by Ivy Ferrari
Thanks,’ he said, almost as if conferring a favour. He added carelessly: ‘Staying at the hotel?’
She stood beside him, pulling up the hood of her anorak against the rain. ‘No, I’m going on to Hadrian’s Edge. My friend’s staying here. He’s going to drive me up.’
‘For the dig, are you? Then don’t trouble him. I’m going up there. You can have a lift if you like.’
The stranger had half turned away, as if expecting her to refuse. And this too had been her first instinct. Then she hesitated. This man had stung and intrigued her. Also she had failed to impress him. This was a novelty so foreign to her she felt piqued enough to challenge it, tired and depressed as she was.
‘I’ll have to go in and leave word first—if you can wait.’
He was already opening the door of the Land-Rover. ‘Make it snappy, then.’
Having explained the situation to Chris, who was relieved to be spared further driving, she returned and got her suitcase from the car. The stranger heaved it into the back of his vehicle.
‘No gilded chariot, as you see.’ The seat bounced as he settled his weight beside her. ‘Shove those ledgers in the back, and mind that can of chemical. Come far?’
‘Oh yes—quite a way.’ Tina did not consider he deserved more details.
He backed into the road, drove with careless ease through narrow streets and a cobbled market square, took a dangerous bend as if in his sleep and then the Land-Rover was climbing out and away to the higher land. The sagging clouds lifted, the rain became a mere drizzle. A bleak soft light lit the rolling countryside. As they climbed the contours of the valley became more marked.
‘Been up here before?’
‘Once—years ago.’
‘We’re on the Military Road now—it was built by General Wade during the Stuart rebellion. It runs along the top of the original Wall at this point’ He spoke tersely and clearly, without any special enthusiasm.
Tina’s glance went knowledgeably to the contours of the rolling fields, noting the declivities that marked the old lines of Roman Vallum and ditch skirting the Wall. ‘Yes, I did know that,’ she said quietly.
He gave her a sideways glance. ‘Done it all at school, I suppose?’
Without warning he swung the car into a lay-by where the road had mounted the brink of a high plateau. The view opened out so suddenly Tina gasped. Now the rain had lifted she could see for perhaps twenty miles on either hand, with wooded hills to the south-west and far away to the north a faint blue range she guessed to be the Cheviots. Ahead was wilder moorland country, mounting to the crags which she knew belonged to the limestone strata known as the Whin Sill. And now again, as the light sharpened, she could see the Wall itself, a faint grey line mounting peak after peak of the crags. Tears stung her eyes. It was an emotional moment. So many centuries ago her mother’s countrymen had toiled and fought and died on these cold northern moors, leaving a monument for all time ...
‘You can see the causeways of the Vallum quite dearly here.’ Her companion spoke with condescension, as he might to a schoolgirl. ‘I suppose you know what the Vallum is?’
‘A wide ditch between two mounds,’ she said. ‘Designed as an obstacle to any barbarians approaching the Wall.’
He was startled, then grinned. ‘You have mugged it up, haven’t you?’ Then abruptly, after scanning her face: ‘Your eyes are the exact blue of forget-me-nots. Ever been told that?’
‘Frequently.’ She met his stare as calmly as she could.
Now his eyes held a lurking suspicion. ‘But you’re not English. That hair and—’ His gaze took in her ripe young figure.
‘My father is English.’
‘But a Continental mother, I’d guess. Well, they’ve all kinds up there at the dig. The Youth Hostel’s like a League of Nations. They’ve Irish, Poles, an African or two—’
‘You sound resentful.’
He offered her a battered packet of cigarettes. She wondered where his hurry was now. He seemed quite content to sit at the wheel and relax. ‘You don’t smoke?’ He lit one himself. ‘Resentful, you say? Perhaps we Northumbrians have arrogantly assumed rights of ownership of the Wall. After all, some of our ancestors helped to build it as slave-labour.’
‘And some of the not-so-distant ones helped to destroy it,’ Tina protested. ‘Even as late as Victorian times, the local farmers were pulling it down to build their barns.’
He surveyed her again with that easy amusement, that slight lift of black eyebrow, which so infuriated her. ‘Quite a little know-all, aren’t you? I can’t imagine why you bother. One flicker of those long eyelashes would impress any man so much more.’
Her eyes widened. He laughed openly. ‘Oh, not me, my dear. Or shall we say I’m impressed but not devastated. And I’m also afraid I have no more time to chat.’ He started the car and drove on.
‘I suppose you know the length of a Roman mile too?’ he asked suddenly.
‘The Wall is eighty Roman, seventy-three and a half English miles,’ she said almost mechanically.
‘You’re quite a girl, aren’t you? Should be able to hold your own up at the dig. Not to mention setting the Youth Hostel by the ears!’
‘But I’m not going to the Youth Hostel.’ As Tina spoke rain lashed the windscreen again with vehement force, blotting out the landscape. His hand went out to switch on the windscreen-wipers.
‘Not the Youth Hostel? Then where? I hope you’ve booked in somewhere. Accommodation at Hadrian’s Edge is almost nonexistent.’
‘Oh, you misunderstand me. When I said Hadrian’s Edge, I didn’t mean just the place. I meant the house of that name.’
She sensed his sudden check. His gaze swung to her face, then front again. ‘You mean—my house?’ She heard his swift indrawn breath. Then you must be Tina Rutherford.’
‘I am.’ The truth hit her. She said faintly. Then—you’re Adam—Adam Copeland?’
He nodded, his gaze still on the road. A chill seemed to steal over the car. And if anything, his face had hardened.
She was appalled. This then was Adam Copeland, Bruno’s friend, Helen’s brother, the man who might have been her brother-in-law by marriage, almost one of the family. And she had been pert, coquettish. This was awful! She was genuinely grieved. Scoring off a stranger was one thing. But Adam Copeland.
In a flash, all Chris’s warnings fell into place. A kind of country squire and uncrowned king rolled into one ... Yes, she had already learned his arrogance, his almost regal orders and demands. No doubt the chill she now sensed came from disapproval on his part.
She realised an effort was required of her. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise ... It’s a bit late to exchange polite greetings now, isn’t it?’
‘More than a bit late, I’d say.’ The words were an edged drawl, suggesting neither warmth nor welcome. Tina’s heart quickened. Something was wrong. She could feel it in her bones.
‘I take it you didn’t get my cable, then?’ he demanded.
‘Cable?’ she faltered. ‘No, I haven’t had any cable. We stayed two days in Milan on the way over here. Chris had a couple of lectures to give—’
‘Chris Irwin? Where is he now, then—oh, of course, your friend at the hotel ... But I know his car. That one you were driving—’
‘It was new just before he came out to Rome. I don’t suppose you’d seen it.’ She returned to the cable. ‘What was the message, then?’
‘It told you to cancel the trip.’
Told, not asked. And cancel, not postpone. ‘But why?’ she asked.
‘I’ll explain later. Now we’ve got this far we may as well go on up to the house.’
His tone was quite final. She subsided into dismayed silence. His driving was now a matter of grim concentration, with occasional savage outbursts of speed which she was certain betrayed his anger.
After more switchbacking of hills, he whipped the car suddenly up a side-track. It dipped into dark plantations, emerged on a bare plateau and dipped again.
The woods grew thicker as the road took another twisting climb, emerging at last to heights where blue views could be glimpsed through the thinning trees. At the end of a steep drive they reached a high-standing house of dark stone, gabled and turreted, its upper storey naked to the gales. This, Tina recognised from Bruno’s snapshots, was Hadrian’s Edge, turning an impregnable face to wind and storm and facing the moors towards the Cheviots.
For a moment the man beside her sat immovable. Then he said: ‘Before we get out, you’d better hear what I have to say.’ He eyed her in such cold challenge her heart sank. The amused tolerance of only minutes ago might never have existed.
She faced him proudly, but with huge misgivings.
‘Since we wrote inviting you here’—his tone was abrupt—‘something has happened. Something highly unpleasant and unexpected. I warn you to prepare yourself for a shock.’
‘I—don’t understand.’ What could have happened, now the worst had drained her of tears? Bruno was dead, part of her happy life was gone for ever. What else could there be?
He paused to light another cigarette, perhaps also to consider his next words. And in the brief reprieve Tina remembered one of Shakespeare’s sonnets she had studied at school and which had always clung in her memory. Fragments of the words came to haunt her:
‘—Ah do not, when my hearth hath ’scaped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquered woe.
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow—’
Adam Copeland was speaking again. ‘What has happened may make a difference to your stay here, may even make it impossible. That was why I tried to reach you by cable.’ He turned to face her.
‘But what could happen? Bruno—’
‘Pay attention and listen,’ he commanded. ‘Since the inquest someone has come forward with news that has been most upsetting to us all, particularly to my sister. We have discovered your brother was not alone in the car the night he was killed.’
She eyed him dumbly, her heart in agitation.
‘Not alone,’ he repeated. His grey eyes seemed to darken. ‘He had a girl with him, and she was seen by at least two different people.’
Tina was bewildered. ‘Who was she?’
‘We don’t know that. It was a filthy night, fog and rain. No one got a good look at her. But it does explain something else—a letter found in Bruno’s room, written on the notepaper of an Edinburgh Hotel—and confirming the booking of a double room.’
‘Oh!’ Tina felt the colour rush to her face. ‘You mean—he—’
‘We know no more. The girl was obviously unhurt, and made herself scarce after telephoning for an ambulance. It looks as if it were some rather sordid escapade.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ she gasped. ‘He loved Helen—he was engaged to her.’
‘We understood so,’ he rasped. ‘But I had forbidden Helen to marry until she came of age, for good reasons of my own which he was inclined to question. Your brother—’
His gaze suddenly stilled, his voice dropped a tone or two, became less harsh. ‘Your brother is dead and I hate to say this. But it’s quite clear now that he was deceiving Helen, that he wasn’t prepared to wait—in fact that his feelings were very shallow indeed.’
That isn’t true!’ she flashed. ‘He loved her—I know he did. It was plain enough in his letters.’
He went on evenly and coldly, his profile now turned away. ‘I can well imagine those letters. Italians can no doubt make an overwhelming passion out of a very small attachment. This love, as you call it, could not have been very deep if he was prepared to be unfaithful at the first temptation ... But we won’t argue about that. You haven’t heard the end of it yet.’
Tina’s brain whirled in sick misery. So there was still more! She waited.
‘Helen, as you know, was very distressed by your brother’s death. That was why we couldn’t attend the funeral. But this discovery has caused a complete breakdown. She’s now in a nursing home and her recovery could take months, if not longer.’
‘I’m sorry!’ With Helen she could sympathise. Helen too was mourning Bruno. ‘But she can’t really believe this. Bruno wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s gentle and kind and—’
‘Unfaithful?’ he supplied relentlessly. He stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette. ‘I’m telling you this now because in the circumstances you may feel you would rather not stay with us. But understand that I’m not retracting my invitation. Unfortunately the cable misfired and you’re here, so I consider I still owe you hospitality. There is also another reason.’ He paused. ‘As you can imagine, local gossip has been busy over the situation. I have done my best to suggest that your brother was merely giving a lift to a hitch-hiker. Your presence here would add weight to this supposition and would save my sister humiliation. It might also occur to you that it would be kinder to your brother’s memory. On the other hand, if you would prefer to stay at the hotel with—your friend—’
Tina said hotly: ‘In a double room? Is that what you mean?’
A faint amusement warmed his eyes. ‘Quite a little spitfire, aren’t you: All right, which is it to be? Go—or stay?’
He ran a cloth over the misted windscreen, got out to clear the outside of the glass; and possibly also to give her time. Tina sat wretched, shocked, watching his tall body moving about in her field of vision, glimpsing that stony profile, the heavy brows drawn over eyes narrowed in concentration. She was angry, resentful, a little afraid of him. Yet, only minutes ago, she remembered the warm boldness of his smile, his bright mocking eyes. He had been different then, arrogant, conceited, but human.
And now he was at the open door, looking in.
‘Well?’
She got out at her side, walked round to join him, the wind searing her like a knife, so that she looked wan and shivering.
She had had no rime to think after all, and as usual relied on instinct. ‘I’ll accept your invitation to stay. But I’d like to tell you why.’
His frown was impatient. ‘All right, my lass, but don’t make a speech of it I’ve work waiting to do.’
‘I’ll stay,’ she repeated proudly. ‘Because one day—and soon—I hope to change your opinion of Bruno. Whatever you say—or guess at—I know him better than you do. He couldn’t possibly treat a girl he loved like that. There must be some other explanation and I mean to find it.’
He shrugged. ‘Please yourself, of course. But if you take my advice you’ll confine your investigations to the dig.’ His tone was like a slap in the face. ‘Who knows, you might otherwise find something you don’t like.’ Her face flamed, she could find no words.
‘Bruno was no plaster saint, my dear. In these last few weeks I’ve been hearing gossip about him. You’re sure to hear it too. So don’t say you haven’t been warned.’
The clouds above them had darkened. Suddenly lightning clashed, the sky cracked in thunder and far across the moors she saw the misty splendour of a wild rainbow. And she too was caught up in a storm, helpless in the tempest of her emotions. She told herself she hated this man, who had already patently rejected her along with her brother. But in that flash of lightning came a revelation, that there was another, darker reason for her staying—because no man yet had shaken her with such power and force, because not once in her young pampered life had she been spoken to like this, set at nought like this. No fluttering of forget-me-not eyes could dispel this man’s dislike. And the knowledge was an equal pain to his disclosure about Bruno.
‘Perhaps your sister wasn’t a plaster saint either!’ she said with spirit, between two thunder-claps. ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you Bruno might have had good reason for—pulling out?’
His eyes held hers, with a still anger. ‘I promise you here and now, my dear, that if you try to blacken my sister’s name, or do anything to distress her, I shall personally see that you regret it. Is that clear?’
Tina’s chin went up. She eyed him in silence, flinching only as lightning forked in a blinding flash above them.
‘And one more thing,’ he continued. ‘I forbid you to visit my sister on any pretext whatever. She has had heartbreak enough.’
The rain descended, with a force and fury that made more words impossible. He took her suitcase from the car, grabbed her by the elbow and more or less ran her through the open front door of the house. A collie stood waving a plumy tail, looking for notice. He threw the dog a gruff word, then called in parade-ground tones:
‘Carrie, are you there?’
A slim active woman appeared. Tina noticed with relief that she had a kind if preoccupied face and couldn’t have been much above forty.
‘Oh, there you are. Carrie, it seems Miss Rutherford did not get my cable and has arrived after all. I’ll leave her to you.’ Then, rather in the manner of having disposed of a crate of chickens, he talked across Tina’s head. ‘Did Robertson of High Haugh ring about those drainage rights?’
‘Yes. But he said he’d see you at Scots Gap mart anyway.’
‘Right. I won’t be in to supper, Carrie. If Barton calls tell him the new rails are down at the sawmills.’
Without another glance at Tina he had gone, walking into the deluge with an utter disregard of its effects. The car’s engine revved into a powerful roar, the shabby vehicle circled the drive and disappeared into the trees and into the storm, to the accompaniment of a full barrage of further thunder and lightning.
But now, Tina saw, the rainbow had gone.
She turned blindly towards Carrie Butterfield, and something in her face sent a quick spark of sympathy into the older woman’s eyes. ‘Hallo,’ she said quietly. ‘In a bit of a mood, is he? Not to worry. You come into the warm and have a cup of tea.’
Her voice was brisk and educated, but warm and friendly. She guided a bewildered and upset Tina down a back passage and into a small sitting-room.
‘Now, sit down. Or better give me that damp anorak first.’ She walked into the passage again, calling: ‘Isa, are you there?’ Joining Tina again she said quietly: ‘He’s told you, I see. Men can never choose the right moment for bad news. You look tired to death after your journey.’
