by Anne Mather
Helen shook her head. ‘He phoned me. Yesterday morning. Early. At least, it was early for me. I don’t suppose it was so early for him.’
‘From Nairobi, you mean?’
‘Yes.’ Helen moistened her lips. ‘Would you believe he had Rafe investigated?’
Melanie’s eyes widened. ‘Investigated? For heaven’s sake!’
‘Yes. That’s what I said.’ Helen shrugged. ‘Apparently, he didn’t trust me.’ She sighed. ‘With good reason, as it turned out.’
‘Even so …’ Melanie was appalled. ‘I suppose he discovered Rafe had spent the night at your flat.’
Helen nodded. ‘You’re much quicker than me. It didn’t immediately dawn on me what he was getting at.’
Melanie gazed at her sympathetically. ‘How beastly!’
‘Yes, it was, rather.’
‘But what reason did he have to watch your flat? I mean, you hadn’t seen Rafe since you got back from Wiltshire, had you?’
‘You know I hadn’t.’ Helen was indignant, and Melanie made a rueful expression.
‘I was just—confirming the facts,’ she said, leaning across to squeeze Helen’s arm. ‘But you have to admit, it is odd. Did you have no idea you were being followed?’
Helen groaned. ‘I was not being followed! If you’d let me finish, I’d tell you. I was away half last week, wasn’t I? In Derbyshire. Apparently Adam had been trying to ring me at the flat, and when he couldn’t get an answer, he sent Mr Maclaren round to find out what was wrong.’
‘I see.’ Melanie absorbed this. ‘But you didn’t tell me Maclaren had seen Rafe.’
‘I didn’t know!’ Helen was getting frustrated. ‘He didn’t come up! When he arrived at the building, the commissionaire told him I already had a visitor. My cousin! Now do you understand?’
‘I’m beginning to. In other words, finding out about you two was just an added bonus.’
‘A bonus?’ Helen looked blank. ‘A bonus to what?’
‘To finding out about Rafe. I assume Adam now knows the terms of your grandmother’s will?’
‘Yes. But it wasn’t Maclaren who found that out. As I said, Maclaren’s part was purely incidental. Adam hired a firm of private detectives to investigate Rafe’s background.’
Melanie shook her head. ‘The swine!’
‘Yes. That’s what I thought at first. But, he had a point, didn’t he?’
‘He didn’t know that.’
‘No, but he was astute enough to guess something had happened.’
‘Even so …’ Melanie sipped her sherry disbelievingly. ‘So it’s all over with Adam!’
‘So far as I’m concerned, yes.’
‘What do you mean? As far as you’re concerned?’
‘Adam’s flying back tomorrow. He says he wants to see me. After—afterwards—he had a change of heart.’
‘I see.’ Melanie regarded her friend with thoughtful eyes. ‘And you haven’t? Had a change of heart, I mean?’
‘No.’
‘So where does Rafe figure in all this?’
Helen stiffened. ‘He doesn’t.’
‘Are you sure?’ Melanie looked concerned. ‘Helen, I know you don’t want to talk about this, but——’
‘Then don’t,’ said Helen quickly, closing the discussion. ‘Tell me about this young man you went out with instead. I don’t think your father entirely approves. The description he gave me was hardly flattering!’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SIX weeks later, Helen found herself driving through the Wiltshire countryside once again. It was almost the end of April, and the rolling fields and thorny hedges looked much different now from the way they had looked two months before. There were catkins on the trees, and the hawthorn was in blossom; and the sky that arched above her was a periwinkle blue.
Yet, in spite of the brilliance of the day, Helen was not enjoying it. Just being here, only a few miles from her old home, was enough to dampen her spirits, and every familiar signpost gave her a gnawing ache in the pit of her stomach.
When Melanie had first learned of the sale at Faveringham, which was only fiften miles away from Howarth, she had immediately discarded the information. But an unwary word from Mr Stubbs had alerted Helen to its potential, and she had at once tackled her friend over her decision to scrap their involvement.
‘Well, you don’t want to go, do you?’ Melanie had exclaimed impatiently. ‘And I can’t. With the by-election coming up, and Daddy standing as an independent and all, I’ve got to be here to help out.’
‘Why shouldn’t I go?’ Helen had demanded crisply. ‘I’ve got to get on with my life, Melanie. Now that Adam’s no longer on the scene, I’ve a living to earn, whether I like it or not. And avoiding a sale at Faveringham, just because it’s near Castle Howarth, is not going to help, is it?’
‘What about Rafe?’
The words were out before Melanie could prevent them, and Helen had to school her features, before saying quietly: ‘What about him?’
‘Well—aren’t you afraid he might be at the sale?’ suggested Melanie, obliged to elucidate. ‘Faveringham Hall used to be quite a show-place. I imagine the sale will attract a lot of attention.’
Helen managed to squash Melanie’s doubts, but her words had aroused some of her own. What if Rafe did decide to attend the auction? What if he came because he thought she might be there? But that was purely wishful thinking, she acknowledged bitterly. After the way she and Rafe had parted, any temptation he might have to attend would be tempered by his desire to avoid any possible communication between them.
Nevertheless, the nearer Helen came to Faveringham, the more she found herself thinking about Rafe, and what changes he might have made at Castle Howarth. It was useless to pretend she wasn’t interested. She was. But the idea of seeing him again filled her with alarm, not least because of her own vulnerability where he was concerned.
She had lunch at the Plough in Hazelhurst and, although she ate little of the ham and salad they provided for her, she decided to book a room for the night. The little pub was neat and clean, and near enough to Faveringham without actually being on the doorstep. She knew the pubs nearer the Hall would be busy with other dealers down from London, and she preferred the anonymity of staying far enough away to avoid recognition.
After lunch, she drove the seven miles to Faveringham and spent the afternoon browsing through the rooms where furniture and porcelain, glassware and paintings, had all been stacked and numbered ready for the following day’s sale. She marked several items in her catalogue, most particularly some water-colours by lesser-known British artists, some of which would find homes with their American clientele. She had few hopes of ever finding another old master, hidden away behind a contemporary landscape, but she had proved herself discerning when it came to choosing what might be popular.
She recognised a number of other dealers consulting their catalogues and making notations, but happily there were few sightseers today, and she was able to leave without encountering anyone she knew. Getting into the Porsche, she drove back to the Plough in time for opening, and drank a glass of white wine in the bar before retiring to her room to take a shower.
The afternoon had mellowed into a fine evening, the days lengthening considerably now that the spring was well and truly advanced. After enjoying a lazy soak in the bath—there had proved to be no shower—Helen applied a little light make-up and dressed in cream baggy trousers and a matching hip-length jacket. A peacock-blue shirt complemented a complexion paler than she would have wished and, for a change, she secured her hair in a loose knot, allowing several strands to stray enticingly over the collar of her jacket. Her appearance did not please her, however. She had the distinct suspicion she was dressing with Rafe Fleming in mind. She didn’t usually take this much trouble when she was on a working assignment. But the insidious thought had crossed her mind that the restaurant at the Plough was evidently popular, and if he did turn up for a meal, he was not going to be able to say
she looked a mess.
In the event, she ate her solitary dinner without encountering any eyes but those of a young farmer who was propped against the bar. Obviously, he was most intrigued as to why an apparently sophisticated young woman should be dining alone in such rustic surroundings. But Helen gave him no encouragement, and her cool reflection of his gaze eventually cooled his interest.
Walking outside in the unexpected warmth of the evening, Helen was half inclined to regret her impetuosity. It would have been nice to have someone to talk to now, instead of facing two or three hours of television before bed. She could hardly sit in the bar after what had happened. And regretfully, she had no other choice.
Her eyes alighted on the telephone-box, situated just outside the pub yard. She could always ring Melanie, she supposed. But, remembering her friend had said she would be canvassing with her father for most of the evening, that was not really a viable proposition.
The unwilling memory of the nearness of Castle Howarth again stirred in her thoughts. The estate was about fifteen miles beyond Faveringham, if she took the main road. But, if she used the minor roads between Hazelhurst and Howarth, she could cut the distance by at least ten miles.
She sighed. So what? Why was she even considering the distance? There was no way she could go and call on Rafe, even if she wanted to. She had no excuse, for a start, and besides, what would it achieve? Only that she was actually contemplating the advantages of accepting an offer that had been made for all the wrong reasons!
But the thought persisted and, digging her hands into the pockets of her jacket, she walked towards the telephone-box and peered inside. It was one of the old phones, she saw with some poignancy, the kind you put your money in when the person you were calling answered. There was even a directory, almost new, not all scruffy like those she had seen in London. Yelversley Area, it said on the cover, including Hazelhurst, Faveringham, and—Howarth.
With a glance behind her, as if to assure herself she was unobserved, Helen stepped into the telephone-box. With trembling fingers, she thumbed through the pages until she came to the one headed Prescott to Rafferty. Then, allowing her finger to trail down the column, she searched for Pride, A. There were, surprisingly, several Prides, but no Pride, A, and none listed as residing at Copse Cottage.
Helen uttered an imprecation and flipped back to the front of the book. Of course, she thought impatiently. The directory was more than six months out of date. Mrs Pride’s number—should she have one—would not yet be listed. But directory inquiries would know it.
Ignoring the small voice that was plaintively demanding to know why she was taking this trouble to get a number she was unlikely to call anyway, Helen dialled 192 and asked if Mrs Amelia Pride of Copse Cottage had a listing. She had. It was Howarth 5472 and, thanking the operator, Helen made a mental note of the number. Howarth 5472, she repeated to herself to lodge it in her memory, and then, as if to prove she was still in control of her own destiny, she pushed open the door again and emerged into the car-park.
She was halfway to the lighted entrance of the pub when the compulsion to ring the old housekeeper became too urgent to ignore. Giving in to a totally irrational need to speak to someone who had known her since she was a child, she practically ran back to the phone-box and dialled Mrs Pride’s number.
It was answered at the third ring, and Helen’s throat constricted at the sound of the old woman’s familiar voice. ‘This is Howarth 5472,’ Mrs Pride announced with the stiffness of one unused to answering the telephone. ‘Who is calling?’
‘It’s me. Helen,’ said Helen breathlessly. ‘How are you, Mrs Pride? How are you enjoying your retirement?’
There was a stunned silence, and then Mrs Pride said disbelievingly: ‘Helen! Helen, is that really you? Where are you calling from? The house? You sound so near!’
‘I’m in Hazelhurst,’ replied Helen, after only a second’s hesitation. ‘You know—just beyond Faveringham.’
‘I know where Hazelhurst is,’ exclaimed Mrs Pride, rapidly recovering her composure. ‘In heaven’s name, what are you doing in Hazelhurst at this time of night?’
‘I’ve come down for the sale,’ said Helen evenly. ‘Have you heard that the Hall’s being sold?’
‘Faveringham Hall?’ Mrs Pride sounded disapproving. ‘I don’t know what the world’s coming to. All those lovely old houses being sold for hotels and the like. Did you know Ralph Markham has put High Tor up for sale?’
‘No, I didn’t.’ Helen felt an uneasy tremor in her stomach. ‘Surely—surely he’s not short of money.’
‘Well, that’s as may be. All I know is, he and Mrs Markham are planning to go and live in South Africa. Apparently Mrs Markham has some relatives out there, and now that Mr Julian’s getting married …’
‘Oh—is he?’ Helen moistened her lips. ‘I—er—what about Antonia?’
‘Huh!’ Mrs Pride snorted. ‘Who knows? That one may not be moving so far away.’
Helen’s tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Only that she’s spending a lot of time at the house these days,’ replied the old housekeeper brusquely. ‘Didn’t you know? Ever since the funeral, she’s been hanging about here, driving—or riding—over on the slightest pretext, from what I hear.’
Helen swallowed. ‘Rafe—Rafe told you that?’
‘Not Rafe, no.’ Mrs Pride sounded scornful. ‘The less I see of that young man, the better.’
‘Why?’ Helen was confused. ‘I should have thought——’
‘It’s the people he’s hanging about with these days,’ retorted Mrs Pride shortly. ‘People like Antonia Markham and that crowd she goes about with. Since Rafe had the place renovated, there are always cars parked on the drive and, according to Connie, the parties go on half the night.’
‘Connie!’ Helen was too bemused by what Mrs Pride was telling her to recognise the name, and the housekeeper jogged her memory.
‘Connie Sellers,’ she exclaimed. ‘You remember her, don’t you? From the funeral?’
‘Oh—yes.’ Helen ran nervous fingers over her temple. ‘And—that’s how you know what’s going on?’
‘From Connie, yes.’ Mrs Pride grunted. ‘Not but what it’s put her nose out of joint, too,’ she added acidly. ‘I never did tell you about her, did I? How she married poor old Bryan for his money, and then set about seducing half the village! Always had her eye on Rafe though, and when we needed someone to help out, well——’
‘I—don’t think Mrs Sellers’ affairs are anything to do with me,’ murmured Helen, wanting to silence her before she said something irrevocable. ‘I—I—I’m sorry things aren’t working out.’
‘So am I.’ Mrs Pride was fervent. ‘I hate to think what Her Ladyship must be feeling, if she knows what’s going on. It was never her wish that Antonia Markham should become the mistress here!’
Helen caught her breath. ‘Is—that likely?’ The question was hard to articulate, but even after she had got it out, she was shocked by her anguished reaction to Mrs Pride’s words.
‘It’s what she’s hoping for,’ said the housekeeper sourly. ‘She did her best to get her claws into him about five years ago, but Lady Elizabeth was not having that.
‘I see.’ Helen took a trembling breath.
‘Anyway, why don’t you come over?’ suggested Mrs Pride suddenly. ‘Not tonight, of course. It’s a bit late for me. I’m generally in bed by about ten o’clock. I used a bit of that money your grandmother left me to buy myself a portable television, and so I take it up to bed with me. It’s got one of them remote-control gadgets. You know, one of those things that switches it off and on.’ She chuckled. ‘But you don’t want to know about that. As I say, why don’t you pop over tomorrow? You could come for tea. I’d like that, making tea for you in my own home.’
In fact, it was almost six o’clock when Helen turned the Porsche into the gates of the estate the following afternoon. The paintings she had wanted to bid f
or had not come under the hammer before half past four, and she considered herself lucky to have acquired three out of the four she had coveted. Her mind hadn’t really been on her work, and as she drove through the rolling parkland that bordered the road, blind panic was causing her hands to freeze up on the wheel. She shouldn’t have come, she told herself fiercely, wondering if she could turn the Porsche between the two ditches that flanked the rough road. She should drive straight back to Hazelhurst, pack her bags, and leave. By persisting in this foolishness, she was simply inviting disaster.
At least she didn’t have to drive past the house itself. Before the rise that hid Castle Howarth from public view, a narrow track curled away to her right, angling along the bluff of land that overlooked the home-farm. Mrs Pride’s new home was some distance farther on, standing in the lee of the copse of evergreens that gave the cottage its name.
Glimpsing the cottage, nestling in its hollow, Helen gave up all thought of returning to Hazelhurst without seeing the old housekeeper. Smoke was issuing from one of its squat chimneys, and she guessed Mrs Pride would have the table set and waiting for her visitor. She couldn’t disappoint her—not without feeling a sense of contempt for her own selfishness.
But, as she changed gear to begin the descent to the cottage, two riders appeared over the bluff. The horses must have been hidden by the overhang. Now, however, they emerged on to the rough track only a few yards in front of her, and she had to brake to avoid a collision.
It was Rafe and Antonia Markham. He was not wearing a hat, but even without the distinctive lightness of his hair, Helen would have recognised Rafe’s lean-muscled frame anywhere. Even though, initially, he had his back to her, the deceptively indolent set of his shoulders was unmistakable, the way he controlled the plunging chestnut mare indicative of his strength.
Antonia, meanwhile, was trying to calm her own mount. She was riding a grey gelding with white markings, an excitable creature that seemed likely to unseat her. Already her hat was askew and her stock had come unfastened, and she was casting a killing glance towards the driver of the Porsche when Rafe leant across and took a firm grip on the gelding’s bridle. Whatever he said to the animal seemed to calm it, but his face was as set and angry as Antonia’s when he looked in Helen’s direction.
