I think I slept for a while. I was jerked awake by the car swerving, and heard Matthew swear under his breath. I pushed myself upright.
‘Sorry. A dog ran across the road.’
Moorland now stretched on either side of us and the headlights carved a gleaming path over the wet road. In their beam the rain fell glancingly. The wipers burred rhythmically, almost in time to the soft music on the radio. They reminded me of the metronome during music lessons at school.
The thought of school brought Sarah to mind. She would be home tomorrow, Saturday. I’d promised to play with her. If only Matthew would spend some time with her. I glanced at him. He was softly whistling the tune on the radio, his eyes on the road. The air of companionship was still between us. I began tentatively, ‘I suppose it’s none of my business –’
He smiled. ‘Then whatever it is, forget it!’
I should have taken his advice. Instead, foolishly counting on the evening behind us to give me immunity, I went on, it’s about Sarah –’
‘What about Sarah?’ He spoke pleasantly, but the danger signal was there. I chose to ignore it. I should have remembered his reaction to my speaking of boarding school on the outward journey. I should have remembered any number of things, and kept quiet.
But I didn’t. ‘I wish you were nicer to her!’ I blurted out.
I felt rather than saw his eyebrows rise. ‘Aren’t you presuming rather, Miss Barton?’
Even the resurrection of ‘Miss Barton’ couldn’t stop me now. This had been on my mind so much that once I embarked on the subject I was powerless to stop. ‘I’m sorry if you’re annoyed, but she tries so hard to get a bit of your attention. Yet if you notice her at all, it’s only to say, “Go to bed, Sarah.” Or, “Haven’t you any homework?” or, “I’m busy.” ’ I paused for breath.
‘Quite a speech.’ There was a dangerous note in his voice, but I plunged recklessly ahead.
‘She showed me her photograph album, and there’s not a single snap of the three of you as a family – not one. Because she was never with you! First her mother deserts her, then you –’
‘That will do!’ Matthew’s voice was a whiplash. I had gone too far.
Panic-stricken, I belatedly tried to withdraw, to gloss over. ‘She once –’
‘I said that will do!’ The car suddenly swerved into a lay-by and shuddered to a halt. Matthew turned towards me. His face was in shadow but I could see the tightness of his jaw, and I knew he was very angry.
‘Now, Miss Emily Barton,’ he said with biting deliberation, ‘let’s get one thing straight. I engaged you as my secretary, not as a child-welfare officer. I will take no advice on bringing up my daughter from a tinpot little typist. Is that clear?’
I could only stare at him while the vicious words lashed the air between us.
‘Is that clear?’
‘Yes,’ I whispered aridly.
‘Good.’ Without warning his arm snaked along the back of the seat towards me and pulled me roughly against him. I fell with a little gasp and as I did so, his mouth came down on mine, bruisingly and ruthlessly. I clung to him more to keep my balance than for any other reason.
After a moment he pushed me unceremoniously away, turned round again and switched on the ignition. ‘Now will you shut up?’ he said shakily, and the car leapt ahead into the night.
I sat immobile, my face burning and the rest of my body like ice. So the party was over. I had expended my ration of his charm. I was a tinpot little typist who had presumed upon his relaxation to butt in where she was not wanted. Right, Mr Matthew Haig, that’s the last time I’ll presume, I promise you!
Once or twice, I felt Matthew glance at me, but we did not speak again during the whole, interminable journey home. He was driving extremely fast. Trees and houses rushed towards us along the beam of our headlights, towered over us like monstrous shadows, and were gone, swinging crazily as we slewed round corners with a scream of rubber on wet tarmac. I didn’t care. If Matthew was in such a hurry to get this evening over, that went for me too.
It was, of course, my own fault, I assured myself. Who did I think I was, to criticize Matthew Haig? A few drinks and smiles in the candlelight did not entitle me to speak to my employer as I had done.
I did not let myself think about the kiss.
I had my front door key ready when we finally hurtled up the road and through the gates of Touchstone. He still had his foot on the brake as I wrenched open the car door and ran up the steps into the house.
CHAPTER NINE
When I had eaten as much as I could face of my breakfast the next morning, I took a moment or two to screw up my courage before going down to Matthew. I’d spent most of the night lying staring into the dark till my eyes burned, trying to think of the right thing to say to him. It was partly his fault I told myself; if he’d not been so charming and attentive all evening, I should never have dared speak to him as I did – and even then, it was only my fondness for Sarah that had compelled me to put in a word for her. Though what had possessed me to mention Kate – I went hot at the memory.
As for the kiss, it had been simply a working off of his bad temper; since he could hardly have hit me, he’d used an alternative means of bringing me to order. Through the closed door I heard the hall clock strike nine. The time for decisions had run out; I’d have to take my cue from him. With hammering heart I went down to the library.
It was at once apparent that my heart-searching had been needless. Whatever his mood last night, this morning Matthew Haig was fully in control of himself and the situation. He was sitting at his desk as usual, reading some papers.
I said, ‘Good morning, Mr Haig,’ and marvelled at the steadiness of my voice.
‘Good morning. Would you type out yesterday’s notes first, please?’
‘Of course.’ I seated myself at my desk, and took the cover off my typewriter with shaking fingers. He had not raised his head. I shot a furtive glance at the intent face, black brows drawn together in concentration, and tried to equate it with the charming companion of the previous evening. Then I closed my mind to the comparison and settled down to work.
After a while I rose and put the completed pages on his desk.
‘Thank you. Have you got your book?’ He looked up and my own eyes automatically dropped.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, it looks as though, after what we discovered yesterday, we’ll have to do a spot of rewriting. The daughter and the brother episodes will have to be altered. Obviously the doorman would have known them both.’
I spoke before I remembered my resolution to volunteer nothing. ‘Does there have to be a doorman in the novel?’
He gave a short laugh. ‘Admittedly it would be easier without him.’ He paused, stroking his chin. ‘The point is, though, that I’d wanted to work as much as possible within the framework of the case, to see if I could pinpoint the motive. I like to think I’m as intelligent as the average murderer.’
I did not rise to that one but waited silently, my eyes on my book. He seemed to be expecting some comment, and I realized that we’d developed the habit of discussing problems which arose in the plot. Well, not any more. Tinpot typists don’t have any ideas of their own.
I sat smarting under my hurt pride, and after a moment he said, ‘Well, leave the rewriting for now and I’ll think about it when I’ve had time to study these notes. Where were we up to?’
I read back the last page I’d typed before we left for Salchester. He dictated steadily until it was almost twelve.
‘That will do for now.’
I stood up.
‘Emily –’ He made a movement with his hand to detain me, and I stiffened. But before either of us could speak, the sound of flying footsteps reached us from the passage, and the door burst open as Sarah fell into the room. Her face was flushed and her eyes bright with excitement.
‘Daddy, Mummy’s come! She’s here now!’ Matthew rose slowly to his feet. His face went scarlet, then the colou
r ebbed away, leaving it very white.
A voice from the doorway said, ‘Well, darling, where’s the red carpet?’
I was too numbed by the suddenness of events to do anything but stare at the woman who stood there. She was tall and thin – almost angular – and dressed very correctly in the Londoner’s idea of ‘country clothes’. Her face was oval, framed by short, curly chestnut hair, and her deep set eyes were a penetrating blue.
I heard Matthew say, ‘Kate!’
She gave a light laugh. ‘The very same!’
‘Kate,’ he said again, coming round from behind his desk. He went over to her, took both her hands and kissed her cheek.
‘That’s a little better! And this is your new secretary, is it? How do you do?’ She disengaged one of her hands from Matthew’s and held it out to me.
I moved forward and took it. ‘How do you do, Mrs ...’ I floundered helplessly.
‘The name is still Haig – for the moment.’ Matthew cleared his throat. ‘Kate, it’s wonderful to see you. Forgive me, it was such a surprise! How long can you stay?’
‘You mean when am I going back? No, don’t deny it! As it happens, I’m not in any particular rush – say three or four days, if you’ll have me. I felt it was time I saw my daughter again.’ Her arm went casually round Sarah’s neck, and the child’s face glowed with pleasure. Well, now I had my family group, the three of them momentarily framed in the doorway.
A voice called, ‘Miss Kate? Is that you?’ and Miss Tamworth came hurrying down the passage.
‘Hello, Tammy!’ Kate stooped and kissed the withered cheek. ‘Have you been rearing my chick properly? She looks a credit to you!’ And she smiled at Sarah again with careless affection.
I felt horribly in the way, but Matthew relieved me. ‘Come to the sitting-room and have a drink. Tammy’ll take your cases up. Have you come straight from London? You must be exhausted.’
They moved, the three of them, still in a close circle, out of the room. I could hear them talking and Kate’s laugh as they went up the hall. Only when I heard the sitting-room door close did I draw breath. Now the household was complete; the family was in the sitting-room, the secretary in the library. A nice distinction. I returned to my desk and began to type.
Mrs Johnson came to tell me when lunch was ready. I was surprised to see her, since she’d left after breakfast as usual, to spend the weekend with her daughter.
‘The mistress collected me on her way through,’ she told me beamingly, not at all put out by having her weekend disrupted. ‘Doesn’t want to spend her time cooking and cleaning on her visit, now does she? Ah, ’tis lovely to see her again. You mark my words, dearie, one of these days she’ll be back for good. The master’s a different man when she’s here!’
Sourly I followed her down the passage. As we reached the main hall the telephone started to ring and Kate, who was coming out of the sitting-room with Matthew, lifted it. ‘Hello? No, this is Mrs Haig. Mike? Oh darling, how lovely!’
I stopped awkwardly, knowing the call was for me.
‘Yes, I’ve just arrived ... I’m not sure; it depends. Look, sweetie, when can we see you? Tonight? What – Emily? Is that her name? How quaint! Yes, she’s here. I’ll pass you over then. Bye, darling.’
She held out the instrument to me. ‘Let’s drop the formality, shall we? You’re Emily, I’m Kate.’
It was impossible to resist the brilliance of her smile. ‘Persuade Mike to come round this evening, there’s an angel; I haven’t seen him for ages. Is he still as handsome?’
Without waiting for my confused reply to this torrent, she linked her arm through Matthew’s and went with him into the dining room.
‘Hello, Mike.’ How flat my voice must have sounded after Kate’s.
‘Hi there. Sorry I haven’t been in touch. One of the cows has just calved and we had a difficult time with her. In fact, I spent two nights in the byre. Fine little bull calf, though.’
Not a word about our last encounter. Perhaps sufficient time had elapsed for it to be ignored.
‘I was going to suggest we hit some high spot tonight, but Kate’s invited me round there. Is that all right with you?’
An evening sharing Mike with Kate and Matthew! How different from last night, when there had just been Matthew and me. I said hurriedly, ‘Yes, of course, that’s fine.’
‘What do you think of Kate? Isn’t she fabulous?’
‘Fabulous,’ I echoed drily.
‘See you tonight then, about eight. ‘ ’Bye, angel.’
Thoughtfully, I replaced the receiver.
* * *
It wasn’t until later that it occurred to me I wasn’t the only one who might find the evening awkward. Matthew would surely rather have had Kate to himself her first evening. Things between Mike and himself were strained, and his only social contact with me had not been an unqualified success.
‘Come to the sitting-room when you’re ready, Emily,’ Kate said, quite naturally taking her place as mistress of the house. ‘As you’ll have gathered, I’ve persuaded Mrs Johnson to stay this weekend. I couldn’t have faced spending the evening in the kitchen!’
And Mrs Johnson, dear soul, was under the impression that she was helping bring Kate and Matthew together again. As well she might be.
‘Oh, and would you ask her to light the fire in the library passage? It’s much cosier than being alone in the sitting-room when you and Matthew are working. It was always my special place, wasn’t it, darling?’
So the fire was lit and remained so for the rest of Kate’s stay. I was surprised at the transformation it made to the end of the passage. Kate even drew the miniature velvet curtains over the oriel windows, creating an air of warmth and friendliness in what had been merely a utilitarian passageway.
That first evening, Kate changed into a silk blouse of pale coffee and an ankle-length skirt in a deeper brown. The length of her skirt, from which her ankles emerged as bony and fragile as those of a racehorse, added to her height and slimness, and her long white neck rose gracefully from the low-necked blouse. I thought a little uncharitably that her shoulders were too thin for such a neckline – her collarbones were almost as prominent above the clinging silk of her blouse as were her small breasts beneath it. The total effect, however, was one of gracious elegance and made me feel about twelve years old.
She held the stage that night, talking lightly and incessantly, mainly to Mike – about the plays she’d seen, the books she’d read, the articles she planned. The pattern was set before dinner, and continued both during the meal and afterwards, over coffee in the sitting-room.
Matthew and I sat throughout in comparative silence, while I watched him and he watched Kate. He hardly seemed able to drag his eyes away from her, but I couldn’t read the expression in them.
And it was over coffee that I felt the first stirrings of anxiety, an awareness that all was not well. It seemed that things were spinning out of control, as though we were on some brightly-lit stage, speaking words that had been written for us and could not be changed. This, I thought fancifully, was the opening scene, introducing the characters before the play got under way and the tragedy began. Tragedy? Startled, I wondered what had brought that word so naturally to mind.
I studied the three faces more carefully. How, as a theatre director, would I gauge them? First Kate, relaxed in her chair with a glass in her hand. The firelight struck sparks in the amber depths of her hair, as I’d seen it do in her daughter’s. Her laugh was brittle and gay. Was she really as much on the surface as she tried to appear, or was there something deep down that troubled her? And was it my imagination that her eyes grew wary when they flicked in Matthew’s direction?
And Matthew himself; as I turned to him my uneasiness increased. The lamp behind him threw his face into shadow, but his eyes, dark and unlit, remained on his ex-wife. What was going through his mind?
Mike was also watching Kate, a smile on his face. He looked so much the same as usual, with o
ne leg carelessly crossed high over the other, that I longed to slip over to him and take his hand.
Yet even as the thought formed, his attention suddenly focussed. Something came and went so swiftly behind his eyes that had I not been watching them in that instant, I should have missed it. I moved sharply, wondering whether the coldness in me came from a draught, or from something more sinister.
‘Found out something?’ he was repeating, and his voice was idly curious, a world away from the flicker I thought I’d seen. ‘My dear Kate, how mysterious! Tell us more!’
‘I’m not sure that I shall.’ Her eyes rested on Matthew, and there was a malicious gleam in them that I certainly wasn’t imagining. ‘But perhaps I should admit, my love, that it wasn’t only an irresistible longing to see you that brought me hotfoot to Cornwall.’
Matthew stirred. The firelight leapt across his face and receded. ‘What, then?’
‘Work; we’re doing a series on old country houses in the West Country, Touchstone among them. I was asked to come down and vet them all, but first, for background, I needed to know how long they’d been in the same family, who’d been born where, and so on. So –’ Her eyes moved lazily from one of us to another – ‘I went to St Catherine’s House, where, I might say, I spent a most informative morning.’
‘St Catherine’s House?’ Matthew repeated sharply.
‘Yes; I’d no idea what a treasure-trove it would prove. I discovered all kinds of family secrets.’
There was a taut silence, and I found I was holding my breath.
Then Matthew said, ‘An ancestor was hanged for sheep-stealing?’
‘Rather more recent than that.’ She sipped at her drink, no longer looking at him.
‘Exactly what are you getting at, Kate?’
She shrugged. ‘I thought I should warn you, before it comes out in print.’
‘You really intend to dig up some long-forgotten gossip and publish it?’
‘Why not? It’s a good story. A very good story.’
Motive for Murder Page 9
