‘So that’s it.’ Max gave a ghastly smile. ‘I ought to have known.’ He managed another attempt at a laugh. For once his acting was not up to much. ‘You’ve been consoling yourself in my absence with home comforts. I suppose the director of a world-famous opera house is more of a prize than a humble actor. But I’d be careful if I were you. He’s not the marrying kind.’
Rupert pinched my fingers hard which I took as a warning to say nothing.
Archie held open the door. ‘Time to go home, Max dear. I should get a pack of frozen peas on that jaw. You’re beginning to look like Desperate Dan.’
Max paused on the threshold. He looked white and sick, and despite everything I almost felt sorry for him. ‘Good luck, Harriet. You’re going to need it.’
The front door slammed moments later.
‘I don’t know why people can’t shut doors quietly,’ said Rupert. ‘It’s very bad for the locks.’
‘That was Max, wasn’t it?’ Cordelia came running in. ‘He might have waited. Can I go after him?’
‘He’s got a plane to catch,’ said Rupert. ‘Besides you’re undressed.’
Cordelia was wearing pyjamas.
‘So are lots of the guests,’ she argued. ‘There’s a trouserless man in the garden, trying to make love to the statue.’
‘That’s my Pinkki.’ Archie rushed out.
I came to my senses. ‘Darling, go straight to bed. And don’t look out of any more windows. Rupert, do you think you might say something to Archie? Suggest they go indoors?’
‘Thanks, but I’ve performed my quota of chivalrous actions for this evening. My hand is throbbing like hell. Go and draw the curtains if you think it matters – No, wait! I want to talk to you. Good night, Cordelia,’ he added pointedly, seeing she was disposed to linger. ‘Now,’ he said as soon as we were alone, ‘what was that business with Max about? When I came in it looked as though you were reluctant to be ravished. Did I misread the signs?’
‘No. But it was worse than that.’
When I told Rupert I thought Max had been trying to strangle me, he laughed so much that tears came into his eyes. He had to sit on the desk to steady himself.
‘You’re drunk.’ I said, annoyed that he seemed to find my nearly being throttled so entertaining.
‘I believe I am. I don’t think it would occur to me to knock anyone out cold if I were sober. Or even to imagine that I could. Put it down to relief that the first night’s over. And it’s a beautiful night. And – put it down to anything you like. Now what were you saying?’
‘Max tried to kill me. At least I think he did.’
Rupert assumed a more or less straight face when he saw my expression of pique. ‘Don’t be silly, Harriet. People don’t go around strangling girls because they refuse to go to bed with them. And certainly not in the middle of parties when they’re likely to be interrupted at any moment.’
‘We were locked in.’ I pointed out. ‘Come to think of it, why did you come in?’
‘I wanted a cigar. Also to make a few notes. I realised suddenly what had been bothering me about the lighting in the last act.’
Evidently the proximity of the large-breasted girl he had been dancing with had not been wholly distracting.
‘Well, it was lucky for me you did. Everyone thinks Max is in Rio de Janeiro. He could have pushed my body behind the desk, put on his costume, locked the door behind him and left the party with no one any the wiser. My corpse might not have been discovered until morning. By which time he’d be on a plane back to South America. There’d be nothing to connect him with the murder. No motive. He could easily have got away with it.’
‘You’ve become obsessed with the modus operandi of homicide. You’d better put it to good use in your journalism. Why on earth would Max want to murder you? I mean, I’ve a quick temper myself but you haven’t yet driven me to strangle you.’
‘I wish you’d be serious. It was because I accused him of trying to murder my father.’ I explained my theory. ‘It came to me in a flash as soon as I met Caroline Frensham and she told me she was madly in love with Pa. Charles is always talking about motive. Don’t you see? Max couldn’t bear to lose all that money. That’s why he was so keen to take up with me. I couldn’t understand it, then. He was always saying how much he worshipped Pa. He hoped I’d tell him what the police were doing, which naturally I did because then he had a cast-iron alibi. But he was a liar from beginning to end. Of course I can’t prove it. But do you think we ought to tell Charles and stop Max getting on the plane?’
Rupert took a hole-puncher from his pen tray and began idly to make holes round the edge of a piece of paper. Small white circles fluttered down and mingled with the water and ink on the carpet. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘For one thing, as you say, there’s not a particle of proof.’
‘But when I said it he sort of froze and I looked right into his eyes and I knew, I absolutely knew I was right.’
‘Intuition doesn’t count as evidence. And if it did, what would another court case do to Waldo? He’d be the key witness, being both the intended victim and Caroline’s lover. He’s only just getting right again. There’d be questions, cross-examinations, police stations, lawyers … I don’t think he could take it.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that. You’re right. He can’t look at a budgerigar in a cage or a goldfish in a bowl without bursting into tears. But supposing Max is insane? He might try to kill someone else.’
‘About one in ten murders are solved. Ow!’ Rupert put down the hole-puncher, having drawn blood from his thumb. ‘That’s leaving corpses at the bottom of the Thames or set in concrete under motorways that no one knows anything about, out of the equation. The world is teeming with killers on the loose. And we don’t know that Max is one. He might be completely innocent. Anyway,’ he added seeing that I was about to protest, ‘I don’t see myself as a Fury, avenging wrongdoing and bringing the perpetrators to justice. I can live with the doubt if you can. I realise you’re more emotionally involved than I am.’
‘Only because he tried to kill Pa. I don’t give a damn about Max.’
‘Don’t you? I thought you did. In fact you gave a very good impression of being pretty infatuated.’
‘I never was! I admit I was attracted to him – because I thought he liked me.’
‘And of course he did, you owl. Why come back otherwise? It would have been much safer to stay in Rio. He came because of you.’
‘But he tried to kill me. I think, anyway.’
Already the idea seemed ridiculous. I could tell Rupert thought I was being hysterical.
‘Men do sometimes kill the thing they love. As a fan of Othello you ought to know that.’
I tugged ineffectually at the necklace, ‘I wish you’d undo this beastly thing.’
Rupert switched on the desk lamp. ‘It’s an ingenious mechanism. But what a weight! No wonder you thought …’ Rupert stopped speaking as he examined my neck. He touched my throat lightly. ‘Sorry. Did that hurt?’ he asked unnecessarily as I squealed. ‘There’s some very bad bruising starting to come up.’
He continued to peer at my throat, frowning. I loved the way his eyebrows lay like straight black brushstrokes along his brow bone. I had a mad impulse to stroke them, which I naturally resisted.
‘My God! I thought you were exaggerating. But this looks like – Supposing I hadn’t come in! You might have been – Harriet!’ He folded his arms again and looked at me severely. ‘You took a terrible risk coming in here with him. What if I hadn’t decided to have a cigar? Supposing I hadn’t had a spare key? If you thought he was dangerous, it was foolhardy, to say the least.’
‘Of course I didn’t mean to be locked in with him. I had no idea the cardinal was Max. I was checking on Cordelia.’
‘Don’t go to Manchester.’ Rupert looked serious. His chin was already dotted with five o’clock shadow, only, of course, it was half-past one in the morning. I could have kissed every one of those darling burgeoning br
istles. ‘I agree with Max about one thing. You don’t realise how powerfully men are attracted to you.’ He sighed. ‘Your unwillingness to believe in your own beauty makes you vulnerable to the worst sort. Look, if it’s money that’s bothering you, you can get a better job in London and make a bigger contribution to expenses. Though, God knows, it isn’t important.’ When I said nothing but went on looking at his chin with an expression I hoped was not actually hungry, he said, ‘Is there something else that makes you feel you must go away? Something other than pride?’
Pride! What was he talking about? I wanted to put my arms around his infuriatingly wonderful neck and never let go. I had as much pride as Dirk on seeing a bone. I hoped I wasn’t dribbling.
‘What is it then?’ he persisted, poor dumb creature that he was. ‘I know you and Archie are fond of each other. And Cordelia’s settled down now. Is it me?’ He must have taken my continued silence for assent. ‘We’ve always been friends, haven’t we? Even when we were children. Do you remember, you used to come to me if you grazed your knee and I used to pretend I was going to cut it off?’
Of course I remembered. Every single memory of Rupert was inscribed in scarlet capitals in the register of my childhood.
‘I used to draw a dotted line on your leg and get out my penknife and you’d always stop crying and start laughing. You were such a bright little thing. I was fond of all the Byng children in limited doses, but I always liked you best. You were the plain one but you had more brains and feeling than all the others put together. Now you’re the beauty of the family.’
‘Don’t tease me. I know I’m not.’
Rupert sighed. ‘What will it take to convince you? Some people may prefer the conventional good looks of Clarissa and the other girls, but for me, and I suspect many others, you have an altogether superior fascination.’ I debated this, wonderingly. No doubt he was being kind. ‘Look,’ he continued, ‘I know I’m impatient and grumpy in the morning. And I’m sarcastic and – well, some women have accused me of being heartless. You of all people might understand why I hate scenes. Can’t you overlook my deficiencies?’
I could have, oh, how easily I could have, if only – What deficiencies? I couldn’t think of one. To my horror I felt my eyes fill with tears of hopeless love. I stared hard at a spot of blood on his dress shirt which must have come from his thumb.
‘What have I done to drive you away?’ I could have stamped on his stupid, uncomprehending foot. ‘I don’t want to make you unhappy. Far from it. I actually like having you here. In fact, since you told me you were going I’ve had to face up to – well,’ he laughed, ‘I do believe I’m about to make a scene myself. Actually for quite a while I’ve been aware … I’ve wanted to – tell you …’ He looked almost stern, suddenly. ‘I’m very bad at talking about these things. I suppose that’s why I love the theatre. I can indulge my emotions without self-betrayal. Anyway,’ he took a cigar from the box on his desk, rolled it between his fingers, stared at it as though surprised to find it in his hand and put it back, ‘until now, I haven’t exactly been tested. I’ve wanted to make love to some women because they were beautiful and I’ve wanted to talk to others because they were agreeable, intelligent people. I’d given up hope of finding someone in whom those qualities were united. But love isn’t like that, is it? It isn’t a question of totting up desirable attributes. If anyone asked me what it is about you – well, I suppose I’d have to say – leaving looks aside – you’re unselfish, you’re tender-hearted to a fault, you make me laugh, and by nature you’re transparently truthful.’
I could hardly believe my ears. A foolish hope drew its first lungful of breath and fluttered into life. I resolved never ever to tell another lie.
‘But these things on their own could never be enough. Perhaps one loves someone because their presence colours the world and makes it beautiful. Beauty and truth,’ he mused. ‘Keats was right. They are indivisible. Someone, I think it was de la Bruyère, said that love always begins with love. The warmest friendship cannot change even to the coldest love. Do you think that’s true?’
I shook my head. Anyway, as far as I was concerned it was quite irrelevant. I had nursed my secret and incurable passion for Rupert since I was old enough to whistle through the gap where my front teeth ought to have been.
‘I hope not,’ continued Rupert, ‘because – do look at me. Fond though I am of the top of your head I’d like to see your face.’ He put his hand under my chin. I shut my eyes too late. A treacherous tear dropped down my cheek.
‘What’s the matter? Did I hurt your neck?’
The man I loved was an idiot.
I took courage and opened my eyes. We stared at each other. Heavens! Such is the power of love that I thought lightning flashed between us, burning his image on my gaze, my mind, my soul.
‘Harry!’ His arms were round me, holding me close. ‘Darling!’
Seconds later there was a terrific crash of thunder. It was a summer storm. Outside the merrymakers screamed and the rain began to patter against the window.
The door opened. ‘Let’s go in here,’ said Archie’s voice. I turned to look. Behind him were the slightly squinting eyes of an otherwise flaxen-haired Norse god. ‘Oho! Our arrival is infelicitous. Come, Pinkki, we’ll try upstairs. Do get on with it, you two,’ he threw over his shoulder. ‘At this rate you’ll both be crooked and blind before you can consummate.’
Rupert laughed and tightened his hold on me.
‘I can’t sleep in a thunderstorm.’ Cordelia came in, carrying Mark Antony. ‘Can I sit up and – Blimey! Rupert! Why’ve you got your arms round Hat? You were going to snog! You aren’t stuck on each other? Oh, no!’ She groaned. ‘I don’t think I can stand it. It’s going to be like Ophelia and Charles again. Soppy grins and heavy breathing and nobody able to think about anything but sex.’
‘In my case that will certainly be true.’ Rupert let me go. He took Cordelia firmly by the shoulder and walked her to the door. ‘Now, my dear Cordelia, I want you to go downstairs and calm the dog. Then you can start making plans for redecorating your bedroom. You were talking, the other day, about something you’d admired in a friend’s house.’
‘You mean Tracy Betts’s that’s like a Spanish hathy – hathy whatever-it’s-called – bumpy walls like porridge hung with guitars and castanets and a wishing well that’s really a pop-up bar?’
‘Not the bar.’
‘Well, but the red and black curtains in sort of tiers like a flamenco dancer’s dress?’
‘Fine.’
‘Golly! You really have got it bad.’
‘I have. Now be a good girl and push off.’
Cordelia went, her eyes ablaze with creativity.
‘Now.’ Rupert surveyed me with amusement. ‘It’s a very fetching frock but it presents something of a problem. But if the Elizabethans managed it, so can I.’
Again I heard the key turn in the lock but this time I did not object to being taken prisoner. In fact, I had every intention of serving a life-sentence.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Victoria Clayton is the author of four previous, highly acclaimed novels. She is married and lives in Northamptonshire.
ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
Dance With Me
Out of Love
Past Mischief
Running Wild
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Copyright © Victoria Clayton Ltd 2003
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