Smokescreen

by Anne Mather

  Sacha, she thought with a frown. It was an unusual name for a boy. But then she remembered: Sacha was often used as a diminutive form of Alexander. Surely proof indeed of the child’s identity!

  Dinner was not an easy meal. Lilian was clearly nervous, while Olivia found it was incredibly difficult to avoid controversial subjects. Alex, for his part, contributed little to the conversation, and although his eyes still held a challenge when they encountered Olivia’s, he seemed content to keep silent and avoid open conflict.

  When the meal was over, Lilian excused herself to go and see if Sacha had settled down, and Olivia would have followed her out of the room had Alex not intercepted her at the door.

  ‘Don’t go,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you. Shall we go into the study? We can have privacy there.’

  Olivia stiffened her spine. ‘Why don’t you go and talk to your son? Isn’t he more deserving of your time? And the child’s mother: I’m sure she would appreciate your attentions more than I would.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ he retorted brusquely, his fingers around her wrist loose, but as secure as a manacle. ‘Now stop playing games and lead the way into the study. I don’t want to have to drag you there. That might cause some comment.’

  Olivia seethed. ‘Tell me what you want here. Whatever it is can’t be that important!’

  ‘Oh, but it is.’ Alex fixed a smile on his face as the maid appeared to clear the table. ‘Now, where did you say those papers were, Liv? In the study?’

  She had to go with him, but she refused to look at him when they were safely within the walls of the study, with the door sealed tightly behind them. Instead, she stood stiffly, waiting for him to proceed, and to her annoyance, he circled the desk and seated himself in Henry’s chair.

  ‘Now, isn’t this nice?’ he remarked, tipping the chair back on its rear legs and propping his feet on the desk. ‘But please, won’t you sit down? You’re making me nervous standing there.’

  ‘I doubt if anything could make you nervous!’ retorted Olivia hotly. ‘You have the unhappy knack of always saying the wrong thing. I can’t imagine what you have to say to me that warrants this measure of secrecy, but I wish you’d say it and get to the point of this unnecessary exhibition.’

  ‘An unnecessary exhibition, hmm?’ Alex’s dark face sobered and he dropped his feet to the floor. ‘Very well, Mrs Gantry,’ his lips twisted, ‘did you marry Henry knowing he suspected you were his daughter?’

  ‘His daughter!’

  Olivia’s lips formed the words, but they were scarcely uttered.

  ‘That’s what I said,’ agreed Alex flatly. ‘Were you aware that he had that suspicion?’

  ‘No!’ The word was torn from her. ‘No. What are you saying? Henry was not my father. My—my father died nearly twenty years ago. Oh—’ her face constricted painfully, ‘how—how can you say it? How can you suggest such a thing? I—I don’t know where you got that information—’

  ‘I got it from a woman called Stone—Drusilla Stone. Do you know her?’

  Olivia groped for a chair and sank into it weakly. ‘Mrs—Mrs Stone?’ she echoed. ‘Yes. Yes, I know her. She—she was a friend of Henry’s.’

  ‘A close friend, or so she told me,’ inserted Alex evenly.

  ‘She was his mistress,’ said Olivia blankly, too shocked to hold anything back. But then the horror of what Alex was suggesting washed over her again, and she put both hands to her head, as if it was in danger of detaching itself from her body.

  ‘I’m sorry you had to hear it so baldly,’ he remarked, as she endeavoured to calm herself. ‘But you did ask me to come to the point—’

  ‘And you enjoyed doing so,’ she accused him tremulously. ‘My God! The depths to which people will sink, just for the sake of money! I didn’t want your father’s money, I told you that! And if Drusilla Stone thinks she can go around making those kind of insinuations—’

  ‘I don’t think it was an insinuation,’ Alex interrupted her narrowly. ‘I think she believes it. And I think that perhaps Henry believed it, too.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Olivia stared at him with horrified eyes.

  ‘I’m only repeating what she told me.’

  ‘And Drusilla Stone hates me!’

  ‘Well, let’s face it, she has no reason to love you,’ Alex exclaimed impatiently. ‘You did deprive her of her most valued client.’

  ‘You’re disgusting!’

  ‘No, I’m practical. Come on, Liv! You know what Drusilla Stone was—is! She wants to hurt you, but she knows there would be no point in making up a lie.’

  ‘Did—did she tell you about my mother and—and your father?’

  ‘She said your mother was the other woman, yes.’

  Olivia’s features felt frozen. ‘The—the woman who was responsible for your mother committing suicide,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Alex made an offhand gesture. ‘Let’s be completely honest, your mother might not have been the only woman in Henry’s life.’

  ‘Don’t patronise me,’ exclaimed Olivia coldly. ‘You must know perfectly well they were having an affair. Why else—why else did you suggest what you did?’

  Alex frowned. ‘Liv, I simply wanted to know what your position was. Whether you married Henry believing it was the only way to secure your inheritance.’

  Olivia gasped. ‘I wouldn’t do that!’

  ‘No.’ Alex pushed back his chair and got to his feet. ‘No, I’m beginning to believe you wouldn’t. So where does that leave us?’

  ‘Nowhere. It leaves us nowhere.’ Olivia was too distraught to listen to him. ‘I just hope you’re satisfied, that’s all. You’ve succeeded in destroying any shred of decency I might have left. I didn’t want to marry your father. I did it because my mother was dying and it was what she wanted. But Drusilla was right about one thing—I do wish I’d never set eyes on any of the Gantrys!’

  ‘Liv!’

  He came towards her then, his expression half impatient, half cajoling, but Olivia didn’t wait to hear whatever else he had to say. With a little sob, she whirled on her heels and rushed towards the door, and the sound of it banging behind her echoed hollowly around the halls as she sped up the stairs to her room.

  Behind closed, and locked, doors, she sank down on to the bed, crying weakly. It was horrible, so horrible she could hardly bear to think about it, but she knew she would have to think about it, and about the implications that it raised.

  Henry could not have believed she was his daughter, could he? It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true! Her father had been Andrew Powell. He was the son of another Andrew Powell, the founder of Powell Pharmaceuticals. She had been born in Croydon, in the Victorian house in Hargrave Street where she and her parents had lived until Mr Powell’s death in 1959. She had had no association with Henry Gantry, she had not even known of his identity until she was sixteen, when her mother had confided the whole story to her. It didn’t make any sense, what Alex had told her. And besides, the coincidence was too great. Why should Henry have waited so long before coming to see her mother? And if he had suspected their relationship, surely there were other ways he could have claimed her as his daughter.

  But were there? As she sat there, staring bewilderedly at her own reflection, she was forced to concede that by marrying her, he had secured her future far more effectively than any other method could have done. After all, he was pushed for time. He knew he was dying, and the effort of going to court and proving their relationship might have taken too long, or been too much for him. He had not been a well man, she had known that. From the very beginning, he had had to take each day carefully, caring for his health in a way she had known was abhorrent to him.

  But they had never become close, as they surely would have done if he had announced she was his daughter, she thought painfully. Indeed, in some ways they had remained strangers, right up until the end. Perhaps that had been her fault. Perhaps, because she had found it hard to forgive his treatment
of the man she still believed to be her father, she had held herself apart from any sense of intimacy, and although, in public, they had presented a united front, in private their lives had been detached, separate.

  She sighed wearily, getting up from the bed and walking closer to the mirror. Her reflection gazed back at her, pale and hollow-eyed, the stains her tears had left on her cheeks adding to her wan appearance. Dear God, she breathed, there was no resemblance there, was there? She and Alex could not—must not—be sister and brother! It simply could not be true!

  Someone tapping at her door alerted her to the fact that it was still early, barely half past nine. It was probably Mary, she thought, moving away from the glass. She couldn’t face her now. Not when she would expect an explanation why Olivia’s evening should have ended in tears.

  ‘Who—who is it?’ she called, unable to keep the tremor out of her voice, and then clasped her hands tightly together as Alex’s low voice answered her:

  ‘It’s me, Liv. Open the door. We still have things to discuss.’

  ‘Go away!’ Olivia made no move towards the door, remaining where she was, like a statue, frozen in an attitude of revulsion.

  ‘Liv—’

  ‘I said go away,’ she repeated huskily. ‘Please—leave me alone!’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Alex swore violently, and she heard as well as saw the handle turn beneath his hand. ‘Come on, Liv! Open this door! Or do you want me to break it down?’

  ‘You wouldn’t do that.’ Olivia moved then, hurrying towards the door and pressing herself against it, almost as if her paltry weight would prevent what keys and locks could not. ‘Alex, don’t make a scene, please! We—we’ll talk again in the morning.’

  ‘Tonight,’ he said heavily, rattling the handle again. ‘Liv, playing for time isn’t going to help anything. We have to talk this out together.’

  ‘We have nothing to talk out!’ Olivia was getting hysterical. ‘Go away, Alex! Go away! Go back to your family. Leave me alone!’

  It was fully fifteen minutes before she really believed he had gone. Even then, she left the door half reluctantly, as if afraid by doing so, she was abandoning her defences. But nothing happened. There was no further sound beyond the elegantly panelled doors, and with a feeling of despair comparable to nothing she had ever experienced, she slowly prepared for bed.

  The telephone rang as she was climbing into bed, but she ignored it. She would not put it past Alex to try and contact her this way when all other ways had failed, and when another tap came at her door, she stiffened instinctively.

  ‘Yes?’ she called, realising it could be one of the servants, and was relieved when Mary Parrish called:

  ‘It’s Mr Kennedy, Mrs Gantry. He’s on the phone, and he wants to speak to you. Shall I put him through?’

  ‘Francis?’ Olivia’s shoulders sagged. ‘Oh, yes, I’ll speak to him, Mary. I’ll take it here.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Gantry.’

  Mary went away and a few moments later Olivia picked up her receiver to hear Francis’ calm, and somehow reassuring, voice.

  ‘Mrs Gantry?’ He paused a moment for her to answer him. ‘Oh, Mrs Gantry, I hope I’m not ringing too late.’

  ‘Not at all, Francis.’ Olivia adjusted the strap of her nightgown. ‘Was it something urgent?’

  ‘Well, you might think so, Mrs Gantry.’ Francis sounded concerned. ‘Your—er—your stepson was seen having a drink with Mrs Stone earlier this evening.’

  How quickly news carried in a small town, thought Olivia tautly, dreading what was to come next. But realising Francis was waiting for some response from her, she decided to be honest.

  ‘I know,’ she said, evidently surprising Francis by her answer. ‘Er—Alex told me he’d seen her.’

  ‘Did he?’ Francis sounded almost disappointed at having been forestalled. ‘Oh, then you’ll know of the enquiries he’s been making; how he’s been digging up all the gossip about Henry’s past!’

  Olivia’s fingers tightened around the receiver. ‘I—I imagine he feels some sense of resentment towards his father for—for what happened to his mother.’

  ‘You know about that?’

  ‘Adam Cosgrove told me.’

  ‘I see.’ Francis hesitated. ‘Well, we’ve been doing a little enquiring of our own, and it isn’t altogether certain that he is who he says he is.’

  ‘Alex?’ Olivia swallowed convulsively.

  ‘Alex, yes.’

  ‘But—I thought you knew him—’

  ‘I did. But he was only a boy when he left England, not much more than seventeen. A man can change a lot in fifteen years.’

  Olivia’s legs were trembling. ‘But—but why should you be suspicious?’

  ‘My dear Mrs Gantry, we can’t afford to make any mistakes. Not if you’re considering appointing him in his father’s place.’

  ‘No. No, I suppose not.’ Olivia shook her head blankly. ‘But how long are these enquiries likely to take?’

  ‘That I can’t say.’ Francis was apologetic. ‘Tsaba isn’t exactly round the corner, you know, Mrs Gantry.’

  ‘But surely you have someone—’

  ‘Oh, yes. We have an agent in Zambia, and he’s been assigned to the job, but judging by the call I had from him this afternoon, I’d say he wasn’t meeting with a great deal of success.’

  ‘Why not?’ Olivia was tense. ‘Francis, surely it’s only a matter of speaking to people who know him—people who worked with him.’

  ‘I get the impression they’re not exactly willing to cooperate.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Mrs Gantry, these people were his friends, his colleagues. I don’t think they trust anyone coming and asking personal questions.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous!’ Olivia moved her head helplessly. ‘Francis, are you sure this man is doing everything he can to get this information?’

  Francis sounded hurt. ‘Don’t you trust me, Mrs Gantry?’

  ‘Of course I do, Francis, but I want this information. I want to know.’

  ‘Don’t we all!’

  Olivia pressed her lips together, and then came to a sudden decision. ‘We’ll go,’ she said. ‘You and I together. We’ll find out whether this man is Alex Gantry, or an impostor.’

  Francis gasped, ‘You have to be crazy!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I can’t just abandon my job—’

  ‘Don’t you have a deputy?’

  ‘Well—yes, but—’ Francis broke off. ‘Mrs Gantry, are you aware this is the rainy season in Tsaba?’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Francis spluttered. ‘Mrs Gantry, there are no motorways in Tsaba—at least, not so you’d notice. The roads are deplorable in places. Can you imagine what it must be like, getting around in the rainy season?’

  ‘I expect we’d manage.’

  Olivia refused to be deterred. For the first time since Henry’s death, she felt her life had some motivation. Whatever Francis said, she would go to Tsaba. It was what she needed—action. And what she wanted, too. To know the truth, once and for all. Whatever the truth about her parentage, she had to find out whether Alex was telling the truth about his own. And, incidentally, to discover whether the feelings for him which were tearing her apart were forbidden by law—or providence.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE Mission at Bakoua was hot, hotter than anything Olivia could have imagined. There was no air-conditioning, and in the heat of the day the temperature soared well above a hundred degrees. Even Pastor Schmitt and his wife rested after lunch, and only Olivia’s driving determination kept her from flaking out on the narrow iron bed, where she had spent the previous night. Instead, she was seated on a cushioned lounger on the verandah, waiting for the arrival of the jeep which was to take her and Francis to the small mining community of Gstango.

  It was three days since they had arrived in Tsaba. At first, landing at the streamlined airport and driving into the country’s capit
al of Ashenghi, Olivia had been seduced into thinking Francis had exaggerated the difficulties. But after taking two days to cover a distance which should have been covered in as many hours, she had rapidly revised that opinion.

  The journey had been terrible. The muddy tracks they called roads had been swamplike and almost unnegotiable; they had been tossed about like sacks of straw in vehicles whose springs were distinctly suspect, and bitten to death by swarms of insects, rising from the undergrowth after every downpour. And when it rained, it really rained. Olivia had never seen water pouring from the sky in such quantities, and although it was blessedly cool while it was falling, it was damnably humid after.

  There were times when she had, admittedly, regretted embarking on this journey. Times when the heat had made her skin feel as if it was crawling with a hundred insects, or when the perspiration pouring from her body uncomfortably dampened her clothes. But in the main, she tried not to be downhearted, discovering within herself a determination she had not known she possessed. Whatever happened, it was better than sitting at home, living in apprehension of what Francis’ agent might or might not find out. She was here, she was involved; and no matter how ill-advised her motivation, she was within fifteen miles of her objective.

  There hadn’t been much time during the past three days to wonder what Alex’s reactions to her departure had been. Indeed, she had not seen him since that scene in Henry’s study, but after what Francis had told her, she had no doubt he had plenty to occupy his time. The morning after that unfortunate scene, he had left the house before breakfast, and it had been left to Olivia to share an uncomfortable hour with Lilian and the baby before having Forsyth drive her to the airport, where she had arranged to meet Francis.

  It had all been planned the night before. The West African Airlines flight left at midday, and much against his better judgement, Francis had booked two seats on it. He had muttered all the way to Zurich about medical certificates and inoculations against cholera and sleeping sickness, but as no mandatory health requirements had been necessary, Olivia had waived these considerations. Her primary concern was to reach Tsaba before Alex learned what she was doing and took steps to forbid her, although how he could actually do that, she was not absolutely sure.