Dangerous Deception (14 page)

I said shakily, “Please, Philip—”

“And of course, by that time there was Bryn. I can see the attraction he must have had for you – dark, intense, the very antithesis of me. As you were at pains to point out yesterday.”

He turned suddenly, surprising the tears on my face. “Don't cry, Clare. It's past history, and I've learned my lesson. I shall never let myself be that vulnerable again.”

Past history for him, but only just starting for me. How shallow and selfish I'd been, using him for my own ends and discarding him with relief when he needed me most.

I said, and the effort of speaking at all tore at my throat, “How you must hate me.”

“No,” he contradicted quietly, “I've never hated you, though I came pretty near it yesterday, when I saw you waiting in the bar. Come on now, dry your eyes. There's nothing to be gained from a post-mortem at this stage – I don't know why I embarked on it. The past is well and truly over. For the record, are you going to marry Bryn?”

“No!” I said violently.

“Perhaps you're right; he's not the marrying kind. Well, after all that, are you ready to go on?”

I nodded. He didn't take my arm and we climbed stiffly, separately, my hands in fists against my sides. The sun had come out again, but I hardly noticed. The salt wind lifted my hair and blew it in a cloud across my face. In it, I could detect a lingering memory of the perfume I'd worn the night before – Philip's
Cabochard
.

We stopped again and turned to look back the way we had come. We were now almost on a level with the castle opposite, and its time-worn battlements faced us, grey and forbidding, across the intervening space. It struck me that we were studying it with much the same calculation as its enemies of old had done. How many of them had succeeded in storming it?

Below us, in the dip, we could see the collection of parked cars, our own among them. Just beyond them, at the foot of the path up to the castle, stood a small, white-washed cottage with some kind of table outside, round which half a dozen people were milling. The path itself was dotted along its length with tiny, bent figures, but our searching eyes could discern no other approach to the castle.

“The corridor must be on the sea side,” Philip remarked, his eyes narrowed against the sun. He was staring across, his fair hair blowing in the wind, his body braced, hard and firm, against it, and I felt a surge of irreparable loss such as I'd known when my parents were killed. He'd been mine, and I'd let him slip through my fingers. On cue, the words of a song my mother used to sing came into my head:
Careless hands, that can't hold on to love
.

I held my own hands straight out in front of me, looking down at them. They were long and slim and brown, and the circle of Philip's ring was no longer discernible.
Careless hands don't care when dreams slip through
.

“What on earth are you doing?” His amused voice broke into my introspection.

“Nothing,” I said, self-consciously putting my hands behind me.

“Well, we might as well go down. I can't see anything from this side that will be of any help.”

It was easier going downhill and we reached the car fairly quickly.

“Let's take an apple each to eat on the climb.” He unlocked the door and rummaged in the packages lying on the back seat. I wished dully we could get in and drive away without going near the castle, but Philip, apparently sharing none of my misgivings, had already relocked the door and was walking towards the cottage. I fell into step beside him.

As we drew nearer, I saw that on the table outside it were piles of postcards and pamphlets such as that passed to me by Sinbad, and the woman in charge was doing a brisk trade.

“You have got the brochure?” I asked belatedly, biting into the sweet, crisp fruit.

“Yes, in my pocket. We needn't waste money on another.”

Ahead of us a family with two children were already starting the ascent. The smaller child at once started to whine, and her father scooped her up and set off up the slope bearing her on his shoulders. Two other couples who had been purchasing brochures fell in behind us. As Sinbad had directed, we were now surrounded by ordinary holidaymakers; if only our presence here was as innocuous as theirs.

“How long will you stay on,” I asked Philip, “after Tuesday?”

“No longer than I can help. I'll catch up on my sleep on Wednesday and start for home the next day. What about you? No doubt you'll be wanting to get back and report to Bryn. It must be one hell of a strain for him, having to keep his distance, but he couldn't be seen near the Zimmermans. I must say, though, I'm surprised that Carol's not here.”

“Carol?” I said sharply.

“Carol Lawrence. After all, it was her baby.”

So I'd been right the first time: Carol Lawrence was Goldilocks. Of course – Bryn had asked for her when he phoned the Plas Dinas. ‘Miss Lawrence, is it?' Gareth had said, and I'd led him on to my own name.

We had reached the point where the proper ascent began. Philip flung his apple core into the long grass and looked up the steep path ahead of us. “Ready?”

I drew a deep breath. “Ready,” I echoed.

“Then – excelsior!”

Side by side, we set off for the castle.

‘Look here upon this picture, and on this;'

Shakespeare:
Hamlet

FROM the beginning, the going was harder on this side and for some time, intent on the climb, neither of us spoke. We had overtaken the couple with the children and there was no one within earshot when Philip remarked suddenly, “I hope they haven't got a dog at that cottage; it might bark at an awkward moment.”

“That would be all we need.”

He flung me a mocking, sideways glance. “Cheer up, Clare, remember you're doing this for love!”

“Well, you're certainly not,” I retorted. “Why
are
you doing it, Philip?”

“Just for the hell of it, I suppose. The element of risk, outwitting authority.”

“Not to mention,” I added spitefully, “defrauding the insurance companies, in other words your step-father. Your own personal revenge.”

“How very astute of you, dear Clare.” His voice was light enough, but there was a dangerous undercurrent. That, I realised, was what he'd meant about my hurting Matthew; I hadn't known, then, that insurance was involved.

The track twisted and looped its way up the steep hillside, bringing us ever nearer to the ancient battlements towering above us until, rounding the final bend, we saw the gateway directly ahead – the entrance to the castle.

I paused, holding my side and gasping for breath after the steep climb. Philip ran a hand testingly over the heavy hinge and looked at his fingers. “Oil,” he said softly. “Well maintained – it must be closed every night.”

“You'd think,” I remarked acidly, “that after resisting the Normans and Cromwell, it wouldn't have too much trouble keeping us out.”

Philip opened the booklet and read aloud. “
This magnificent fortress, standing four hundred feet high and surrounded on three sides by steep, almost vertical precipices, could be taken only by surprise or by starvation
.

“I plump for surprise. It's in a state of ruin anyway – we could easily climb over some of these walls.”

“With a four-hundred foot drop below?”

“On this side, you goose.”

“Morning sir, miss.” A peak-capped figure ambled towards us. “That'll be one-fifty each, if you please. Grand day after yesterday, isn't it?”

“It is indeed,” Philip answered pleasantly. “I suppose rain's not very good for business?”

The man shook his head. “Had to close early. A blow, that, slap in the middle of the busy season.”

“What time are you usually open till?”

“Five-thirty, sir.”

He touched his cap and moved on to the couple who'd come up behind us.

“Gatehouse on the left, guard-room on the right,” Philip murmured, referring to the plan. “I think our passage must be over there. It looks as though we have to go down some steps.”

I said quickly, “Well, now we're here, we might as well see everything else first.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Playing the tourist, are we?”

“As instructed,” I reminded him. “I meant to ask when you had the map out: how far is Pen-y-Coed from here?”

“Five or six miles up the coast.” He glanced at me. “Let's be logical about this.
If
this was where Harvey made his discovery, and he came back to check it the next day, why would he waste time going on to Pen-y-Coed? Surely his most likely course would be either to hot-foot it back to the hotel and a phone, or drive to Cardiff or Swansea to report the find in person. You said he mentioned contacting the authorities.”

“But he was found at Pen-y-Coed,” I said stubbornly.

“Exactly. Which to my mind means he was never here at all. There's not a shred of evidence to prove he was, nor, for that matter, that his death wasn't accidental. For my money, he dug up some sort of artefact, perhaps in a cave on the cliffs, and when he returned to re-examine it, he slipped, lost his footing, and fell to his death.”

Admittedly it sounded plausible, and I wished I could believe it. I'd much prefer Dick's death to have been an accident rather than a deliberate act of violence.

Continuing our exploration, we wandered through an archway into what had once been the Great Hall. Stone steps, hollowed in the centre by centuries of wear, led at one end to a ruined gallery, opposite which was the remains of an enormous chimney. I went over to the deep window embrasure and looked through the slit-like opening at the sunlit hillside.

Below me, the rocks on this northern face fell sheer and steep, while to the right fields spread out to the horizon. In one of them, minute in the distance, a tractor was at work. On my left, far below, lay the flat brown sands of low tide.

I turned to find Philip beside me. “Except for the tractor,” I commented, “the view can't have changed much over the centuries. It's easy to imagine them here, keeping watch for the approach of the enemy.”

“Well, the enemy is now within,” Philip said shortly. “Come on, we can't put it off any longer; let's have a look at that corridor.”

I sighed, turning reluctantly from the peaceful scene. The castle, magnificent even in its crumbling decay, depressed me. We returned to the courtyard and walked over to the far corner. Nearby, the family with the children were posing while the father took a photograph.

Philip said, “I'll go first. Watch your step.”

I followed him through the low entrance and down a flight of steps, and at once a dank, cold smell came to meet us, redolent of the past. On our right, a series of spy-holes provided the only source of light, directing their narrow beams on to the wall opposite, where they were all but absorbed by the damp stone. Philip started to count the apertures under his breath.

“There are more steps halfway along,” he warned over his shoulder. “They're bound to be slippery, and the rock even here is worn and uneven. Take care how you go.”

Cautiously, hands pressing against the walls for support, I went after him.

“Here are the steps now.”

He started down them and I followed. But despite my caution, my foot slid on a treacherous piece of rock, and before I could regain my balance, I'd hurtled down the remaining few steps, coming up hard against Philip. He caught my arms, holding me like a vice pressed tightly against him. Then, as I righted myself, his hands fell away.

“Did you hurt yourself?” He was breathing quickly.

“No. Sorry if I winded you; I lost my footing.”

“Don't twist your ankle, for God's sake – it's lethal down here. I'm not surprised everyone else is giving it a miss. All right to go on? That spy-hole is the sixth – three to go. You'd better take my hand.”

I did so, feeling his fingers tighten round mine. The little round holes were still appearing at regular intervals on our right. I peered through one as we passed, but all that was visible was sky and sea.

“Eight,” Philip counted, “nine. Now, one – two – three – four paces.” He stopped, and I of necessity with him. “Nobody behind us, is there?”

I looked back up the dark, echoing passage to the square of light at the far end. “Not a soul.”

“Keep your ears pricked.” He felt in his pocket for a torch, flicked it on, and bent to the left-hand wall. Then he gave a quick exclamation.

My heart did a somersault. “What is it?”

“Someone
has
been here; the edge of the stone's proud, look – it's not been completely pushed back.” He straightened, meeting my eyes. “Could be you were right after all. I'd better check; we don't want to go through all the rigmarole, only to find the cupboard is bare.”

I said quickly, “No, Philip, don't touch it – it's too risky. Someone could come in any minute – let's go back.”

“But dammit I have to look. If Harvey
was
here, he could have moved them somewhere else for safety, in which case we might as well pack our bags and go home.”

I stared at him, and he added succinctly, “We wouldn't have a hope of finding them, would we, now he's been done away with?”

Been done away with.
The phrase echoed ominously in my head. So now Philip accepted it, too. His fingers were scrabbling under the rock and slowly, surely, it began to inch out from the wall.

“I'm not sure how heavy this is.” His voice came back to me, resounding against the dank stone. “Can you take one end?”

I slid my hands under the emerging slab and its ancient chill struck through to the core of my body. I shuddered.

“Hang on, Clare. Soon be – out – in the sunshine – again.”

He staggered against me as the stone came away, revealing a dark cavity. “Lower your end to the floor – gently – and we'll prop it against the far wall.”