Dangerous Deception (12 page)

“I assure you I could have put it far more crudely. But if you will wear dresses like that, and perfume like that, and look – like that – you must be prepared to take the consequences.”

I stood up, the unfolded plan dangling from my hands. “I've no idea what you're talking about.” My voice was shaking.

“Then go, before you find out.”

His eyes, hard and unwavering, held mine, and in the stillness between us, the door handle rattled suddenly. In a panic my eyes dropped to the booklet. Where could I hide it in the split-second left to me?

I'd half turned towards the sofa, but Philip moved faster. In one movement he pulled me swiftly towards him, the incriminating map concealed between us, and his mouth came down on mine.

And this was nothing like his old, milk-and-water kisses that had made me sleepily romantic after tennis club dances. This was neat alcohol. I gasped, lost my breath, but his grip didn't slacken. Behind us the door had opened and, after a moment, gently closed, and still he went on kissing me, roughly and ruthlessly, as though punishing me somehow for being what he thought I was.

Finally he released me, turning away so abruptly that the map fell unheeded to the floor. My hands went to my bruised mouth. I said stupidly, “Philip!” and he gave a harsh laugh.

“That surprised you, didn't it? Is that how Bryn kisses you? No – don't answer that, I don't want to know. You should have gone when I told you. For God's sake go now.”

I went. Out in the hall, I put a hand to my face and found my cheeks were wet. I leant back against the door, helplessly wiping away the tears and trying to stop the weakening, bone-melting shaking that possessed me.

A voice said, “Miss Laurie – is something wrong?”

I turned to meet the concerned eyes of Andrew Dacombe, and tried to smile.

“Everything's been a bit of a shock, that's all.” I prayed he'd think I meant Dick Harvey.

“I know. Mrs Davies brought us fresh coffee, if you'd like to come to the lounge. It might help to steady you.”

Since my own cup had been left, barely tasted, in the cocktail bar, I let him take my arm and lead me across the hall, wondering dully who had opened the door and seen me with Philip.

The school-teachers, having put away their cards, were talking to Cindy, and Mair was in the act of removing the cold coffee urn. Her face reddened when she saw me, and she hurried out, avoiding my eyes.

“What's the matter with the girl?” Miss Bunting inquired, blinking nervously. “She seems very much on edge tonight.”

“We all are, my dear,” boomed Miss Norton.

Joan Bunting flushed. “Oh dear, how stupid of me!”

“I'll pour,” I said, for the second time in fifteen minutes, glad to have something to occupy me. My hand was no steadier than before, but no one made any comment. Andrew switched on the electric fire which stood in the hearth.

“Ah, that's better, Mr Dacombe!” Miss Norton drew her chair closer. She was still wearing that terrible puce.

Cindy said, “It's starting to get cooler in the evenings, isn't it?”

“It's hardly evening, my dear; must be at least eleven o'clock.”

“That late?” Miss Bunting twittered. “I hadn't realised; I hope the coffee won't keep me awake.”

“Everyone's delaying going up tonight,” Andrew said, his comic clown's face serious.

“And to think,” Miss Norton intoned, “that only last evening, poor Mr Harvey was sitting where you are now, Joan.”

Miss Bunting jumped nervously and looked behind her.

“
No man knoweth of his sepulchre
!” said Miss Norton with relish.

“Oh, please don't!” Cindy protested. She sounded close to tears.

Andrew said quickly, “I was fascinated to hear of your research, Miss Norton. Do you travel all round the world in search of fairy stories?”

I swallowed the hot coffee, my mind spinning.
Andrew?
Was this return to the subject for my benefit, or was he simply changing the conversation? I hadn't seriously considered him as Sinbad, but perhaps that was a mistake.

“Not, I fear, on a teacher's salary, Mr Dacombe,” Miss Norton was saying. “But during the holidays—”

As he politely listened to her, I studied him more carefully – the red-brown hair that wouldn't lie flat, the short nose and flared nostrils, the wide mouth. Not, surely, the face of a murderer? For if Dick Harvey's death had indeed been deliberate, it must surely be Sinbad who was responsible.

Cindy stood up and laid her cup and saucer on the tray, her pony-tail swinging over her shoulder as she bent forward, her long, bare legs glowing redly in the light from the fire.

Could
she be Goldilocks? I thought suddenly, as everyone's identity shifted in my mind yet again. If Bryn was as devious as Philip said, perhaps it wasn't ‘the Lawrence girl' after all.

Cindy – Cinderella—

“I think I'll go up, darling,” she was saying. “Somebody's got to make a move.”

Andrew nodded and got to his feet.

“So will I,” I said, unwilling to be left with the school-mistresses, and in any case anxious for this troubled and confusing day to end.

I followed them up the stairs, said good-night as we turned in opposite directions, and went into my room. At least this time it was empty.

I stopped suddenly. The brochure! I was supposed to be in charge of that! Had Philip got it? I'd been in no condition to think of it when I'd stumbled from the room. Suppose it had been kicked under the sofa and he'd forgotten it too?

I turned and ran quickly back down the stairs. The door to the television lounge was open and I ran straight in before I realised that someone had beaten me to it. Andrew Dacombe, whom I'd just left upstairs, turned quickly at my approach. For a moment we stared at each other. Then he said,

“Forgotten something?”

“I – can't find my hanky. I thought perhaps—”

“Sorry, I haven't seen it. Well, good-night again.”

“Good-night,” I echoed, watching him go from the room. It was hardly worth looking now; if the pamphlet had been here, Andrew would have found it. He'd seen me leave this room earlier – was that why he'd come back?

I shivered, uneasy at being alone down here. Quickly I ran my hand under the sofa and then, with an eye on the open door, felt between the heavy cushions. Nothing. I could only hope Philip had it, but there was no way I was going to ask him tonight.

I turned and almost ran from the room. Voices still came from the bar – perhaps Morgan was waiting there with my undrunk cup of coffee – but the lounge lights were off now. I ran on up the stairs.

Almost in my ear, a voice said, “Good-night, my dear!”

I whirled with an involuntary cry, to see Miss Hettie – or Miss Olwen – the light was too dim to distinguish any brooch – smiling at me. One thick grey plait hung over her shoulder, a horrible travesty, to my tortured mind, of Cindy's golden pony-tail. Youth and age.

The old lady nodded to me and continued on her way, her sponge-bag in her hand.

“Good-night,” I stammered belatedly, “Miss—”

“Hettie,” she supplied, and added as she closed the door, “the younger one.”

With shaking fingers I began to undress, and had just slipped on my dressing-gown when there was a tap at the door.

Instantly I froze, all the fears of the previous night sluicing over me as I gazed, mesmerised, at the knob, waiting for it to turn. It did not, and after a minute the tap came again, accompanied by Miss Norton's voice.

“Miss Laurie? You're not in bed already?”

The breath tearing at my lungs, I unsnipped the door and opened it a crack. She was standing smiling at me, a thick book in her hand.

“Sorry to disturb you, but I thought this might provide some bedtime reading. Volume One, as promised. I hope you find it interesting.”

I reached out to take it. “Thank you, I'm – sure I shall.”

She nodded. “Good-night to you, then.”

I closed and relocked the door, clutching the heavy book against me, and as my chaotic breathing quietened, sat down on the bed and opened it.

Unfortunately, my initial interest soon waned; though the subject was undeniably fascinating, the style of writing was so heavy and ponderous that I decided unfairly the only way it would form part of my bedtime reading would be as a substitute for sleeping pills.

Laying it on the table, I climbed into bed and switched off the light.

‘The splendour falls on castle walls …'

Tennyson:
The Princess

SOMEHOW, the night passed. The events of the day, which surely must have been the longest I had lived through, circled endlessly in my head: my walk on the hill with Clive; waiting for Aladdin and meeting Philip; the miserable afternoon at the beach, the news about Dick Harvey and, finally, the trauma of Philip's kiss. It was this last which was uppermost in my mind.

At length I flicked on the light and poured myself a glass of water. The hands on my little clock pointed reproachfully to ten past three. I drank the whole glassful in small, cold sips while I tried to reason with myself.

Philip's opinion of me was unchanged. I was, like him, an accessory to some sort of crime, hand-in-glove with the leader; the kind of girl to whom one kiss more or less was of little consequence – and his prime concern, let it be remembered, had been to conceal the brochure.

It was also as well to remind myself that he was himself ‘up to the neck in this unsavoury business', as he'd accused me of being. So, I reasoned, if this hostile, cold-eyed stranger had stirred me more with one brutal kiss than his counterpart had in over four years of gentleness, then that was my bad luck, and the sooner I forgot about it, the better.

I snapped off the light with a little click of finality, lay down again, and willed sleep to come. Eventually, it did.

It was cooler in the morning after all the rain, and I selected a pale yellow jumper and matching linen skirt. Today we were going to storm the castle, and dank stone corridors are apt to be chill.

Before going down to breakfast I shook out the dress I'd worn the previous evening and hung it in the wardrobe, leaving exposed on the chair the sweater Philip had lent me in the storm.

I picked it up carefully, as though it might bite me. It was still a little damp and smelled faintly of after-shave, and I put it hastily back on the chair. I could give it to him after breakfast; first, I had to face the ordeal of meeting him again, after our parting the night before.

I checked in the mirror that my two disturbed nights did not call for additional make-up, but I looked remarkably well. Only the shadows under my eyes, which I'd brought with me from London, had still not disappeared.

Philip was already in the dining-room, reading a Sunday newspaper. Dick Harvey's table, which yesterday had borne the marmalade-smeared plate, was bare. I averted my eyes as I went to join Philip. He stood up and pulled out my chair, his eyes wary.

“You're like an advertisement for instant sunshine.”

“I wish I felt like it.” I had not meant to sound bitter.

“Didn't you sleep well?”

“Not very.”

“Up to tackling the task in hand?”

“I've no option, have I?”

“The sun will probably break through later. I've ordered packed lunches, by the way, since we didn't get a chance to last night.”

Morgan, overhearing this as he passed our table, stopped and cocked an eyebrow. “A shade optimistic, aren't you? It's quite likely to bucket down again.”

“Then we'll eat in the car. I think Clare should get away for the day; hotels aren't the most cheerful places on Sundays, and this week it'll be even worse.” His eyes flicked to the empty table.

“No doubt you're right. Well, I hope it keeps fine for you.”

He moved on. Round the dining-room the tables began to fill up, and as I observed the strained eyes and pale faces of our fellow guests, I began to be glad we'd be away all day, even if I was less than comfortable in Philip's company.

His voice cut into my musings. “As you probably noticed, I had rather more to drink last night than I should have done.”

I looked up. If that was meant as an apology, it was one I could have done without.

I forced myself to speak lightly. “No problem. You have got the booklet, haven't you?”

He nodded.

“I panicked when I remembered it. In fact, I ran back to look for it, but—”

I broke off as Harry approached with the coffee, and for the rest of the meal no further reference was made to the subject uppermost in both our minds.

Our packed lunches were awaiting us on the reception desk.

“I'll get my mac,” I said.

I met Mair on the landing and handed her Philip's sweater to dry off. She said in a low voice, “I'm sorry, miss, about last night.”

“It's nothing to do with me, Mair.”

“No, miss, but I was that ashamed. You won't say anything, will you? To Mrs Mortimer, I mean?”

“Of course not, but for her sake rather than yours.”

Mair hung her head. “It was proper wicked. It won't happen again, miss.”

I left her with her guilty conscience and went downstairs, the mac over my arm. Philip had gone outside and was waiting for me by the car.

“I wonder if Clive
is
Sinbad?” I mused as we drove out of the hotel gateway. “He could have persuaded Mair to lend him my key so he could leave the note.”

“But what possible reason could he have given? Far too risky. Anyway, he can't be Sinbad – he's too busy being Bluebeard!”

I smiled in spite of myself.

“Frankly,” Philip added, “I don't understand your obsession with Sinbad. What does it matter who he is? We'll find out soon enough.”

I subsided quickly. True, to Philip it wouldn't matter, and it shouldn't to Goldilocks, either.