain she stood for a moment staring at the front door, the collar of her Burberry pulled up around her ears. They had bought the house the year they were married. It had been her dream home, the little London house with its patio garden and its cream-painted woodwork and soft honey-coloured brick. She shivered. Thrusting the keys through the letterbox she turned away and, latching the little front gate behind her, she climbed into the car and resolutely turned on the engine. She had left no note. Paul would soon guess where she had gone. She could only pray that he wouldn’t bother to come after her.

  It was late when Sarah slipped her key into the front door and opened it. The house was silent. She switched on the light and stared down at the doormat in surprise. A set of keys lay there. Picking them up she put them on the hall table. ‘Mrs Royland?’ she called. There was no answer. The house was empty.

  She took off her coat and hung it up before going down to the kitchen. An empty coffee cup and a plate stood in the sink, otherwise the kitchen was immaculate. Slowly she climbed the stairs again, tapping on every door before she put her head around it – bedroom, dressing room, bathroom – all empty.

  She went on up to her own room with its small dormer window and, closing the curtain, she turned on the light. A series of explosions echoed outside the window and she shivered. She didn’t like fireworks night; never had. Somewhere up the road they were having a party. She could hear the shrieks of the children and the sudden whine of rockets. The spicy smell of bonfires and dead leaves reached her even in her attic bedroom.

  Taking off her dress she put it meticulously on a hanger. She showered and cleaned her teeth and put on her Marks and Spencer nightdress, her woollen dressing gown and her slippers, then she set out to go back down the three flights of stairs to the kitchen to make herself a hot drink.

  Outside the master bedroom she paused. Where was she? She hadn’t said she would be going out this evening and she had left no note. Wherever she had gone she had taken the dog. Switching on the light Sarah walked into the room and drew the curtains with a sharp rattle. The bed was unmade. Clare’s dressing table was bare, her make-up and brushes had gone. In the bathroom there was no sign of her toothbrush. Sarah stared at the shelf where the sapphire necklace and earrings lay in a sparkling heap. Beside them lay the gold watch. She frowned. Going back into the bedroom she opened the doors of the fitted cupboard. Most of the dresses were still there, but the skirts and trousers, and the mink and the Burberry, were gone.

  Sarah sat down on the bed, drawing her legs up under her dressing gown and reached for the phone. The night line went straight through to Paul’s office.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re still there, Mr Royland. I thought I’d better speak to you. I was slightly worried. I thought I had better check with you where she was.’

  ‘I don’t know where she is, Sarah.’ Paul sounded irritated. ‘Perhaps she’s with a friend, or with my sister. I shouldn’t worry. Go to bed. She’ll turn up in the morning.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Mr Royland.’ Sarah glanced round the room. Outside she could hear the whine of another rocket. It exploded with a bang and a shower of coloured stars fell over Campden Hill Square. ‘I think she’s gone for good.’

  ‘For good?’ Paul’s voice was very loud in the room suddenly.

  ‘She’s taken two coats and the dog. And she left her keys behind. She put them back through the letter box.’

  ‘I see.’ He sounded suddenly flat. ‘Well, there’s nothing we can do tonight. I’ll see you in the morning, Sarah. I shall be spending the night here in the office. I have a great deal of work to do. We’ll discuss this further then. Don’t worry. I’m sure there’s an explanation.’

  Sarah hung up. She sat for a long time staring into space, then slowly she stood up. She walked over to the chest of drawers and pulled open the bottom drawer. The candles had disappeared. Wherever Clare had gone, she had taken them with her.

  She was about to push the drawer shut, smoothing down the clothes in it, when
she stopped. She picked up the top garment and held it up. It was a long, sheer black nightdress. She held it against her cheek, feeling the cold softness of the silk, then slowly she turned and laid it reverently on the bed. Moving like someone in a dream she undid her dressing-gown cord and took off her dressing gown, dropping it at her feet. Then she pulled her high-necked thermal nightdress up over her head and threw it down as well. For a moment she stood quite still, embarrassed, even though she was alone, her hands crossed defensively across her small breasts. Outside, the loud bangs of a thunderflash rattled the windows.

  She held her breath as the silk slid smoothly over her head and down to her feet. Slowly she walked, head erect, to the cupboard. She opened it and stood, staring at herself in the long mirror which hung on the inside of the door. After a long pause, she smiled.

  In the office Paul sat staring at his desk. He was very thoughtful. At last he picked up the phone.

  Chloe was furious. ‘Geoff went all the way over to Kensington and when he got there Clare wasn’t in!’

  Paul winced. He had been hoping that perhaps Geoffrey had persuaded Clare to go away somewhere with him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Chloe. Mrs C shouldn’t have left her.’

  ‘So, where is she?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps with Emma?’ If Emma heard Clare’s story he would be finished.

  ‘I tried ringing them, but their line is engaged constantly.’ Chloe sounded disapproving. ‘It’s too bad, Paul! Geoffrey is a busy man. He has better things to do than traipse halfway across London for no reason. He had to miss most of the fireworks party at the school, which he was supposed to go to.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Chloe.’ Paul sighed. ‘What more can I say?’

  He slept in a chair, waking frequently, gnawing at his problems. Where was Clare, and what was she saying to people? He turned restlessly, trying to make himself more comfortable. Would anyone believe her if she told them what had happened in the lift? Geoffrey wouldn’t. Of that he was fairly certain but what about the others? What about Emma? He chewed the inside of his cheek. Emma would believe Clare. Emma would believe anything of him. Unless he destroyed Clare’s credibility totally and for good, he was finished. He glanced in the semi-darkness across at his desk where the calendar stood. So short a time to go until settlement day, and then, unless he could pay, he was finished.

  It was just after eight the next morning when, returning from a trip to the washroom to shave and change his shirt, he noticed the envelope which had been put on his desk whilst he was out of the room. He stood staring down at it with a frown while in the corner behind him the computer screen flashed quietly with the morning’s prices.

  He sat down and picked the envelope up from the blotter. For a moment he just looked at it, then at last he tore it open. Inside was a clipping from Private Eye. Attached to it was a note from Sir Duncan Beattie. ‘Don’t know if you saw this,’ it said. ‘I should like your comments.’

  The short piece was to the point.

  Rumours in the City of yet another cock-up as leading financier gets his calculations wrong. Again. ‘For Rent’ signs are appearing on strong boxes all over Switzerland. Pollo Royfield, director of one of the mega conglomerates, must be shaking in his shoes. Watch this space.

  Paul screwed the cutting into a little ball and hurled it across the room. Diane Warboys! He could never prove it, of course. But it had to be her. Who else knew? The bitch! The disloyal, vindictive bitch! He would see to it personally that her career in the City went no further.

  What the hell was he going to tell Sir Duncan? Sweating heavily suddenly he picked up his attaché case and putting it on the desk clicked back the locks.

  Amongst the sheaf of papers was a copy of his father’s will. He walked with it to the window and read through it slowly yet again, the paper trembling slightly in his hand. He knew what it said by heart. The Royland shares to be divided evenly between the four children. Then the sentence which trapped him. ‘If at any time any of the four should wish to sell his or her share in the company, he or she may do so only if they first offer the shares to the other three severally or together. At that point it is my wish that that person offers up all the rest of the shares and dividends bequeathed by me to the others in this will. To sell a holding in the family company means he or she is desperate for money or no longer interested in Royland International and its holdings. Either way he or she will need to liquidate.’ He could still hear his father’s voice dictating the succinct words and imagine the haughty stubborn face behind them.

  He could never tell David that he had to sell the Royland shares; and he would not admit to anyone, ever, that he had already liquidated the rest of his holdings. He was trapped.

  He folded the document back to the first page and threw it down on the desk. Damn and blast Clare! She could save him from all this. With one stroke of the pen she could pay his debts and leave him enough over to keep the rumour-mongers quiet. He glanced at the chair where he had dropped her unconscious form two nights before. For a long time he had stood looking down at her whilst she lay there, all sorts of strange thoughts flitting through his brain. If she had died, there in the lift, if she had had a heart attack, he would have stood to inherit Duncairn and all that went with it. As he stood looking down at her he had, just for one moment, been tempted, tempted to wrap the soft suffocating fur of her mink around her face and press; then horrified by his own thoughts he had turned sharply away.

  He picked up his father’s will and threw it back into the case. A copy of his own was there in the folder too, and a copy of Clare’s. Idly he picked hers up. They had made them together, four years before. In it, apart from small legacies to all her nephews and nieces, she had left the bulk of her property to him. There was no mention of Duncairn as a separate package. She had been confident then that she would have a baby, an heir to the Gordon estates, so she had had no thoughts of leaving it to James, who in those days anyway was still without any sense of family – the reason that Aunt Margaret had not left Duncairn to him in the first place. His interest in the past had begun and ended with the battles of Robert the Bruce, something Margaret Gordon had quickly spotted. It had not displeased her. He would come to it in the end, as Alec, his father, had done, and in the meantime Clare would be the right caretaker for the place. It had always been the women who had loved Duncairn.

  Paul read it through again, then slowly he put it back in his case, his face impassive.

  He was about to walk through to Sir Duncan’s office when the telephone rang. ‘Royland? It’s Cummin.’ The American voice was crisp and aggressive even after the long flight from Houston and the gruelling rush-hour drive into London from Heathrow. ‘Can you make lunch?’

  Paul pulled his diary towards him automatically, then with a surge of irritation he pushed it away. ‘I’m sorry, but that won’t be convenient,’ he said coldly. He could feel the receiver slipping against his palm. Let the bastard sweat a little, as he was.

  ‘I told you, Royland, I need to see you soon.’ Rex kept his voice even with an effort. ‘You had better make it today.’

  ‘Very well.’ Paul was curt. ‘I can spare you half an hour at four o’clock, if that would suit you.’

  As he hung up he slumped into his chair and put his head in his hands.

  Rex turned away from his desk and stood gazing out at the view across the river. The Thames was grey and sluggish beneath the rain. On Westminster Bridge the pavements were invisible beneath a procession of umbrellas. Even the scarlet of the buses and the bright gold tops of the triple lanterns on the street lamps were subdued. He put his hands in his pockets glumly. He loved this office, with its view over the heart of London – the centre of the world, he sometimes thought, as he gazed across at the clock tower where Big Ben was barely visible through the rain.

  Mary had not relented and come with him at the last moment, and she had not been home when he rang her to say he had arrived. ‘A lousy heap of stones!’
was how she had described Duncairn with every inch of scathing contempt at her command. ‘An old man’s dream!’

  An old man’s dream. He turned his back on the window ruefully. Perhaps. And if it was a dream, was it a dream about oil, or a dream about owning a piece of Scotland; a castle; a piece of history? He walked over to the table by the wall where there was a scale layout model of some of the south-coast oil wells. He ran his finger thoughtfully over the miniaturised hills and picked up one of the little toy rigs. Had he really wanted to carve up the countryside near Duncairn? Put in rigs, pipelines, bring trains across the moors?

  He smiled grimly to himself. This goddam site was getting to him. As owner he wouldn’t profit from the oil, but whichever company got lucky – and one of them was bound to pick up the licence – his judgment would be vindicated. It was going to prove him the oil man he really was. And he would get his castle; the ancient seat of the Comyns. He was prepared to spend every cent he owned on that castle.

  Clare had stopped the night before at a motel near Bishop Auckland, too tired to drive further. She had pulled up twice to give Casta a short run, and once again at lunchtime, driving off the A1 to find a pub where she could eat a quiet sandwich before taking the dog for a long tramp through the Yorkshire countryside. She was about halfway, she supposed, but it didn’t matter. She was free. There was no Paul, no Sarah, forever creeping round corners, spying on her, no worries, just the feel of the soft rain on her face and in her hair, the clouds tearing across the sky over her head and the rustle of the dead leaves in the hedgerows. She pulled her collar up around her neck and smiled, and Casta, sensing her sudden happiness, barked and wagged her tail.