by Anne Mather
ALL THE FIRE
Anne Mather
“Me — I'm a loner,” Dimitri said sardonically. “I want no little woman to warm my slippers on a winter's evening and cook me exotic eastern food!”
Joanne was furious, as much with herself as with him. It was no use speculating now on what might have happened if she had not written the letter, but she still could not understand why suddenly everything was going wrong!
CHAPTER ONE
Dimitri Kastro thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his thick sheepskin coat, his collar turned up against the unaccustomed chill of an English spring. The grim environs of the cemetery were stark against the grey sky from which a smattering of rain was beginning to fall, and the trees, skeletal bare in the fading afternoon light, gave little protection. Dimitri hunched his shoulders and thought longingly of the warmth and light of his hotel suite and the bottle of Scotch that awaited him there. But, of course, they would have to wait. He began to walk slowly along the path to where a small gathering of mourners were gathered round an open grave. Standing in the shadow of a stooping oak, he regarded the group sombrely, speculating which of them was Joanne Nicolas.
He glanced at his watch. Matt had said three-fifteen and it was already long after three-thirty, but obviously he was in time. He should have arrived sooner but he had been caught up with a business telephone call at the hotel and his departure had been delayed.
He looked again at the group. There were not many of them; a couple of middle-aged women, a middle-aged man and a boy, a young man of perhaps twenty-five, and a girl who was without doubt Joanne Nicolas. Dimitri’s expression hardened. From here he could see very little. She was tall and slim, but her features were turned away from him and her hair was concealed beneath a black headscarf. He imagined she would look a little like Matt; round features, dark hair and eyes, an amiable disposition. He felt a surge of contempt as he wondered again why she had chosen to contact her father after all these years, just to tell him his first wife, her mother, was now dead. What could it matter to her father who had been denied seeing her for twenty years? Dimitri felt that in Matt’s place he would have ignored the letter altogether, but Matt was made of gentler tissue and despite Andrea’s doubts he had determined to contact his daughter. It was natural of course that Andrea should have doubts. She had had to bear his disappointment in being denied access all these years. And there was Marisa. Obviously, she was bound to feel something when for eighteen years she had been the apple of his eye.
Dimitri stamped his feet impatiently. The service was almost over. The priest was intoning the last rites, throwing the first handful of earth on to the coffin. This was something Dimitri was familiar with, although the rest of the service had been alien to him.
He watched the girl, studying her reactions. She stood very straight and still, showing no emotion, and he wondered if she was as cold as she appeared. Surely the involvement in burying her own mother must have left some pain in her heart? He shrugged. British people were unlike his own countrymen. They were so reserved, so afraid to show their feelings. Didn’t they realize that that was what life was all about? That being involved, sharing pain and ecstasy, was part of the joy of living! Back home in Greece they would not have been afraid to cry, to shout their grief aloud. Just as in times of gaiety they were not afraid to show their excitement and pleasure. But his was a warm land with warm people, not cold and bare like this England of today.
He glanced round. His car was parked by the gate and he wondered whether the rest of this group had provided themselves with transport. He didn’t want to go to the girl’s home. Matt had said: speak to Joanne; that could be done almost anywhere. At his hotel, for example, which seemed much more suitable than someone’s living-room.
The service was soon over. The priest turned and put a reassuring hand on the girl’s arm, and then led the way back through the rows of headstones to the path. The girl followed him, her head bent, and Dimitri moved forward, allowing the priest to pass him before putting a restraining hand out and catching the girl’s arm.
‘Miss Nicolas?’ His voice sounded alien, even to himself, with its rather deep accent.
The girl halted and turned her face up to him, staring at him with wide curious eyes. Dimitri felt a muscle jerk in his cheek; she was so vastly different from anything he had imagined. She was not like Matt at all, except perhaps that she had his height and slenderness of build. Her face was oval, her skin creamy soft and flawless, while the widely spaced eyes were an amazing shade of violet and fringed with black lashes. Her mouth was wide also, but there was real beauty in her features, and her hair, as the concealing scarf slipped back to her shoulders, was that peculiar shade of ash-blonde which can appear white in some lights. It was long and straight, and fell against her cheeks now as she removed the scarf altogether.
‘Yes?’ she said now, questioningly, and her voice was slightly husky, but whether from emotion or not he couldn’t be certain.
Dimitri recovered himself and gave a slight bow of his head. He was conscious that the other members of the group had gathered about them, most closely the young man who had placed a possessive hand on her other arm and seemed poised to make some cutting retort to anything Dimitri might say. He was young, with overly long brown hair and the kind of arrogant youthfulness Dimitri had seen in the faces of students involved in demonstrations against authority. Obviously he considered Dimitri’s intervention unwelcome to say the least. But Dimitri was not perturbed. He was perfectly capable of dealing with any antagonism that might arise.
Now he looked again at Joanne Nicolas. ‘My name is Dimitri Kastro,’ he introduced himself politely. ‘I am the second cousin of your father, Matthieu Nicolas, and it is on his behalf that I am here.’ He paused, glancing rather impatiently at the attentive faces of the group around them. ‘Is there somewhere we might talk? My hotel, perhaps?’
Joanne Nicolas studied him with her composed violet eyes. ‘Dimitri Kastro?’ she murmured, shrugging her shoulders. ‘That means nothing to me.’
Dimitri controlled his impatience. ‘Why should it?’ he inquired bleakly. ‘However, you did write to your father, did you not, Miss Nicolas?’
‘To tell him of my mother’s death; yes, I did,’ she nodded.
‘Joanne?’ It was the young man who spoke now. ‘What is all this about?’
The girl shook her head, obviously not wishing to discuss her affairs here. ‘I wrote - to my father,’ she explained reluctantly. ‘I thought he had a right to know that - that Mother was dead!’ There was just a trace of emotion in her tones and Dimitri felt slightly relieved. She was not as indifferent as she would have them believe.
The young man frowned. ‘Heavens, why?’ he exclaimed, echoing Dimitri’s own sentiments. ‘He never cared about you, did he? Why should you consider him now?’
A middle-aged woman intervened. ‘Joanne,’ she said reproachfully, ‘you didn’t tell me you had written to your father.’
Joanne Nicolas looked impatiently at Dimitri. ‘I didn’t think it was necessary, Aunt Emma,’ she replied.
Dimitri glanced at the other members of the group. Then he looked again at the girl. ‘Miss Nicolas,’ he said, rather shortly, ‘I realize you are involved with your family at this time, but it is important that I should speak with you.’
She lifted her slim shoulders. She was wearing a coat of dark blue woollen cloth, its hem and collar edged with a silvery fur, and as she moved her head the lightness of her hair was startling against the darkness. At another time and in another place Dimitri would have found her disturbingly attractive, but as it was he felt a rising sense of frustration at having such difficulty in adhering to Matt’s wishes.
‘Perhaps you could come and see me tomorrow Mr. Kast
ro.’ She was speaking again.
Dimitri felt the muscle jerking in his cheek. ‘That would not be at all convenient, Miss Nicolas.’
The young man gave him an appraising stare. ‘Can’t you see that Miss Nicolas is upset?’ he inquired angrily. ‘She doesn’t want to be bothered with any - foreigners tonight!’
Dimitri stiffened. ‘I think we should allow Miss Nicolas to decide, don’t you?’
‘Oh, Jimmy, please!’ Joanne sighed. ‘Can’t you see I’ll have to speak to Mr. Kastro if he insists, after he’s come so far ...’ She compressed her lips and looked at the others. ‘Aunt Emma, Uncle Harry, Alan, Mrs. Thwaites! Would you all mind? I mean - I don’t suppose this will take long, and there’s nothing more to do ...’ She bit her lip suddenly.
The woman she had called Mrs. Thwaites came forward to press her arm understandingly. ‘Of course we don’t mind, Joanne,’ she said. ‘It’s only right that you should speak to this gentleman. Just because your parents were divorced doesn’t make you any the less your father’s daughter ...’
Joanne frowned. ‘Oh, yes, Mrs. Thwaites, it does. My father and I are strangers to one another. This is a purely formal affair.’ She looked again at Dimitri. ‘Isn’t it, Mr. Kastro?’
Dimitri shrugged. ‘If you are ready ... I have a car ...’
The girl’s aunt snorted. ‘How do we know he’s who he says he is?’ she asked, tossing her head.
Dimitri put his hand into his jacket pocket and produced the letter Joanne had written to her father. He did it silently and Joanne studied it equally silently. ‘Shall we go then?’ she asked stiffly. The young man, Jimmy, caught her arm, but she merely shook her head, saying: ‘Go back to the house with the others, Jimmy. I won’t be long, but I’d rather be alone. Whatever Mr. Kastro has to say, it can’t take long.’
Jimmy chewed his lip. ‘All right, Jo,’ he agreed, but he was obviously put out by her attitude. ‘Do you want me to meet you in town?’
Joanne refused politely, and then said: ‘Where are you staying, Mr. Kastro?’ as though she wanted her family to know where she might be found.
‘The Bell,’ returned Dimitri uncommunicatively, and she nodded, turning to say goodbye to the others.
Dimitri thrust his hands back into his pockets and leaving her to follow him, he began to walk briskly back to his car. His impatience was not appeased by her apparent acquiescence. She was not coming with him gladly and this puzzled him. He would have thought she would have jumped at the chance to discuss her father. Why else had she written to him unless it was to try and cash in on his affairs now that Ellen Nicolas was dead and unable to offer any objections?
He reached the sleek Mercedes and glanced round. She was still hovering with the others and his impatience increased. Just who the hell did she think she was, keeping him hanging around? Did she imagine he was some kind of messenger boy for her father? Did she imagine she could treat him like she treated that long-haired youth, Jimmy? He got into the car and slammed the door deliberately, the sudden noise reaching her ears and causing her to glance his way rather anxiously.
Reaching into the glove compartment, he produced a case of cheroots and putting one between his teeth he lit it with his lighter. Drawing on it deeply, he stared grimly out at the fading day. The warmth of the car was welcoming after the chill outside, but it did not improve his temper.
A few moments later the passenger door opened and Joanne Nicolas hesitated tentatively on the point of entering.
‘Get in!’ he commanded coldly, his accent thickening in his anger. ‘You’re letting in the cold air!’
She gave him a speculative glance and then with a shrug she got in beside him, sitting as far away from him as it was possible to sit. ‘I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting,’ she ventured politely.
‘Yes, so am I,’ remarked Dimitri dryly, and set the car in motion.
He was conscious of her resentment at his words, but he could not retract them. There was something about her attitude, her indifference, that infuriated him and he realized he would find it quite enjoyable to hurt her. His lean fingers tightened on the wheel as he swung the car on to the main Oxhampton Road. He would be glad when his part in this affair was over and he could leave this country of cold climate and cold people.
The cemetery where Ellen Nicolas had been laid to rest was on the outskirts of the town, but his hotel was quite central. However it was not a large town and it did not take many minutes to cover the couple of miles between the two. Dimitri had no intention of starting any kind of desultory conversation in the car, and as Joanne Nicolas seemed wrapped in her own thoughts they remained silent for the whole journey.
The Bell Inn was not large, but it had a reputation for comfort and good food and was the usual accommodation sought by the more affluent visitors to the town. Dimitri parked the Mercedes in the car park, and switching off the engine indicated that she should get out. He didn’t feel particularly polite and as he had little respect for Joanne Nicolas’s motives he had no intention of treating her with consideration. If she considered him rude and ill-mannered she refrained from revealing her feelings to him and did as he indicated and closed her door securely, waiting while he checked that all the doors were locked. Then as he began to walk into the hotel she accompanied him in silence.
Dimitri glanced at his watch. It was a little after four, but English licensing hours were such that the bars in the hotel were closed and he cursed the fact. It would have been easier confronting her over a drink, whereas now their only alternative was the ubiquitous afternoon tea.
Loosening his overcoat, he said: ‘We’ll go into the lounge. I don’t suppose it will be busy at this hour of the afternoon.’
In fact the lounge was deserted, but at least it was warm, and when a waiter came to ascertain their needs, Dimitri ordered afternoon tea realizing that he could not in all decency refrain from offering the girl some refreshment.
Joanne Nicolas seated herself at a table in one corner on a low banquette and after he had removed his overcoat Dimitri seated himself opposite her in a comfortable armchair. It was difficult to know where to begin, and he took out his cheroots and lit one before commencing.
‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you a cigarette,’ he commented coldly, but Joanne shook her head indifferently.
‘I don’t smoke,’ she replied calmly, and he realized she had successfully disposed of his impoliteness.
He studied the glowing tip of his cheroot for a moment, and then he said: ‘Tell me, Miss Nicolas, just why did you write to your father?’
She shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘Mr. Kastro,’ she said carefully, ‘let me say something first. I am perfectly aware from your ... well... attitude that you consider my reasons for contacting my father were those of self-interest. Before we go any further, let me disabuse you of that fact!’
Dimitri’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘Indeed. Then answer my question; why contact him at all? Didn’t you know it would disturb him?’
Joanne’s eyes widened. ‘Disturb him?’ she echoed rather faintly. ‘I hardly think the death of a woman with whom he spent less than three years of his life would disturb him!’
Dimitri’s expression hardened. ‘But then you didn’t take the trouble to discover much about the man who is your father, did you, Miss Nicolas?’ he inquired bleakly.
She looked annoyed at this. ‘I suppose I was as interested in him as he was in me!’ she returned, rather heatedly.
Dimitri frowned. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ he asked ominously.
But just at that moment the waiter came in with their tray of tea and placed it on the table in front of Joanne. Dimitri nodded his thanks and the waiter withdrew, closing the door behind him.
The girl was obviously endeavouring to control her feelings, and she used the tray of tea as an excuse for avoiding his eyes. Glancing his way, she saw that he was making no attempt to deal with the teapot and fragile tea service, so with a sigh she said: ‘Shall I?’ and took his lac
k of reply as assent.
But Dimitri refused any tea so that she poured only one cup and sipped it rather nervously, ignoring the delicately cut sandwiches and plates of cakes. Eventually she had to answer him, and she said slowly:
‘You must be aware, Mr. Kastro, that I have not seen my father since I was two years old.’
‘I am aware of that, yes.’ Dimitri nodded.
She looked up at him curiously. ‘Then why do you ask - what do I mean?’ She shook her head. ‘Look - this conversation hasn’t much point. My reasons for writing to my father were simple ones. I wanted to inform him that my mother was dead, that was all. I didn’t - and don't - expect anything from him. If my letter led him to believe otherwise - then I’m sorry.’ She finished slowly as though choosing her words carefully.
Dimitri studied her intently. She certainly seemed sincere enough, and yet he could not believe the truth of it. She must know her father was a wealthy man. It was inconceivable that she should be willing to ignore the fact that he was in some way responsible for her now. It didn’t matter that she was not a child; she was Matthieu’s daughter and for him that was a lot.
She was speaking again, and Dimitri forced himself to concentrate on what she was saying: ‘If that was what you wanted to talk to me about, then I suppose our conversation is over—’ she was beginning, but he shook his head, interrupting her.
‘Just wait a moment, Miss Nicolas,’ he said, impatiently. ‘My reasons for being here have far more reaching tendencies. And our conversation has been a trifle one-sided, you will agree. However, I’m prepared to accept to a degree that your motives for writing to Matt were innocent ones, even though my brain argues that this cannot be so.’