The Courtyard

by Marcia Willett

  The week after she’d met Sam’s clients, she found a letter waiting for her at the post office and with a surprisingly strong feeling of relief she rushed home with it.

  She read it several times, shock and horror mounting in her breast. She simply couldn’t take in this dreadful news: John dead, the baby dead, Nell ill and destitute. The pages drifted to her lap as she stared ahead, facts slotting into places, conversations taking on new meanings and the component parts adding up to a horrific whole. Her head reeled as she tried to make sense of it all. Naturally, Henry had no idea that Gillian’s lover was the man who had brought about this disaster. He described, simply and straightforwardly, how – having heard of the site through some estate agent acquaintance – John had been taken in by its owner. He told in stark – and therefore effective – terms the depth of the deception practised upon Nell and the effect when John, unable to face life any longer, had left the appalling consequences for her to shoulder alone. Gillian sat, stunned and shocked, prey to a whole host of conflicting emotions, the least admirable of which was terror that her part in the affair may be discovered. And then what?

  At this point, Gillian knew without doubt that she wanted to go back to Nethercombe and Henry. But what if he should find out that it was she who had seduced John into the meeting with Sam and then run away with him? With trembling hands she lifted the sheets and read on. Oh God! The police had questioned Simon whose name had been on the drawings in John’s desk. Simon, wrote Henry, had done the work at Sam’s request and been paid for it but had heard nothing since and, learning through the grapevine that the site had gone to auction, assumed that Sam had gone abroad. John, apparently, had telephoned Simon who’d put him straight on to the bank.

  Gillian drew a deep breath. At least Simon hadn’t dropped her in it and no one else knew … Her hands flew to her lips; Lydia knew! She knew Sam’s name and if she should speak to anyone at Nethercombe or to Elizabeth … Gillian’s heartbeats jumped and raced. She could well imagine Lydia blurting something out in her unthinking way. Gillian looked round desperately. There was no telephone in the little house and the one in the shop-cum-bistro was rather public. Still …

  LYDIA WAS AMAZED TO have a telephone call from her daughter and only when – having exclaimed and enquired – it was slowly borne in on her that Gillian’s voice was full of a kind of muted desperation did Lydia stop chattering and begin to listen. She gathered that Gillian was in a public place and trying not to be overheard.

  ‘I want to come home, Mum,’ she was saying and Lydia grasped the receiver more tightly, straining to hear. ‘It was all a terrible mistake and I want to come back.’

  ‘Oh, darling. D’you mean … ? When you say home … ?’

  ‘To Nethercombe.’ It was almost a wail. ‘Oh Mum, I know Henry will take me back.’ She dropped her voice. ‘Mum?’

  Gillian was almost whispering and Lydia instinctively lowered her voice.

  ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘You haven’t told anyone about Sam, have you?’

  Lydia thought quickly. Had she? To whom would she have mentioned it?

  ‘No. I’m sure I haven’t, darling. I haven’t spoken to anyone at Nethercombe although Henry wrote a lovely letter. I told you – ’

  ‘Yes. Yes, you said in your letter. Mum, don’t say anything to anyone at all. Promise? I’ll come to you first.’

  ‘Oh, darling, I’m so glad.’ The ready tears were gathering. ‘I’m sure it’s the right thing to do.’

  ‘I know. I’ll be in touch again soon. Only, Mum, just don’t mention Sam’s name to anyone, OK? Not anyone.’

  ‘Of course not, my darling. I promise. Why should I?’

  ‘I’m out of change, Mum. I’ll phone again soon when I’ve made some plans. ‘Bye.’

  The line went dead and Lydia sat weeping with relief, the receiver clutched to her chest. She replaced it after a moment, feeling weak with gratitude, and wondering why Gillian had been so insistent that no one should know Sam’s name. She went to pour herself a large and restorative drink, trying to remember what Sam’s surname was and rather shocked by the fact that she had completely forgotten the name of the man with whom her daughter had run away. Lydia shook her head in self-reproach. She really was a hopeless mother. She took a large heartening swallow of gin and tonic and smiled a little to herself. Someone had said that to her only recently. Who could it have been? Lydia took another sip and nearly choked. Elizabeth! It had been Elizabeth. She had said something of the sort when she, Lydia, had told her how Gillian had left Henry and – Lydia screwed up her face as she performed an almost violent mental exercise – oh God! Yes! Elizabeth had asked, ‘Who’s the man?’ and she had told her. Yes! She was quite certain that she’d told her the name. But would she remember it? And did it matter if she did? After all, it was hardly likely that Elizabeth would go rolling up to Nethercombe and start chatting to Henry about Sam Whittaker. Still …

  Lydia stood – clutching her glass as she had clutched the telephone receiver – in an agony of indecision. Should she tell Elizabeth, thus rousing all her suspicions, or should she let sleeping dogs lie and hope for the best? As she stood dithering, a saying which her mother had been fond of quoting slid into her mind.

  ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive.’

  TO GILLIAN THE DAY seemed endless. Pictures of John shot dead, Nell in an agony of childbirth, the funeral, rolled and rerolled themselves before her inward-looking eyes. She imagined Nell’s desperation as she discovered that she was destitute and Jack’s reaction at losing his father. Apparently, Henry and Gussie had taken them back to Nethercombe. There was, as Henry pointed out in his letter, nowhere else for them to go. It was almost as if it were an explanation to her, an apology. Perhaps he thought that she might be less likely to return if Nell were in residence. Gillian, aghast at the results of her double-dealing, lying and cheating, sat quite still. Part of her mind prayed that there might have been a mistake, some sort of misunderstanding that would exonerate Sam and, therefore, herself but in her heart she knew that this relief was unlikely to be granted to her.

  When Sam arrived home later that afternoon she was ready for him but not prepared to discover that the revelations contained in Henry’s letter had stripped the blindness from her eyes. The magic, the power, all had gone and she felt faint from her own stupidity. He kissed her and she willed herself not to shudder at his embrace.

  ‘How’s my beautiful? Jim Mortlake was asking after you today. You made a very good impression on him, I must say. Things are going very well indeed.’ He poured himself some wine and raised his glass to her. ‘You make an irresistible bait, my darling.’

  ‘You mean like I did with John?’

  He looked at her, tilting his head a little, narrowing his eyes, as if sizing up the remark. He nodded. ‘If you like.’

  ‘How’s it going? With John. Is the site coming on? Do you hear from him at all?’

  ‘Funny you should say that.’ He emptied his glass in one long swallow and turned away to refill it. ‘I spoke to him today. He telephoned to tell me how things were getting on. No problems, as far as I can see.’

  ‘I can see quite a big problem.’

  ‘Oh?’ He turned back to her, eyebrows raised. ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as communicating from beyond the grave. However did he manage it?’

  Sam gave a puzzled little laugh. He frowned at her smilingly and shook his head.

  ‘Sorry. Have I missed something? I’m not with it.’

  ‘Neither is he any more. He’s dead. He shot himself when the site went to auction and Nell lost her baby and nearly died herself.’

  Sam stood stock still, the expression wiped clean away from his face. Gillian knew that behind that unreadable smoothness his brain was working with the speed of lightning.

  ‘So?’ she asked him. ‘Would you like to rephrase your answer?’

  ‘Where did you hear all this?’

 
‘I had a letter from Simon,’ she lied. ‘John phoned him when he couldn’t find you. The bank foreclosed and put the site up for auction but there was no money left for John. So he killed himself.’

  ‘More fool him.’ Sam’s handsome face was twisted with contempt. ‘What a bloody idiot.’

  ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’ Gillian hung on grimly to her calm. ‘Just that he was a bloody idiot?’

  ‘Only a fool would have been taken in like he was. Christ! He didn’t even bother to get his solicitor to check things out. Honestly!’

  ‘And for that he deserved to die?’ Gillian’s temper was rising. ‘You lied to him and swindled him!’ She was on her feet now. ‘You killed him, Sam! You might as well have pulled the trigger yourself before you left him in the shit!’

  ‘Oh no, I didn’t!’ He was beside her, his hands on her wrists. She shrank from his touch and he shook her. ‘Don’t look at me like that. What about you? Who wheedled him into it in the first place? Crawling all over him and leading him on? Oh, I know you! Just remember this! I’d never have met him if it hadn’t been for you, wanting money to pay off your endless Barclaycards and bills. You killed him just as much as I did!’

  She dragged her hands from his grasp with a moan and, sinking into a chair, buried her face in them. Sam watched her. His mind leaped to and fro; assessing, rejecting, calculating. He went to the table and refilled his glass and poured some wine for her.

  ‘Here.’ He held it out to her. ‘Have a drink and don’t be so stupid. I didn’t kill John and neither did you.’

  Gillian took her hands away from her tragic face and stared at him. He pushed the glass into her hand and she took it and then sipped automatically. He nodded and took a deep breath as though a dangerous corner had been successfully negotiated and, sitting beside her, took her other hand. It lay limp and lifeless in his as she stared back at him.

  ‘John killed John,’ he said gently. ‘Not me or you. John killed himself because he was a loser, a non-achiever. He’d never done anything or got anywhere and he couldn’t stand the idea of it any longer. Someone like John hasn’t got a hope in hell in this economic climate. He didn’t have to accept my offer, did he? No sensible bloke would have chucked away all he’d got on a chance like that.’

  Gillian looked away from the handsome face, tried not to hear the reasonable, soothing, exonerating words.

  ‘You stole his money. You had no intention of developing the site. You lied to him and took his money and walked out on him.’

  Sam sat back and gave a little laugh. ‘“owe,” sweetheart. Get it right. “We.” Make no mistake. Your hands are just as bloody as mine.’

  ‘No!’ she cried. ‘No! I didn’t know that you were lying. I thought you were going to do the site and that he’d get his money back. You know that.’

  Sam grimaced consideringly. ‘But who’s going to believe you?’ His expression changed a little as he weighed up certain remarks and behaviour patterns and a doubt crept into his mind. ‘Certainly someone like your dear old upright Henry wouldn’t.’ He watched her closely. ‘Not thinking of telling him, were you?’ He burst out laughing at her silence. ‘I think you were. I really think that you were going to rush back to Nethercombe, leaving your horrid murderous lover behind, and unburden your heart to dear faithful old Henry.’ He shook his head and his expression was contemptuous. ‘What a child you are. Did you really think that you could go back?’

  ‘I am going back!’ Gillian raised her chin and stared at him. ‘Henry wants me back.’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  She looked at him and he nodded slowly.

  ‘I see. You’ve been keeping him warm just in case. What a cheating bitch you are. First with Simon, then with me. And how many in between? Ah, who cares? Go, then. Go back. But you know that you’ll never be able to tell him, don’t you? It’ll be on your conscience every time you look at him. And that old aunt or whatever she is. But I tell you this, Gillian! If you drop me in it by so much as a whisper, the shit will really hit the fan, I promise you. Every tiny bit of it. Think about it.’ He got up. ‘I’m going. I’ll be back tomorrow evening. If you’re leaving, then get on with it. The local taxi will take you to the station. If you’re still here when I get back I shan’t ever want to hear about John or Nethercombe again and I shall expect your full cooperation in all my deals. OK?’

  ‘You mean with people like the Mortlakes? I suppose it’s the same type of swindle all over again and you wanted me there to make it look convincing?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  He watched her for a moment and she stared back at him, huddled in the chair. Turning away, he emptied some change and some notes onto the table.

  ‘Sure you want to go back?’ He was looking at her; the old Sam again now, charming, quizzical, offering her the smooth, easy paths of temptation. ‘We make a good team, Gillian. Life’s tough and you have to take what’s offered, that’s all.’ He smiled ruefully, implying that she should understand – being a bit of a sinner herself – that survival was all that mattered.

  She saw John with a hole in his head and heard Nell crying out in the pain of labour and loss and she turned her face away from him.

  His expression changed and he shrugged. ‘Have it your own way.’

  He went out and shut the door quietly behind him.

  Twenty-two

  GUY WAS FEELING VERY good indeed. His friendship with Gemma and Sophie added a new dimension to his life which lent a glow to everything he did. He couldn’t understand why this should be so. He’d had girlfriends before – one very serious relationship at university – but none had relaxed him in this way or softened his heart to the needs of others. During the Easter holidays the girls were frequent visitors, Gemma driving them both over in her mother’s little car. The three of them took Bertie for walks on the moor, went regularly to the pub and explored the grounds at Nethercombe. Guy showed them his office in Dartmouth, took them into the Royal Castle for lunch and afterwards on the river, sailing in his boat. He suspected that Sophie imagined herself in love with him and found himself being gentle with her instead of blighting her hopes and crushing her feelings as had been his way with unwanted admirers in the past. His tall dark good looks attracted attention – girls finding his silent unapproachability a challenge – and he usually had no qualms in squashing their pretensions. With Gemma at hand, Sophie’s passion remained undeclared and Guy was able to be generous. Gemma behaved like a younger sister. She was good company, easy to be with and teased him in a way that Guy, very sensitive to being made fun of, found perfectly able to cope with and return in kind.

  When the holidays were over and the girls back at school, Guy was surprised at how much he missed them. His life which, hitherto, had been perfectly satisfactory now seemed flat and dull and, although he bore the teasing at the Church House and from Phoebe in good part, he was confused. After all, he wasn’t in love with either of the girls and despite the fact that Gemma was very attractive – Sophie was too thin and he preferred blondes – he felt none of that inconvenient lust which had occasionally made his life uncomfortable in the past. So why did he miss them so much?

  On the first weekend after they’d gone he took Bertie – who seemed to miss them as much as he did – for a long walk across the footpath that led over Nethercombe’s fields to the open moor. The late April air was soft and warm and Guy felt himself responding to the beauty of the world about him. He’d known the moors all his life but today he saw them with new eyes and an unfamiliar piercing joy tinged with melancholy and an unnamed yearning flamed within him.

  As he walked into the Courtyard he saw Phoebe standing outside her door staring upwards. Bertie ran to her, tail wagging, and she bent to stroke him, lifting her other hand to Guy.

  ‘The swallows are back,’ she said and her voice was almost exultant. ‘Look!’

  He looked up and saw them wheeling above his head against the blue sky. They watched for a moment and Guy smiled
, nodding in acknowledgement of her pleasure.

  ‘The trouble is,’ she said, an anxious note creeping into her jubilation, ‘I think we’ve stolen their homes. Isn’t it awful? Fancy coming all that way and finding some thoughtless bugger’s pinched your house? You can just imagine it, can’t you?’

  ‘I expect they’ll find somewhere else,’ said Guy, who was not so carried away by his sensations as to extend his newfound compassion to a few swallows. ‘There are plenty of old buildings around still.’

  ‘They’re probably already spoken for.’ Phoebe looked at him severely. ‘I can see that you’re not a conservationist.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ he answered at once. ‘I don’t give a damn about the whales or the black rhino. Evolution automatically destroys certain species. One day it will destroy us. What difference is it going to make to your life if the giant panda becomes extinct? Do you think that we’d be here now if our ancestors had insisted on trying to preserve the dinosaur or the mammoth?’

  ‘I feel that there’s a flaw in that argument …’ began Phoebe and paused as Gussie appeared in the archway. She waved to her.

  ‘We were watching the swallows,’ she called, ‘and Guy was just telling me that one swallow doesn’t make a summer. I know that I can always rely on him to stop me from becoming sentimental or prevent me from making too much of a fool of myself.’ She grinned at Guy’s expression. ‘How are you, Gussie? Come and have a cup of tea. Both of you.’

  ‘I won’t at the moment, thank you all the same, my dear.’ Gussie included Guy in her smile. ‘I’m glad I’ve caught you both. The thing is …’ She paused. ‘Oh dear. This is really very difficult.’