Frank stared at him.
“But that was four days ago,” he said.
“Yes, well –” the constable became rather awkward, “the wheels of justice grind slow but they grind sure.”
“What does that mean?” Frank demanded.
“It means – it means that I am here now. The fact is that nobody knew where anybody was. The gunman vanished before we were called and the victim vanished too.”
“We brought him here to be tended by a doctor.”
“But you didn’t tell anyone where you were going, did you? It took a lot of searching to find you.”
“What about that madman? Have you found him?”
“The wheels of justice –” the constable stopped under Frank’s withering glance. “No, sir, but we will. Is the victim still here?”
“Of course. He’s being nursed upstairs.”
“I would like to see him.”
“I will find out if he is awake.” A flash of inspiration made Frank add, “in the meantime, why don’t you sample our best ale, on the house?”
“Well sir, strictly speaking I am not supposed – er –”
He faltered into silence as Frank placed a foaming tankard before him.
“I expect the wheels of justice grind a bit dry sometimes,” he commented, straight-faced.
“As you say, sir. As you say.”
He settled down happily, while Frank sped upstairs and into John’s room. He was conscious but weak, lying back on his pillows talking contentedly to Cecilia.
“There’s a policeman here,” Frank said in a soft, urgent voice. “They have finally come round to doing something, only they haven’t caught Sir Stewart.”
“That might be just as well for the moment,” John said. “If they did catch him he would only bluster and lie and I would rather be a little stronger before I have to deal with his behaviour again.”
“But what should I say to the policeman?” Frank asked. “How much should I tell him?”
“As little as possible. Leave him to me. Send him upstairs to me, but give Miss Smith time to hide in her room first.”
“Must I?” Cecilia asked.
“We cannot be at ease while that man’s on the loose. I do not want this policeman to be able to say he saw you.”
“And he won’t,” Cecilia said decisively. “But I will still be here.”
“You are going to hide in the wardrobe?”
“Not at all. I will be standing right here. But he won’t see me. Frank, will you ask Roseanne to come up and see me, please? And keep the policeman downstairs for ten minutes.”
The two men exchanged glances of total bafflement, but Cecilia’s decisive mood had taken them by surprise, and neither felt able to challenge her. Frank obediently walked downstairs and plied Constable Jenkins with more beer, explaining that the patient had only just awoken and would need a few minutes to be ready.
Ten minutes later they climbed the stairs. The constable was not a particularly intelligent man, but he was aware that they were passing the guests’ rooms to the upper reaches of the building, where the staff were accommodated.
“Who exactly is the injured man?” he asked Frank. “What does he do?”
“Mr. Milton is the hotel manager.”
Constable Jenkins thought, but did not say, ‘not a gentleman, then.’
In answer to Frank’s knock they received a faint, “come in.” Entering, they saw John Milton looking frail and barely conscious, while a female fussed around him.
The policeman gave her the barest glance, taking in her dark dress and plain white cap, beneath which her hair was drawn back severely. Behind her spectacles, her expression was grim.
The nurse, he thought. And forgot her.
He introduced himself and cleared his throat portentously, preparing to take notes.
“You are – ?”
“My name is John Milton. I manage the Paradise Hotel, and for the past week I have been plagued by an idiot who is chasing a woman all over the country and has accused me of hiding her.”
“Why should he do that?”
“I am not sure. I think he just goes around accusing everyone in sight. In my opinion he is mad. In fact I have the gravest doubt as to whether the woman exists at all. I think she is a figment of his imagination.”
“His name?”
“Sir Stewart Paxton.”
A perceptible change came over the policeman. He tensed and looked alarmed.
“Sir Stewart?”
“Yes.”
“A titled gentleman?”
“Yes, he is a Knight, if you call that a title,” John replied wryly, briefly forgetting his role and speaking from the lofty heights of an Earl.
“I do call it a title,” said Jenkins indignantly. “I was not told he was a titled gentleman.”
“What difference does it make?” John demanded. “He still cannot go around shooting people.”
The constable shook his head in puzzlement.
“There is a great deal here that we know nothing about,” he brooded.
“For pity’s sake!” John exclaimed, exasperated beyond endurance. “A man with a title is exactly the same as any other man. In fact, he is usually worse because he has been raised to think he can do as he likes, and he needs to be shown that it isn’t true.”
Jenkins stiffened in outrage. “That’s anarchy!”
It might seem wildly illogical that the policeman would find Sir Stewart more believable because of his minor title, especially with the evidence of a bullet wound before his eyes. But, being born into an Earl’s family, John had encountered this attitude too often to be surprised by it. Even Robert, he recalled wryly, had relished his lordly background.
“Call it what you like,” he said now, too weary to argue any more.
Jenkins breathed out hard, but evidently decided that it was useless to take the matter any further and returned to his notebook.
“And what is the name of the woman he is seeking?” he asked.
John hesitated. Something warned him that it would be wiser not to give Cecilia’s name or any details that might lead to her. While he was trying to clear his head, both men were startled to hear a sharp, “Hah!”
“Pardon?” said the policeman, looking around.
“Hah!” repeated the nurse. “Name, is it? Who knows what her name is, since Sir Stewart – if indeed he is a ‘sir’, which I take leave to doubt – gave a different one every time he opened his mouth? And some of them were names no decent woman would own to. There is probably more than one woman and no better than they should be – if they existed. And that man is also no better than he should be.”
Laboriously the constable wrote down, ‘no better than he should be.’ But then he remembered that he was talking about a titled gentleman and scrubbed it out again.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” he asked.
“No, there is not,” the nurse responded firmly, glaring at him from behind her spectacles. “My patient is tired and you are doing him no good.”
“Yes, but –”
“Good day to you, constable.”
While he was still trying to think of something to say the formidable young woman opened the door, revealing that Frank was waiting outside.
“The constable is just leaving,” she declared.
He made one last effort. “Actually, madam –”
“Good day to you.”
The next moment, in some way that he could not have explained, he was standing outside the door which had been firmly shut in his face.
John and Cecilia waited until his footsteps had died away, before giving vent to their feelings, exploding with mirth.
“Come here,” John said, reaching out to draw her down to sit on the bed. “And take those horrible spectacles off. And that cap.”
“Gladly,” agreed Cecilia, tossing them aside and becoming herself again.
“You were wonderful,” John exclaimed admiringly. “I almost believed in your dragon.
”
“I became angry when I saw how tired you were,” she said. “I will not let anyone worry you.”
“So now you’re protecting me?”
“If necessary,” she answered, setting her chin proudly.
They looked at each other, neither wanting to speak as they felt a surge of mutual understanding passing between them.
There was a knock on the door. It was Roseanne, bearing a tray with his lunch. John thanked her, but Cecilia could see that his appetite had not improved and he was steeling himself to make the effort to eat.
“Now come along,” she said when Roseanne had gone. “You must eat to regain your strength.”
“Yes, nurse,” he said meekly.
“And I am going to help you,” she added beginning to cut up the food into small pieces. “Open.”
He obediently opened his mouth and allowed her to feed him.
John had never felt so blissfully content in his life.
CHAPTER NINE
The sensation of peace and happiness lasted, although John had not dared to hope that it would. Cecilia was with him almost all the time and he never, for one moment, found her conversation dull. He had not imagined it possible that he could find a woman’s mind so fascinating. He almost laughed aloud at the irony of these thoughts when she said,
“I like arguing with you. It is so hard for a girl to find someone to talk to sensibly. Mostly people expect us to talk nonsense. If we try to talk about serious things men become offended, as though we had trespassed on territory reserved exclusively for them.”
“Then they are very foolish,” John mused. “They should treasure a woman for her serious qualities as well as for her beauty.”
“Too many of them treasure her for her money,” she said with a touch of bitterness.
“You will find the right man,” he added gently. “One who loves you for yourself.”
There was silence for a moment before Cecilia said,
“You are right, of course you are right, it is love which counts. That is what I want, real love. Love from a man who loves me with his heart and his soul and cares nothing for my money.”
“And that man does exist,” John assured her. “You might find him where you least expect.”
He checked himself, fearful lest he reveal too much. The feeling for her that was growing within him was too delicate and too precious to be exposed as yet to the light of day.
“It is marvellous you feel like that,” she exclaimed, looking at him earnestly. “Some people would think that what we have been saying to each other is a lot of nonsense, but I feel that everything you say comes from your very soul.”
“It does,” he assured her.
“If only that ghastly man has really disappeared,” Cecilia sighed. “It has been like Heaven to enjoy a few days without him turning up all the time.”
“Yes,” John murmured, his eyes on her. “Heaven.”
“Sometimes I think that if I see Sir Stewart again I will just give him all the money on condition he leaves me alone.”
“Don’t be so stupid,” John told her sternly. “Of course you must never do that. Why should he benefit from his wrong-doing?”
He spoke as if he was scolding a small child and Cecilia looked at him in some surprise.
“You sound exactly like the governess who used to look after me,” she said, “but I know what you are saying is good sense. So tell me what else I can do. There’s nothing. Nothing! Unless –”
She tensed suddenly, as a brilliant idea came to her.
“If I had a husband or if he thought I had – that would stop him. Or just a fiancé, so that he knew there was a man to fight him –”
“That would not stop him,” John said bitterly. “This man is so desperate for money that he will take any risk, even coming back here and challenging a fiancé. And I wouldn’t trust that idiotic policeman to arrest him. A titled gentleman! For pity’s sake!”
“You sound angry, as though you disliked titles.” Cecilia queried him, puzzled. “Is he right? Are you an anarchist?”
“No, although I can think of one or two aristocrats the world could well do without,” John responded truthfully. “But it has made me realise how foolish we are to think we can shut out reality for ever. Curse this weakness! I need to be strong enough to protect you. We have to find an idea that will work.”
“You are right about a fiancé not being good enough,” she responded. “Only a husband will do.”
“You’re not serious!”
“I would marry the devil himself before that man,” Cecilia insisted firmly. “Anyone!”
“Anyone, hmm!” John reflected, seeming to consider the idea seriously. “I suppose there is always Frank.”
“Oh, no, Frank is going to marry Roseanne.”
“Has he told you so?”
“Of course not. He doesn’t know yet. But she does. It was really decided on the beach when they were wearing their bathing costumes.”
“Yes,” John replied thoughtfully, remembering Frank, goggle-eyed at the sight of Roseanne descending from the bathing machine.
“They have been falling more and more in love every day since.”
“I must give them a really good wedding gift, as thanks for all they have done,” John said, but then immediately fell silent, remembering that he was hard pressed for money.
How far away his other life seemed now!
As he lay there quietly Cecilia began to move around the room, tidying up.
‘She’s beautiful,’ he thought. ‘I can’t understand why men worry more about her money than they do about her. Most men would love her because she is pretty and amusing and care little for her money.’
Then he wondered if this was true. He had found, all through his life that if someone had money, whether it was a man or a woman, there was always someone else trying to take it from them.
‘Why are men so greedy where money is concerned?’ he asked himself.
At once he knew the answer.
The average man never had enough.
Many of those who had fought beside him in the army had told him they were determined, if they survived, that they would have enough money to enjoy themselves for the rest of their lives.
“I never want to go to war again, I never want to quarrel with anyone,” one man had said. “I only want peace and quiet.”
John could appreciate that. It was how he himself now felt. The idea of a settled home life, with a wife and children, was becoming increasingly attractive.
‘Two or three sons,’ he mused. ‘And perhaps one very pretty daughter.’
Then he laughed.
Until now, he had not thought of being married.
He had only thought about enjoying himself in London and any other city where there were plenty of women and an abundance of amusements for anyone who could afford them.
But something had changed. Now marriage seemed the ideal.
But it would have to be to the right woman, he thought, watching Cecilia through half closed eyes. She must be sweet and charming, with gentle hands and a shining countenance.
In fact she must be Cecilia.
Suddenly she stopped what she was doing and whirled around. Her face was full of sudden decision.
“I have been struck with an idea,” she proclaimed, “and I must tell you about it now, before I lose my courage.”
“Why should you need courage to talk to me?” he asked.
“Because – because it’s outrageous – and yet it would be the perfect answer. Only you must not think badly of me.”
“I could never think badly of you,” he stressed fervently. He held out his hand. “Come here and talk to me.”
She advanced hesitantly, then took his hand and let him draw her down to the bed. When she was sitting next to him with her hand clasped in his, he said tenderly,
“Now tell me everything.”
“The only thing that can protect me from Sir Stewart is a husband, but wher
e am I to find one?”
“Any man would be honoured to marry you, my dear.”
“That is what I hoped you would say, because – because there is only one man I could ask. Only one man I trust completely. And – and that man is you.”
As soon as she had finished colour flooded her face. It was a deep, rosy pink and very becoming. John watched her, so entranced by her beauty that at first he barely grasped what she had said to him.
Misunderstanding his silence she began to stammer,
“Oh, forgive me, I shouldn’t have said that. You must think me so forward. Please, please don’t think badly of me – it is only that I am so desperate –”
“Hush,” he said, tightening his hand on hers. “It is just that you surprised me. You must be very frightened to suggest such a venture with a man you hardly know. I fear it might be very difficult for you to free yourself afterwards.”
He found he was holding his breath for her answer, and it was a sweet relief when she said,
“But I don’t want to free myself. What I am proposing is – is –” she took a deep breath and spoke as though reciting, “an arrangement beneficial to both sides.”
John’s lips twitched.
“Is that what it would be?”
“People have arranged marriages all the time. Of course, they are usually arranged by someone else, but why shouldn’t we arrange our own?”
“No reason, I suppose,” he surmised, thinking her more enchanting by the moment. “But are you sure this is what you want and that it would really be ‘beneficial’ to you?”
“Anything that saves me from marriage to that man is beneficial,” she said firmly.
“But that is now. When you are married and no longer in fear of Paxton, there would be many years ahead of you, married to a man who might not suit you at all on better acquaintance. You need more in a husband than a bodyguard.”
If only, she thought, she could dare to tell him the truth that her heart reached out to him with love. Surely those enchanted moments they had shared in the water must mean something.
But she had gone as far as she dared. She had risked impropriety by proposing to him, but she could never be the first to confess her love.
“Of course I need more than that,” she said, speaking calmly to hide the beating of her heart. “I need a man who is kind and understanding, a man I can talk to and confide in. I know all this is true of you.”
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