by Anne Mather
Rebecca stared at her for a moment and then her eyes shifted to Adele who had wheeled her chair silently across to join them. ‘I think you’ve made a mistake, Sheila. I didn’t go out at all when I was nursing Miss St. Cloud.’
Adele’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well, maybe not often, eh, Rebecca?’ She glanced at Tom. ‘It rather depended who invited her, of course.’
Rebecca felt mortified. Did Adele intend bringing Piers’ name into the conversation? Piers himself was pouring another drink and seemed entirely indifferent to their group. But Paul’s curiosity had got the better of him and he joined them, putting a casual arm across Rebecca’s shoulders, much to her annoyance.
‘What’s going on?’ he enquired easily.
There was a moment’s awkward silence, and then a knock at the door disturbed them. It was Gillean to announce that dinner was served and Rebecca couldn’t suppress the sigh of relief which escaped her.
Piers took charge of Adele’s chair, wheeling her out of the library, and as Tom was already with Rebecca Paul was forced to walk with Sheila. Dinner was served in a panelled dining room that could have accommodated thirty people comfortably. As it was, they were all seated at one end of the long polished table to avoid the inevitable difficulties which would have ensued had they taken up the whole length of it. The table appointments were exquisite; lace place mats, obviously designed in Venice, were the base for silver cutlery, bone china, and crystal glass. There was a central piece of red roses interlaced with lacquered green leaves, and each napkin was folded to resemble a rose.
Piers took the chair at the head of the table naturally, with Adele to his left and Tom to his right. Rebecca was seated beside Tom, while Paul found himself opposite her between his aunt and her nurse. The situation did not please him, Rebecca could tell, but to some extent she was relieved. Tom had taken Paul’s place temporarily as a shield between Piers and herself, and he had the added attraction of not presenting any emotional involvement.
The meal was delicious; the main course was roast duckling and despite Rebecca’s nervousness she found herself talking to Tom and eating almost unthinkingly. There was a raspberry mousse to follow and then coffee was served in the adjoining lounge. This was one of the smaller rooms of the house, and its furnishings were mostly contemporary, apart from a carved cabinet in one corner in which resided a collection of jade which attracted Rebecca’s interest. While Adele took charge of the coffee cups and talked to her nephew and to Sheila, Rebecca walked over to the cabinet and was standing admiring a particularly unusual chess set when she became conscious that someone had come to stand beside her. She glanced up, expecting to see either Paul or Tom, only to find it was Piers. Immediately tenseness overtook her and with it a trembling sense of inadequacy.
‘Eh bien, Rebecca, and what do you think of my house?’ he asked, his voice cold and somehow scathing.
Rebecca rubbed her elbows nervously with the palms of her hands. ‘It’s very—well—imposing,’ she replied awkwardly.
‘You think so? I should have expected a different reaction from you. Tell, me, did you know I was to be home this weekend?’
Rebecca frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What I say. Did you expect to see me, or did you perhaps hope to—to familiarise yourself with the building before my return?’ His eyes bored bleakly into hers.
Rebecca blinked. ‘I didn’t even know it was your house until I met Adele,’ she said, in a taut angry tone.
His eyes narrowed. ‘You do not expect me to believe that, of course.’
‘Why not?’ Rebecca quivered a little.
‘Paul is my son, Rebecca.’
‘So?’
‘So—it is obvious! It is inconceivable that he should not have mentioned his family.’
‘He—he did! But not by name.’ Rebecca moved away from him, bending to examine a jade figurine and Piers moved too, much to her dismay.
‘You expect me to believe that you did not know who Paul was?’
Rebecca straightened, breathing swiftly. ‘I don’t particularly care what you believe,’ she said huskily, unable to accept this coldness from him.
Piers stared at her grimly. ‘You, of course, know nothing about Halliday!’
Rebecca’s brows drew together in bewilderment. ‘Halliday?’ she echoed blankly. ‘Who is Halliday?’
Piers uttered an exclamation and drew out his cheroots, putting one between his teeth to light it. ‘We will leave it for the moment,’ he snapped harshly, glancing round to find that while no one could hear what they were saying their conversation was being observed. Through his teeth he muttered: ‘Do you think you are the only one with the prerogative to be cruel, is that it?’
Rebecca’s face burned. ‘Please,’ she said, feeling rather sick having this confrontation after such an unusually rich dinner. ‘I don’t know why you’re talking to me like this. I came here to meet Sheila, that’s all. Do you think if I’d known Adele was to be here I’d have come?’
Piers studied her for a long moment, and then bent to light his cigar. ‘I don’t know what your game is,’ he said bitterly, ‘but I refuse to believe your motives were as innocent as you imply.’
Rebecca swallowed hard, wondering however she was going to face Adele after this. It made her wonder exactly what Adele had said about her after she had gone.
‘Piers!’ Adele’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Piers, what are you and Rebecca talking about so earnestly? Paul’s looking quite put out, aren’t you, darling?’
Piers left Rebecca to walk lazily across the room. ‘We were discussing the chess men,’ he replied indolently. ‘I was merely telling Rebecca that I bought them with the house.’
Rebecca knew it was expected of her to join them and act naturally, but it was terribly difficult when her emotions were so badly disturbed. However, she managed to cross the room and take the seat beside Paul, returning his smile automatically. Sheila looked at her curiously, and then looked at Piers. He met her gaze calmly, his dark eyes enigmatic, and Rebecca wondered what thoughts were going through his mind.
Paul stroked the back of her hand as it rested on her knee. The others had taken up the question of Piers’ intention to sell Sans-Souci and for a moment they could have been alone. ‘Tell me,’ he said, frowning, ‘how well did you know my father in Fiji?’
Rebecca stared at him incredulously, then she managed a casual shrug. ‘Reasonably well,’ she temporised. ‘What time are we going back to town tomorrow?’
Paul chewed his lower lip. ‘Aunt Adele told me at dinner that my father knew you worked at St. Bartholomew’s. Have you seen him since—since you left Aunt Adele’s house?’
Rebecca’s nails bit into the palms of her hands. ‘Of course not, Paul,’ she replied honestly, while her mind raced on confusedly. What was Adele trying to do now?
Paul nodded. ‘I guess he found out when he contacted them at the time I began my training,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘I’m surprised he never tried to see you. After all, Aunt Adele did say you were good friends.’
Rebecca sighed. ‘I shouldn’t take too much notice of what your aunt says about me,’ she said carefully. ‘She was rather—annoyed when I left her employment.’
‘Why did you?’
Rebecca shook her head. ‘Your aunt is not the easiest person to get along with, Paul.’
Paul smiled, some of the anxiety lifting from his face. ‘I wondered what it was. Perhaps it would have been better if she had told me that she knew you, then I could have warned you.’
‘Y—yes.’ Rebecca was doubtful. Would she have come anyway? It was a doubtful possibility, and yet why should she have assumed any more than she did this afternoon that Paul’s father might be Piers St. Clair?
Sheila came to sit beside them, regarding Rebecca intently. ‘Have you got a nightgown or pyjamas with you? I could lend you something to wear.’
Rebecca smiled, trying to be charitable, even though she had the distinct impression that Sheil
a knew exactly what had passed between Piers St. Clair and herself in Fiji. ‘That’s all right, Sheila. I can manage. But thanks for the offer.’
Sheila shrugged indifferently. ‘Never mind. When do you plan to go back to town, Paul?’
‘In the morning, I guess. I doubt whether I’ll be able to persuade Rebecca to stay longer.’ He looked at Rebecca with gentle warmth.
Rebecca bent her head. ‘We’ll have to go anyway. We’re both on duty first thing Monday morning.’
Sheila wrinkled her nose. ‘Hospital work! How ghastly! I don’t know how you could go back to it, Rebecca. I shouldn’t like to.’
‘That’s because you like the material things of life, Sheila,’ observed a sardonic voice, and Rebecca looked up into Piers’ face again.
Sheila took no offence at his words, however, but merely laughed softly, and said: ‘I know I do. Why not? You pay me such a generous salary, you’re making me a sybarite.’
Rebecca compressed her lips as Piers smiled at Sheila’s impudence. ‘I can always cut it,’ he remarked, mockingly, and she rose to look into his face more closely.
‘But you won’t,’ she said appealingly. ‘Will you?’
Piers gave her a lazy smile. ‘No, I won’t,’ he agreed, appraising the attractive picture she made with indolent ease. ‘Do you feel up to a game of bridge? Your patient insists that you join her.’
A faint flicker of annoyance crossed Sheila’s face just for a moment, and then she shrugged and walked across to Adele obediently. Piers surveyed his son and Rebecca.
‘How about you, Paul?’ he asked.
‘No, thanks.’ Paul was abrupt.
Piers frowned. ‘And you—er—Rebecca?’
‘I don’t play.’ Rebecca didn’t look up.
Piers studied them for a moment longer, and then with an impatient flick of his fingers he too walked away to join Adele and the others.
Paul looked expectantly at Rebecca. ‘Let’s go to the library,’ he suggested. ‘My father has some excellent hi-fi equipment. We could play records.’
‘All right,’ agreed Rebecca, and they rose to leave the room. The others were setting up a table for bridge, but although Adele and Sheila watched their departure both Tom and Piers seemed engrossed in handling the cards.
It was very pleasant in the library, and Rebecca enjoyed looking through the pile of records, seated cross-legged on the floor beside Paul. But when he began to get close to her, sliding his fingers along her wrist, and nuzzling her neck with his lips she got up and left him.
She went to the window, peering through the heavy drapes, rubbing a circle of clarity in the misty pane of the glass. Outside, the fog pressed its fingers close against the windows and only the faint outline of a tree near the house bore any resemblance to reality. They might have been cut off from time and space, floating in a void, without point or destination.
She sighed and closed the curtains again just as the telephone began to ring. Paul went to answer it, giving their number automatically, and listened as whoever it was on the other end imparted their message. His face changed as Rebecca watched and he frowned deeply. Finally, he said: ‘All right, all right. I’ll tell him,’ and rang off.
Rebecca raised her eyebrows questioningly, and he shook his head unsmilingly. ‘That was Harman, my father’s bailiff. There’s been a crash on the top road, near the north boundary. A car and a wagon of some sort.’
Rebecca moved forward. ‘How awful! Is anyone hurt? Is there anything I can do?’
Paul’s frown deepened. ‘I must tell my father. Harman thinks one of the men is dead. Three people were involved, I believe.’
Rebecca nodded. ‘I’ll come with you.’
Paul hesitated, and then nodded. ‘Okay,’ he agreed, opening the library door.
The others were in the middle of a rubber, and Piers looked up rather impatiently, Rebecca thought, when Paul attracted his attention. He was partnering Sheila while Adele was Tom’s partner, and it seemed obvious from the annoyance on Sheila’s face also that they were winning.
‘There’s been a crash,’ said Paul. ‘On the top road. Did you hear the phone, it was Harman. He says they’ve ploughed through the fence in the copse. One of the men is dead—’
But Piers was already on his feet, flinging his cards aside. ‘Bien, bien,’ he said grimly. ‘Allons!’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Rebecca, as they started across the room. ‘I am a nurse. There may be something I can do.’
Sheila got to her feet. ‘I’m a nurse, too.’
Piers regarded Sheila for a long moment. ‘It would be a pity to ruin that dress,’ he observed sardonically. ‘Besides, Adele may need you. I’m sure—Rebecca will be perfectly adequate for what is needed.’ He glanced at Rebecca without warmth. ‘Do you need a coat? Paul—you go to the kitchen and ask Gillean for some lamps. I know he has some. Did Harman say he had called the ambulance—or the police?’
‘Yes, of course. His cottage is quite near there, as you know. He had called them before calling us.’
‘Good! Come!’
Leaving the warmth and light of the lounge, they crossed the hall to the heavy front door. Paul went on to the kitchen quarters while Piers pulled open the door and stepped outside. At once the thick mists swirled inside and with it the icy chill of freezing air. He glanced back at Rebecca and then crossed to the hall closet, extracting her sheepskin jacket and a similar one for himself. He threw the coat at her and she caught it deftly and pulled it on, refusing to allow his attitude to influence her now.
They descended the steps to the forecourt where the Mercedes still waited, and Piers thrust open the passenger door. ‘Get in,’ he commanded abruptly, and Rebecca complied, wondering whether Paul would object to being relegated to the back seat.
On the back seat was a pile of rugs and Piers came round and got in beside her, turning to thrust them to one side. A few seconds later Paul came running down the steps to join them, and as the rear door was open he climbed in.
The powerful engine roared to life, and they moved away smoothly, turning away from the drive up which Rebecca and Paul had driven earlier and taking instead an inner track which curved round the house and then continued across the parkland. Rebecca could see nothing to either side of this track, and only the orange fog lamps cast any illumination ahead of them. The road was rough in places, not gravelled like the drive and forecourt, and Paul, leaning forward and resting his arms along the back of the front seat, said: ‘This used to be the bridle path until Harman widened it with his Land-Rover.’
Piers concentrated on his driving, and Rebecca’s eyes were drawn to his hands on the wheel, visible in the lights of the dashboard. The wheel slid expertly through his fingers and she knew an aching desire to have those hands touch her again, to linger against her flesh with caressing tenderness. As though aware of the wantonness of her thoughts, Piers glanced at her at that moment, and she was overwhelmingly glad of the anonymity of the gloom inside the car. At least he could not read her expression or see the revealing colour in her cheeks.
Presently they slowed and Paul said: ‘Almost there. This is the belt of trees I mentioned. Harman said the car had been parked in the copse and had pulled out in front of the wagon. When the wagon hit it they both skidded across the road and into the trees.’
Piers shook his head. ‘Did he know who was in the car?’
‘Yes. Michael Meredith—and Diane Howarth.’
‘I see.’ Piers chewed at his lip. ‘And it’s Michael who’s—’
‘Yes.’
‘Mon Dieu! The idiot!’ Piers sounded incensed.’
‘He’s probably dead, Father.’
‘But his wife is not—and it is she who will have to bear the brunt of this, n’est-ce pas?’
‘I guess so,’ Paul nodded, and Rebecca frowned. It seemed pretty obvious that the dead man had been parked with a woman who was not his wife and that was why Piers was so scathing. She frowned to herself. How could he judge
this man so arbitrarily when he himself had indulged in just such an affair with her? She looked at his profile, grim and unyielding, and wondered why it was that of all the men she had known he should be the one who could not be displaced.
The car drew to a halt and now in the encroaching gloom the naked light of a broken tail-light could be seen. A man came out of the mist towards them, past a strangely unreal mound of metal which had once been Michael Meredith’s saloon car. Piers had got out, and now the others did likewise, joining him as he spoke to the bailiff, Harman.
‘What’s going on?’ he was asking, and Harman was explaining that the lorry driver was shaken, that was all, and was presently drinking tea from a flask which Mrs. Harman had brought along for him.
‘It can’t have been his fault,’ went on the bailiff. ‘The car just came out of the copse in front of him and he hadn’t a hope in hell of pulling up. And the road’s so narrow at that point that he couldn’t avoid them without ploughing into the trees himself. As it was, he hit the front of the vehicle, and I guess Michael was killed instantly.’ He ran a hand over his forehead as though to rid himself of the memory of what he had seen. ‘Bloody awful mess!’ he muttered.
Rebecca moved forward. ‘What about the woman? Is she alive?’
Harman nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, she’s alive all right. But she’s in a pretty poor way.’
‘Miss Lindsay is a nurse,’ Piers advised him suddenly. ‘Maybe she could have a look at Diane.’
Harman looked doubtful. ‘Are you sure—’ he began.
‘I’m not squeamish, if that’s what you mean,’ said Rebecca calmly, the urgency of the situation banishing temporarily her tenseness. ‘Where is she?’
‘Over here.’ Harman led the way past the smashed car to where a body was lying half on the road and half on the grassy verge in the shade of the heavy trees. The dampness of the fog had overlaid her clothes with dew and Rebecca realised that until the ambulance came she must be kept warm. In the light of their torches and of the lamps Paul had got from Gillean it was possible to see the pallor on her face, and when Rebecca knelt and touched her hands they were frozen.