Dangerous Deception

by Anthea Fraser

  “No, Clare. In any case, the sanctimonious old devil has ordered me out of the house.”

  That did it. I thought numbly, If I loved him, I wouldn’t be able to do this.

  Slowly I drew off my ring. He held out his hand. I dropped it on to his palm and stared down at my bare finger. The circle of white against the tan made it look as though the ring were still there.

  Without a word, I turned and walked blindly from the room, down the stairs and past Mrs Withers, who still stood in the hall, out to the car.

  That was the last time I saw Philip. Investigations were, I gathered, continuing, but as yet there was insufficient evidence to convict him. His solicitor was claiming the leak had been in the clients’ own firm, though no one seemed to believe this. Opinion was overwhelmingly that he had been luckier than he deserved.

  In the bewildering weeks that followed, no one at the paper mentioned the matter again and Tom took care to keep out of my way, though all he’d done was to bring forward the disclosure by a few hours.

  Matthew, tight-lipped and grim, went about his business like an automaton. Yet through it all, he kept insisting that Philip needed me.

  “Go to him, Clare,” he urged, time and again. “I can manage, but he needs you more than ever.”

  I shook my head. “I’ll never forgive him for what he’s done to you.”

  “Whatever he’s done, he still loves you.”

  “And I love you. You’ve always been a second father to me.”

  He stared at me hopelessly. Then he said very softly, “My God, what have we all done to each other?”

  “He’s – not coming back?”

  “I don’t see how he can.”

  “Then it’s just the two of us,” I said. Incredulously, I realised that this was what I had wanted.

  My face was wet with tears, but I felt a bleak sense of triumph. I’ve done it, I thought, I’ve been back over the whole thing, from start to finish, and looked at it from a distance of three months. And I still didn’t see what else I could have done.

  I stood up and eased my stiff back. Now, if this enforced holiday was to do me any good at all, I must put it all out of my mind. And as good a way as any of starting the cure would be to have a leisurely bath before dinner – which unfortunately, I remembered, meant venturing down the corridor.

  I gathered my things together and opened the door, and at the same moment the door opposite suddenly opened and I was face to face with one of the old ladies I’d seen in the lounge. She peered across at me and her face cleared.

  “Ah, so you’ve arrived, my dear!”

  “Yes,” I acknowledged, a little doubtfully.

  “Did you have a good journey?”

  “The traffic wasn’t too bad, but it was very hot.”

  “Yes, yes, it must have been.”

  She seemed to be waiting for something, so I said in explanation, “I’m just going along for a bath.”

  “Most wise – I’m sure it will refresh you.”

  And, as she still stood there, I added somewhat formally, “May I introduce myself – my name’s Clare Laurie.”

  “Yes,” she nodded amiably, “and I’m Miss Hettie. The younger one,” she added mysteriously, and moved away towards the stairs.

  I watched her go with a slight frown. Then I turned in the opposite direction in search of a bath.

  Chapter Three

  ‘The guests are met, the feast is set.’

  Coleridge: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

  I SAW the note as soon as I returned to the bedroom. It was propped against the dressing-table mirror, held in position by my hair-brush. For a moment I stood by the door staring across at it. Then I walked quickly over and picked it up.

  Aladdin delayed, but Beanstalk still on schedule. Sinbad will make contact. Jack.

  My first thought was that Gareth’s note must have dropped out of my bag and someone – perhaps the chambermaid – had picked it up. But almost at once I realised that, although the message was identical, it was not in fact the same piece of paper. This was printed in neat block capitals.

  Puzzled, I felt inside my bag. The first note was still there, so this one had a different origin. The caller, whoever he was, had asked Gareth if I were coming to Carreg Coed; it now seemed that, in case the waiter hadn’t caught up with me, he’d taken the precaution of sending the message on ahead. Which meant that however incomprehensible it was to me, he must regard it as important.

  Thoughtfully I tapped the note against the palm of my hand. Mrs Davies might know something about this second message; the best thing would be to hand it over to her, explaining it must be for someone else. That, surely, would be the end of the matter.

  I started to get ready for dinner, selecting a sleeveless dress in hyacinth blue which, Philip had told me, exactly matched my eyes. But I didn’t want to think about Philip. Picking up the note, I went downstairs.

  There was no sign of Mrs Davies when I reached the hall, but a ginger-haired man was behind the desk. He looked up with a smile.

  “Miss Laurie? Good evening, I’m Wynne Davies. Got everything you want?”

  “Yes, thank you. Mr Davies, are there any motor-bike scrambles or treasure-hunts organised for this weekend?”

  He looked surprised. “Not that I’ve heard of; why?”

  “This message was waiting for me when I returned from my bath. There’s obviously some mistake – it doesn’t convey anything to me. I wondered if you could throw any light on it?”

  He took it from me, and though his eyebrows lifted as he read it, he merely said, “Positively none, I’m afraid.”

  “I – suppose it must have come by phone?” I didn’t see the point of mentioning the earlier one.

  “I’ll find out. Excuse me a minute.”

  He went through to the office and I caught the murmur of voices. Idly I turned the visitors’ book round and my eyes flicked up the page. No new arrivals during the last week; everyone here must know each other by now.

  The deep swishing of the swing doors behind me made me turn as a tall, good-looking man came into the hall. His face was tanned and he had the kind of large, loosely knit frame which looks its best in the casual clothes he now wore. As he came towards me, his eyes were frankly appraising, but he passed me with a formal enough “Good evening” and went on up the stairs.

  At my elbow, Mr Davies said, “I’m sorry, Miss Laurie, I’ve no idea where this came from. None of the staff knows anything about it, and there haven’t been any phone calls for the guests today.”

  He handed it back to me, and I unwillingly took it.

  “Did you leave your door on the latch by any chance, when you went for your bath?”

  “No,” I said slowly, “I’m almost sure I didn’t. I certainly had to use the key when I came back.”

  “That’s what I don’t understand, see; there are only two to each room, yours and the chambermaid’s. And she’s been sorting out the linen with my wife for the last hour.”

  The first prickle of unease crept up my spine as what I’d only subconsciously registered struck me for the first time: whoever had left the note had access to my room. And it hadn’t been the chambermaid.

  Wynne Davies was looking at me with a worried little frown. I made myself say lightly, “Well, there’s no harm done. If anyone’s expecting a message, perhaps you’d tell them I have it.”

  I turned away and, taking my courage in both hands, walked into the now crowded lounge.

  I was hesitating just inside the door, feeling like a fish out of water, when someone came in behind me and a man’s voice said cheerfully,

  “Hello, have you just arrived?”

  I turned gratefully. He’d an intelligent, rather bony face, short black hair cut en brosse, and was holding a whisky glass in his hand. I smiled back.

  “Yes, and feeling very much the new girl! My name’s Clare Laurie.”

  He held out his hand. “Morgan Rees. Perhaps a drink would break the ice?
The cocktail lounge has been commandeered by a crowd of hikers, which is why we’re taking refuge in here. What can I get you?”

  “That’s very kind. I’d like a dry sherry, please.”

  He put his head round the door and called, “Evan! Ask Dai to bring a dry sherry to the lounge, would you?”

  He turned back to me. “Are you staying long?”

  “I’m not sure; I have ten days’ holiday but I might move on after a day or two.”

  “Well, let me introduce you to those near at hand. Most of us have progressed to first names by now, so may I call you Clare?”

  “Of course.”

  He took my arm and led me to a pretty woman in her late thirties.

  “Pauline, this is Clare Laurie – she’s just arrived. Pauline Mortimer, Clare.” We smiled and murmured.

  Morgan Rees was continuing, “As I implied, there are exceptions to the camaraderie, such as our two schoolmarms over there. None of us would dare address them by their first names!”

  He nodded to where two women sat chatting animatedly with a stout, bespectacled man. One – the elder, I judged – had short brown hair, unbecomingly fastened with a slide. Her face was innocent of make-up and she wore pebble-glass spectacles through which her eyes appeared microscopic. Her legs, heavily muscular, were planted four-square on the ground, and she wore a jumper of a singularly hideous shade of puce over a brown tweed skirt. Her companion was small and feathery, with an over-frilly blouse and dangling ear-rings.

  The door from the hall opened to admit the barman with my sherry, followed by the man who had passed me in the hall. He came over to join us.

  “My husband, Clive,” Pauline Mortimer introduced. “Clive, this is our latest arrival, Clare Laurie.”

  His hand was large and warm and firm. “What brought you to this out of the way spot? Golf, walking, ancient monuments?”

  I hesitated. “I’m not wild about any of them,” I confessed. “It’s just a rest I need, and plenty of fresh air.”

  “Well, there’s no shortage of that.”

  “Talking of ancient monuments,” Morgan Rees remarked, “where’s our friend Harvey?”

  The Mortimers glanced round the room. “He can’t be back yet.”

  Rees turned to me. “Dick Harvey’s steeped in archaeology. He’s classics master at a boys’ public school, and this is his one hobby. He comes here for his holiday every year and there can’t be much of interest in the area that he hasn’t unearthed by now.”

  The gong sounded in the hall and everyone moved towards the door.

  “Do you know where the dining-room is?” Clive Mortimer was at my side. “Just beyond reception, on your right. Let me show you.”

  It was a pleasant room, whose wall of windows was filling it with the last of the evening sunshine. A waiter came forward to direct me to my small single table and Clive Mortimer released my arm. I turned from him with a smile of thanks and caught Morgan Rees’s eye. He closed it slowly in a deliberate wink.

  So Mr Mortimer’s attentions were well known. He and his wife had moved to the only large table, over by the windows. It was now laid for two, but I guessed that the children I had seen playing made up the family. Everyone else had seated themselves around the room in ones or twos. The Carreg Coed was not, apparently, a family hotel.

  My own seat was in line with the door, presenting a view diagonally across the hall to the swing doors, which, as I glanced at them, began to revolve wildly, shooting into the hall a small, dishevelled-looking man.

  He stopped short on seeing the dining-room occupied, glanced at his watch to confirm his lateness, and, hastily smoothing down his hair, came straight in, taking his place at the table next to mine. There was an air of suppressed excitement about him which immediately caught my attention, and I examined him surreptitiously as he seated himself.

  Slight in build, his dark hair receded from a broad forehead, but the large, spaniel-brown eyes had unexpectedly long lashes, which made them oddly appealing. His face – normally pale, I’d have thought – was flushed and, despite a quick wipe with his handkerchief, damp with sweat.

  “Sorry, Harry,” he smiled at the waiter, who was handing him a menu. “Lost all sense of time!”

  “Gong’s only just gone, sir.”

  “Good, good!” It was so obvious that he was bursting with news of some kind that the waiter dutifully led him.

  “Have an interesting day, did you sir?”

  “Harry, I can hardly believe it! Quite fantastic!” He literally rubbed his hands together. Then he caught me watching him, and his colour deepened still further.

  “Forgive my exuberance, Miss—”

  “Laurie,” I supplied.

  “—Miss Laurie, but I really did stumble on something today. Quite incredible!”

  “How exciting,” I murmured politely.

  “Perhaps, if you’re interested, I may tell you about it after dinner?”

  I stifled a sigh, guessing that by this time the other guests were growing weary of his discoveries, and he would welcome a fresh ear. An evening lecture on the unearthing – if that was the word – of an ancient burial mound or whatever was not quite what I’d hoped for, but I hadn’t the heart to discourage him.

  “I’ll look forward to it,” I said.

  He nodded, smiling, and, subsiding a little, turned his attention to his meal and I did the same.

  “Table all right for you, Miss Laurie?” The waiter was beside me.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Those near the windows are the most popular, of course, but we reserve them for the doubles. Perhaps when the gentleman joins you—”

  I looked up. “Gentleman?”

  “Yes, miss. Your friend. I believe he’s been delayed?”

  Was this, I wondered, the deliverer of the message? If so, I could hardly question him here. I said slowly, “I’m not expecting anyone.”

  For a second his eyes held mine. Then he smiled knowingly. “I understand. Beg your pardon, I’m sure, miss.”

  He moved away and I was left uncomfortably wondering whether ‘Aladdin’ was indeed expected, and if so, how he’d react when he arrived to find me here instead of whomever he was expecting. And again the faint wash of uneasiness lapped over me.

  When I reached the lounge after dinner, the chairs had been turned companionably to face each other and a trolley bearing a coffee urn, cups and saucers stood in the middle of the room.

  “Come and join us, Clare!” called Pauline Mortimer, and I was grateful to comply. Clive was handing round coffee cups as the smaller of the two school-teachers filled them from the urn. I wondered if Pauline knew of her husband’s wandering eye, and pitied her.

  “Have you met Dick Harvey?” she asked, as I sat down. “Clare Laurie, Dick.”

  He nodded and smiled shyly. “I rather forced myself on her in the dining-room, I’m afraid.”

  Pauline gave a spurt of laughter. “You, Dick, forcing yourself? I can’t believe it!”

  He flushed. “What I mean is, I was so excited I hardly knew what I was doing.”

  “And what had caused all this excitement?” asked Morgan Rees smilingly, standing over us with his cup and saucer.

  “Well, you see, I came across something most extraordinary this afternoon – something which I should say is really valuable.”

  “‘The unsunned heaps of misers’ treasure’, Mr Harvey?” boomed the muscular school-mistress.

  “Not exactly, though it might be treasure-trove for all I know.”

  “Come on then, Dick.” Clive, having served everyone, sat down on the arm of his wife’s chair. “Now that you’ve whetted our appetites, you can spill the beans.”

  “Well, you see—” He stopped and looked suddenly uncomfortable. “Do you know, I think perhaps I’d better not say any more till I’ve had a chance to examine them again.”

  “Them? Dick, don’t be so infuriating!” That from Pauline.

  “No, really. In any case, I’ll have
to get in touch with the authorities—”

  “What authorities?”

  Quite suddenly he clammed up, and I knew we would get nothing more out of him. These meek, inoffensive little men can be remarkably stubborn when the mood takes them.

  “Well, at least tell us where you’ve been?”

  I turned my head at the unexpected American accent, and discovered it came from the stout man with glasses beside the school-teachers.

  “I’m sorry.” Bright pink now, Dick Harvey shook his head. He glanced round the room at the curious faces. “I really do apologise. I didn’t mean to be so irritating, but on reflection I—”

  “Relax, Dick,” Clive said easily, “no one’s twisting your arm.”

  General conversation resumed, and I found Morgan Rees beside me. “Are you beginning to sort us all out? It can be a bit daunting, I know.”

  I looked up at him. “I hadn’t realised the gentleman over there was American. Is he with the school-mistresses?”

  “No, his wife’s in the corner there – the lady with the blue rinse. Mr and Mrs Zimmerman, from Chicago.”

  I glanced at the elderly lady chatting to the young couple who’d been playing tennis on my arrival.

  “Isn’t this rather off the beaten track for them?”

  He shrugged. “They seem to be enjoying themselves, going on daily trips to places of interest. They’re here for a few more days, then going on to ‘do’ Scotland.”

  “And the young couple?”

  “Oh, they’re our honeymooners. Rather endearing really, no eyes for anyone else. Andrew and Cindy Dacombe. Call her ‘Mrs Dacombe’ and watch her blush!”

  “I wouldn’t be so unkind!” I glanced again at the girl. Her corn-gold hair was caught youthfully back in a ponytail and her short skirt revealed a pair of long, slender brown legs.

  Her husband, who didn’t seem much older, was snub-nosed, with red-brown hair that he’d obviously attempted to smooth down, but which nevertheless stood up in unruly spikes. I noticed that their hands were unobtrusively linked between their chairs.

  Morgan said, “Anyone else I can fill you in on?”

  “The old ladies?” They were sitting side by side on a sofa knitting industriously, both small and plump, with soft white hair twisted into buns at the backs of their heads. Alike as two peas, I thought. Even their clothes were identical.