Lady of Hay

by Barbara Erskine

  Sam stood in the doorway, surveying the scene over the shoulder of Tim’s other assistant, Caroline, who had run down the long flight of stairs in answer to his ring. His gaze rested on Tim and he frowned.

  The young man on the dais stretched ostentatiously. “I’ll have to take the dog out for a crap soon, Tim, old son. Hurry it up a bit, for Christ’s sake.”

  Tim ignored him. He waved George a few feet to the left and bent once more over the camera.

  Sam slid into a chair at the back of the studio and sat watching the scene. It was half an hour before Tim had completed the session to his satisfaction and the young man and his dog dispatched out into the street. Caroline whispered at last in Tim’s ear and he turned, seeing Sam for the first time as he sat in the shadows.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Franklyn, I didn’t realize there was anyone here.”

  They surveyed one another warily as George and Caroline plunged the dais into darkness and slowly began to tidy away the props. Tim moved toward Sam slowly. He was suddenly feeling very tired. “What can I do for you?”

  Sam stood up and extended a hand with a relaxed smile. “I wanted to talk to you about Joanna. You were with her in Wales, I gather.”

  Tim headed for the kitchen. He found two cans of beer in the refrigerator and handed one to Sam. “Jo is an old friend and a colleague of mine, Dr. Franklyn. I don’t talk about my friends behind their backs.”

  A look of veiled amusement crossed Sam’s face for a split second. Almost instantly the expression was bland once more. “All I wanted to know was whether she seemed well and happy. As you may know, I have been helping her with her problems.”

  “She told me,” Tim said shortly.

  “So. How was she?” Sam’s eyes were suddenly probing as they sought and held the other man’s.

  Tim ripped the ring off his can of beer and flicked it into the corner. He looked away. “She was all right.”

  “Did she have any regressions while you were there?”

  “That was what we went for.”

  “Of course. How many did she have?”

  Tim walked to the side of the studio and pulled at the lever that slid the blinds back from the huge skylights, flooding the whole area with sunlight. “Two or three.”

  Sam narrowed his eyes. “Did they distress her?”

  “The whole thing distresses her, Dr. Franklyn. The fact that she could not at first regress under self-hypnosis frightened her, then when it did happen, the experience itself frightened her. Waking up and having to leave that other world behind to come back to this one frightens her too.”

  “So. She was frightened. But she displayed no physical symptoms afterward. Bruises? Cuts, aches and pains that were inexplicable?”

  Tim thought for a moment. “No.”

  “Do you have the photographs you took of her?”

  Tim frowned. “I don’t know that I should show them to you without her permission.”

  “I’m her doctor, man. I’m in charge of her case.”

  “Her case?” Tim glanced at him sharply. “I wasn’t aware that Jo was a case.”

  “Tim?” George appeared behind them. “Shall I start on the film?” He glanced curiously at Sam, who ignored him.

  Tim nodded impatiently. “Let Caroline help you.” He waited as the two of them collected the cameras and left the studio, then he turned back to Sam. “Is she still in Wales?” he asked.

  Sam nodded. “My brother has gone to her.”

  A wave of near physical pain swept over Tim and he turned away sharply, trying to hide his face, conscious that Sam was watching him closely. He had a feeling that this man could read his mind.

  “I’ll get the photos,” he said. He moved hastily across the studio and, unlocking a cabinet, produced a portfolio. He laid it on a large table and snapped on the harsh overhead light that hung low over the table, then pushed the folio toward Sam.

  Slowly Sam opened it. His face was impassive as he turned over each successive photo. The pictures of scenery, the castles, the mountains, he barely glanced at. His attention was fixed solely on Jo.

  Tim walked away miserably. He threw the empty beer can into a bin and went back into the kitchen for another. His guest, he noticed, had barely touched his own. The kitchen seemed suddenly very stark and bare; the white fittings had a surrealist glow in the slanting light from the sun filled studio. It was like a morgue.

  He stood in the doorway drinking his beer fast, watching Sam’s face, which was floodlit by the working lights. Like a Rembrandt painting, he thought suddenly, the one of the doctors leaning over the table staring at the corpse. He shuddered violently at the analogy. “She said it made her feel naked,” he said, joining Sam by the table. “Me, photographing her like that.”

  Sam did not look up. “Her expression is certainly very revealing,” he said guardedly. “Photographs can tell you so much about the subject.” He paused. “And about the photographer.” He glanced at Tim and Tim stepped abruptly backward, shocked at the open dislike, even hatred, he saw in the other man’s eyes.

  For a moment they held one another’s gaze, then Sam looked away. He laughed. “Perhaps I’m wrong, but I don’t think so.” He closed the portfolio and pushed it aside. “Are these all you have?”

  “That’s all.” Tim’s voice was very dry. He did not allow his eyes to wander toward the portrait on the easel beneath its cover.

  Sam folded his arms, straightening. “I knew there was someone else,” he said softly. “I didn’t know who it was until now. Have you been regressed?”

  Tim did not reply for a moment. His instinct told him to be very careful. Sam was dangerous. He wished, as so often these days, that his head was clearer. “Yes,” he said at last. “I’ve been regressed.”

  Sam nodded slowly. “So,” he said, almost to himself. “Now there are three.”

  “Three?” Tim echoed.

  Sam smiled. “The three men who loved the Lady Matilda.”

  Tim stared at him. “And you are one of the three,” he said thoughtfully after a moment.

  “Me?” Sam said. “Let us say I’m an observer. Just an observer.” He picked up his beer can and raised it to his lips. “For now, anyway.”

  27

  Jo had fallen first to her knees, then slowly down until she was sprawled on the grass, her head near a lump of roughly shaped stone. Nick knelt beside her. “Jo!” he called urgently. “Jo, for God’s sake, can you hear me?”

  His anger had vanished, the sudden unsought surge of antagonism gone. He took off his shirt and rolled it up, gently pushing it beneath her head, and, worried by her stillness, felt for the pulse in her wrist. It was there, quick and light, but steady, her breathing shallow. As he knelt, helplessly watching her, she flung out her arm with a little painful cry.

  “Jo?” he whispered. “Jo, where are you? Can you hear me?” There was no response. Her eyes did not open; her face was still.

  He chafed her hand gently as the thunder rumbled closer behind them and he saw a flicker of lightning in the valley. “Jo, love, you must wake up. We can’t stay up here in the rain. Jo!” He spoke more loudly, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her. She groaned and her eyes opened, but she did not see him. Her gaze went past him to the distant hills.

  “Please, no,” she whispered. “Please.”

  “Jo! You must wake up.” Nick shook her again, more roughly this time. “Jo. Come on! Listen to me.” He let her fall back with a sigh, and touched her face lightly with the tip of his finger. “Are you with him again, Jo? Is Lord de Clare there?” His jaw tightened. “Are you lying in his arms at this very moment?” He clenched his fists. “Why here, Jo? What happened here? What triggered it off?”

  She didn’t answer. Far away in the mists of that other storm, Matilda was staring at the streaming torches of the frightened soldiers.

  A heavy drop of rain fell on Nick’s naked back. He glanced up, aware suddenly of how close the storm had come. The sky overhead was indigo above the
soft weight of the slate-bellied clouds. Two more drops fell on Jo’s white blouse as he stared down at her trying to control the conflict of strange emotions inside himself. “Christ!” he cried out loud suddenly. “Oh, Jesus Christ!”

  He bent over her and kissed her fiercely, his eyes closed as he felt the complex web of anger and frustration and desire ride over him. Then it was gone as fast as it had come and he was aware only of the fact that he was kneeling on the bleak mountainside with an unconscious woman and that it was about to pour with rain. He scrambled to his feet and, gently extricating the shirt from beneath her head, shrugged it on. Then he stooped and lifted her from the ground. Slowly he began to descend back toward the car, holding Jo in his arms, wary of the steep ground that was slippery now beneath the rain. He had gone perhaps half the distance back toward the lane when he heard a shout. The rain was falling harder now. He shook his head to clear it from his eyes, conscious of the sweat standing on his forehead. His heart was pounding. Jo was slim, but she was tall, and already her weight was exhausting him, tearing at the muscles of his arms and shoulders.

  “Wait, man, wait! I’ll help you!” The figure was gesticulating now as it appeared out of the rain, a black-and-white collie at his heels. “An accident, was it?” He was beside Nick now, a small man in plus fours, incongruous with shirt sleeves and a flat cap against the rain. Nick gently lowered Jo’s feet to the ground, supporting her weight on his shoulder, gasping for breath.

  “She fainted,” he said after a moment, noting with relief the broad shoulders and sinewy arms of his rescuer. “I had to try to get her out of this rain.”

  “Put her arm around my neck, here. I’ll give you a hand.” The man spoke with calm authority. “We’ll get her to my car, see. It’s only down there.” He gestured to a stony track leading up from the lane. In the dancing lightning Nick could see a silver Range Rover drawn up on the grass immediately below them.

  Between them they lifted Jo into the back, her head cushioned on a blanket. Then Nick climbed in beside her as their rescuer vaulted into the driver’s seat, the dog beside him. Outside the rain became heavier every second, drumming on the roof, surrounding them in a wall of streaming water as it poured down the windshield and slammed against the windows.

  The man turned, his elbow over the back of his seat. “They’re the devil, these storms. They come so fast then in ten minutes the sun is out again. Is that your Porsche I saw a couple of miles back?”

  Nick nodded. “We walked farther than I realized.” The man was staring down at Jo. He nodded. “Easy to do in the mountains. And in this funny old weather too. Will we take the lady to the hospital? It’ll be easier in this, I reckon.”

  Nick stared down at Jo. She was deathly pale, her head rolling sideways as the man turned back to peer through the windshield, beginning to ease the car forward slowly up the rutted lane. Her hands were ice-cold, her breathing very shallow. Nick rubbed her hand gently. After finding another blanket covered in dog hairs, he laid it over her. With a sigh he nodded at the man’s back. “Yes, please,” he said. “I’d be very grateful if you would take us to the hospital.”

  ***

  Jo awoke in the hospital, disoriented and afraid, and meekly she submitted to a barrage of tests before at last she was discharged by a puzzled doctor who could find nothing more wrong than a possible allergy to electrical storms. Deeply relieved that she appeared to be all right, Nick phoned Margiad Griffiths and told her to expect them back in Hay that evening.

  ***

  “You poor child. Come on up. I’ll help you to your room,” Mrs. Griffiths met Jo at the door as Nick pulled their suitcases from the car. “I’m just so very sorry you couldn’t come here on Wednesday when you asked, but we were so full up, we were.” She took Jo’s elbow in her hand and firmly guided her toward the stairs. “Your fiancé said you’d share a room. I hope that is all right?”

  Jo nodded wearily. “That’s fine, Mrs. Griffiths, thank you.”

  “And that nice Mr. Heacham?” Mrs. Griffiths asked curiously as she stopped on the landing, panting.

  “Has gone back to London. He was a colleague, as I told you.”

  The other woman sniffed loudly. “Colleague he might have been, my dear. But he was very much in love with you. But you know that of course.”

  Jo gently removed her arm from Mrs. Griffiths’s protective clutch. “Yes, I know,” she said bleakly.

  “May we see our room?”

  Jo jumped visibly as Nick’s voice came from immediately behind them on the stairs. He was carrying their suitcases.

  Flustered, Mrs. Griffiths threw open the door opposite them. “There,” she said. “I hope you like it.” She shot a nervous glance at Nick.

  The room was a large one. Two single beds with a foot space between them faced the windows that looked out onto the street. The bedspreads and curtains were of primrose yellow chintzy material and the carpet moss-green. Jo walked to the window and threw it open, staring out at the quiet houses opposite. She was trembling slightly. “This is a lovely room. Thank you.”

  Mrs. Griffiths preened herself visibly. “I wanted you to have the best this time, my dear. Now, Mr. Franklyn said you’d like supper in, so I’ve put on a nice piece of lamb. It’ll be ready about eight, if that is all right with you.” She smiled from one to the other. “My Ted, he loved my cooking when he was alive. He always said my lamb roasts were the best he’d ever tasted. Now”—she looked around with quick confident possessiveness—“I think you’ll find you’ve everything you need. But you’ve only to call downstairs if you can think of anything.” She glanced nervously at Nick once more as he opened the door for her and ushered her out, then he closed it firmly behind her.

  He spun to face Jo. “So, even she could see that Tim Heacham is in love with you!”

  Jo froze. Slowly she turned to face him. “Tim has gone back to London, Nick. He came here to take photographs. That was all.”

  “Did you sleep with him?”

  She walked across to the nearest bed and pulled her suitcase up onto it. “I didn’t sleep with Tim, no.”

  She had still been Matilda when she had slipped into Tim’s arms, and he? Surely for a few hours he had been once again Richard, Earl of Clare. She looked up and met Nick’s eye steadily for a moment before beginning to pull clothes from her bag. That hard suspicious face, the tightened jaw, the eyes cold with anger. He had changed again to that other Nick. The Nick who had made her so afraid because he reminded her of an arrogant Plantagenet prince. She swallowed hard, trying to put the thought out of her mind, shaking out her two dresses, hoping he would not see how her hands were trembling. “Are there any coat hangers in the closet, Nick?” She forced herself to sound normal. “I think I should change for this sumptuous dinner, don’t you?” She gave him a hesitant smile. “I’ll have a shower and get the smell of hospital out of my hair.”

  He picked up his own bag and flung it on the other bed. “Right, I’ll have one after you.” He grinned at her suddenly as he pulled out a fresh shirt. He was himself again.

  Jo picked up her bathrobe and washing things and opened the door, glad to escape. She wanted to be alone, to think; to try to face the terrible suspicion that was becoming every second more real in her mind—that Nick had once been John, King of England, the man responsible for her death.

  She closed the door behind her softly and took a deep breath. Below her Mrs. Griffiths was climbing the stairs once again. She came to an abrupt halt as she saw Jo with her hand on the handle of the door.

  “Miss Clifford, I forgot to tell you. After you left here on Wednesday a Miss Gunning called from London. She said I was to tell you if I saw you again to call her urgently. You can use the phone in the parlor if you like.”

  Jo frowned. She glanced at her watch, then back at the bedroom door. “I might just catch her before she goes out. Thank you. I’ll phone straight away.” She followed Mrs. Griffiths down the stairs. “She’s my boss, in a manner of speaking,” she
said apologetically as Mrs. Griffiths showed her the phone in what was obviously her private sitting room. “I’ll pay for the call.”

  Bet was in the bath.

  “Jo? Thank Christ you’ve called! Where are you?”

  Jo looked around the small neat room with its deep armchairs with spotless antimacassars. She could smell the lamb cooking.

  “Back in Hay. What is so urgent, Bet?”

  “Jo, love, I’m not sure how to say this, but I had lunch with Nick on Wednesday. We talked quite a bit. Jo, listen, I think he’s going to try to come after you. I know this sounds crazy, but I think he’s dangerous. I think he’s out of his mind. He really hates you, Jo. God knows what’s got into him, but I think he is capable of trying to kill you!”

  There was a moment’s silence, then Bet’s voice rang out again in the quiet room. “Jo? Jo, are you there? Did you hear what I said?”

  “I heard,” Jo said softly.

  “And?”

  “And I hope you’re wrong.” Jo’s voice was bleak. “I hope to God you’re wrong…”

  ***

  In London Judy Curzon was staring curiously around the small neat living room of the house in Gloucester Avenue. Everything was immaculately in place. The white sofa with two geometrically designed black-and-white cushions, the only furniture besides a white table and a phalanx of bookshelves down one wall, holding, besides hundreds of books, a stereo system, video recorder and television, and a rank of indexed filing boxes.

  “A drink, Judy?” Pete Leveson followed her into the room after closing the front door.

  “Thank you.” She was still looking around with interest.

  Noticing, he gave a rueful smile. “This is all the furniture left after my first two wives cleaned me out. It’s all one needs. Something to sit on, books, and music.”

  She took the glass from him. “My philosophy too. Only I make my guests sit on hard stools, or the floor.” She gingerly lowered herself onto the sofa. “Are you sure you don’t mind my coming over?”

  Pete walked over to the window. He threw up the lower sash and sat down on the white-painted window seat. “I’m glad you did. I needed some company. So, what’s new in Fulham?”