“It has started,” he said. “Cleo has been in an accident.”
“Oh, no.” I took a step toward him, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“She had an argument with her husband.” Miles raked his hands into his hair. “They were having dinner, and they’d been drinking. She stormed out of the house and got in her car and drove off into the night. From what they can tell, she lost control on a tight curve and slammed into a tree. There was no other vehicle involved.”
“Is she all right?” I asked.
“She’s unconscious in the trauma unit. There are internal injuries. They haven’t established how serious her condition is.” Miles lowered his arms and turned to me, his expression haunted. Somehow, his unclothed state made his despair even more evident.
I stood still, watching him. A sense of danger hovered on the edge of my mind, not quite breaking through. “You must go home to Cleo,” I told him. “I’ll stay here and get the suitcase from Petra.”
He met my searching look with an anguished frown. “Make sure you get a DNA sample. That way we’ll know if you’re safe.”
I stared at him, my mind zooming into focus. I’d completely missed the implication when he’d told me that Petra’s grandfather was Francis Layton’s son. I had only thought about the Layton Trust, who’d inherit the cumbersome responsibility for Layton Manor if something happened to Cleopatra.
I hadn’t appreciated that if Petra was the next in line, the curse might target her instead of me. The Layton Prophecy talked about two deaths, and then it would have to go back to the beginning. Did that mean it would have to find another male victim before it could target me? The Layton twins had died in a gas explosion. Death with heat. Had there been some other female Layton in between, or did the curse skip verses when there were no suitable victims?
My mind struggled with fragmented ideas, fear closing in around me.
We’d made a mistake. We’d only looked forward.
We’d focused all our energies on trying to break the curse, instead of looking back, trying to understand the history, so we could better defend ourselves. I hadn’t asked Miles when Cleopatra’s father had died. I’d assumed that it had been before mine, but now it occurred to me I might be wrong. The curse might not go in the same order as the line of inheritance. If the prophecy had two victims, one on either side of the ocean, it might watch both of them, and kill when it got the opportunity.
“I’ll talk to Petra about the DNA test,” I promised.
And if it’s positive, I’ll have to find out how her father and grandfather and any uncles and aunts have died, so we can understand the past and fill in any gaps in our knowledge of the curse, I thought, but didn’t say it out loud.
Miles was already roaming around the room, pulling on his clothes. “Can you help me pack?” he asked. “I want to drive to the airport right away. There’s no point in wasting time by calling to ask about flights. I’ll find out when I get there.”
“Maybe you should drive to Johannesburg. There might be more international flights from there.” I stood out of his way, feeling inadequate.
“Too far.” Miles kicked his feet into the sturdy hiking boots. “If there isn’t a connection from Cape Town, I’ll charter an aircraft, or a chopper.”
“Do you want me to pack the papers on the desk?”
He glanced over to the curtained window. “No. I’ll get those. Can you pack the things in the bathroom, and the clothes? There isn’t much.”
I fetched the canvas holdall from the corner. “Is this the only bag you have?”
“Yes,” he said. “I only packed for the UK climate. I had to buy a few things when I got here. They might not fit in the bag.”
“My suitcase isn’t full. I’ll bring back what you can’t take.”
He glanced at me. He said nothing, but I knew what he was thinking. We might never meet again, and there was no point in me looking after his surplus clothing if I’d never have the opportunity to hand them back to him,
I fitted as much into the holdall as I could, and folded the rest into a neat pile on the floor. I kept the jeans and the Annapolis sweatshirt. Those would always bring back memories of him. I closed my eyes and pictured him, leaning forward, aiming a dart at the board in the Royal Goat. A sob rose in my throat, and I covered up my anguish by pretending to cough.
Miles snapped the buckles on his briefcase and walked over to me. I watched him approach across the room, dressed in chinos and the linen jacket he’d worn when he checked into the hotel. “It pays to look smart if you’re trying to persuade an airline to prioritize you on a waitlist,” he said in response to my inspection.
“I hope Cleopatra is all right.” I stood up from where I’d been crouching on the floor, packing his clothes. “I didn’t get these in.” I gestured at the small pile of folded jeans and sweatshirt.
“Toss them. They’re old.” He reached down for the bag and hoisted it over his shoulder.
“I’ll keep them.”
He bent to give me a hurried kiss. “I’m sorry to abandon you like this. I’ve left Petra’s number on the desk. Call her first thing in the morning and get her to come and pick you up. Don’t let her go back to New York without showing you the suitcase.”
“She’ll blow me off when she hears you’re gone.”
“Don’t tell her,” Miles said. “Pretend I’m in the shower when you call. Tell her that I only got the news and left for the airport a few minutes before she got here.”
“I can’t do that,” I protested.
“Why not?” Miles said over his shoulder as he rushed out. “She would.”
I stood on the doorstep and watched him drive off, the taillights glinting through the darkness, just like I had watched him when he left me on the doorstep of Rose Cottage a little over two weeks ago.
Another sob caught in my throat. Both times I’d struggled not to crowd him, not to cling to him, not to seek one more touch, one more hug, one more kiss. It made me shudder to think that I might never see him again.
And deep down inside me, another fear began to flex its claws. Up to now, the Layton Prophecy had felt like a game, a puzzle that we were trying to solve. If Cleopatra died, I would have to either put it down to a coincidence, or accept that the curse might be real. And if the curse were real...the DNA test would tell if Petra or I would be the next to die.
****
In the morning, I took a deep breath before I dialed Petra’s number. I had left it until nine o’clock, partly because I didn’t want to occupy the line when Simon Crosland called from Oxford, and partly because I didn’t want to annoy her by waking her up. Judging by the amount of alcohol she’d consumed last night, for her ‘tomorrow morning’ could mean anything up to midday.
After a dozen rings, she finally picked up. I recognized her voice, although a curious breathless quality muffled her words.
“Hello,” I said. “This is Alexandria Holt. Miles’s cousin.”
“Oh, hi Alex!” she replied. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you. I’ve been out running and I was worried that I’d missed you.”
I bit my lip. When I opened my mouth, I found myself incapable of telling the lies that I’d prepared. “I’m afraid there’s been an emergency,” I told her. “Miles is at the airport, trying to get a flight home to America. His niece has been in an accident.”
“I know.” Petra’s sigh came down the telephone line. “He called me from the airport early this morning. Can you believe, the sod thought I’d leave you stranded in your hotel rather than come and pick you up?”
A wave of gratitude swept over me for not having to lie, but I was also annoyed at Miles. He should have called me to let me know that he’d spoken to Petra. I would have looked like an idiot if I’d lied to her when she already knew the truth. Then I realized that Miles had probably tried to call me, but as the hotel didn’t have direct dial to the rooms, he couldn’t get through if there was nobody manning the switchboard.
“A
lex?” Petra prompted. “Are you there?”
“Sorry.” I forced my fingers to relax around the receiver. “Did Miles say if he managed to get on a flight?”
“He asked me to tell you that he got on the first flight out to Jo’burg, and there was a good connection to Newark. He’ll land early evening US time and go straight to the hospital. He’ll call us as soon as he can.”
“Thank you.” I closed my eyes for a second.
Petra’s voice was calm and practical. “If I set off now, I’ll be with you around ten. Are you ready to go?”
“Did Miles speak to you about a DNA test?”
She laughed. “Yeah, he did. It seems I might be related to you. I need to go and give a blood sample.”
I’d already been through the details with Simon Crosland, who must have worked miracles to set everything up so quickly. “It’s not a blood sample,” I explained to Petra. “They’ll take a swab from inside your mouth. And I have to come too, so they have something to compare your results with.”
“That’s good,” Petra said. “I have a photo shoot tomorrow, and I was worried about getting a bruise from the needle. The make-up people go berserk if you have bruises they need to cover up.”
My brows edged up. “But if you have a photo shoot tomorrow, how can you go home today?”
“I’ll drive back for the shoot, it’s no problem.”
We decided it made no sense for Petra to come and pick me up and then drive back to the clinic in Cape Town where Simon Crosland had arranged for the DNA test to take place. I’d take a taxi and meet her there.
After I hung up, I dialed the reception and asked them to book a taxi for me. Half an hour later, I checked out. I’d been worried about the limit on my credit card for two rooms, but the apple-cheeked blonde told me that Miles had already called from Johannesburg between the flights and settled his bill. I handed her my credit card. She handed it back, informing me that he’d paid for both rooms.
My face burned when I hurried out to the taxi. Despite all my good intentions, I’d ended up a kept woman on the trip.
****
Petra was sitting in the pristine waiting room when I walked into the private clinic in the centre of Cape Town. She lowered the magazine she’d been reading and bounced up to her feet. Her silvery hair hung in a long braid over her shoulder and her face was scrubbed clean of make-up. She was dressed in pair of paint-stained army pants and a T-shirt with a slogan in Afrikaans on the front. As she rushed up to me, every single person in the room followed her with their eyes.
“I’ve done my bit,” she told me. “Let me take your things to the car while you go in and give a sample.” She grabbed the handle of my suitcase and wheeled it out before I had a chance to protest.
I walked to the reception desk and was ushered in. A man wearing a lab coat ordered me to open my mouth wide and poked inside with a cotton wool swab on a long stem. It was over in seconds. I was instructed not to call for the results, as they would only be released to the law firm paying for the test.
Petra was no longer in the waiting room, so I went outside where the sun baked from a clear blue sky, making the pavement radiate heat. I lifted a hand to protect my eyes against the glare and scanned up and down the street. A horn tooted. I spotted her in a battered jeep that had pulled up at the curb.
When I reached her, I heard a click as she unlocked the doors.
“Rule number one,” she said, leaning over to spring the passenger door open. “Always lock the doors when you’re in the car.”
“I’ve seen the barbed wire fences around the houses, and the signs for guard dogs and armed response. Is that all really necessary?” I asked as I climbed in.
She slanted me a pensive glance. “I’ve had two friends killed in robberies, and several who’ve been car-jacked and dumped on the roadside without any concern for their safety.” Her shrug was resigned. “It makes sense to take precautions. After a while it becomes routine.”
The conversation faded into silence as we pulled off and merged into the busy traffic. Petra drove confidently but not aggressively, indicating before changing lanes and taking care not to push in front of people.
“I expected to see you in a snappy little convertible,” I said, thinking aloud.
She gave me a quick glance, then pursed her lips and focused on the road ahead. “Let’s get something clear,” she said in a clipped tone. “I’m beautiful. I know I must be, because people pay me large amounts of money to use my picture to sell their products. But I also know that I’ve done absolutely nothing to earn my looks. They’re an accident of birth, aided by healthy nourishment and good, clean country air.” She glanced at me again, looking a little grim. “Are you with me so far?”
“Yes,” I mumbled. I knew where we were headed, and I accepted that I owed her an apology.
“Being beautiful doesn’t make me a bitch, or stupid, or any other stereotype people sometimes associate with women whose lives revolve around their appearance. I may be a little spoiled, but when other women don’t get on with me, it more often has to do with how they feel about my looks than how I behave toward them.”
“Sorry,” I said, shame niggling in my gut. “I admit that I did file you into the queen bitch category, and I accept that you’ve done nothing to deserve it.” I was shocked to hear myself say the words. I’d never been so candid with anyone, except for Holly and Grace and Aunt Rosemary, and those three I’d known all my life.
Petra pursed her lips again. “Nothing except make a play for Miles.”
I blew out a long sigh and slumped in the seat.
Petra tapped the steering wheel with the heel of her palm. “I knew it,” she said in triumph. “There is something between you two.”
“Was,” I corrected. “Now he’s more interested in you.”
She turned toward me and smiled. “He isn’t here now, so let’s be friends. If he returns, we can go back to being competitors.”
I rattled out a nervous laugh. “How could I possibly compete with you?”
“Easily,” Petra said. “He doesn’t look at me the way he looks at you.”
“How does he look at me?” I asked.
She considered a moment. “Hungry. A little worried. Protective.”
“And how does he look at you?”
“Scared.” Petra grinned. “He’s been giving me mixed signals. I’m not used to having to work so hard to get a man.”
I said nothing, and for a while we drove on in silence.
“I have a confession to make,” Petra said as we left the suburbs and entered a landscape of parched fields bordered by big gnarly trees. “I didn’t FedEx Francis Layton’s suitcase ahead. It’s back at the Happy Valley, somewhere in the attic. I haven’t seen it in years. I’ve been lying to Miles, to keep him hanging around.” She shot me a wicked glance. “I’m surprised he didn’t catch on. Why on earth would I have dragged a dirty, old suitcase to New York where I live in a tiny apartment that’s already crammed too full of stuff?”
I laughed. Petra was without shame, and she was after Miles, no doubt about it, but I liked her anyway. As we drove on, the motion of the car lulled me, making me drowsy. My eyes drifted shut. I hadn’t slept much the night before, and the tension of the last few days added to my fatigue.
“It’s okay if you want to take a nap,” I heard Petra say. “I’ll put some music on.” Buttons clicked on the car stereo, and some kind of traditional vocal group came on. “This is the Ladysmith Black Mambazo,” she added. “Let me know if you don’t like it, and I’ll find something else.”
I was going to tell her it was fine, but I fell asleep before I managed the words.
****
I don’t know if I was woken by the lurch of the car, or by Petra screaming.
“Son of a bitch,” she yelled.
I opened my eyes. We were facing an expanse of tall grass scorched yellow by the sun. The car listed over to the right, and a huge tree loomed only a few feet ahead. A heav
y branch swayed over the car roof. If it had been a fraction lower, it would have punched through the windscreen, impaling us. I could hear the engine revving, but the wheels were spinning, and we didn’t move.
“A lorry,” Petra said in a voice shrill with fear. “It was right in the middle of the road.”
“Where?” I twisted around in the seat. The road behind us stretched empty in both directions, except for an old van puttering slowly away in the distance.
“It came from over there.” Petra pointed to where an access road forked off toward a low industrial building on the left. “I didn’t see it until it cleared the corner. I had to swerve to avoid being hit.” She lifted a hand to rub her forehead. “It scared the shit out of me.”
I took deep breaths. The seatbelt was digging into my waist, so I knew there’d been enough impact in the sudden stop when we hit the ditch to throw me forward. I leaned against the backrest and tested my limbs, trying not to make the movement obvious.
“Are you all right?” Petra asked.
“I think I’m fine.” I stopped being circumspect and examined my body openly. “What about you?” I asked, glancing over at her.
“I’m all right. I knew what was happening and I could brace myself.” She looked down into my lap. “Thank God you’d fastened your seatbelt.”
I stared ahead, shuddering at the thought of flying through the windscreen. “Like you pointed out earlier, we learn to take precautions and it becomes routine.”
To my surprise, Petra reached across the seats and hugged me. “I’m so glad you came along. I’d be frantic if I was on my own.”
When she released me, I peered through the side window. The whirring noise had stopped, and the car no longer rocked. “Are we stuck?” I asked.
“The engine has cut out.” Petra turned the key in the ignition and pressed the accelerator. The wheels screeched and spun, spraying up a flurry of gravel that rattled against the undercarriage.
I unclipped my seatbelt and got out, cursing the competitive instinct that had me wearing the cotton dress instead of jeans. Of course, I’d expected Petra to be dressed in fashionable clothes. My heels sunk into the grass as I made my way along the car.
The Layton Prophecy Page 18