Honeymoon Suite

by Wendy Holden

  Angela’s eye was now caught by the huge blue noticeboard on which all the wards were listed. The fact that Dan Parker was in one of them, and largely because of her, weighed heavy on her awakened conscience. She really had to do something about him, too.

  Anne, as Dylan had expected, took the news on the chin. ‘Well, thanks for letting me know,’ she said. ‘I appreciate it.’

  Her fortitude made Dylan feel far worse than Mrs Palethorpe’s fury. He hadn’t felt bad about that at all; on the contrary. He stared back at Anne, half-wanting to change his mind and entirely wanting her to say something exonerating to make him feel better. But Anne, he could see from the distracted way she was shuffling papers on her desk, had mentally added the garden to her always-enormous list of challenges and simply moved on.

  ‘Well, goodbye then,’ Dylan said, standing up.

  ‘See you,’ said Anne, without looking up.

  He drifted out, struggling for the sense of certainty that had sent him in there to resign. But he had either lost it or it had disappeared.

  Sensing that anything might be possible – including revoking his decision – in this dangerous mood of vacillation, Dylan knew he should get out fast. But sentiment sent him out into the garden for one last look.

  He did not see the old couple at first. They were to the side of the French windows, in the small box garden with the model windmill in the centre. When he did notice them, Dylan was amazed to recognise George Farley. He remembered, now, Nell saying he was moving into a home. So it was this one. What a coincidence.

  But it was more than that; more than a mere surprise. This living connection with Nell startled and disturbed him. It was a reminder that, much as he wanted to think of her as unreliable and deceptive, Nell had done a great deal that was good. Dylan pushed the thought away and hurried on. The sooner he got out of this place the better.

  Especially as George Farley seemed to have spotted him now. The woman had too; the elegant elderly dame who had pulled her suitcase around and been looking for Terminal 2. Sheila, that was it, Dylan remembered.

  Sheila did not have her suitcase now, however. Nor was she looking for anything, although her expression, as she looked at Dylan, was distinctly arch.

  George Farley was beckoning at Dylan. ‘Young man! A word, if you please!’

  The old man’s voice was frail yet carried unarguable authority. And something more, that almost sounded like anger. Dylan hurried over. Surely word had not got round already that he was about to abandon the garden? George Farley was a gardener; he was sure to take a dim view of such a desertion.

  Up close the jutting eyebrows bristled alarmingly and the hazel eyes positively blazed in the big, jowly face. It was hard to imagine that this fiery old man was the same person Dylan had found nearly dead on the lawn and had helped bring back to life.

  He gave George a pleasant smile. ‘Nice to see you, Mr Far—’

  ‘Never mind all that!’ The old man waved an impatient arm. ‘What’s all this I hear from Nell?’

  ‘Nell?’ echoed Dylan, his smile evaporating. Had she been here then?

  George Farley, who had been sitting down, now placed both gnarled hands on his walking cane and struggled to his feet. He gasped and rasped with the effort, but still managed to force out the words. ‘She says you’ve gone off and left her!’

  Dylan’s fingers pushed nervously through his hairline. He felt exposed and resentful. What business was this of George Farley’s? ‘She deceived me,’ he said shortly. ‘She told someone I was trying to avoid exactly how to find me.’

  The elegant old lady stirred at this, shaking her beautifully coiffed head. ‘No, she didn’t!’ George Farley rasped, his vehemence turning into a spluttering cough.

  ‘Careful, George,’ murmured Sheila.

  He turned and patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry, Sheila.’ But the tender benevolence had drained out of his face as he turned back to Dylan.

  ‘I’m afraid she did,’ Dylan said. ‘She deceived me,’ he added. That seemed to do it for the old man.

  ‘You were the one deceived,’ George Farley thundered. ‘It was someone else who told that editor woman where you were, someone who said she was Nell but wasn’t.’

  Dylan held up his hand, confused. ‘Wait, wait. Hang on a minute . . .’ But the old man’s ire flowed out of him like a river of lava. It would not be stopped.

  ‘George!’ Sheila said sharply. ‘You’re getting excited.’

  Dylan was getting excited too. His heart was hammering. Someone else had pretended to be Nell? But who? And why? ‘That can’t be true,’ he gasped.

  Aided by Sheila, George Farley was settling himself back down into his chair. He was evidently exhausted by the encounter, yet his eyes were as bright as ever.

  ‘Nell came to see me,’ he said, enunciating each word clearly. ‘She told me everything. Not just about what happened between the two of you. But about her wedding, about your girlfriend.’

  ‘That’s none of her business!’ Dylan cried, grasping at what seemed to him the one certainty. ‘Or yours!’ But his insides were shrinking at what this dignified old man must know about his drunkenness, his ravings.

  ‘It is absolutely her business,’ George returned. ‘And mine too. I care about Nell very much.’ He paused before glaring up at Dylan again. ‘And believe it or not, young man, I care about you. You saved my life, after all.’

  Dylan felt a bitter triumph. Finally, an acknowledgement!

  ‘I want to stop you making a terrible mistake,’ George went on, his tone treading a middle line between earnest and angry, as if what was obvious to him should be obvious to everyone. ‘Nell loves you. She hasn’t done anything wrong. She never would, she’s a girl in a million, and you have failed one of life’s most important lessons, which is to recognise a good thing when you see it.’ He fumbled behind him with his vein-corded hand for Sheila’s elegant one. She took it and squeezed it tightly.

  The old man lowered his head, seemingly summoning the strength to continue. Then he raised it again. ‘Believe me, young man, I know what I’m talking about. Life is precious and we should celebrate what’s good about it, not dwell on what is bad.’

  Dylan was silenced. He stared at George, feeling the fury in his heart and head die down. Sitting before him here, his white hair ploughed with comb-lines, his old head bent and his old body gasping for breath, was someone who had been through worse than he ever had.

  The bright eyes were on him again. ‘You’ve suffered, young man,’ George conceded. ‘You almost lost your life in a fire.’

  Dylan nodded. Yes, he had suffered. ‘But you’re not the only one. Plenty of young men I knew died in fires,’ George said softly, a faraway look in his eyes. ‘Lancasters carried a lot of bombs. They could fall and explode when you touched down. Sometimes they exploded when you took off.’ He sighed. ‘Plenty of young men died that way,’ he added, now looking at Dylan. ‘Men a lot younger than you.’

  Dylan said nothing. What could he say? ‘George!’ Anne appeared at the French windows. ‘Time for your medicine, love.’

  The bright eyes blinked and, caught between the past and the present, looked lost for a moment.

  ‘Still here?’ Anne called cheerily to Dylan. He muttered his goodbyes and hurried off to the car park. But his sense of vindication, self-righteousness and grudge had gone. Now all that remained were questions, uncomfortable ones he’d never asked himself before.

  Just who did he think he was? What was so special about him? It seemed to Dylan that all his problems, which had appeared so large, important and cataclysmic, were actually of his own making. Had it really been necessary to make such a fuss about not writing? To the extent that he tried to disappear off the face of the earth? Something of the worry that his mother must have been through now dawned on him.

 
Dylan started up the car. Even the fire, while not his direct responsibility, was linked to his actions. It was obvious from the start that Beatrice was mad. He should have avoided her, or ended the relationship. There had been plenty of signs that little good would ever come of it.

  He drove away. He had been an idiot. A selfish idiot. And he could accept all that. Try and make up to people, change his ways. But the part of the story that he couldn’t believe, that made no sense whatsoever and that for once wasn’t linked to his own actions, was George’s contention that someone else had pretended to be Nell.

  Why would anyone do that?

  He drove into the glade before the tower to find a strange car parked there. Shining, new, expensive. For a moment his heart leapt in spite of himself; Eve was one of the many people in line for a handsome apology. But then he saw it bore the number plate ANG 1.

  A woman was getting out. Dylan did not recognise her immediately. Then he realised, with a sinking heart, that here was the ghastly, over-made-up personnel woman, the one who’d tried to chat him up, who he’d actually spotted hanging around the tower. It seemed like years ago.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he said coolly.

  He noticed that her previously manic smile was muted, almost apologetic, as now she walked towards him.

  ‘Yes, you can help me,’ she said. ‘You can listen to what I have to tell you.’

  CHAPTER 59

  Angela was taking the bull by the horns. Having bearded Dylan and confessed how she had misled Eve, she had next gone to the local police station and explained about Dan and Caradoc Turner. She was prepared to face whatever the consequences were for herself.

  ‘I know it sounds far-fetched,’ she said to the sergeant, who looked more startled than Angela was expecting.

  ‘It does,’ he agreed. ‘But what’s even more far-fetched is that we’ve had some communication on this subject already. A letter from a little girl in London.’

  He went out of the room and came back with a small pink envelope on which was written, in careful blue biro, ‘The Unsolved Poisonings Department, The Police Station, Chestlock, Leicestershire’. The sergeant drew out two sheets of paper covered in more careful blue writing. Angela could see the signature ‘Juno’.

  None of this made sense until Angela visited Dan at the hospital that afternoon and heard for the first time about his new acquaintance with Rachel and her little daughter. It sounded like early days, as they had only just met each other, but Angela could tell that Dan was optimistic that he was on the brink of something special. He looked glowingly happy. Observing this, Angela felt an unusual and strange sensation and realised she was feeling pleased for someone else for the very first time.

  Dan was amazed to hear that Juno’s poisoning theory was actually a possibility. He told Angela that he’d got so fed up with the child’s endless talk about deadly chocolates that he’d told her to write to the police about it. ‘I were joking, though,’ he finished.

  Dan was forgiving about Angela’s own part in the drama. He would not, he assured her, press charges, even though the sergeant had explained to Angela that it was Dan’s right. He knew about her health problems, Angela guessed, and he didn’t want to add to her difficulties. She had tried to sound grateful; sensible of his mercy, but actually a prison sentence was neither here nor there to her.

  It was, very possibly, rather more to Caradoc Turner. He had been questioned by the police, Angela had heard, and a trial was pending. The likelihood was that he would be convicted of actual bodily harm and serve a jail sentence.

  Angela’s guilt on this count, which was considerable, had been alleviated in part by another letter Dan had shown her. It was from Juliet and was very contrite. In it she described her bitter regret that her infidelity had driven her husband to a criminal act. She planned now to dedicate herself to resolving their problems and making the marriage work.

  ‘Which will be easy enough,’ Dan remarked, ‘because the main problem was that she didn’t like sleeping with him. And she won’t have to do that now he’s banged up.’

  Angela had left the hospital feeling, if not relieved or happy, then a certain satisfaction. Whatever the future held, she had at least faced up to her actions. There remained only one of her victims to seek out now: Nell.

  ‘You can’t come back and stay with me,’ Rachel had said firmly. ‘I’m up to my eyes in exams and there’s no room.’

  Nell clenched the fist not holding the phone. ‘You don’t understand,’ she wailed. ‘I can’t stay at Beggar’s Roost. Or anywhere near Pemberton. This is an emergency. It’s over! Me and Dylan . . . I mean Adam . . . I mean . . .’ She stopped. What did she mean?

  ‘You mean Dylan,’ Rachel said wearily. ‘Dylan Eliot. The famous writer. You’ve just explained. That’s who he’s been all along, apparently. Something else you decided not to tell me.’

  ‘He made me promise!’

  ‘And you didn’t think that was weird? Do you do everything men make you promise?’

  ‘Er . . .’ Rachel had a way of making what seemed impossible to argue with eminently questionable. She was going to be a brilliant barrister. But just now that didn’t help. On the contrary.

  ‘He’s . . . oh God, Rach, he was drunk and he shouted at me . . . awful things. Told me to get out—’

  ‘Yes, I know, you’ve just told me all about it,’ Rachel cut in. ‘But come on, Nell. What did you expect? I warned you—’

  ‘Oh don’t!’ Nell gasped, anguished. ‘Don’t say I told you so!’

  ‘But I did,’ Rachel sighed. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I can see things are difficult—’

  ‘Difficult! You could say that!’ Had not her relationship with Dylan ended in the most appalling way? Why did Rachel not understand the shock of it, her utter devastation? Even George Farley, who was nearly ninety, had had no difficulty grasping the horror of what had happened when she had been to see him that morning. So why not Rachel?

  Somewhere, in the back of her mind, Nell knew that she was behaving very badly. But she was incapable of stopping herself. Her outrage and hurt had a momentum far stronger than any brakes that reasonableness could apply. She plunged onwards, quite out of control. Joey had knocked her off course, but Dylan had completely unhinged her.

  ‘I need to get out of here!’ she cried, as much to the whitewashed walls of Beggar’s Roost as to Rachel on the other end. ‘Everywhere I look, it’s just full of memories . . .’ She trailed off.

  ‘Well, I just can’t put you up at the moment.’

  Nell had assumed that her friend would sympathise and offer her shelter from the emotional storm, as well as actual shelter in the form of her London flat. But all Rachel could talk about was her exams!

  ‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit selfish?’ she asked tightly.

  The sound that came from the other end was a shuddering, deep breath, as if Rachel was trying to control some outburst. ‘Look, Nell. I’ve supported you through thick and thin . . .’

  She had. There was no doubt about it.

  ‘. . . despite the fact that you didn’t tell me the truth about this guy. I told you to keep away from him but you couldn’t . . .’

  That was true too. Nell was beginning to see her friend’s point of view. Rachel, too, had a life, and other priorities than endlessly clearing up after a woman who could never learn from her mistakes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said humbly.

  ‘I’m sorry too.’ Rachel’s tone was softer now. ‘But I’m out of action until my exams are done. This is a crucial week for me, Nell. You’ll just have to stay up there. Until the weekend, anyway. You can come down after that if you like. Just try and keep busy until then. Weren’t you going to help at that wedding?’

  Nell had forgotten about Jed and Carly’s wedding, as she had forgotten about everything except her own immediate drama. But Rachel wa
s right, tomorrow was the American nuptials. Could any prospect be worse? ‘That’s the last thing I want to do! A wedding!’ Her voice rose, tragically, on the last syllable.

  ‘Oh come on, Nell.’ Rachel was sounding irritated again. ‘You promised your friend, didn’t you? Your nice friend who helped you with your house?’

  ‘Yes, but Julie’s hardly going to expect me to turn up, not after what’s happened—’

  ‘Julie doesn’t know what happened! How could she? The world doesn’t revolve around you, or haven’t you noticed?’

  This was the final straw. ‘Rachel,’ Nell screamed, ‘don’t you get it? When I got to the tower and he was lying there, in that red pool, I thought he was . . . dead!’

  There was a silence, and then Rachel said quietly, ‘Yes, but he wasn’t dead, was he?’

  The phone at the other end cut off. Nell called back immediately but Rachel had switched to answerphone. She left a message and tried again a few minutes later. Still answerphone. She was vastly relieved when, ten minutes or so later, her mobile rang. She snatched it up. ‘I’m so sorry!’ she howled.

  ‘Sorry about what?’ Julie sounded alarmed. ‘Don’t tell me you can’t make it!’

  ‘Er . . .’ As Nell hesitated, Rachel’s words came back. You promised your friend, didn’t you? Your nice friend who helped you with your house? If she let Julie down, it would confirm everything Rachel thought about her. And Rachel would be right.

  ‘Of course I’m coming.’ Nell heard herself say. ‘You helped me with Beggar’s Roost, didn’t you? One good turn deserves another.’

  Julie sounded vastly relieved. ‘I thought you were just about to blow me out.’

  ‘Never,’ Nell valiantly assured her. ‘Just tell me when and where.’

  ‘The wedding’s at five, in the Pemberton chapel. And afterwards there’s helping out at the dinner and the candlelit ball.’

  ‘But don’t I just come for the ball? Surely they don’t want us in the chapel? Isn’t that the private bit?’