The Layton Prophecy

by Tatiana March

  “It’s a desolate and windswept spot,” I said, a little wistfully. “It’s hard to associate it with hope.”

  “There’s always hope,” Miles said, halting on the plateau where people clustered to stare out to the sea. “I don’t want you to forget that.”

  I turned to face him. “My life is fine as it is. I don’t have to depend on hope.”

  His expression tightened. “We’ll talk about it some other time.”

  It really got to me, the way he seemed to want it both ways, pushing and pulling. Keeping his distance from me. Making cryptic comments about the future. Holding my hand. Going out to dinner with a girl on the cover of Vogue.

  “Look.” I withdrew my fingers from his and took a step back. “Why don’t you just stop it? There’s nothing to talk about. We had a fling, and now you’ve moved on. I’m not complaining. It was good for the five seconds it lasted. I enjoyed it. Let’s just stop at that, rather than ruin it with a post mortem, and clumsy apologies.”

  His face clouded. “Is that all it was to you?”

  I turned my back and set off storming down the hill. He caught me up with a few long strides. “Alexandra.” He fumbled for my hand, but I jerked my fingers away. He hurried behind me and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me to a halt against the solid wall of his chest, enveloping me in his strength and warmth. “It’s complicated,” he said. “I’ve been a loner for most of my life.”

  I twisted around to face him, still nestling in his embrace. I searched his face, and suddenly a horrible thought hit me. Miles was in his mid thirties. A man that age could be expected to have been in serious relationships. He’d told me that he’d never been married, or engaged, or lived with a woman. The usual reason for an attractive man to stay alone was because he loved someone he couldn’t have.

  The ugly speculation took shape inside my head, gained detail. Miles was only ten years or so older than his niece. I’d heard him tell her that he loved her. Maybe it wasn’t a brotherly kind of love. Maybe he had romantic feelings for her. Was it really normal how he called her sweetheart, and why did he dislike her husband so much?

  I stared at him, my mouth agape. “Oh my God,” I whispered. “It was never me, was it? I was just a substitute for Cleo. You told me that we look alike.”

  Rage snapped into his eyes, and then it slowly faded. His arms fell down to his sides and he moved away from me. “If that’s what you think, then you’re right. We have nothing more to talk about.”

  His steps were deliberate as he made his way back to the car. I stalked after him, absolutely furious. At that moment, I didn’t even care that I’d lost him, or perhaps that I’d never had him in the first place. What enraged me was how he’d managed to turn the tables on me, and make it sound as if he were the injured party.

  I stood in silence while he unlocked the car.

  Then I opened the rear door and reached for my bag.

  “What are you doing?” he asked in a voice that was harsh.

  “I’m sure one of those buses is going back to Cape Town.”

  “Goddamn it, Alexandra, get in the car.”

  “I can hitch a ride.”

  He circled the car and reached out to take my forearms in a fierce grip. “I don’t care what nonsense you fill your head with, but I can’t just leave you here. This isn’t Southampton, this is South Africa, a country with one of the highest crime rates in the world. What do you think those barbed wire fences are for?”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I muttered, staring at my feet.

  “I’m not going to risk having to take you back to Rosemary in a body bag. Get in the car.” He opened the passenger door and shoved me toward it. I meekly tumbled inside. I got the impression that if I resisted, he’d place his hand over my head and force me inside, like cops do on TV.

  We drove along the coast in silence.

  “Do you still want to go and see the penguins?” Miles asked.

  I couldn’t decide, so I gave him silence.

  He didn’t ask again. We continued back toward Cape Town. After a few miles, Miles pulled over to a picnic site on a hill looking out to the sea. The wooden tables and benches around the car park were crowded with families and their boom-box stereos, children yelling, barbeques sizzling, undisciplined dogs nosing into hampers of food.

  “Lunch?” Miles said, a question in his voice.

  My mouth tightened. Hunger twisted in my belly. Or, perhaps the discomfort was partly guilt. His brooding silence made me understand how deeply my irrational speculation about him and Cleo must have offended him.

  “All right,” I said. “Lunch. Then penguins.”

  I might have imagined it, but I thought I saw a flicker of relief in his eyes. We carried everything a hundred yards down the slope, until the noise from the picnic area faded, and sat on the sandy ground covered in coarse tufts of grass. After an awkward start of monosyllables to offer and accept food while we unpacked the box, we progressed to a proper conversation. I didn’t apologize for what I’d said, but my attempt at friendliness was a sign of remorse. Mostly, we talked about the research that Aunt Rosemary and Steven had completed.

  “It doesn’t matter how Francis Layton found the gold and diamonds.” Miles swirled wine in a paper cup before taking a sip. “What matters is what he did with them.”

  “And we need to discover the identity of the man he killed. Have you learned anything about him?”

  “No,” Miles said, dispatching the last bite of his sandwich. “The date range is narrow, but I’ve come across no reports of a body with gunshot wounds found in the Kalahari Desert. The sand shifts around. It could have covered the body in no time. Or, perhaps Francis Layton buried his victim.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “If we find the missing diary, it might tell us who he was.”

  Miles finished his wine and tossed the plastic cup into the cardboard box. “I’m counting on that.”

  We got back in the car and meandered up the coast, driving slowly and stopping at scenic spots, until it got time to go and see the penguins. It was in the middle of a residential area, with a narrow footpath for access wedged between suburban houses. After several twists and turns, we emerged onto a small sandy beach. The water’s edge was roped off. A man sat in a camping chair, keeping an eye on the gathered crowd to make sure no one got too close to the shoreline.

  Until the penguins started to arrive, I hadn’t understood why it would be such a spectacle. It was a comedy show, put on by exceptionally cute animals. Graceful and agile in the water, the penguins with their stubby wings and short paddle feet had no means of emerging onto the shallow beach. They tried to ride the waves and launch in an awkward belly flop over the sand, flipping up to their feet, but often the next wave swept them back in, and they had to try again.

  While we watched, I recalled the visit to my mother a few days ago.

  She had told me the truth about my name. They hadn’t gone to Alexandria on their honeymoon. My mother was already pregnant with me when they married, and there’d been no honeymoon. That was why their problems started. The marriage hadn’t been voluntary for either of them.

  My father had selected the unusual spelling of my name because of the Layton connection. He was called Martin, the tradition for the second son, the first son being called Francis. There had been only one daughter for several generations, and she was always called Cleopatra. Not wanting to create a stir in Layton Village, my father had compromised by finding something else connected with the ancient Egypt. The coastal town of Alexandria with its famous lighthouse had appealed to him, and since it sounded like the more conventional Alexandra, my mother had agreed.

  I also understood why I had felt like two different people in my youth, much more confident in Layton Village, and quiet and withdrawn on my return to Southampton. Part of it was that I’d been happy with Aunt Rosemary at Rose Cottage, and instantly burdened by my mother’s bitter nature when I returned home.

  But it was more than
that.

  People in Layton Village had always been curious about me, and even though I hadn’t understood the reason, I’d sensed their interest, thrived on it. I had been like the penguins in the water, able to swim with the current and enjoy myself. In Southampton, I’d been like a penguin on dry land, awkwardly trying to navigate the conflicting demands of my quarrelling parents.

  Now that I knew who I was, and accepted that both my parents had contributed to the failure of their marriage, I felt more whole than I had ever done in my life. I would never need to come out of the water again. I didn’t need to take sides, or sacrifice my happiness for someone else’s.

  I was allowed to come first.

  I turned to look at Miles, found him studying me. I raised my face into the breeze and breathed in the humid sea air. If Miles failed to appreciate me and what I could offer, it was his loss, not mine.

  “I’ve seen enough,” I told him. “Time to go back, if we’re meeting your friend Petra tonight.”

  He shook his head at me. “What is it? You seem radiant all of a sudden.”

  “It’s nothing.” I pulled my windproof jacket tighter around me. “It’s just that I know who I am, and it makes me happy.”

  “Good for you.” He sounded baffled. “Most of us don’t.”

  I squinted up at him in the low afternoon sun. “Don’t you?”

  A serious look fell over him. “I do. I’ve always known. And I’ve known how to make the right choices, although sometimes they’re not the easy ones.”

  “In which case, I won’t add to your burden by making them more difficult.”

  He lifted his hand to touch my hair with his fingertips. “And I’m grateful to you for that.”

  We walked back to the car, and returned to the hotel in silence, but this time it was a companionable one. Although we’d spoken in riddles, we’d cleared the air. Even if Miles chose to pull away from me, for reasons he wasn’t willing to explain, it was a consolation to know that he found it a sacrifice.

  Back to contents

  Chapter Seventeen

  The wine bar was small and exclusive. Most of the girls had long legs and the men looked artfully tousled, like Grace’s fashion-plate boyfriend Brandon Hastings. Since I’d been forewarned about Petra, I’d made a special effort, applying makeup, not too much, just a touch of lipstick and mascara, and powder to take the shine off my skin.

  I wore the same cotton dress as I’d worn to dinner last night, teamed up with a floral silk scarf and a tiny satin evening purse. My layered hair was getting longer than usual, and I had painstakingly fluffed it up, so it curled softly around my face.

  The image in the hotel mirror had pleased me. Until Petra walked in.

  I felt like a donkey next to a giraffe. She was tall, impossibly slender, with long silvery cascade of hair, and a complexion that made me think of freshly picked peaches.

  “Miles,” she cried out breathlessly as she rushed over to our table.

  He sprinted up to his feet and kissed her. On both cheeks.

  Petra turned to me. “And you must be Cleopatra.” Her teeth sparkled white. “I knew you’d come.”

  Miles cleared his throat, and I threw him a calming look. I could handle this. I had no choice but to handle the situation. I clung to my newfound confidence and reached past him to offer her my hand. “No, I’m Alexandria. Cleopatra’s cousin. I live in England.” I don’t know why I pronounced the ‘i’ in my name. It was the first time I’d ever done it, without there being a need to match the spelling on an official document.

  “Oh.” She looked at Miles, and then back to me. “I didn’t realize there was a cousin.”

  “There’s even an aunt, but she couldn’t come.” I don’t know why I said that, but I could instantly see her relax. People always thought aunts were dowdy creatures. Just mentioning one seemed to allay the feminine jealousies I’d sensed aimed toward me.

  Miles was still standing. He pulled out a chair for Petra.

  “Why don’t you sit here?” I pointed at the chair next to mine, where Miles had been. “If you’re between us, we can both talk to you.”

  Petra beamed at me and shifted over. I tried not to look smug. The suggestion might appear kind and generous, but now Miles would be facing me. I’d find it easier to observe his reactions. I patted my tresses. I was turning into Aunt Rosemary, clever and fluffy. Next time I shopped, I might have to buy something in pink.

  “So, how was New York?” I asked Petra.

  She was waving at the waiter. “Oh, it was a nightmare. It was, like, it would never stop raining.”

  “I know.” I lowered my voice. “It’s horrible. It’s called The Winter.”

  Petra screamed with laughter. When the waiter arrived, she asked for a slow comfortable screw against the wall. We all knew it was a drink, but we all knew she was looking straight at Miles as she drawled out her request.

  “Would you like anything?” she asked, turning to me.

  “Thanks. I’m happy with what I’ve already got.” I nodded at the bottle of red wine that we’d ordered while we were waiting for her to arrive, but my eyes landed pointedly on Miles. He almost choked before he managed to swallow the sip of wine he’d just taken.

  “Are you also interested in this prophecy thing?” Petra asked me. She had pale blue eyes, and her lashes were so thick with mascara that they looked like a pair of centipedes making love. She really was startlingly beautiful. I guessed she was in her mid twenties.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m very interested in it. Miles told me you have a suitcase that belonged to Francis Layton.”

  “Right.” Petra sent me another megawatt smile. “He left it with my great-grandmother in 1929, just before he died. They were having a thing.” She shot Miles another meaningful glance.

  “Did you bring it back from New York?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Petra said with a quick nod. “I brought it back with me.”

  “Was there a diary?” he asked, his tone impatient.

  “I haven’t looked.” Petra peered at him from between her centipede lashes. “We can look together. I expect you’re coming out to Happy Valley?”

  “Can’t we see the suitcase tomorrow morning?” Miles pressed, his brows knotted in frustration. “We’ll meet you for breakfast.”

  Petra shook her head. “Sorry. I sent it ahead to Happy Valley by FedEx. It was cheaper than paying for extra weight on the plane.”

  A slow smile spread on my face. The girl was a predator. She knew exactly what she wanted, and what she could use as bait, and she wasn’t going to let Miles anywhere near that suitcase until she’d reeled him in. I might have almost felt sorry for him, but I didn’t expect he’d be a reluctant quarry.

  “Will there be a room for me at Happy Valley?” Miles leaned back in his seat with an air of resignation. “I haven’t made a reservation.”

  Petra’s drink arrived. She reached across the table for it, managing to shimmy the tops of her breasts in front of Miles. When she sat back down, she downed a thirsty gulp. “Don’t worry about a reservation,” she told him. “You can stay in the main house as my guest.”

  “Alexandra too?” Miles asked.

  “Of course.” Petra nodded at me. “Please come. There’s plenty of room.”

  I swallowed. Words like third wheel and spare part and gooseberry flashed through my mind, but I couldn’t afford to be a coward. “I’d like to come, if that’s all right with you,” I said to Petra.

  “Have you two known each other long?” She glanced from me to Miles.

  “Heavens, no,” I replied breezily. “Miles stayed a couple of weeks with my aunt, but I live in another town. I met him when I visited for the weekend. And we had afternoon tea one day in Oxford.”

  Miles was beginning to look like a thundercloud. I should have been devastated, but in truth I was having fun. Nobody could compete against someone like Petra. Once she’d chewed him up and spat him out, I could have him again, if I still wanted him. I
had yet to find out why he hadn’t told me about the offer from Dryfield Homes for the access rights through Layton Manor. For us to have anything lasting, I needed to trust him as much as I loved him, and right now, I didn’t.

  “That’s settled, then.” Petra finished her drink and held her empty glass up to catch the attention of the passing waiter. “You’ll both come.” She plucked a crisp from a dish on the table and gave it a longing look before discarding it again.

  “Do you have to worry about your weight for your job?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” she said with a sigh. “The models who say they’re naturally skinny are lying. Well, not the young ones, but once you’re past twenty, it becomes hard.” She reached to accept her second drink from the returning waiter and guzzled down half of it. “It’s quite simple, really. To look like you’re starving, you’ve got to be starving.”

  “Do you want to eat tonight?” Miles asked.

  “No.” Petra shook her head. “But you two go ahead. I don’t mind watching.”

  Miles arched his brows. “Alexandra?”

  “I’m fine. I can have these.” I picked up a crisp and popped it into my mouth, making a show of how much I enjoyed it.

  “Did Miles tell you how I found out about the suitcase?” Petra was close to finishing her second drink.

  I shook my head.

  “You’ll, like, totally love this.” Petra turned to me. “I was doing a beachwear shoot up along the coast in Hermanus. That’s where they have whale watching. The fashion editor wanted to get the whales in the shot, but the damn things wouldn’t show up. The photographer wanted to get it all in a single frame, rather than insert the background digitally, so we had to hang around.”

  “I guess there’s a lot of hanging around and waiting in modeling?” I said.

  “No kidding.” Petra shook her head, sending the long platinum locks rippling. “It’s terrible. Anyway, while we were waiting, shivering out butts off, this old black woman walks up to us and says she wants to tell our fortunes. When it was my turn, she told me about you two.” Petra shot Miles a triumphant look. “That’s how I knew that someone else would come with Miles. The lady told me.”