The Devil's Advocate

by Vanessa James

  From Back Cover…

  The past stood between them.

  Ten years ago marriage to Julius Morrell would have promised Luisa a golden, sunlit future, she loved him so much. Now it only guaranteed her sister's freedom and a future filled with uncertainty for Luisa.

  For she was overwhelmed by memories too long denied… of Scotland on an eternal afternoon, of first love—the strongest and the best—and of things too painful to remember even now.

  And Julius was blinded by thought of revenge that seemed to overshadow the silent promise they'd once shared.

  Excerpt…

  'Either your sister pays the price, or you do,' the implacable Julius Morrell told Luisa. And as the alternative was that her sister would probably go to prison, what else could Luisa do? Julius, she realised, had nursed thoughts of revenge for ten years. Now it was in his power, what would become of her?

  The Devil's Advocate

  by

  Vanessa James

  CHAPTER ONE

  How absurd, Luisa thought. If someone were to open the door and look into the room now, a stranger for instance, it would appear totally calm, at peace. I would appear totally calm.

  She set down her sewing and looked round at the room, trying to see it with an outsider's eyes. A fire burned in the grate; two lamps, with red shades, threw warm pools of light on the blue and russet rugs her father had once brought back from Tashkent. A clock ticked; in front of the fire Tamara, the Siamese, stretched and flexed her claws as she dreamed. Heavy old velvet curtains shut out the night, and Luisa herself, curled catlike on the bumpy old chesterfield, stitched the final square inch of her embroidery. She peered at the petit-point, at the webs of tiny stitches, the design of summer flowers, cabbage roses and peonies. It was almost finished.

  With a sigh she thrust the needle back into the work and pushed it aside. Her eyes strayed again back to the clock, as they had a hundred times already that evening. Past midnight, almost one. She stood for a moment, listening intently for the sound of a car engine, for tyres on the wet road outside, but there was nothing. She was not calm, she thought irritably, far from it. The calmness was an illusion, a fake. Not even the embroidery, so time-consuming, so intricate, had been able to soothe her tonight. Where was Claudia?

  Impatiently she paced back and forth, and then, on impulse, crossed quickly to the door, across the landing, and into Claudia's little attic bedroom. It was in chaos as usual, the tiny mantelpiece piled with invitations, coffee cups, ashtrays; clothes dropped on chairs, tossed on the floor, a table littered with expensive make-up, dirty cotton wool, necklaces, rings and bracelets. Luisa hesitated; she hated Claudia's room, hated its disorder.

  She paused and then opened the door of the huge old wardrobe. Why she did it, she didn't know. After all, the coat would still be there, the dresses would still be there, however much she might wish they weren't, that she had never come in here, looking for the new box of embroidery silks which were stored there—and found them.

  Of course they were still there; she stared at them, her face quiet, perturbed. She ran her hand gently over the smooth brown fur of the jacket, and she felt again the panic grip her stomach. Where had they come from? Even she, uninterested in clothes, could tell they must have been terribly expensive; one of the dresses was a St Laurent, pure silk.

  The fur, from Harrods, was new. There was no way, she thought, that Claudia could afford such clothes. Her secretary's salary at Morrell & Kennedy was even lower than Luisa's at the gallery; Harry might have bought them for her, but somehow Luisa doubted it. Perhaps someone had lent them to her, she told herself quickly, for the hundredth time. Perhaps there was a perfectly good explanation… She'd tried to ask Claudia, earlier that evening, but she was going out, stalking around the flat in Janet Reger underwear, in a terrible temper with her hair, late for Harry as usual. 'I'm in a hurry, Luisa!' she had cried crossly, and slammed the door in her sister's face.

  Luisa quickly shut the door and went back into the sitting room. She crossed to the windows, drew back the heavy curtains, and looked out over the square. The snow, falling late, for it was February, had almost melted earlier in the day; now the slush had frozen over; the trees, the pavements glistened white in the moonlight. Her own reflection, pale, ringed with an aureole of silvery fair hair, gazed back at her from the glass, till her breath misted it over and the ghostly face vanished. On an impulse, she pushed up the window and leaned out, breathing the cold air deeply, gratefully. Tiny icicles hung from the frame; she broke one off and held it in her hand, shivering at the sudden cold, a little dagger of ice that very slowly melted against the warmth of her skin.

  Then suddenly she heard them; there was the roar of an engine, a screech of brakes, a burst of rock music from the car's stereo, as Harry braked sharply in front of the house. Quickly Luisa drew back, unwilling to appear over-anxious, to be spying, and shut the window, drew back the curtains. Hurriedly, hearing the door downstairs slam, Claudia's feet on the stairs, she sat down on the sofa and picked up her embroidery. She must seem calm, she thought quickly. She mustn't lose her temper. But she must make Claudia explain; she still felt responsible for her. When would she not? she thought dully, as the front door slammed. She lowered her eyes again to her sewing.

  'Oh, you're still up. I thought you'd have been in bed hours ago.'

  Claudia paused, framed in the doorway, a cross and sulky expression on her face.

  Composedly Luisa looked up at her. How beautiful she looked, she thought, and how aware of it. Claudia's thick dark hair, inherited from their mother, was tousled; her lipstick very slightly smeared. As Luisa watched her, she made a half-hearted attempt to smooth her hair, and then with a shrug, tossed off the thin silk stole that she had wrapped round her tanned shoulders. She shivered and went across to the fire, kneeling down in front of it by the cat, keeping her back to her sister.

  'Were you warm enough in that?' Luisa gestured to the thin blue and gold stole.

  'Oh, don't be boring, Lou.' Claudia sighed. 'Honestly, you sound like Aunt Con sometimes! Of course I was warm enough; cars do have heaters, you know.'

  Luisa kept her voice steady. 'It's a cold night, I'd have thought you might wear the fur coat.'

  Claudia swung round accusingly. Across the room, in the firelight, her blue eyes flashed.

  'You've been in my room!'

  'To find the embroidery silks. Yes.'

  Claudia hesitated. Her face took on the expression Luisa knew of old, the nursery face, sulky, defiant. She took her time answering, settling herself crosslegged on the rug, staring across the room at her sister. She was calculating what lie she could tell to extricate herself, Luisa thought sadly, and from long practice, she kept silent.

  Eventually Claudia shrugged.

  'I see,' she said rebelliously. 'It's inquisition time, is it? That's why you waited up.'

  Luisa sighed. 'Hardly an inquisition,' she said gently. 'But I did wait up. If I didn't, I'd never catch you, would I, Claudia? You'd always be rushing off somewhere. There'd never be any time for explanations.'

  'What makes you think I have to give you any explanation?' Claudia snapped. 'A year from now I shall tell you to go to hell! I can't wait!'

  Luisa smiled at her sadly. 'That's a year from now,' she said patiently. 'As it is, I'm still legally responsible. You're only twenty, Claudia, can't you see…'

  'And you're twenty-five. So what? You're not my mother!'

  Luisa felt a shaft of pain at her words and looked away. Claudia hardly remembered their mother, but she did, she thought sadly. Her mother certainly would never have done what she was doing now—she'd have let Claudia go her own way, just as she had always done. And perhaps she would have been right. It would
be easier.

  'Claudia, please,' she said softly. 'I didn't choose this situation, you know. But as it is…'

  'Oh, don't pretend! You revel in it!' Claudia glared at her. 'You always have done, as long as I can remember. And since it's you that has the money—you that holds the purse-strings, there's not much I can do about it, is there?'

  'That's not true!' Luisa stared at her sister indignantly. She had a temper too, she thought defensively. But Claudia was so impulsive, so impossible, that she always had to repress it—it wasn't fair. She forced it down, kept her voice even. 'Claudia, the money has nothing to do with it, and you know it. I didn't want it, I never did. And if it's any consolation, most of it's gone already.'

  'On my school fees? I don't believe it!'

  'That and other things.' Luisa looked away, and her sister's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  'Well, I can't think on what,' she said rudely. 'You never spend any. You never go out, never see anyone, never buy anything. All you do is work, come home, and work some more. Well, just don't expect me to live like that. You might as well be a bloody nun!'

  'Claudia.' Luisa leaned towards her. She knew this technique of old; anything to change the subject, to draw off the attack. 'It's late. We've been over all this hundreds of times. I don't want to cross-question you, and I don't want to interfere. Believe me, I wish I'd never gone into your room. But I did, and…' She broke off, her eyes pleading. 'Claudia, you'll have to tell me. Where did all those clothes come from?'

  'I bought them, of course. What else?' Claudia could not meet her gaze, Luisa saw. She looked away, turning her beautiful face to the fire. Luisa sighed, and Claudia tensed impatiently.

  'I suppose you thought Harry bought them for me? You would think that! Just because I don't share all your puritan hang-ups it doesn't mean I'm a kept woman, you know. Not yet, anyway!'

  'I didn't think that.'

  Luisa hesitated. It would be so much easier to stop, she thought, to close her eyes to it all, to give in. But she knew she must not.

  'Claudia, look,' she said gently, 'they're terribly ex­pensive—even I can see that. I… I wondered if you'd borrowed them?'

  She looked at her sister hopefully, and Claudia swung round with a look of scorn.

  'Borrow them? Wear someone else's cast-offs? No, thank you! You think I'm going to go out with Harry—to the sort of places he takes me—in a lot of hand-downs?' She laughed. 'Hardly my style!'

  There was a silence, and Claudia looked away, stroking the cat, her face suddenly thoughtful, her head bowed. Her thick dark hair fell forward across her face, so its expression was suddenly hidden. Luisa felt a dart of pity and sympathy for her; Claudia, who had grown up hardly knowing their mother, the two of them parked with an endless succession of nannies and aunts, as their father continued his endless peregrinations around the world. It wasn't surprising, she told herself, that Claudia should have grown up as she did, headstrong, wilful, never satisfied until she had exactly what she wanted, and then instantly bored with it.

  'Clou, please, come on, don't let's quarrel…' She reached across to her sister impulsively, using the old nickname of their childhood. Claudia brushed her hand away impatiently, and then, with a sudden movement, turned and clasped it. Their eyes met, and Luisa saw her sister's mouth tremble, the huge dark blue eyes well with tears. She drew a deep breath; so she had been right.

  'There's something wrong, isn't there, darling?' she said gently. 'Come on, you'd better tell me.'

  'Oh, Lou!' With a tearful moan, Claudia drew her down on to the rug beside her. 'I'm in a mess!'

  Luisa smiled wryly. She knew her sister's swift changes of moods; with her, defiance was always a prelude to confession. She put her arm round her comfortingly, thinking how often the two of them had played out this kind of scene before.

  'It can't be so awful,' she said softly. 'Tell me. You know I'll help.'

  'You can't!' Claudia gave a sob. 'Not this time. No one can…'

  'Of course they can. I can…' Luisa forced her voice to remain calm, and soothing, but she felt inside the quickenings of alarm. Claudia was trembling.

  'These clothes…' She hesitated. 'Lou, the money to get them. I… I stole it!'

  Luisa stared at her in disbelief, feeling herself go rigid with shock and fear.

  'You stole it?' She looked into her sister's troubled face, and Claudia blushed scarlet. 'Clou, you can't have done. You can't mean it!'

  'I did!' Claudia tilted her chin. 'I was desperate for some money, can't you understand? It was after I met Harry. He was taking me to all those places—dancing, parties—and I… I wanted to look pretty for him. I wanted to wear the kinds of clothes all the other girls were wearing, and…'

  'But, Claudia, you have lots of clothes already…' Luisa interrupted in bewilderment.

  'No, I don't!' Claudia shook her off. 'Awful old things everyone's seen already! I wanted new things, I… I wanted to impress Harry, I suppose, and that awful old battleaxe of a mother of his, who looks down her nose at me every time I go there. I love Harry, Lou, I want to marry him, damn it!'

  Luisa sighed. She had been hearing that refrain for the past three months, ever since Claudia and Harry had first met. Privately she thought Harry kind and good, but unlikely ever to cross his family to the extent of marrying Claudia. She looked away.

  'The money,' she prompted gently. 'Claudia, never mind why. Where did you get it?'

  'From the firm.' Claudia stared at her defiantly.

  Luisa felt her blood run cold; she stared at her sister in disbelief.

  'From Morrell & Kennedy? Claudia, you can't have…'

  Her sister gave a sob. 'I did! It was such a temptation, you see; it was so simple, that's what's so awful…' She drew in her breath shakily, and turned away once more so the fall of hair hid her face. 'I know you just think of them as family solicitors. But they don't just handle small inheritances, like yours. They act for all sorts of rich people.' She hesitated. 'There's this client of theirs, some stupid ancient spinster, living up in Yorkshire, they've handled all her affairs since the year dot. Well, she's mad on animals, potty about them.' Claudia gave a harsh laugh. 'I even typed her will; the whole damn lot's going to some stupid cat sanctuary!' She broke off.

  'So?'

  Claudia shrugged. 'So, I thought, what a waste. And then—well, every so often the firm sends off cheques for her—it's interest on her shareholdings, and it goes to different animal charities, umpteen of them. We have her cheques, old Mr Morrell just used to fill in the charity's name, counter-sign them, and then send her a monthly inventory of where the money went. I typed the inventories; I sent off the cheques… Well,' she paused, 'about three months ago, when old Mr Morrell was taken ill, he left a whole bundle of the cheques on his desk… I only took a few of them, Lou, just on impulse to begin with, I don't know why. Then I… I made them out in the firm's name, and took them round to the bank and cashed them. Not all at once, of course, they might have been suspicious. A few weeks apart. No one blinked an eyelid, I cash cheques for old Mr Morrell all the time. It was so easy, don't you see, Lou?'

  She stared at her sister pleadingly.

  'But they had to be counter-signed… there was the inventory…' Luisa stared at her sister in mounting horror.

  'Oh, that was nothing!' Claudia sounded almost boastful. 'I could copy old Morrell's signature with my eyes closed. I typed the inventory—I just altered the figures…'

  'You… you forged his signature?'

  'Well, I had to, didn't I? They wouldn't cash them with my name on, would they?' Claudia snapped.

  Luisa felt suddenly sick.

  'How much…' she hesitated. 'How much were they for, Claudia?'

  'Not much.' Claudia looked away, avoiding Luisa's eyes. 'Well, not to begin with, anyway.'

  'How much?'

  'Nearly two thousand pounds.' Claudia's voice sank to a whisper.

  'What?' Luisa stared at her, rigid with shock. She felt her mind spin,
and immediately begin the terrible endless calculations. How much of her own money was left…? If she sold the last set of savings certificates…

  'Oh, Lou, I'm so sorry. I don't know what came over me…' Impulsively, Claudia turned and buried her face in her sister's lap. Absently, Luisa stroked her hair, held her close, until her sobs subsided.

  'Claudia, listen.' She kept her voice quiet and soothing, knowing that the worst thing she could do would be to upset Claudia any further. She sighed. 'There's no point now in talking about that. I can't think how you could have done such a thing, but since you have, we'll just have to sort it out, shan't we? Now, listen to me. I have some money left…'

  'How much?' Instantly Claudia sat up, her eyes alert.

  'Enough, I think,' Luisa said slowly. 'So, tomorrow, we'll go in together, we'll explain what's happened, you'll apologise, and we'll pay the money back. I'm sure old Mr Morrell…'

  'It's not as simple as that!' Claudia gave a wail of despair. The tears spilled over, and she clung to Luisa's hands.

  Luisa looked at her in bewilderment.

  'Clou,' she said gently, 'it'll be O.K., you'll see. You'll have to resign, but you never liked the job anyway. And Mr Morrell was so fond of… of our mother. For her sake, I'm sure he wouldn't…'

  'Oh, Luisa! You don't listen'. I told you a month ago. You can't even see old Morrell. He's ill, he hasn't even been in the office since the heart attack…'

  Luisa paused. Suddenly her memory tugged at her, and she felt herself go cold with fear.

  'Then… who can I see?'

  Claudia's eyes met hers.

  'Julius Morrell.'

  'Julius?'

  'Yes. Now are you so complacent? How do you rate our chances now? You think Julius Morrell is going to let me off with a polite little apology and a convenient cheque?'

  Luisa stared at her sister, hardly seeing her. Instead her mind flashed back to a summer's day years before. The day of her mother's funeral: standing by the graveside, with the sun beating down on their bared heads, and meeting a cold hard stare from a pair of steel grey eyes. A look of distaste, without sympathy, totally cold. Oh yes, that was the last time she had seen him, but she remembered Julius Morrell.