by Anne Mather
Stella pursed her lips. ‘I must have fallen asleep for a few moments,’ she said peevishly. ‘Goodness knows, I’ve had little enough sleep since Griff passed away.’ Her eyes glittered as they turned towards her stepdaughter. ‘Just because some people seem perfectly able to forget why they’re here—’
‘Forget it.’ Oliver’s voice was harsh as it broke into her provocative tirade. ‘Laura couldn’t sleep either. She came down to get herself a hot drink and I disturbed her. That’s why the milk boiled over. It was my fault. That’s what you can smell. Burnt milk. Nothing else.’
‘If you say so.’ Stella gave Laura a disparaging look. ‘Don’t you have anything else you could wear?’
Laura shook her head. She had no intention of getting into a discussion about her appearance with her stepmother. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said, not caring whether they did or otherwise, and, putting his mother between her and Oliver, she made for the door. ‘I’m going back to bed.’
It was easier than she’d thought. Neither of them offered any objections as she slipped out into the hall. The smouldering embers in the hall grate lit up the door of her father’s study, giving her a moment’s pause. She was briefly tempted lo go in there and try and calm her racing blood.
But the possibility that Stella might decide to show her son where her husband had been found deterred her. Instead, she hurried up the stairs and gained the sanctuary of her room with some relief. Leaning back against the panels, she wondered why she always let Oliver upset her. Whatever he said, whatever he did, he couldn’t help getting under her skin.
Straightening, she crossed the floor to the square four-poster she’d occupied when she’d lived here. Although her belongings had been removed and Stella had had the room redecorated, it was still reassuringly familiar to her. But this might be the last time she’d use it, she thought, tears filling her eyes again. Once her father’s funeral was over, she’d have no excuse for coming here.
Her reflection in the dressing-table mirror gave her a momentary shudder. For a second, the face that had stared back at her had been her mother’s. But she knew that was just because they looked alike. Pale face, pale grey eyes, wild red hair that rioted in an untidy mass about her shoulders. No wonder Stella had looked at her so contemptuously. Compared to her stepmother, she lacked any sophistication.
As for Oliver: well, she preferred not to think about him. She wasn’t at all deceived by his attempt at conciliation. She didn’t know what game he was playing, but she had no intention of making a fool of herself again.
She sighed now, loosening the belt of her dressing gown and flopping back on to the bed. It was impossible to come here without being assaulted by her memories. And, no matter how she might regret it now, Oliver had been an integral part of her growing-up.
She caught back a tear. She might have hated her stepmother for taking her mother’s place, but she had never hated Oliver. At ten years of age to his thirteen, she’d been pathetically eager to be his friend. She’d never had a brother or a sister before and she’d hero-worshipped him. She’d followed him around like a blind disciple, willing to do anything he asked of her, hanging on his every word.
She hadn’t been alone. He was a popular boy, and at the comprehensive in Rhosmawr that they’d both attended he’d never been short of companions. For almost six years, she’d deluded herself that the girls who came and went in his life meant nothing to him. Her infatuation had been such that she’d convinced herself he was only killing time until she grew up.
Stella had guessed how she felt, of course. Her stepmother had always had far more experience of life than Laura’s father, and to begin with it had amused her that her stepdaughter should have fallen so completely for her son. Stella hadn’t done anything about it. Perhaps she’d thought she could leave that to Oliver himself. But she’d got a rude awakening when she’d discovered them together, and despite the fact that Oliver had defended her she’d despised the girl from then on.
Laura groaned now and rolled over on to her stomach, trying to still the raw emotions that were churning inside her. That was all in the past, she told herself. She’d got over Oliver when she’d married Conor. And she’d grown up long before she took her vows. All right, so the marriage hadn’t worked out; but these things happened. Conor had been too young to make the commitment; too willing to leave all responsibility to her.
It was coming back here, she thought abruptly. She hadn’t spent any length of time at Penmadoc since she’d left to go to university over ten years ago. Like Oliver himself, she’d left home as soon as her schooldays were over—though he’d deferred continuing his education for a year to go backpacking across Europe instead.
Her lips twisted. It sometimes seemed as if fortune had always smiled on her stepbrother, and it was hard not to feel resentful when her own life had followed such a different course. Although being caught up in the conflict that had ensued after a country’s escape from a non-democratic government might not have seemed fortunate at the time, the pictures Oliver had taken and sent back to a London newspaper had ensured him a job in journalism after he’d got his degree. Since then, he’d become famous for his skill in capturing photographic images. Recently, a book of stylised black and white pictures of Alaskan wildlife he’d taken had made the best-seller lists. He worked free-lance these days, accepting commissions as and when it suited him. He also gave lectures: Laura knew because she’d attended one anonymously in New York.
Which was so very different from her own experience, she acknowledged ruefully. After—after what had happened between her and Oliver, she’d found it very hard to trust a man again. Besides which, although she’d got her degree in English, she was no genius. The fact that she’d got a job in publishing was due more to Conor’s father’s introduction to his brother, who owned the company, than any skill on her part, she was sure.
Conor’s parents had been good to her. They were Americans, like their son, and had sent him to England primarily to improve his social skills. He’d told Laura after their marriage that it was her independence and self-sufficiency that had drawn him to her. She’d never told him why she’d had to learn to depend only on herself.
Expelling a weary breath, she cast off the old dressing gown and crawled between the sheets. They were cold now, and she realised she should have filled a hot-water bottle, after all. So what’s new? she thought. Her whole life seemed to have been a study in retrospection. With Oliver Kemp the fulcrum at its core.
CHAPTER THREE
Oliver awakened with a thumping headache.
For a while he lay quite still, trying to work out where he was and how he came to be there. He couldn’t understand why his room felt so cold. It didn’t get this cold in Malaysia. And if he wasn’t there why couldn’t he hear the steady hum of the Knightsbridge traffic? Despite double-glazing, he was always aware of the heart of the city, beating away just yards from Mostyn Square.
Then he remembered. Remembered, too, why his head was pounding as if there were a pile driver in his skull. He was in Wales; at Penmadoc, not in London. And it was the fact that he’d consumed the best part of a bottle of Scotch before falling into bed in the early hours that accounted for his hangover.
He groaned. He should have had more sense. But after seeing Laura again and learning why his mother had been so desperate to get in touch with him he’d needed something to fortify his strength.
The will...
Levering himself up on his elbows, he endeavoured to survey the room without feeling sick. But the bed swayed alarmingly, and although he swung his feet on to the floor he had to hold on to thrmattress to keep his balance. Dammit, he was too old to be suffering this kind of nonsense. In future, he’d sustain himself with mineral water and nothing else.
Cursing whatever fate had decreed he should return to England at this particular moment in time, he got to his feet. Then, steadying himself on the chest of drawers beside his wardrobe, he shuffled across the room like an old
man.
Despite a lengthy exploration, there were no painkillers in the bathroom cabinet. The light in there was blinding. He hadn’t thought to pull down the blind the night before and the brilliance of sun on snow was the equivalent of a knife being driven into his temple. It was the kind of light he usually only saw through a filter, but right now the idea of estimating aperture, shutter speeds and distance was quite beyond his capabilities.
‘For God’s sake,’ he muttered, jerking on the cord, only to have the blind rattle up again at lightning speed. He swore again, grabbing the cord and repeating the procedure. ‘This is just what I need.’
At least the water was hot and he stepped into the shower cubicle and ran the spray at a crippling pressure. He hadn’t looked at his watch yet, but he guessed it must be after nine o’clock. He could have done with a cup of Thomas’s strong black coffee. Instead, he would probably have to make do with the instant variety which was all Laura’s aunt ever had. Fifteen minutes later, dressed in black trousers and a chunky Aran sweater, workmanlike boots over thick socks keeping his feet warm, he left the room. His hair was still damp and he hadn’t shaved, but he doubted anyone would notice. If his mother was still in the same state she’d been in the night before, his appearance was the least of his troubles. So long as she felt she could rely on his support in her conflict with Laura, she’d avoid doing anything to upset him. Despite the intensive-heating programme his mother had inaugurated over the years, the corridors and hall at Penmadoc remained persistently chilly. Why Stella should want to stay here when she could buy herself a cosy apartment in Carmarthen or Llanelli, he couldn’t imagine. He found it hard to believe that she was so attached to the old place. There had to be more to it than that.
The stairs creaked as he descended them, but at least the fire had been lighted in the hall below. Flames crackled up the blackened chimney, and the logs split and splintered in the massive grate. Years ago, he supposed, the hall would have been the focal point of the whole house. According to Griff, parts of Penmadoc dated from the sixteenth century, but so much had been added on to the original structure that its origins were hard to define.
He had paused to warm his hands at the fire when a dark-clad figure emerged from the direction of the kitchen. He saw it was Eleanor Tenby, Laura’s aunt. Although he knew she could only be in her fifties, she looked years older, her straight hair almost completely white these days.
An angular woman, she had barely tolerated him as a teenager. But, because Laura had been fond of him, she’d treated him more kindly than she had his mother. Then, when the family had broken up, she’d blamed him for Laura’s exile, only softening again in recent years when she’d seen how much Griff looked forward to his visits.
‘So you’re up at last,’ she remarked without enthusiasm, proving that, as always, nothing went on at Penmadoc without her knowing about it. ‘I offered to bring you up some breakfast, but your mother said to let you sleep. If you’re hoping that I’ll cook you something now, you’re too late.’
‘All I want is some coffee,’ said Oliver flatly, the thought of grilled bacon and fried eggs turning his stomach. ‘Anyway, how are you? This—’ He spread his hands expressively. ‘It must have been a great shock.’
‘It was.’ The woman’s thin lips compressed into a fine line. ‘And you’ll not find any consolation in the bottom of a bottle. No one ever improved a situation with alcohol.’
Oliver might have disputed that on another occasion, but this morning he was inclined to agree with her. ‘Believe me,’ he said. ‘I’m regretting it. And I am sorry you had no warning that Griff was ill.’
‘Yes, well...’ Laura’s aunt sniffed deprecatingly, somewhat mollified by Oliver’s words. ‘You always had more sensitivity than anyone gave you credit for.’ She paused. ‘I expect you know that Laura’s here.’
Oliver nodded, and then regretted the action. His head thumped and he raised a hand to the back of his neck. ‘Do you have any aspirin?’ he asked, wincing. ‘I’ve got to do something before my skull splits in two.’
‘Come along into the kitchen,’ said Aunt Nell tolerantly, and without waiting to see if he was following her she started back the way she’d come. ‘What you need is something to eat,’ she added, despite the refusal she’d made earlier. ‘You’ll feel altogether better with a bowl of my oatmeal inside you. You don’t want to be poisoning your system by popping pills.’
Aspirin? Oliver grimaced. He’d hate to think what she’d say if she found out he’d been offered cocaine. Thankfully, he’d never been interested in what some people called ‘social’ substances, but these days they were increasingly hard to avoid.
The kitchen looked much different this morning than it had done the night before. As in the hall, a cheerful fire was burning in the grate and the scent of woodsmoke was not unappealing. There were other smells he was not so keen on, like the many species of herbs that grew in the pots on the windowsills and hung in dried bunches from the beamed ceiling. But there was the smell of freshly baked bread, too, and the crisp crackle of roasting meat from the oven.
Aunt Nell watched him take a seat at the table, and then busied herself pouring milk into a pan. The same pan that Laura had burnt the night before, thought Oliver ruefully. But clean now and sparkling like new.
The idea of drinking some of the thick creamy milk that was farmed locally made him shudder, and he wished he could just help himself to a cup of coffee instead. But there was no welcoming pot simmering on the hob, and he guessed he’d have to make some instant himself if he wanted it.
To distract himself, he glanced out of the window. As he’d noticed when he’d drawn his curtains upstairs, it had stopped snowing for the present and the sun was causing the icicles drooping from the eaves to drip. But it was a white world, only marred by the skeletal shapes of the trees. However, the evergreens that surrounded the vegetable garden outside looked like snowmen with their clinging mantle of snow.
‘Have you spoken to Laura?’
Aunt Nell’s question was unexpected. ‘Don’t you know?’ he asked, with faint mockery. Then, because her lips had tightened reprovingly, and she was trying to help him, Oliver relented. ‘Yeah. She was up last night when I got here.’
‘Ah.’ Aunt Nell had made a pot of tea and carried it to the table. ‘I wondered why she didn’t have a lot to say before she went out.’
‘Went out?’ Oliver glanced at his watch. ‘What time did she go out?’
‘She said she wanted some air,’ replied Aunt Nell evenly. She set a cup and saucer and some milk beside the teapot. ‘Go on. Help yourself. It’ll do you more good than taking pills.’
Oliver could have argued. He knew where the coffee jar was kept. But his head was still thumping and he couldn’t be bothered. There was caffeine in tea, wasn’t there? he thought. For the time being, he’d make do with that.
The dish of oatmeal wasn’t long in following the tea. Laura’s aunt sugared it liberally before passing it over. ‘There,’ she said, as he put down his cup. ‘Get that inside you. I always say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.’
Oliver was sure he was going to be sick, but he forced himself to swallow several mouthfuls of the oatmeal. He’d eaten worse things in Malaysia, after all. People there ate rice at almost every meal.
‘So where has she gone?’ he asked at last, reluctantly aware that he was actually feeling much better.
‘Into the village,’ replied Aunt Nell, tidying the dresser. ‘She didn’t have a lot to say, as I said.’ She turned to give him an appraising look. ‘What happened last night? Did you and she have a row?’
‘No.’ Oliver was indignant.
‘I thought your mother was supposed to be waiting up for you,’ continued the woman. ‘What was Laura doing down here?’
‘She’d come down to get a drink,’ said Oliver patiently, aware that he was falling back into the old patterns of defensiveness where Eleanor Tenby was concerned. ‘Ma had fallen aslee
p, or so she said. That’s why I came round the back.’
‘And Laura let you in.’
‘Yeah.’
‘But I imagine your mother eventually turned up.’
‘Yeah.’ Oliver regarded her with a wry expression. ‘But you know all this, don’t you? Laura went to bed as soon as Stella appeared.’
‘So she didn’t discuss her father’s death with you?’
‘No.’ Oliver was wary. ‘What was there to discuss? I already knew how he died. Stella told me when I rang. He had a heart attack. It must have been appalling for her, finding his body. Had he been seeing a doctor, do you know? If he had, he should have warned her.’
‘Griff hadn’t been seeing the doctor,’ replied Aunt Nell firmly. ‘When Tenniel Evans came to examine him after— afterwards, he was as shocked as anyone else. Who knows why he died? He’s not here to tell us. Perhaps he’d had a shock—or a fall from his horse. It may be that we’ll never know.’
Nevertheless Oliver sensed that Laura’s aunt had her own opinion. Not that she was likely to confide that opinion to him. But the very fact that she was asking questions was unsettling. For God’s sake, surely this was one occasion when she could have given Stella some support.
‘Do you know what’s in the will?’ he asked now, forcing himself to deal with facts, not fantasies, and Laura’s aunt lifted her thin shoulders dismissively.
‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ she said, turning away, which wasn’t an answer. But Oliver guessed it was the best he was going to get.
‘So—were you here when it happened?’ he probed, deciding that in spite of everything he deserved to know the details.
‘No.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I was away for the day visiting a friend in Cardiff. Griff had said he was going out with the hunt, and your mother had arranged to go shopping, or so she said. She told me she’d be eating out and not to bother preparing lunch before I left.’ She licked her lips. ‘But I did leave Griff a sandwich.’ She grimaced. ‘He never touched it.’