At thirty-five, Alicia was four years older than Charlie, and had been his protector since childhood, forever looking out for him. They were joined at the hip, more like twins than their siblings, Andrew and Thomas, who were twins.
The shrill of the phone cut into her thoughts, and she reached for it. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” a gruff male voice growled at the other end.
“Brin? Is that you?” she exclaimed.
“Who else would ring you at this ungodly hour?”
“What’s wrong? You sound strange.”
“I’ve been up all night. I’m about to collapse, drop dead perhaps. I’m coming over. Okay?”
“You sound bad. I’ll come and get you. Where are you?” she cried, her alarm spiraling.
“Just left Albany, Jake Stafford’s place … in Piccadilly in a phone box.”
“That I realize—”
“Say you’ll let me in … Do you want me to be arrested for loitering with intent?”
“Get into a taxi at once. Oh, do you have money?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“I bloody well hope so.”
The phone went dead. She stared at it for a long moment then put it back in the cradle. In the three years they had been involved in an intense and passionate love affair nothing like this had ever happened before. He did like to drink, that was true, but he could hold his liquor, was always in control. Now he sounded … out of control, weird. She couldn’t help wondering if he was still drunk.
Alicia leaped out of bed, went to the kitchen, and put on a pot of coffee. She then hurried into her bedroom, pulled on a silk dressing gown, continued into the bathroom, removed the cream, washed her face, cleaned her teeth, and brushed her hair. “Ready for anything,” she muttered.
Returning to the kitchen, Alicia set a tray, but was interrupted by the doorbell. Bracing herself, she went to let him in, not quite knowing what to expect.
* * *
She called him Brin, an invention based on a favorite toy from her childhood. His real name was Bryan MacKenzie Mellor, born thirty-one years ago in Edinburgh of a Scottish mother and an English father. A fellow actor, he was tall, handsome, dashing, and considered to be the second best-looking man on the West End stage. The first was her uncle James Brentwood, still thought of as the greatest matinee idol of all time.
Brin coveted his Savile Row clothes, was proud of his stylish appearance and looks, and usually there was never a hair out of place.
Not this morning, she thought, shocked by what she saw standing before her. He looked like a tramp who lived permanently on the streets, and had just risen up from the gutter, or better still, from a sewer.
His navy blue pin-striped suit, a piece of perfect Savile Row engineering, was crumpled and his jacket was stained. A blue silk tie dangled out of a side pocket; his white shirt had dark bloodstains on the front and the collar was torn. Then she noticed the cut above his right eye and bruises on one cheek just visible under his growth of stubble. He lolled against the doorjamb and seemed as if he were about to slide down onto the floor. He almost did.
Reaching out with both hands, she grabbed his arms and pulled him inside the flat. He tripped and almost fell, but managed to somehow stay upright. Then he staggered toward the bedroom, muttering, “Bathroom.”
Alicia followed him, stood waiting for him. Once he came into the bedroom, she took hold of his arm, and said firmly, “Come on, darling, let’s get you comfortable.”
He didn’t protest as she led him into the living room, just allowed himself to be propelled over to the sofa. He flopped down, a look of relief crossing his face as he sank into the soft cushions.
“Do you want a glass of water? Coffee might be better.”
“Whisky.”
“No way. You smell like a brewery.”
“Hair of dog,” he muttered and tried to smile, but winced, and a small shiver ran through him.
“Have you been in a fight, Brin?” she asked, leaning forward, peering at the cut above his eyebrow and the puffiness on one side of his face, her puzzlement apparent.
He shook his head, then closed his eyes, a deep sigh running through him.
Alicia went to the kitchen and prepared the coffee. She then took a fresh loaf of bread out of the bread box. After cutting a thick slice, she spread on butter, then peeled a banana and cut this into rounds, laid them on top of the bread. Taking the tray into the living room, she put it on a low table, bent over Bryan, and shook him lightly.
“Drink this coffee. It’ll help a lot, and so will the slice of bread.”
With a bit of an effort he roused himself, and sat up straighter, took several long swallows of the coffee. “I’m hungry,” he said, “I don’t remember having dinner.” As he spoke, he reached for the slice of bread.
“What happened to you last night?” she asked, sitting down in a chair.
“Nothing. Lads night out … a pub crawl. Too many pubs, I suppose.” He then ate the remainder of the bread.
She asked, “How did you end up at Jake Stafford’s?”
“Tony Flint and I took him there. He was far worse for wear than we were. Very drunk. We ended up sleeping on the sofas in his posh drawing room, too tired to drag ourselves home.”
She nodded. “Are they both all right?”
“Dead to the world when I left … but alive.” A faint smile formed on his mouth, and there was a sudden tender look in his deep green eyes, which, she noticed, were also bloodshot.
“Sorry … to come here like this, Alsi. But then where else could I go?”
She went over to the sofa and sat down next to him. “You did exactly the right thing. I’m not angry, just worried about you.”
“I’m okay, the coffee helped and the bread.” He put an arm around her shoulders, drew her closer.
Instantly she pulled away, grimacing. “You stink, Brin. Of stale beer, whisky, smoke, and sweat. It’s into the shower for you.”
She jumped up and took hold of his arm firmly. Once again he didn’t resist, just let her maneuver him into the bedroom, where she helped him out of his clothes.
When he was finally standing under the shower, she sighed with relief. She had come to realize he wasn’t drunk, just hungover. That in itself was reassuring, but her puzzlement continued to linger. It was certainly out of character for him to be in this kind of disheveled state, and his ruined clothes had taken her by surprise. He was so finicky about his appearance and proud of his sartorial elegance. Once the water stopped running, she picked up a large towel and handed it to him as he stepped out of the tub.
“Thanks,” he murmured, “I do feel better.”
She nodded and went into the bedroom, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. It was almost eight. No point in her going back to bed now. Last night she had promised to go over to Charlie’s around eleven o’clock today to read some chapters of his new book, and she wasn’t going to disappoint him.
When she realized Brin was standing behind her, she turned and looked up at him. Alicia was tall at five feet ten, but he was six feet one, broad of chest, a big man, but without an ounce of fat on him. The sunlight now coming in through the window gave a hint of radiance to his blond-reddish hair, and as he drew her toward him his eyes were full of tenderness. She realized the cut over his eyebrow was nothing serious.
“Let’s go to bed,” he said softly against her hair.
“I can’t,” she murmured. “I promised Charlie I’d help him with a couple of chapters this morning.”
Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed Brin’s cheek. “But you ought to get some sleep. Right over there.” She waved a hand at the bed. “You did say you were spending the weekend with me.”
He grinned. “You owe me for last night … you skipped out on me, to see your parents for dinner instead of me.”
“A big mistake.”
His eyes narrowed. He glanced at her swiftly. “Problems? Not with Charlie, I hope.
”
“How well you know us. But it wasn’t Charlie’s fault.” She took hold of Brin’s hand, led him to the bed. “Get in, get some sleep, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Four
There were times, like now, when Charlie Stanton wondered what he would have done if he hadn’t had a sister like Alicia. Not only was she warm, loving, and devoted, she was also wise, told things the way they were, and was truthful to the point of bluntness at times. He trusted her implicitly, and usually took her advice.
She was sitting opposite him now in the sitting room of his flat in Mount Street, on this sunny Sunday morning at the end of June, and he couldn’t help but admire her. Sunshine was pouring in through the large windows, highlighting her golden hair, and her delicately drawn features. What he loved about her looks was the calmness they conveyed; there was a kind of stillness about Alicia that he had never seen in anyone else, in or out of the family, and it engendered a sense of peace in others as much as it did in him.
She had just finished telling him about Bryan Mellor’s surprising arrival in the early hours of the morning. He had been startled when she had described his condition. Charlie’s nickname for Bryan was Mr. Impeccable. Hearing that he had turned up in a disheveled state was hard for Charlie to comprehend.
“So, what do you think?” Alicia pressed. “To be honest, I myself found it rather odd.”
“I agree with you,” Charlie answered. “On the other hand, a pub crawl occasionally isn’t so unusual, you know. Men do do that at times.”
“I realize that, Charlie, but it was his physical state. The cut above his eyebrow, the stained, crumpled suit, torn collar on his shirt, which was streaked with blood.” She shook her head. “It wasn’t the Bryan I knew. I just couldn’t help thinking that something awful had happened to him…” Her voice trailed off, and she shrugged, looked troubled.
Charlie nodded. “Maybe he got into some kind of brawl, and simply didn’t want to admit it to you.”
“Perhaps that’s it. Or someone beat him up. There were bruises on his cheek.”
“Why would anyone do that to Bryan? He’s a mild sort of chap.” Charlie’s puzzlement was apparent as he stared at her.
“True. Well, never mind, he’s fine now. He’s sleeping it off at my flat.” Alicia pursed her lips. “If Mother hadn’t dreamed up the farewell supper, at the last minute, Brin and I would have kept our date and gone out to dinner, and he would have missed the pub crawl.”
“And I wouldn’t have had a quarrel with her, and earned myself another bad mark.” Charlie half smiled. “Throw a pebble in a pond and watch the ripples spreading out. You can trust me to do that.”
“Cause and effect.” Alicia shook her head, and went on, “Listen to me, you did do the right thing. I firmly believe our mother was wrong to criticize Cecily, and especially in front of all of us last night. Thankfully, the evening ended quietly enough, and on a pleasanter note.”
Leaning forward, Alicia now took a deep breath. “However, there’s something I want to tell you, Charlie. I’ve noticed some peculiar things about Mother in the last few weeks. I really do believe that she is ill.”
Taken aback, Charlie sat up straighter in the chair, all of his attention riveted on his sister. “What sort of things? And what do you think is wrong?” A tone of anxiety echoed in his voice.
“She sometimes has a tremor in her hands. I’ve also noticed that she can be very irritable at times, which is not like her at all … and then there is often a hesitancy when I ask her something … she can’t remember.”
“Are you suggesting she has dementia?” he asked worriedly.
“No, not at all!” Alicia exclaimed. “But I do think she might have the beginning of Parkinson’s disease.”
“Oh my God! Don’t say that! Parkinson’s would be just too hard for her to bear.”
“I know what I’ve seen, Charlie, however, I’m not a doctor and I admit I might have picked the wrong illness. All I’m saying is that if she isn’t well, then it could explain her attitude about Cecily, and her behavior, which has been so unlike her.”
“I agree with you. Because our beautiful Lady Daphne doesn’t have a bad bone in her body. I’ve never heard her say mean things about a single soul, except for me, of course.”
“Not true, my lad. Mother adores you, and has always tried to bind you to her.” Alicia gave him a long, thoughtful look before adding, “She is possessive of you, Charlie, and we all know you’re her favorite child.”
Ignoring this remark, he posed a question. “I wonder if Father has noticed anything. Surely he must have, his eyes are never off her. He could be keeping an illness secret, because he doesn’t want to worry us.”
“I’ve thought of that. It also might be the reason Father wants to stay in Zurich longer. What better place to get treatment than in Switzerland, which is full of clinics.”
“Let’s hope she doesn’t need to visit one.”
Alicia nodded. “I think we should give Mother the benefit of the doubt, when it comes to her mean words about Cecily.”
“I suppose we should.”
Charlie stood up, walked over to the window and looked out for a moment. Then, turning, he announced, “I’m thinking of going to Cavendon next week. I have to meet with Paloma, about our little publishing company.” He beamed at his sister when he added, “It’s doing rather well. Not only do we have to print more catalogues, but my history of the family as well. It’s gone and sold out.”
“Congratulations.”
“It’s a nice surprise the publishing company is doing well, and it helps with Cavendon expenses. We split the profits three ways,” Charlie explained. “So Paloma and I benefit as well.”
“She’s turned out to be a real brick,” Alicia asserted. “Doing as much as she can to help, and always cheerful and warm.”
“Harry’s lucky. I wish I could find a woman like Paloma.” Charlie grimaced, continued. “There seems to be no one around I fancy. There’s a woman shortage all of a sudden.”
Alicia gave him a reassuring smile. “You’ll meet someone you really like, Charlie. But when you least expect it. That’s the way life is, you know … out of the blue, a big WHAM.”
“I think I’ve reached the stage of my life when I want to settle down … get married, start a family,” he confided.
“I thought that was going to happen with Mariella Surland,” Alicia ventured, and immediately sat back in the chair, remained quiet, not wanting to proceed when she saw the sorrowful expression in his eyes.
He said, “So did I. Seemingly she wasn’t ready to settle down, she was after adventure, traveling to strange, exotic places. She once told me that my London life bored her, and there was nothing in the country that interested her. It seemed to me there was no reason to continue our relationship. That’s the real reason I broke up with her.”
“I understand. So now you’re fancy-free.”
“I’m on the market again … so to speak.” He chuckled. “It’s funny, you know, I’ve been writing a piece about the gloomy times we’ve been living in, and I said that the nicest, happiest thing that’s happened is the royal wedding. It’s now two years since Princess Elizabeth got hitched to Prince Philip. They’re very much in love, that’s quite obvious, and I remember that November day extremely well. Everyone in England was celebrating, cheering, and singing, and happy for them.”
“I know what you mean. The whole world loves a wedding, and certainly nothing very happy has occurred since then to brighten our lives,” Alicia said.
“Let’s hope they improve, get better soon. Changing the subject, when I go up to Yorkshire to see Paloma, I’m going to make a point of meeting with Cecily. I want her to know that I appreciate everything she does.”
“I feel the same way, perhaps I’ll make the trip with you.”
“Why don’t you? And bring Bryan with you.”
“That’s a very good thought,” Alicia exclaimed. “I’m going to do exact
ly that.”
* * *
Although she was somewhat preoccupied with thoughts of Brin, Alicia was soon caught up in a chapter from Charlie’s new book, which he had specifically wanted her to read.
She was swept along by his wonderful storytelling and his use of the language. Charlie had a unique style of his own, put words together in a very special way, and scenes and people jumped out at her with great vividness. She was captivated.
Her brother was now writing a history book about the Second World War, in which he had served, but had selected only one aspect of that horrendous battle for freedom of the world. Dunkirk. And that was also the title of the book.
Charlie had been severely wounded during his rescue from Dunkirk. As he had scrambled up nets thrown over the side of a British battleship, following other soldiers, Luftwaffe planes had peppered him with bullets and his legs had been badly damaged. Naval surgeons had been able to save one leg; the other had to be amputated.
But he had mastered his artificial limb, made it part of him. Most people thought that he had only had a minor injury, because there was barely a limp when he walked. His disability had not impaired his life, his career, or his love life, for that matter. Her brother was a handsome, charming man, and women adored him.
Alicia was seated in the bay-windowed area of the sitting room in Charlie’s flat. This had come to him from his grandfather, who had inherited it from Great-Aunt Gwendolyn, although it looked very different today than it had before the war when she had lived here. Alicia had helped Charlie give it a more modern and masculine look, although she had insisted Charlie keep some of Great-Aunt Gwen’s antique chests, plus a beautiful Georgian desk. They had chosen lots of creams and whites for the walls; the entire flat had a light, airy feeling to it, with polished wood floors, many shelves of books, and a few nice paintings.
Caught up as she was in the story of Charlie’s escape, Alicia almost jumped out of her skin when he said, “Is it all right, do you think?”
Secrets of Cavendon Page 3