“And there hasn’t been a murder,” India shot back.
“What are you two talking about?” Dusty asked, his attention going from one to the other.
Jack explained about Heron’s Nest, and then, glancing at India, he asked, “Don’t tell me you’ve never taken Dusty over to Scarborough to see Emma’s lovely old house by the sea?”
“Not yet,” India admitted; then a sheepish grin spread across her face, and, turning to Dusty she went on. “Don’t you remember? Last year, after the stabbing, I said I’d love to take you to Emma’s seaside house to have a few days’ rest and recuperation.”
“Oh, yes, now I do. And after I agreed to go, you changed your mind for some reason.”
“Yes, because Linnet discouraged me. She said the house had been locked up all winter, and that there was only Mrs. Hodges to do a bit of dusting.” She burst into slaughter. “Sorry about all this play on your name … Dusty.”
He grinned at her and swallowed the last drop of his wine, walked across the room, poured himself another glass, then said to Jack, “Would you like some wine?”
Jack followed him to the drinks table. “Why not? Since I’m not driving tonight, I can indulge a little. Thanks, Dusty.”
India said, “I know it’s not either my mother or my father who’s having an illicit relationship and using Heron’s Nest as … a love nest.” She laughed. “Oh, nice play on words, there, Jack, eh?”
He came back to the sofa, a smile on his face, and sat down next to her. “And it can’t be either Paula or Shane. Nor is it Emily or Winston. So who can it be?”
“Not Sarah Pascal, who lives in Paris and hardly ever sets foot in Yorkshire, and certainly not Amanda, who’s constantly traveling, or her twin, Francesca, who’s married with lots of kids.”
“And Alexander is dead,” Jack pointed out. “I know Michael Kallinski was one of the gang who was always there at Emma’s Boot Camp. But he’s divorced and can do as he wants.” Jack pulled his notebook out of his jacket pocket and looked at the list of Emma’s grandchildren. Glancing up, he stared at India. “That leaves only one person … Jonathan Ainsley.”
“I know! I just thought of him myself. But listen, Jack, Jonathan’s single, so he can see anyone he wishes. Furthermore, he has a house of his own at Thirsk, flats in - both Grosvenor Square and Paris, a farm in Provence, and a mansion on the Peak in Hong Kong. Why would he need Heron’s Nest for a secret rendezvous?”
Jack shook his head, his expression one of puzzlement.
Dusty said, “Perhaps the lady lives in Yorkshire and for some reason can’t travel very far. A husband? Kids? A career?” ,
“All possibilities, yes,” India murmured.
“Jonathan’s a very sophisticated man, so who would be a candidate up here in Yorkshire?” Jack wondered aloud.
“Obviously somebody we don’t know,” India volunteered.
Jack added, “And now he’s tied up with Angharad Hughes …”
Listening to them, Dusty said, “Here’s a thought, you two. If men or women come back to a place they knew in their youth, it’s because they loved that spot, have happy memories of it. Sentimental reasons. That’s why somebody went back to Heron’s Nest, maybe to meet an old love. Someone from the past. Someone who feels the same way.”
“Brilliant!” India exclaimed.
“Yes, very clever thinking indeed, Dusty,” Jack added. “I must put my thinking cap on, go back to those days in my mind. I was frequently at the house, visiting Emma.”
“Think about the things everyone did, Jack, that might help you to recall a forgotten face, maybe an outside person who came to stay, or just visit for the day.”
“Good idea. They played tennis … swam … did the usual things young people do. Of course, Emma often invited me to tea at the Grand in Scarborough; in fact, she took everyone to tea there, and to dinner as well.”
“You’ve jogged my memory, Jack,” India cried, sitting up straight on the sofa. “Mummy told me that she and her brother Winston, with Emily in tow, used to steal out at night to go to the Grand Hotel for drinks. In the cocktail lounge, she said. They felt very grown-up. But they got caught once. Emma’s summer secretary spotted them and threatened to tell Emma, unless they promised never to go there again. What about that summer secretary, she—”
“Priscilla Marney,” Jack said, interrupting her, the name coming to him from out of the blue. “Of course. Priscilla’s mother was Emma’s summer secretary. They lived in Scarborough.”
India was staring at him. Her face had gone pale; her eyes were wide. “Jack, Priscilla works for Paula. She does all the catering. She catered Evan and Gid’s wedding. She’s right in our midst.”
“I know,” he said, his voice somber. “I even saw her bustling around at the reception. But she’s so much a part of the furniture I didn’t think anything about it.”
“Maybe there’s nothing to think,” India suggested, hoping this were true.
“That’s possible. Just because she knew Jonathan years ago doesn’t mean she knows him now.” Jack leaned back against the velvet cushions, memories suddenly flooding back.
“I wasn’t much older than any of them, you know, just eighteen and learning the ropes,” he told them. “My uncle had worked for Emma for years, and I was sort of his protege, and she made me her protégé. She took me by the hand and led me, treated me like one of the family, my uncle as well.”
India said, in a worried voice, “If Priscilla Marney is seeing Jonathan Ainsley, then she’s the spy Linnet’s always going on about. For a long time Linny has insisted that there was someone in our midst who was involved with Jonathan. And telling him things.”
“It might not be her,” Jack murmured. “But I can assure you, I will find out. And very swiftly.”
“Seems like he might have moved on, though,” Dusty suggested. “Isn’t he now caught on Angharad Hughes’s hook, flailing around in gay Paree?”
“That’s right,” India said.
26
India could see his silhouette in the moonlight. Dusty was standing at the window looking down into the gardens below, and he was utterly still, as rigid as stone. After a second or two of watching him from the bed, India slid her feet to the floor and went to him. She put her hand on his shoulder, her touch light.
He turned at once, looked down at her. In the light from the wintry full moon outside, she saw the residue of tears on his face.
Moving closer to him, she touched each cheek with her fingertips, gently wiping the dampness away. He put an arm around her, drawing her to him, holding her tightly without speaking. She understood him so well now; in the beginning, he had been difficult in some ways, refusing to meet her parents because he didn’t like titles and the rich. But he was rich himself and so famous. Her parents had been amazed at his disapproval of them. But all was well now; he accepted who they were, they loved him, and he returned their love.
In the silence, she could almost hear his heart beating in unison with hers. She thought: I love him so much, I can’t bear it when he’s in pain.
As if reading her mind, Dusty murmured, “What a mess I’ve made of all this, not handling the situation with Melinda differently. And now you have to suffer because of it.”
“That’s not so, and don’t beat yourself over the head,” India replied softly. “You did what you thought was right, did the best you could. No one can ask more than that.”
“I did try with Melinda …” He sighed. “I do wish I’d looked after Molly better. I ought to have built her a small house on the property. She and Atlanta would have been safe here with me, with us. And I would have been around for Atlanta whenever she needed me.”
“It’s not too late to do that, Dusty!” India responded, moving her head away from his chest, looking up into his eyes, as dark as lapis in the dim light. “I think that’s a grand idea, building a home for Molly and Atlanta here. Let’s do it.”
He did not reply for a moment; there was sadness in his voice when
he said, at last, “It’s too late now. I’ve left it too late.”
“What do you mean?” she. asked, immediately struck by the sorrow echoing.
“I don’t think Molly will survive the heart attack she had today. I didn’t tell you how massive it was.”
“Oh, no, don’t say that. She was doing so well. And she seems to be a strong woman. With any luck we can go and see her tomorrow at the infirmary. We should try at least, perhaps we can talk to her doctors. And I’ll go with you, if you wish.”
He inclined his head. “Yes, let’s do that … it will cheer her up.” His voice was lighter, more positive.
“And we can tell her about building a house for her. It will give her a boost, be something for her to look forward to, Dusty.”
“Yes, we’ll do that. I hope they’ll let us see her.”
“They will, darling, I’m certain. Come on, come back to bed, it’s the middle of the night.”
“I’m sorry. Did I wake you? I just couldn’t sleep.”
“No, you didn’t wake me. I just know when you’re not there … even when I’m sleeping.”
Once they were back in bed, he pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her, whispering, “Whatever would I do without you? You’re always there for me, no matter what. I love you.” There was a pause before he added, “You see, I can say it now.”
“And I love you,” she murmured against his bare chest, nestling closer. “And you’ll never have to do without me, I’ll be with you for the rest of my life.”
“God, I hope so!” Pushing himself up onto one elbow, he looked down into her eyes, a faint smile flickering around his mouth. Then, lowering his face to hers, he kissed her deeply, and in only a few seconds his passion flared, and so did hers.
“Oh, my darling, my darling India.” He brought his lips to her breasts, his hands moving over her body, touching her everywhere, his desire for her rampant.
India responded ardently, her hands fluttering over his stomach and down onto his thighs; he sighed as she began to stroke him. A moment later he was balancing himself above her, staring down at her. Wanting to become part of her, he took her to him almost roughly. She cried out as he entered her, and she cleaved to him. They began to move together rhythmically, rapturous in each other’s arms and spiraling into ecstasy.
And suddenly Dusty felt all of his pain and anguish dissolve; it was as if it had never existed. What a blessed relief it was, this absence of pain. It was because of her. His love. His life.
Jack Figg had never seen anything quite like it before. The most beautiful portrait of a woman he had ever set eyes on. Yet to say it was beautiful would not do it justice, he realized that. He could not tear his eyes away from it, held as he was by the glory of the woman’s face and the background spread out behind her.
Dusty had painted a landscape that was magnificent and could only be English: a canopy of dark green trees set against a pale blue sky scattered with puffy clouds, half golden, as if they were filled with sunlight. The lawns below that shimmering summer sky were lighter green, gave way to a patch of dark earth in the foreground, where the garden seat was placed. It was upon this sofalike structure that the woman reclined.
Her face was heart-shaped, with a narrow nose, high cheekbones, and finely arched brows above large, silvery eyes. The face was pale, set on a slender neck and framed by a mess of silver-gilt hair, long and silky and gleaming brightly. The face and the hair seemed to jump out at him, looked so real he wanted to lean forward and touch them.
The portrait was of India, of course, but an India Standish he did not know, had never seen before. There was a sensuality about her, a half-dreamy, half-knowing look in those brilliant eyes, and the red mouth, plump and half open, was positively voluptuous.
India had the look of a woman in love who had just been well loved, and naturally he did not know this India. She was the India known only to her lover, Russell Rhodes, who had painted this portrait of her from his very soul. The painting was a testament to that love, his adoration of her.
Her long body was stretched out on the garden sofa, which was covered with a burgundy velvet throw. She wore a filmy outfit of black chiffon, harem pants, and a draped top. This fell away from her shoulders to reveal white arms, marblelike in their perfection. Her longish feet were bare, the nails painted to match the throw.
Jack knew it was a portrait that would cause a sensation—if ever it were shown. But naturally it would be shown. Dusty wouldn’t be able to resist doing so. In Jack’s opinion, it was one of the most extraordinary paintings he had ever produced.
“Come on, mate, say something,” Dusty exclaimed, moving closer to Jack, who was still entranced in front of the easel. “Even if you don’t like it, say something.”
“Actually, I’m speechless,” Jack said at last, turning away from the portrait to regard Dusty. “It’s so breathtakingly beautiful I don’t know how to express myself adequately.” Jack shook his head. “Well, I suppose I can say, in all truthfulness, that it’s sensational, heart-stopping, and staggering. You’re a bloody marvel, Dusty. A genius. It’s Classical Realism taken to utter perfection. No wonder they’ve always said you’re the new Pietro Annigoni.”
Flattered and thrilled at Jack’s reaction though he was, Dusty couldn’t resist teasing him. Giving him a long, hard stare, he said, “Is that all you can say, Jack? Bloody hell, that’s not much of a reaction after almost a year of slog on my part.”
For a moment Jack was taken aback. He blinked, and then, when he realized Dusty was pulling his leg, he began to chuckle. “I meant every word, you scoundrel. It’s going to cause quite a stir when you show it.”
“Yes, I know.” Moving away from the easel, Dusty studied his portrait of India, and, glancing at Jack, he added, “It will look even better when it’s framed. And she’s the bloody marvel, if anybody is,” he finished.
“Thanks for letting me see it.” Jack stood watching Dusty throw the sheet over the painting, then asked, “When are you going to show it to India?”
“I told her she could see it on Saturday. Tomorrow, in fact. I hope she likes it.”
“How can she not?”
“People have a funny knack of seeing themselves quite differently from the way others see them … they have a unique way of looking at themselves, as if with one eye only. They get a half-blind picture,” he finished with a laugh.
“I guess they do, and that’s very well said.”
“Let’s go and have another cup of coffee before you get off,” Dusty said, leading Jack away from the painting. After locking the studio door behind them and pocketing the key, Dusty led the way to the grand Palladian house on the hill. Neither man spoke. Both were lost in their own thoughts.
After taking his leave of Dusty, Jack drove through Harrogate and took the Ripon road in the direction of Pennistone Royal. It was a lovely day, cold and crisp with a brilliant sun flung high in a pale blue sky.
Before going down to breakfast that morning, Jack had checked in with his two operatives as well as his pals at Leeds C.I.D. None of them had had any luck; there was nothing to report about Melinda Caldwell. Nor had Dusty heard from the hospital. After making a call to the nurses’ station, he had explained to Jack that Molly’s condition was unchanged; she was still in the ICU. The day nurse had promised to give Dusty a ring if there were any new developments.
As he drove, Jack’s thoughts swung to Jonathan Ainsley and Priscilla Marney. Were those two really old lovers? Had they recently been meeting at Heron’s Nest? Jack pondered this for a short while. Then it suddenly struck him that Priscilla would have been awfully young when he’d first seen her at Heron’s Nest. Thirteen? Fourteen? Could she have been having sex with Jonathan then? No, too young, he decided. Kids today had sex at that age … but forty years ago?
Jack sighed as he drove along, wondering if he was on a wild-goose chase, going to Pennistone Royal to talk to Margaret. This trip was India’s idea. Before leaving for the Leeds store e
arlier that morning, she had suggested he ought to go and talk to Paula’s housekeeper. “There’s not much she doesn’t know about this family,” India had pointed out. “Don’t forget, her parents worked all of their lives at Pennistone Royal for Emma. Margaret grew up there, along with Paula and all the cousins. That’s why she’s so familiar at times. Maybe she would know if Jonathan and Priscilla were once an item.” India had laughed and added, “She’s quite gossipy, you know, at times. On the other hand, maybe those two were secretive about their relationship even then, if there was one, of course.”
Jack had instantly seen the sense in talking to Margaret, and before setting out he had phoned Paula at the London store. He had only one question for her: Which bedroom had been Jonathan’s when they were growing up? As she had described the room, Jack knew at once it was the one which Mrs. Hodges had insisted was disturbed and where she had shown him the black hairs on the pink cushions. “New cushions,” the caretaker had thought to point out to him yesterday. “Mrs. O’Neill bought ’em last summer, when she was titivating the house.”
So here he was, heading to Pennistone Royal on the pretext of checking the security system. He had used this ruse to explain the reason for his visit to Margaret, realizing he might change his mind about discussing Jonathan and Priscilla with her. He had decided to feel his way on that.
It was not long before Jack reached the rear gate of the great stone house. After punching in the security code, he drove up the back drive slowly, forever cautious because of the horses that were frequently around. The drive was deserted this morning; not even Wiggs was anywhere in sight. Once he turned the bend, just before reaching the cobbled backyard, Jack spotted Wiggs poking at a bonfire blazing on a patch of dark earth.
Slowing the car, Jack rolled down the window and greeted the head gardener with a cheerful “Hello, Wiggs!”
“Morning, Mr. Jack. It’s a right fine day.”
“It is indeed.” As he got out of the car, Jack felt a rush of nostalgia when he sniffed the smoke of the bonfire. His father had loved to garden, was forever burning twigs and leaves. It was an old, well-remembered smell, and for a moment it brought a lump to his throat.
Just Rewards (Harte Family Saga) Page 29
