Angrily he picked up his book and turned on his side to get the bedside light on its pages. He read until his eyes were sore and heavy and then—the book falling from his hand, the light still on—he fell asleep.
When he awoke he was sitting up, leaning forward with his hands over his eyes and groaning and knowing clearly what had happened. Sarah in a dressing gown was perched on the side of the bed with one arm around his shoulders. He said nothing for a while as he recovered. Then he took his hands from his face and looked at her. Her face was drawn with the misery of her compassion.
She said, “I heard you shouting and screaming. Is it some bad dream?”
Hating her being there, seeing his weakness, he said sharply, “Not some—but the bad dream!”
“Oh, Richard—can I get you a drink or do something?”
“Oh, for God’s sake leave me alone.”
With a sudden firmness and authority, she said, “That’s the last thing I’m going to do. I came to you the first time I heard you. I’ve heard you once since then and . . . I didn’t come. But this time I had to. What is it you dream? Perhaps if you told me it would go away for good. I would pray for it to go. I would do anything to help you . . . do anything to comfort you.”
Feeling the warmth of her hand on his shoulder, seeing her stricken face, he shook his head. “There’s nothing you can do.”
Almost bullying him with her emotion she said, “But there is. There must be. I’m not just anyone. Have you forgotten that I screamed in the night—just as you screamed—and you came to me? Now tell me. I don’t care how horrible it is just so long as it helps you.”
He stayed silent, waiting to be sure of himself. Well, why not? He had never told anyone else. Perhaps she was the one. Perhaps this was what she really could do for him to make him a return for saving her. Oh, Christ . . . what screwy thinking. As though anything, anyone could help. But even as the thoughts ran through him, he heard himself saying bitterly, not caring for any hurt he might give her, “Well, why not? You’re the nearest I’ve ever let myself get to anyone to do with religion since it happened. God is everywhere they say. But don’t you believe it!”
“He sent you to me when I needed you.”
“Oh, yes. But there are plenty of other nights when He shuts His eyes to the world. Plenty. And I’ll tell you about one of them . . .”
So in a steady, flat voice he told her about the night in Kenya and how the eighteen-year-old Richard Farley had come driving home from the cinema in Nairobi to find his mother and father killed by the Mau-Mau . . . both of them stripped, naked on the floor, his mother violated, and his father emasculated. And Sarah listened, saying nothing, the pressure of her arm and hand across his shoulders unvarying.
“. . . sometimes I dream of it and wake shouting and sweating. Sometimes I wake, just shouting, without any memory of the dream. But I know it was there. And you’d think that would be enough, wouldn’t you? But it isn’t. Ever since then, not even when I used to drink to help, there’s been nothing. The moment I get close to a woman . . . nothing . . . I’m standing back there, seeing them, seeing her.” He turned to her and smiled suddenly and slowly put the knuckles of his right hand against her soft cheek and caressed her momentarily. “So there it is, Sarah. The next time you hear me shouting you’ll know there’s nothing to be done. Just turn over and go to sleep. Now, back to your room with you.”
Sarah rose to her feet. “I’m glad you told me. Very glad that I’m the first one. Although I am in no state of grace I shall pray to God for you and He will understand.”
“Why bother. He’ll probably be sleeping.”
Sarah smiled. “You do not offend me by saying that. And I am sure you do not offend Him. Now go to sleep.”
* * * *
Kerslake drove down from Lisbon the next morning, taking with him a camera from the Lisbon office. He went straight to his hotel and booked in and then, later in the afternoon, drove himself around the neighbourhood and into Monchique to familiarise himself with the area. On his way back to the hotel he stopped on the road just north of the Villa Lobita, climbed a stony, pine-covered hill and had a good look at the place through his glasses. Just before a late dinner he had a telephone call from Gains who told him that the Hotel Globo was run by Melina and Carlo Spuggi who had once worked for Lady Jean Branton as maid and chauffeur. The information had not been difficult to get, Gains explained. Carlo Spuggi’s name was on the hotel signboard in its front garden named as the proprietor. A few minutes chat with an old woman selling lottery tickets at a kiosk at the bottom of the square—he had pretended to be looking for a reasonable hotel to stay—had brought up the Hotel Globo and Carlo who always bought his lottery tickets from the woman and was fond of talking about the old days when he had driven a Rolls-Royce for Lady Jean Branton. After he had rung off Kerslake wondered if Lord Bellmaster knew that the Hotel Globo was run by the erstwhile chauffeur and maid. Probably not, he decided, otherwise there could have been no reason not to tell him.
After dinner and coffee Kerslake telephoned the Villa Lobita. Sarah Branton answered the call. After he had introduced himself Kerslake explained that he had only just arrived from Lisbon but had not been able to call her from there because there was a fault on the line. He made an appointment to call and see her the following morning at half-past ten. In the privacy of his hotel room from which he was telephoning he allowed himself the indulgence of a slight smile at the fresh note of eagerness in her voice. The telephone call made, he had a bath and went to bed and began to read Thomas Hardy’s The Return of the Native which he had bought in paperback at the airport and fell asleep before he was more than halfway across Egdon Heath.
The next morning he drove slowly down to the villa to arrive precisely at the allotted time. He was now a junior partner in the firm of Geddy, Parsons and Rank, solicitors. Making no concession to the climate, he wore a sober dark-blue suit, a dark trilby and carried a brief case. The woman servant Fabrina answered the door to him and showed him into a small study off the hall, most of whose contents he knew already from Gains’ description. He waited without curiosity for his first sight of Sarah Branton, the runaway nun and thorn maybe in the side of Lord Bellmaster. Of the two his interest was more closely concentrated on Lord Bellmaster. Instinct told him that, although she was Bellmaster’s daughter, the settlement through Colonel Branton must have sprung from more than genuine paternal concern. Three thousand a year was quite a nice sum but in it there had to be a considerable element of self-interest on his lordship’s part . . . an element which, too, was there purely because Bellmaster—not certain of any real threat to his ambitions—had decided to leave nothing to chance. When a man like Bellmaster set his sights really high he had to be the last type to overlook the workings of time and chance. The ghost of Lady Jean still walked, threatening perhaps or perhaps not, but anyway there would be no comfort for Bellmaster until the ghost was laid.
Sarah Branton came in, fresh and cool, wearing a plain white linen dress, her feet in open sandals. A pleasant, lovely handful of woman, he thought; nothing over-affected or hesitant in her manner, though there was a suggestion somewhere—not of the past nun—but of what? A junior mistress at a girls’ school who would find marriage long before she began to think of a headmistress-ship.
He introduced himself with a little touch of pomposity he felt he owed to the part he was playing, and refused her offer of coffee.
She said, “It’s a long way for you to come, Mr Kerslake.”
He smiled. “Not at all, Miss Branton. Business and pleasure. Always a happy mixture . . . certainly so in the present circumstances. I was due a holiday so Mr Geddy suggested the combination.”
“It’s your first visit to Portugal?”
“Yes. And I’m sure I’m going to like it. Now if you will permit, shall we come to the business in hand—and I should say that I think-you will be very pleased about it. You realise, of course, that I am fully aware of. . . well, shall we say, your
past history.”
“I’d imagined so. Yes. But I must say I am surprised that my father should be concerned with me. I must tell you frankly that we never did really get on with one another.”
Opening his brief case Kerslake gave her what he considered an appropriately restrained smile and a little indulgent nod of his head. “Your father is getting on in age. Men change, Miss Branton. Shall we say that this visit of mine comes because of a change of heart . . . a desire to make amends for the past? Whatever the reason, however, let me say that I am happy to be the bearer of good tidings. Now——” a touch of briskness inflected his voice, “——let me explain things to you.”
He laid out his papers on the small table before him, the documents concerning the transfer of ownership of the villa to her from her aunt, and the details of the financial settlement from her father, and also the necessary application form for her to complete so that the arrangements could be made for the issue of a passport for her. Perhaps while I am here you would be good enough to have the necessary photographs taken? The rest we will do and then send the passport on to you.
She sat, docile and attentive. More schoolgirl now than a schoolmistress. He liked her against his will because there was always danger in liking people met in his true business. But sometimes it could not be helped. A man or woman cam through to you, and then you just hoped that things would stay normal. Not that it ultimately mattered because you knew that sentiment was an easily crushed growth.
When she learnt the amount of her father’s settlement she was pleased. “Oh, that’s very generous of him. But I could manage on less than that if it puts him at all under any strain. I always understood that things had not gone very well for him.”
“You need have no fear, Miss Branton. Your father can well afford it.” He smiled, feeling a Geddy-like pomposity inhabit him. “Fathers have a habit of crying poverty. Shall we say, in some cases, as a form of protection against the importunities of the young. No, no, your father is well able to afford the money.”
“I shall write to him.”
“Of course.” Kerslake pulled a typed list from his papers, and went on, “There is one small matter which concerns your aunt, Mrs Ringel Fanes. She cabled us a list of items which are of personal and sentimental value to her which—while she doesn’t wish to have them at the moment—she would like to retain for herself. I am afraid—rather like a broker’s man—I shall have to go round with you and satisfy myself that they are all here. And I have a duplicate list to leave with you.”
Mrs Ringel Fanes had, in fact, sent such a list to Mr Geddy by cable from America and Quint on reading it after his return from Cheltenham had cocked his head up at him, grinned and said, “A serendipity. You’ll know where the safe is and, with luck, where the key is kept.” He had not known what serendipity had meant and had looked it up.
The list was short and they went round the house together, checking first the items on the ground floor. Before they went upstairs Kerslake consulted the list and said, “There’s an item here. Two bundles of letters from my late husband. Either in my bedroom safe or bottom drawer of bureau in bedroom window. Perhaps, Miss Branton, if the safe key is kept down here you might get it?”
“Oh, there’s no need for that, Mr Kerslake. The key is in the bedroom bureau with a little label on it. The safe is in the bedroom behind some bookshelves. My mother used to keep her jewels in it.”
“I see. Well, shall we go up?”
They went up to the bedroom. There were no letters in the bottom drawer of the bureau. Sarah took the key and then showed him how the bookshelves swung away from the wall. The letters were in the safe. Before they left the room she put the key back in the bureau. There had been nothing else in the safe.
They checked three other items on the top floor. One of them was listed Geisha Girl with Umbrella by Ishikawa Toyonobu. Three-colour print. Hashirakake c. 1760. Hanging in main spare bedroom.
When they entered the bedroom Kerslake saw at once that it was occupied. A suitcase stood at the side of the wardrobe. A worn shirt and a pair of pyjamas were draped over the back of a chair and the bed was unmade.
Sarah said, “I’m sorry about the room. Fabrina hasn’t got up here yet. I’ve a very dear friend of mine staying with me. This must be the print.” She walked to the stone fireplace over which was hanging the Toyonobu print. As he looked at the print—which said little to him—Kerslake wondered about the dear friend. Without doubt Richard Farley. Probably knowing he was coming he had taken himself off for a walk somewhere. From her manner and her ease in the room if nothing else he felt certain that there was nothing between them. Sarah Branton was no girl who jumped easily in and out of beds. He liked her.
Together they went through the rest of the items on the list. As they came down the wide stairs together Kerslake stopped on the lowest turn of the stairs and looked at the painting of Lady Jean. Geddy had mentioned it to him and since for the time being he was wearing the mantle of a family solicitor he played his part.
He said, “A lovely painting. Your mother was a very beautiful woman, Miss Branton.”
“Yes, she was. It’s by Augustus John, you know.”
“Is it? Then it is very valuable.”
“I suppose so.”
Kerslake shook his head indulgently at her. “There is no suppose, Miss Branton. It is valuable. And this brings us to the final point concerning my visit. The villa and all almost of its contents belong to you. Mrs Ringel Fanes’ insurance cover expires in two months. Thereafter insurance is your responsibility. Mr Geddy will be very happy to deal with that for you through a Lisbon agent. You can be covered in sterling or Portuguese currency. I’m afraid this will eventually mean making a fresh list of all the villa’s contents and any jewellery you have.”
Sarah shook her head and gave a small laugh. “I’m afraid you’re forgetting my recent past, Mr Kerslake. I gave up all worldly possessions eight years ago. I own nothing in the way of jewellery—Oh, wait. I’d forgotten.”
“Yes, Miss Branton?” Kerslake was quietly enjoying the patient guise of a solicitor.
“I’m thinking about the girdle. This one in the picture. It’s quite valuable—though to tell you the truth my mother never liked it very much. She thought it was too showy. But then . . . No, there’s no need to insure it because I’ve already as good as given it away.”
Kerslake chuckled gently and said with quiet forbearance, relishing his own smooth change of mood, “Forgive me, Miss Branton, but perhaps you could make things clearer for me. You gave up everything when you went into the convent. There’s been only a comparatively short time since you . . . shall we say decided otherwise about your vocation in life. How is it then——?”
Sarah laughed. “But that’s the point, Mr Kerslake. My mother was a very understanding and wise woman. She foresaw that I might one day . . . well, regret my choice. She told me that if I ever did she was leaving with her maid something which would help me to get started in life again. That I should go to Melina—she married our chauffeur and they run a hotel in Lisbon—and she would have something for me. It’s really quite romantic. So recently I did. And it was the girdle. But you see there’s no need to worry about it because I am giving it to Mr Farley.”
“Mr Farley?”
“Yes.” Sarah’s mouth set briefly in stubborn line. “You see when I came out of the convent he saved my life. I don’t wish to say more than that.”
“Of course. That’s the gentleman who is staying here?”
“Yes.”
Not for one moment was Kerslake tempted to step out of his role as solicitor and ask an uncharacteristic question. Melina Spuggi had held the girdle for her for years. What else perhaps had she been holding? If there had been anything else it was a fair bet that it was still in this villa. Lord Bellmaster’s words came back to him. If there was anything in the shape or form of letters or a diary or diaries—get them. He smiled at Sarah and said warmly, “You’re a very generous wo
man, Miss Branton.” He looked again at the painting, and added, “Your mother was a very beautiful woman. I can tell you——” he gave her a little smile of confidence, “——that our Mr Geddy, a confirmed bachelor, quite lost his heart to her.”
“Oh, everyone loved her, Mr Kerslake. Everyone.”
“I’m sure. I’m sure. Now, if we might go into the study again there are still one or two small points to arrange. For instance, you must decide where you wish to open a bank account into which the settlement can be paid—and a few other rather fiddly details like that.”
Half an hour later he left the villa, having allowed himself to be persuaded to take a glass of sherry with her; while drinking it, he had seen a man pass the window who, he guessed, was Richard Farley. As he drove away he knew that he had to devise a way of having at least an hour to himself in the villa some time soon. Not a very difficult thing to arrange.
That evening he telephoned the villa and asked Miss Branton if she and, of course, her house guest, Mr Farley, would care to have dinner with him the following evening at his hotel to celebrate the fact that happily—as her mother had once done —she was now giving Geddy, Parsons and Rank the honour of becoming one of their esteemed clients? Sarah—after a few moments away from the telephone—came back and said that they would both be delighted to come. Given the right circumstances it was one of the simplest tricks in the book. He put down the telephone receiver, lay back on his bed, stared at the ceiling for a while to marshal his material and then picked up the telephone and put in a call to Lord Bellmaster.
* * * *
Lord Bellmaster refilled his brandy glass at the sideboard. He had just got back from Downing Street and a private meeting between himself, the Prime Minister and the Foreign Secretary when the man Kerslake had called. He was less concerned with Kerslake’s report at the moment than with his Downing Street meeting. The expected secret lobbying was going on. Plenty of people had the usual good cases for others or themselves to make, but he could read the P.M. shrewdly now. The man was no fool, but he was secretly vain. If you had been born in Brixham with a cafe proprietor for a father and had the arse of your breeches hanging out most of your school life . . . well, you might make a public virtue out of this, but a maggot worried away inside you. The P.M. loved his visits to the Conary estates—though, God help us, he was the most dangerous shot in the world. And with a wife who was dowdily and methodistically uninterested in the pleasures of the bedroom, the poor devil revelled in the house-party freedom of Castle Conary. The Foreign Secretary . . . a different cup of tea . . . Eton and Christ Church turned Socialist, not to rid himself of the family millions, but to shrive his already dried-up soul with constant masochism . . . but even he had a price, though he had not made it clear yet. . . something or other for the bright one of his two sons? An editorship eventually. Could be done. What could not be done for people if you had power and money, newspapers and wide industrial interests? God knows, he had millions now to play with—and play he would to indulge his own fancy. After all he had been doing that all his life. Why stop now? Like losing your sight or becoming impotent. Though God knows he had not always been so well-breeched. Without anyone knowing he had been right down to almost rock-bottom—in his own terms, of course—once.
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