Kitabı oku: «Sup With The Devil», sayfa 2
Her heart began to thud slowly and uncomfortably, as she tried to make sense of what he’d just said. Why did he talk about promises, and about not rushing her? He couldn’t pretend that one sunlit kiss had made any real difference to a man of his age and experience, no matter what effect it might have had on her. A totally calculated effect, as she now realised.
She said hurriedly, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. And you’ll have to excuse me now, please. I have things to do.’
‘Flowers to arrange, for one thing,’ he said, sounding amused. He reached to one of the bushes beside him, the lean strong fingers moving among the stems. He said, ‘Keep this one for yourself.’
It was the most perfect bloom, just beginning to open from its bud, creamy white with a hint of pink in the furled centre. Courtney stared down at it as if she was transfixed.
He went on, ‘You don’t have to invent chores and run away, Courtney. I’m going now. But I’ll be back.’
And that was a promise too, she thought, as she stood in the sunlight, and held the rose he had given her.
Even though three years had passed, Courtney could still remember the welter of emotion which had assailed her. What a child she had been! How accurately Blair Devereux had assessed her.
She had kept the rose in a crystal vase on her dressing table. It had been the last thing she had seen as she closed her eyes at night, and the first thing she had looked for too. Probably Blair had known that too. That would have been his intention. A constant reminder to keep her on her toes, and make her count the passing of the summer days.
But before the rose had begun to fade, that magic golden time was over for ever. The realisation that something was terribly wrong had dawned on her slowly. She had seen her father looking pale and ill, and questioned him, but he had dismissed her queries lightly, blaming overwork and the heat. Each evening he shut himself into the study, eating his dinner from a tray, and spending most of his time on the telephone. She tried to discuss her worries with Rob, but he didn’t seem interested.
The news of Geoffrey Devereux’s arrest at Heathrow had been like a bombshell. Overnight, she saw her father dwindle into an elderly man, and became aware that tension hung over their lives like a clenched fist.
She couldn’t believe what had happened. She kept repeating to herself, ‘It isn’t true. It can’t be true,’ like some mourning litany. It was impossible that the warm, kindly man who had been so safe and secure a part of her life for so long could be a betrayer, a criminal. If it was true, then any disaster seemed possible.
And disaster had come, each one falling like a hammerblow. She had tried hard to close her mind to that time, to look forward, only forward to a future which had to be better, but now she couldn’t stop the memories crowding thick and fast.
Blair had been one of them. She had never wanted to think about him again, but Robin’s casual comment had opened the floodgates.
He’d said he would be back, and he came, but not as she could ever have imagined. When he came, he was full of a dark and savage anger, which she supposed was natural because Geoffrey Devereux was his uncle, and was in prison on remand. It was a shattering shock for anyone, and they were terribly upset too, but that had not seemed to occur to him. And the first she had known of his presence in the house was when she had come downstairs that evening and heard the raised angry voices coming from the study …
Rob said curiously, ‘What’s the matter? You look like a ghost?’
She felt like a ghost, Courtney thought hysterically. There were ghosts everywhere, rising out of the past to torment her just when she thought they had been laid to rest for ever.
He said, ‘You’re not still brooding about Monty, are you? For heaven’s sake, Courtney …’
‘About him,’ she said tightly. ‘Among other things.’ The cottage suddenly seemed as small as he’d claimed, the walls closing in on her, even though she wasn’t normally claustrophobic. She swallowed. ‘I—I’m going out for a while. I think I’ll drive over to Hunters Court.’
‘What on earth for?’
She shrugged. ‘To see it one last time—before it comes under the hammer in more ways than one,’ she added ironically.
Rob flushed. ‘It won’t be as bad as you think.’
She lifted her hands, then let them fall helplessly at her side. It would be every bit as bad. She’d seen glossy brochures about some of Monty Pallister’s past projects—executive housing that seemed to have been specifically designed with midgets in mind, highly glazed office blocks, and gaudy shopping precincts in concrete in what Courtney suspected had once been pleasant high streets. Everything he touched, he spoiled, she thought, and Hunters Court would be no exception, and there had been a time when Rob would have seen this too. Now, he seemed to be deliberately blinding himself to the realities. She had always known how bitterly he had resented the disgrace that their association with Geoffrey Devereux had brought on them. To Rob, Monty Pallister was a way back to the good times.
But he’s wrong, she thought. Monty Pallister is a user. He doesn’t allow himself to be used. Rob could be heading for trouble if he thought otherwise. Then she checked herself. What use was there in worrying? He was set on this path, and nothing she had been able to say had deterred him one jot.
She started the Mini and drove with extra care out of the cramped yard, because she was on edge and that was when accidents happened.
As she drove through the lanes, she began to make herself relax. It was a pretty drive, especially today with a pale February sun straggling over the bare trees, and lifting a faint mist from the wet fields. The last week had been cold and raining, and it would have been appropriate to her mood if today had been the same. She didn’t want the promise of the sun. She felt as bleak as if spring would never come.
She thought perhaps she would leave. Good secretaries were always in demand, and there was nothing to keep her in the area. She would go somewhere else, and make a new life for herself, and forget everything that had happened, and everything that was going to happen.
There was a high stone wall concealing Hunters Court from the road. Courtney wondered whether that would remain when the alterations began. After all, Monty Pallister wouldn’t want to hide away his new possession. He’d want to advertise it, probably with neon lights, and she didn’t want to be here to see that.
The tall iron gates at the end of the drive stood open, but the estate agents’ sign had gone, she noticed. There had been high winds for a few days along with the rain, and it had blown down, and probably the agent had decided that as the auction was so near it wasn’t worth putting it up again. They would wait until they could put a sign saying ‘Sold’ up, because that would be a much better advertisement.
She drove slowly, looking steadily ahead of her at the view she had seen so many countless times, etching it on to her brain for all eternity.
By some irony, the house had never looked lovelier, its mellow stones unmasked by creeper. The Hallorans had cherished it, and it sprawled contentedly in the sunlight.
She blinked suddenly, because just for a moment the years rolled away, and she was a much younger Courtney, happily returning home for the school holidays. Her eyes sought the corner room on the first floor which had been hers in a swift surge of nostalgia. She had the oddest feeling that if she could look in through the uncurtained window, it would all be waiting for her there, totally unchanged, with the little davenport under the window, and the girl’s bed with its flowered and flounced coverlet, and the elegant pieces of walnut furniture all chosen for her by her father.
Courtney sighed swiftly. She was just being a fool. All the furniture had been sold long ago. There was nothing left at Hunters Court to remind her of the girl she had been, or the secure life she had enjoyed. She had managed to salvage one thing—her mother’s portrait which had always hung on the wide half-landing at the bend of the stairs. It was too large for her bedroom at the cottage where it now hung, and it was like living with an older version of herself which could be disconcerting at times. She barely remembered her mother who had died when she was three, and she had only recently become aware how like her she was—the same oval face, framed by the same cloud of dark hair, except that Courtney wore hers slightly smoother, and definitely longer—the same slightly tilted grey-green eyes, with the long dark lashes. Courtney often felt she had never felt the loss of her mother so keenly as in the past few years. She could have done with that serenity, the curve of humour in the well-shaped mouth. She needed someone to turn to, and Rob required someone to exercise some control over him, whether he knew it or not. Their father was too ill, and although there had been improvement over the past few months, they had to be careful not to agitate him.
Presumably Rob had taken this into account when he told him of the plan for Hunters Court, or at least Courtney hoped he had. She doubted all the same whether Rob would have been completely frank with his father. He could not imagine that James Lincoln would welcome the wholesale changes which would be bound to follow once Monty Pallister owned the property.
She parked the car at the front of the house and walked slowly up the shallow flight of steps which led to the terrace. The windows seemed to look down at her like reproachful eyes, and she concentrated on looking over the maintenance of the house with eagle eyes. But she couldn’t fault it. Paintwork, guttering and roof seemed to be in perfect order. There were bulbs showing faint green tips in the large ornamental urns along the terrace, and Courtney wondered whether they would ever have a chance to flower. Then she caught at herself impatiently. There was no point in thinking along these lines. She had come here to encapsulate some memories, not indulge in useless recriminations.
She tried the doors and french windows as she passed, but they were all securely locked, and in a way she was relieved. If there had been some means of ingress, the temptation would probably have proved too strong, and she had to come to terms with the fact that there was nothing left for her here.
A sudden chill breeze had sprung up, mocking the sunshine, and she turned up the collar of her sheepskin coat with a slight shiver as she descended the terrace steps at the side of the house and walked, her boot heels scrunching on the neatly raked gravel, along the path towards the gardens at the rear. There was a short cut through the yard which housed the stables and garaging, and she decided to take that, but as she turned under the arch, she saw something which brought her up short. There was a car parked there, a silver-grey Porsche. Courtney stared at it, frowning a little. It wasn’t a local registration, she noted, and yet the driver knew enough to find his way to the parking area at the rear rather than leave it at the front as she had done. She grimaced. Possibly Monty, or one of his minions, had arrived for one last gloat before the auction. Monty usually drove an opulent Jaguar, but that didn’t mean it was his only car.
She glanced around uneasily. She had as much right to be here as anyone else, but she hoped that if it was Monty, he hadn’t seen her. She had managed up to now to present a façade of civility, but now she knew exactly what he wanted, she wasn’t sure that the lessons of her upbringing would stand. And while she opposed Rob, she wasn’t prepared to jeopardise his position by openly quarrelling with the man who was going to employ him.
She hurried across the yard, and unlatched the gate which led into the gardens. It squeaked loudly, and she winced, expecting to hear herself challenged. But there wasn’t another sound, and she made herself relax.
Whoever was there, they were more likely to be looking round the house than the grounds. They’d have borrowed the keys from the agents, and probably decided to use the rear entrance as it was more convenient.
Nevertheless, she found she was hurrying, and moving as quietly as possible, just as though she was some kind of intruder, and she was frankly relieved when she reached the comparative shelter of the rose garden. Looking at the beds of leafless bushes, it seemed impossible to imagine the riot of colour that only the passage of a few months would bring. She wandered down the paths between the beds, pausing to read some of the labels and refresh her memory with a scent—a colour. She wondered if any of them would be transplanted, or whether they would simply be yanked out and burnt.
Her steps slowed as she reached the sheltered corner where the exquisite damask and moss roses grew. Surely they could be preserved? Or were they too going to be sacrificed in the wholesale vandalism that Monty Pallister threatened for Hunters Court? She felt a sharp sting of tears, and at the same moment her senses, heightened perhaps by emotional stress, told her that she was no longer alone. She heard the scrunch of another step on the gravel behind her.
Damnation! she thought furiously. It was humiliating to be found here, crying over a lot of flower beds, especially if it was Monty who had found her.
She turned unwillingly, bracing herself, then stopped dead, the defensive phrases she’d been planning escaping her lips in one startled gasp.
The man confronting her was not plump and sleekly upholstered, with an oily smile. He was tall with tawny hair, and hazel eyes, and there was a scar high on his cheekbone where once there had been a trickle of blood. And he wasn’t smiling at all.
CHAPTER TWO
HE wasn’t a ghost, he was flesh and blood, but no apparition could have frightened her more.
He said, ‘So we meet again, Courtney.’
He said it without emotion, just a flat recognition of the fact that time and fate had conspired to bring them together, but the words seemed to tear at her like long ago thorns.
Her voice sounded thick. ‘What are you doing here?’
He shrugged. ‘I was in the area, and I heard someone say the place was back on the market. I thought I’d have a look round for old times’ sake.’
Breathing was painful, but she fought for her control. His cold, speculative gaze seemed to be warning her that he had not forgotten their last meeting, and as if to reinforce this impression, his hand rose and touched the little scar.
He said softly, ‘And you, Courtney? What brings you back here? A trip down memory lane?’
The question was bland enough, but there was something in the way he said it, something about the way his eyes narrowed slightly which alerted her suspicions.
He’d said he was in the area, which sounded casual enough—and yet … Three years ago he had vanished out of their lives completely, and now, when Hunters Court was for sale again, he was back. Was it just a coincidence? Surely it must be, yet the Porsche suggested affluence, as did the dark supple leather of the car coat which hung from his shoulders, and the rollneck cashmere sweater beneath it.
She made herself speak lightly. ‘Pure nostalgia, I’m afraid, which is invariably a mistake. I didn’t expect to find anyone else here.’
His brows rose sardonically. ‘No? A desirable residence like this? I would have thought there’d have been a queue forming.’
Courtney smiled brightly. ‘Perhaps there is. I wouldn’t know.’
Her mind seemed to be running in circles like a mouse on a wheel. There was a growing conviction within her that Blair’s questions were only casual on the surface. But surely he, of all people, could not seriously be interested in buying Hunters Court. She was just being over-imaginative. She had to be. Because the thought of Blair Devereux, the nephew of the man who had ruined her father, living in her old home was even more intolerable than Monty Pallister’s plans for the house.
‘But all the same, you wouldn’t keep away.’ Blair was smiling too, but the smile hadn’t reached his eyes. ‘It’s not really surprising, I suppose. After all those generations of Lincolns living here, the place must have the pull of a magnet for you all.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘But it isn’t ours any more, and I don’t forget that.’
She was issuing a warning of her own, reminding him of everything which lay between them, the abyss which the sordid aftermath of betrayal and embezzlement had created. The girl whom he’d teased with a summer kiss in this very garden no longer existed. She was older now and infinitely more wary. For a short while, she had allowed herself to forget that she didn’t really like Blair Devereux because she had been frankly dazzled by his sexual magnetism, but that would never happen again.
Yet it didn’t stop her wanting to remove herself from his orbit with the speed of light. Apart from anything else she had an uneasy feeling that she ought to get back to the cottage and tell Rob what had happened. He wouldn’t be happy to know that Blair was back in the vicinity, even if it was only a brief visit.
He was always bad news, she thought, and he won’t have changed.
She summoned the bright smile again. ‘Well, I must be going. I have a lot to do this morning.’
‘Is that a fact?’ He consulted an expensive-looking gold wristwatch. ‘I was thinking perhaps we could have lunch together.’
She was taken aback at that. He had unmitigated gall even to suggest such a thing, she thought furiously. He was the last person she’d ever wanted to meet again, and she’d have thought he felt exactly the same about her.
She said calmly, ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Then how about dinner? I’m staying at the White Hart.’
Courtney stiffened slightly. That was more bad news. She’d hoped he was just passing through. ‘Impossible, I’m afraid.’
‘Clearly you’re a busy lady.’
And what did he think? That she’d spent the last three years sitting like faithful Penelope waiting for him to come back? She wanted to laugh in his face, but if he was prepared to maintain this veneer of civilised conversation, then so would she.
She said, ‘I manage to keep occupied. Well, goodbye, Blair. I hope you enjoy the rest of your—holiday.’
‘It’s certainly begun well.’ He smiled slightly. ‘It’s always pleasant to meet old friends.’
Friends? she wanted to shout at him. We were never friends. And now we’re enemies, and you know it.
The last time they had met she had screamed her hatred at him. There had been no smiles and civilised words then. They had been adversaries, and the scar was proof. And instinct told her that they were adversaries still.
She had to walk past him to reach the gate, for a moment she held her breath as if he might put out a hand and take hold of her. If he did, then all the smiles and polite nothings would shatter like glass, and she would fight him like a tigress. He would have other scars to add to his collection, but of course, he didn’t try and touch her, and she felt herself give an infinitesimal sigh of relief as she reached the gate.
She half-turned, lifting a hand in acknowledgment and farewell, and Blair said softly, ‘Remember me to your family.’
Just for a moment he let the mask drop, and she was appalled at the expression she saw in his eyes. Whatever he’d come there for, it wasn’t to build any bridges, and she was scared. Geoffrey Devereux was dead, and her father was an invalid, and she’d thought that the worst that could happen was over, but now she wasn’t so sure.
She walked back to the car, trying not to run because he might be watching, and her heart was thudding, and her palms felt clammy. The routine of starting the car helped steady her a little, and when she finally emerged on to the road she turned in the opposite direction away from the village, and drove for about a mile before pulling off into a parking space.
She switched off the ignition and wound down the window, breathing slowly and deeply, relishing the scent of the crisp clean air. Any notion she might have had that Blair was making overtures because he wanted to forgive and forget had been laid to rest for ever.
It was a ludicrous situation, because by any reckoning, her family were the injured parties in the whole tragic, sordid business. But Blair had never seemed to take that into account. She clasped her hands on the steering wheel and leaned her forehead on them.
Blair had come to Hunters Court that night to demand that Geoffrey Devereux be given bail. Looking back, she could understand his motive. He must have known that his uncle had a weak heart, and that the upset of being in custody could endanger him, but what she could not forgive was that he seemed to blame her father for not wishing to intervene. Blair clearly felt that if James Lincoln offered to put up the bail for his erstwhile partner, then the police might drop their opposition, and when her father was unwilling, he had exploded into near-violence.
Courtney shivered as she remembered that terrible evening. She had been drawn to the study by the sound of raised voices, and when she had gone in, had found herself in the middle of a confrontation.
There had been all kinds of raw and savage emotion in the air, and although she hadn’t completely understood it all, she’d been frightened nevertheless, and quick to spring to her father’s defence. Because he wasn’t making a very good job out of defending himself, just sitting in his chair while Blair stood over him, his whole attitude one of naked aggression.
Courtney had interposed herself between them, glaring at Blair. ‘Who let you in here? What do you want?’
‘I want my uncle out of that stinking jail,’ he muttered between his teeth. ‘And I’ve come to—persuade his closest friend to help.’
James Lincoln said in a faint voice, ‘How can I? the police …’
‘To hell with that,’ Blair had said in the same soft chilling tone he’d used when he said ‘Remember me to your family’ ‘You can make them listen to you, and by God, you will, if you know what’s good for you.’
‘How dare you threaten my father!’ Courtney was disgusted to hear how young and breathless she sounded.
‘Because the real threat’s to my uncle.’ He hardly looked at her. All his attention was concentrated on the pale-faced man in the chair in front of him. ‘For God’s sake, man, you can’t let this happen to him. He’s your friend!’
‘Friend?’ Courtney intervened fiercely when James Lincoln remained silent. ‘A fine friend he’s been! He’s lied to us, and cheated and stolen. He deserves to be in jail!’
Blair gave her a contemptuous look. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said shortly. ‘So you’d better keep quiet. This is between your father and myself.’ He turned back to James Lincoln. ‘Now are you coming with me to put up bail for him willingly, or do I have to make you?’
He seemed to loom towards them, and Courtney saw her father shrink. She snatched at a heavy crystal ashtray on the desk in front of her and threw it at Blair. He moved sharply to avoid it, but one corner caught him a glancing glow on the cheekbone, and he swore violently.
She said, ‘He’s not going anywhere with you, Blair Devereux, and if you don’t leave the house, I’m going to call the police, and you’ll find that you’re in jail as well as your uncle!’
He looked past her at James Lincoln. He said harshly, ‘You could be condemning him to death. You realise that—and yet you’re still not prepared to do anything. My God!’
James Lincoln said again, ‘I can’t …’ and his voice faded as if he was exhausted.
The talk of death scared Courtney, and her voice rose hysterically. ‘Get out of here—get out! Leave us alone! Haven’t you done enough harm? Can’t you see he’s ill?’
And his final damning reply, ‘He deserves to be ill—and more.’
She raised her head, shuddering inwardly. In her secret heart, she’d always blamed Blair for bringing that stroke on her father. He’d been shattered by the realisation that his partner had become a criminal, but he would have come round. He would have made good the losses and survived and carried on. But that scene with Blair had destroyed him, and he was never the same again. And the news that Geoffrey Devereux had succumbed to a heart attack in his cell had proved the final intolerable straw.
Courtney wondered if Blair knew about her father’s stroke. She could imagine him receiving the news with a kind of grim satisfaction, and he would have reacted to the information that the Lincolns had lost their home and everything they possessed in the aftermath in exactly the same way. He blamed them for his uncle’s death, as if in some way it conferred a posthumous innocence. He seemed to forget that nothing could justify the kind of injury Geoffrey Devereux had done them all. His death had been tragic, but he was in jail because he deserved to be, and Blair Devereux had had no right—no right at all, to try and bully her father into mitigating the course of justice. It was cruel of him, she thought passionately.
But then he was cruel. She had never doubted it even for that brief time when he had shown her some tenderness. Because that had been calculated from the beginning, although she was unable to understand his motives. Probably it was simply because she had always been impervious to his undoubted charm, and this had piqued him. He was a predator, pure and simple, although she would never have described Blair Devereux as either pure or simple.
She heard the sound of a horn, and jerking upright, she saw the Porsche drive past, and Blair lift a mocking hand in imitation of her own attempted casual goodbye.
Damn him, she thought. She had driven this way in order to avoid him, because she thought he would be going back to the White Hart, and now he’d seen her skulking in this layby, and God only knew what conclusions he would draw from that, but they would probably be quite correct.
And now she had to drive back to the village and speak to Robin, when all she really wanted to do was find somewhere to hide. Which was ridiculous, because she had nothing to fear from Blair. He was the one who should be avoiding them, which made his unexpected return even more troubling. For the past three years she had tried to convince herself that he was part of a bad dream. Well, she was wide awake now and all her senses were jumping. The bird of ill omen had returned, and there could be storm clouds gathering on the horizon even now.
Robin was talking on the phone when she arrived back, and when he replaced the receiver he looked almost jaunty, and she was sorry she had to dispel his optimistic mood.
She said without preamble, ‘Blair Devereux was at the house just now. I thought you should know.’
‘Blair?’ His voice rose incredulously, and he stared at her. ‘What the hell did he want? What did he say?’
She shrugged. ‘Not a great deal, but he made me—uneasy.’ And that was putting it mildly, she thought wryly.
Robin looked rigid with dismay. ‘And he was at the house. Did—did he seem interested in it? Does he know it’s for sale?’
‘Of course. He’d have hardly been wandering around if the Hallorans had been in residence.’
Robin gestured impatiently. ‘I mean—does he know the auction’s tomorrow?’
‘I’ve no idea. I certainly didn’t tell him.’ Courtney eyed him measuringly, wishing that she had said nothing. He looked as if he was going to be sick.
Robin chewed at his lip. ‘Is he still at Hunters Court?’
Courtney shook her head. ‘No, he left just after me. He’s staying at the White Hart,’ she added.
Robin groaned. ‘God, that’s all I need! Then he does know about the auction.’
‘It’s hardly a State secret.’ She was trying to make him smile. ‘There’ll be other people there beside you. It’s a public auction.’
Rob said miserably, ‘I know that—but he’s one member of the public I could do without.’
‘But you can’t stop him going,’ she pointed out. ‘And he can’t be that interested or he’d have got the key from Paxton’s.’
‘What would he need to see?’ Robin demanded. ‘He knows that house almost as well as we do.’
‘That’s true.’ Courtney drew a deep breath. ‘Rob, I just can’t believe it. Why should he want Hunters Court? It makes no sense.’
He said heavily, ‘Envy. Bitterness. I can think of a list of reasons. You didn’t know him as well as I did in the old days.’
‘I didn’t want to know him,’ she said drily. ‘But I find envy hard to swallow. Why should he envy us?’
‘I don’t know much about his background,’ said Robin. ‘But I do know there wasn’t much money. That was probably why he attached himself to dear Uncle Geoffrey, and through him to us. And he certainly made himself at home each time he came. He used to spend hours in the library reading up on the history of the place. If we’d ever decided to do conducted tours, we could have hired Blair as a guide. He knew more about it than Dad, and he probably convinced himself that he cared more than any of us. Of course he wants it.’
Courtney said slowly, ‘You said there wasn’t much money. But I think there is now.’ She described the car, his clothes, the handmade Italian shoes, and Robin’s eyes grew hard and angry.
‘Well, we don’t need to ask where he got it from.’ Courtney looked at him blankly, and he went on, ‘The police never found out what Geoffrey Devereux did with the money he stole. If they had, we might still be living at Hunters Court ourselves.’
She gasped. ‘You’re not serious! You’re saying that Blair has the money?’
‘It makes sense. Someone has to have it, and he seems to have changed into a have from a have-not in the last three years. What was he officially? A mining surveyor? Hardly enough to put him in the millionaire bracket.’
