The ticket collector was busy outside the station, shifting heavy wooden crates from which chickens chirped and protested.
‘Thanks, miss,’ he said, sticking her ticket into the band of his hat.
‘Can you tell me how to get to Arbory House? Is it far?’
He stared at her. ‘Arbory House, is it? Well, now, that’s a few miles from here, I’m afraid. You could have got a taxi, if he had been here, but our usual taxi driver is down with flu. You’ll have to get the bus; there’s one in ten minutes. It stops right outside, you can’t miss it.’
Steve was walking through the lobby of their hotel at that moment, on the way up to his room. He stopped at the desk to pick up his key and was about to turn towards the lifts when he heard someone asking for Sophie.
‘Miss Narodni?’ the receptionist repeated. ‘I don’t think she is in, sir. I’ll ring her room for you, but I believe I saw her leave the hotel several hours ago.’
‘Well, maybe she’s back, huh?’ There was a strong foreign intonation to the voice and Steve recognized it as very similar to Sophie’s accent. ‘Please to try her room, OK?’
The receptionist smiled politely and turned away to dial. Steve strolled closer, studying the man’s profile; a huge nose dominated it, and below that a thick moustache, grizzled with grey.
Suddenly the other man stiffened and turned to stare back at Steve with dark, melancholy eyes that held wary suspicion, the fear of being watched, being followed, that was the legacy of years of repression.
Steve handed him a friendly smile and held out his hand. ‘Hello, I’m Steve Colbourne, a TV reporter – I heard you asking for Sophie. She’s working as a researcher on my team.’
A big hand engulfed his and he got back an aggressive but not unfriendly grin. ‘Ah, you’re that guy; sure, she tells me she comes to Europe with you, she left a message on my answerphone while I was out, and I already talked to Theo and Lilli in New York and heard all about what’s been bloody going on, which she should have told me herself, but she works for me, Colbourne, firstly and foremostly she works for me.’
‘Of course,’ Steve said. ‘I know that. That is quite understood. You are Vladimir, I take it?’
The yellow walrus teeth were bared, nicotine-stained but big as piano keys.
‘Good, because I made her, you know? That girl belongs to me, I gave her her first job and she works for me ever since, nuh, nuh, I taught her everything she knows. Also I have a personal interest in her, OK? I love that girl like she was my daughter. I knew her father, God rest his soul, he was a patriot, just a boy, then, one of the students in the uprising, one of the flowers of Dubcek’s spring; a brave boy, clever, too. If the Russians hadn’t killed him he would have been one of our great men now, I’m sure of it, because he had such drive, such fire. Why is it always the good who die young, never the rotten bastards?’
The receptionist turned back to them. ‘I’m sorry, there is no reply. Would you like to leave a message?’
‘Just ask her to get in touch with me as soon as she returns, please,’ Steve said.
‘Certainly, Mr Colbourne.’
Steve smiled at her, then turned back to Vladimir. ‘I could do with a drink – how about you?’
‘Always,’ Vladimir enthusiastically agreed. ‘Lucky we meet, Mr Colbourne . . .’
‘Steve, please.’
‘Lucky we run into each other, Steve. I’m very worried about Sophie, I think she could be in danger, very great danger.’
Steve steered him towards the hotel bar. ‘I know she is, but keep your voice down, Vladimir. I think we may be being watched and followed.’
‘You just betcha you are,’ grumbled the deep voice near his ear. ‘I can always smell them. You get to know, when you live in a goldfish bowl for years, if there’s a cat around.’ Vladimir smelt strongly of cigar-smoke and as they sat down he took out a leather cigar box and opened it, offering it to Steve, who shook his head, grimacing.
‘No, thanks.’ He watched the old man start the long ritual of lighting the cigar, clipping the end neatly, rolling it around his mouth, patiently holding the lit match until the tip of the cigar begin to glow red.
Steve breathed in the first fragrance of the smoke; the smell of it was nostalgic, reminding him of his father, of political dinners long ago, when the air was full of cigarsmoke and the smell of brandy.
The waiter came and took their order. When he had gone, Vladimir took his cigar out of his mouth and flicked the first tiny flecks of ash into an ashtray, staring at Steve.
‘Has she told you what this is all about?’
Steve stiffened alertly – did this old man know Sophie’s secret? Would he tell it? ‘No,’ he said carefully. ‘But I guess it has to do with Senator Gowrie. Something pretty serious. Did you know someone has tried to kill her? Burgled her apartment?’
The old man grunted. ‘Lilli told me, but Lilli didn’t know what Sophie has on Gowrie, only that she is obsessed with getting to talk to him.’ Vladimir drew on his cigar slowly, blew a smoke ring which wavered and broke up. ‘As I said, I knew her father in Prague. He sighed, grimacing. ‘A long, long time ago; makes me feel old just to talk about it. We were all so full of hope. Pavel was one of the student leaders; he was killed when the Russians invaded. That hit me hard. He was quite a guy. Quite a guy. Sophie was born a few weeks later.’
‘Yes, she has told me all this. She obviously hero-worships her father.’
‘He was a patriot, a martyr to the cause of Czech freedom. I hope she does respect him. She never knew him, of course, and I never knew her until she came to Prague, to the university, and I gave her her first job, translating for me. As soon as I heard her name I wondered if she could be Pavel’s child, and when I found she was I was very moved. Ever since, I’ve thought of Sophie almost as my own daughter.’
‘I know she’s fond of you, too.’
Vladimir smiled. ‘That’s why, when Lilli told me what was going on here, I went to see Sophie’s mother. I remembered something that I’d forgotten all about.’ He fixed his dark eyes on Steve and paused with the timing of an old ham actor, smiling, knowing he was going to startle.
Steve was amused and faintly irritated by the old man’s timing. ‘So, what was that?’
‘Did Sophie tell you that in 1968 her mother had worked as a nursery maid for Don Gowrie’s wife? The Gowries were living in Czechoslovakia for a few months, they were over there for the diplomatic – what was going on excited the US government and they wanted a finger in the pie. They suddenly sent a lot of new people over to Prague to stir the pot. Of course, that was before Sophie was born.’
Steve felt as if he had picked up a live electric wire. Hoarsely he asked, ‘Are you going to tell me Sophie is Gowrie’s child?’
Vladimir looked startled, gave a deep roar of laughter. ‘God, no. No, no. But when I remembered that Johanna had worked for the Gowries, I guessed she had to know this secret, whatever it is . . . had to have been the one who told Sophie in the first place, because Sophie never showed any interest in Gowrie before I sent her to the States. And I was right. It wasn’t easy to get Johanna to talk but once I’d told her Sophie was in danger, she finally opened up and told me what she had told Sophie.’
‘Which was? Come on, for God’s sake . . . what is all this about?’
Across the bar a couple of men drinking beer at the counter turned to stare as they heard Steve’s impatient voice; he recognized one of them as Bross. Was he in here by accident, or was Bross following him around?
‘Keep your voice down,’ he murmured to Vladimir. ‘We’ve got company. Guy over at the counter; he’s ex-FBI.’
Vladimir smiled. ‘Sure, I spotted him. You should try living in a Communist country some day, you get that sixth sense, you know?’ Lowering his voice even more, he bent his great head and began to whisper.
Sophie left the station a few minutes before the bus was due to arrive. The afternoon sunlight held no warmth but it was pleasant to feel
it on her face as she looked up and down the road. The station was on the edge of a small town, she saw the roofs of new houses in an estate at a distance, but the surrounding countryside made it feel more like a village.
A black car was parked just down the street; she heard the engine start as she looked towards it, and the car began to move towards the bus-stop, picking up speed as it came, but as it came a single-decker red bus passed it and screeched to a halt. Sophie got on board, paying the driver as she entered.
‘Could you let me off at Arbory House, please?’
‘The Green Man stop, miss? That will be sixty pence. Do you know it? No? Well, I’ll sing out when we reach it.’
‘Thank you, you are very kind.’
Sophie took a seat at the front of the bus, and saw the black car passing them; the driver wasn’t looking her way but Sophie had a strong sense of having seen her somewhere before. For a second she felt a flicker of panic, then she remembered the woman who had got off her train. A woman in a black leather jacket. Of course, that was it. She had to stop imagining things, seeing shadows in the dark, believing she was being followed, watched, was in danger. That way lay madness.
When the bus drew up in the village square at Arbory, the driver turned to wave at her. ‘This is your stop, miss.’
‘Thank you,’ she smiled, and got off, finding herself standing on the forecourt of an old black-and-white timbered public house with a large sign swinging above the door. Sophie stared up at it; a confusion of green leaves out of which peered a strange, mesmeric pair of eyes that made her skin prickle with uneasiness.
If you kept staring long enough you made out the whole face; it seemed to mock you, to know you and be able to read your thoughts. It was a disturbing image.
The building looked out over a village green, a flat square of grass surrounded by trees, all of them bare of leaves now; a few elms, a weeping willow beside a small pond full of ducks and a couple of swans and a couple of horse chestnuts.
On the other side of the village green she could see an impressive pair of high iron gates, the centre of each blazoned with a coat of arms she could not quite make out at this distance. Was that Arbory House?
Sophie turned back to the open door of the pub, but found her way barred by a huge black cat the size of a small dog. It sat squarely on the mat just inside the door and filled the whole opening.
‘Excuse me, I want to get in,’ Sophie said, and the cat gazed at her with unreadable green eyes which were oddly similar to the eyes staring out of leaves on the inn sign. It did not budge and Sophie hesitated.
A woman opened the inner door and grinned. ‘Just step over Tabitha; she thinks she owns the place but she doesn’t. I do. What can I do for you? The bar isn’t open yet, you know.’
‘I was hoping I could get a room for the night.’
She was scrutinized thoughtfully. ‘Single room? Are you alone?’
Sophie nodded. ‘I have to visit Arbory House and I came without realizing how far it was from London and how difficult the journey was. So I would rather stay the night and start back in the morning.’
The landlady considered for a moment. ‘Well, then, come in and I’ll show you a room – now then, Tabitha, move for the lady.’
Tabitha hunched her shoulders but clearly was not going to shift.
Sophie gingerly stepped over her and followed the landlady up some creaking old oak stairs to a small room looking out over the village green. It was a square box with a sloping, dark-beamed ceiling, flowery chintz curtains and a matching bedspread.
‘It’s very pretty,’ Sophie said. ‘The floor creaks every time you move, doesn’t it? Is there anyone sleeping under this room?’
‘No, love, don’t worry, this is just above the saloon bar. On a Friday or Saturday it can get a bit noisy but not this end of the week. Most of our regulars drink in the other bar. By eleven o’clock they’ll all have gone home, anyway. They won’t hear you. Old houses are always noisy, they’re like old people, they grumble a lot.’
She tested the floorboards with one foot and smiled at the protesting creak. ‘Don’t worry about it, love.’
‘Thank you,’ Sophie said and got a shrewd look.
‘French, are you, love?’
‘Czech.’
It was the landlady’s turn to look back. ‘Czech? Well, can’t say I’ve ever met a Czech before. Have you got any luggage?
Sophie flushed with confusion. ‘No. As I told you, I wasn’t expecting to be staying, I . . .’
‘Not even a toothbrush!’ The landlady went on staring at her, assessing her, then shrugged. ‘Well, never mind, I can sell you one, and some toothpaste. I could lend you a nightie, if you want one too. Everything else you’ll need is in the bathroom – soap, shampoo. Will you be wanting dinner tonight? Or are you likely to be having dinner over at the house? They often have big dinner parties, and she buys here, in the village, I’ll say that for her. She doesn’t go ordering all her food from London, like some. She isn’t standoffish, either.’
Sophie listened intently, hungry to know more about her sister.
‘Do you know her?’
‘Well, not to say know, we’re not friends, so to speak, but she often comes in here with a party of her visitors, for a drink, or some sandwiches. They like to visit a real old English pub, especially the American ones. She’s American, you know, not English. She does a lot of good locally. She’s always ready to help the local women’s groups, she opens flower shows, and lets the pony club hold their gymkhana in Arbory grounds, and lets the vicar use the grounds, too, for the annual village fair in June. She gets us VIPs from London to open it, too. That brings the people in and raises money for the church roof fund. She’s always friendly to everyone and has a smile for us if we see her. Oh, she’s well liked.’
Sophie was fascinated by all this and could have listened all night, but the landlady paused, grimacing. ‘Sorry, here I am chatting away, and I have a lot to do downstairs before we open. So do you want to eat here tonight?’
‘Well, I’m not sure what time I’ll be back after visiting Arbory House.’
‘Well, you can have a bar snack if you’re late – or I can give you dinner in my private dining-room, but only until nine o’clock, after that dinner is off. The main dish tonight is roast lamb, and it’s good, believe me. Followed by apple and prune crumble – you’ll love it.’
‘It sounds delicious.’
‘I’m afraid I have to ask for cash in advance, at such short notice, though. It’s thirty pounds a night and a pound for the toothbrush. Did you want to borrow a nightie?’
‘No, thank you, I’ll manage.’ Sophie got out her wallet and paid her, glad that she had been to a bank that morning and got some English money. She was not going to spend any of the money Steve had given her; she would feel guilty, taking his firm’s money and using it for her own private reasons.
Was Steve being so generous because he secretly hoped to get a story out of her eventually? A shiver ran down her spine. She didn’t want to believe that. He was so cynical, though. Would he do anything to get a good story?
The landlady’s smile warmed up as she pocketed the cash. ‘Thanks. Here’s your key. I’ll leave the toothbrush and paste in the bathroom later. Let me know if you need anything else.’
Sophie moved to the window to stare out across the village green to the tall iron gates with their gilded coats of arms. ‘That’s Arbory House opposite, isn’t it? Is it far from the gates to the house?’
‘A good half-mile. Are you expected? Because the gates are always locked. You talk through some electronic contraption on the wall, give your name to the gate-keeper and he contacts the house to check they want to see you.’
Sophie hadn’t expected that; had never realized how difficult it would be to get in to see Anya. It didn’t put her off trying, however. She was determined to get in somehow; nothing was going to stop her seeing Anya.
The landlady left her and Sophie went into the bath
room and used the lavatory, then washed her hands and face, renewed her make-up, brushed her hair. The mirror showed her a pale, fine-drawn face with a faintly tremulous mouth, but beneath that a stubborn, determined chin, which matched eyes that were shadowed with obsession.
Ever since her mother told her that Anya was alive she had been possessed with the need to see her. She had been walking in darkness ever since, her mind troubled, aware of hostility and pursuit, knowing she was in danger, possibly risking her life. But she didn’t care about any of that. The obsession which had her in its grip meant that now all she cared about was seeing her sister at last, and telling her their mother was dying and needed to see Anya at least one time before she died.
She frowned – should she ring her mother now, find out how she was today? She had spoken to her two days ago, from New York, and Mamma had sounded quite well. Maybe she should wait until she had seen Anya, and could tell her mother if Anya would come to see her.
Yes, that would be best. She had to hurry, before the sun set. She had forgotten how early the sun sank towards the horizon in England in winter. Already the sky was turning pink in the west, flame-coloured streaks running behind Arbory Woods. Soon the light would fade from the sky and it would be dark.
But first she must ring Steve at the hotel and let him know where she was before he started looking for her. He was going to be angry with her for disobeying him.
She was relieved when there was no reply from his room. She left a message with the hotel operator.
As she began to walk across the village green to the gates of Arbory House, the sun sank behind the trees of the park she could glimpse through the gates. Shadows lay in great pools under the trees on the green; there was the chill of winter in the air. She shivered as she passed the pond, whose surface rippled as the night wind blew over it, sending the mallards quacking into the cover of the bullrushes ringing the water.
Reaching the edge of the village green, she began to cross the road on the other side, and was almost at the gates when she heard a car accelerating.
Walking in Darkness Page 20
