“I took a chance on finding the place open,” he commented. “It seemed to me that a fellow who’d abandon a home he had made, however modest it might be, would not bother to buy and fit a padlock.”
“A home,” she echoed, and her whisper echoed, too. “Did he really intend to live here alone?”
Within this circular wall the sea was an incredible distance away, but the wind was near and insistent. It whined endlessly.
Philip gave the sand-drifted stone floor a dispassionate glance. “This is only the entrance hall. The sitting-room is up the staircase.” He bent and shone a beam on her left foot. “It is all right?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You’re sure that casing on the toe doesn’t cause an ache?”
“Quite sure. It did at first, but I think I must have cultivated a different way of walking. There’s no pain now.”
Disconcertingly, he turned the light to her face for a second. What he saw there must have been fairly satisfactory, for he waved towards the “staircase,” an iron ladder which disappeared about fifteen feet up through a square hole.
Philip went first this time and he vanished into the hole. A moment later he was on his knees, helping Linda into a second circular room which, apart from another iron ladder running upwards, was so different from the one below that she made a small sound of pleasure.
“With luck,” said Philip matter-of-factly, “the lamp will still contain a little oil.” A match scraped, there was a protracted minute in which the wick of the brass lamp rejected the flame, and then the light flowered. “Ah, everything laid on. A little sandy, but not without cosiness.”
It was an unbelievable sitting-room and surprisingly big. There was a steel-framed porthole of a window hidden by cretonne curtaining, a divan and matching armchair, a small square table and one dining chair, bookshelves which held only a few crumpled journals and an oval of matting, woven, probably, by one of the villagers of San Jorge. Stain and varnish had peeled away from all the woodwork in the room, but the salt air seemed to have spared the bright new cretonne.
“How long has it been furnished like this?” she asked curiously.
“About eighteen months.” He flicked at the seat of the armchair. “Sit down. I can’t offer you a cup of tea, but you may as well rest before we climb to the top.”
She lowered herself gingerly, expecting the covering of the chair to rip; but it didn’t, so she relaxed and placed a hand on each arm, victoriously. Philip sat in the center of the divan and stretched his long legs. He was too big for this room; yes, and too compelling. In spite of the fact that he was smiling faintly, Linda knew a qualm of uneasiness. The smile wasn’t particularly pleasant.
“I can’t remember ever having had a woman so entirely at my mercy,” he said. “Does it make you nervy?”
“Yes, it does, a bit.”
“Being alone with me?” he asked, with a deliberate inflection.
“Being alone with you in your present mood,” she corrected, her smile hesitant and wary. “I ... I don’t fear you in the way you mean.”
“No?” His tones were clipped. “You have some very queer ideas about me, haven’t you, Linda? If I were deep in the medical or legal profession you’d credit me with normal feelings, but the fact that my subject is archaeology—one that’s far more lively, I may say, than the usual run of law practice—gives you peculiar notions.”
“I do think you’re capable of normal feelings,” she said in a low voice, “but I can’t imagine you being ... extravagant with them.”
Unexpectedly, he said, “You’re right there. Emotional extravagance is for women—young women. And for Spaniards.” His eyes narrowed with sharp mockery, but his voice held distaste, and something more. “Why did you pretend to be so anxious that Carmen Artino should have Sebastian?”
“I didn’t pretend,” she answered abruptly, drawing her hands down into her lap. “I’ve only Carmen’s angle on the affair because Sebastian refuses to talk about it sensibly, but I’m certain that before I arrived they were falling in love with each other. If you’d only believe me, Philip...”
“I did believe you,” he said savagely. “We were going to do our best to speed the romance—remember? But it seems that you slipped up.” He was on his feet, ranging the room as if it were a cage. “Do you know what it feels like when someone you’ve trusted falls by the wayside? No, I don’t suppose you do. That surface innocence of yours protects you from that kind of discovery!”
“I’m in such a hopeless muddle,” she said unsteadily, “and the only way I can help to solve it is by leaving Spain.”
His stride halted, and his expression changed, swiftly. He stood above her, his gaze concentrated on her bent head. “If that’s true, you’d better tell me the rest.”
“I can’t.”
“Oh, yes, you can. Tell me the lot and I’ll put things right for you.”
She raised her glance as far his top jacket button and saw that one hand was in his pocket while the other was clenched at his side. Yes, if she could have told him he would certainly have cleared up most of her problems. That imperious manner of his would get results. She shivered. “I can’t tell you,” she said.
She heard him let out a short heavy breath. “So I have to draw my own conclusions.” His hand reached out suddenly and not very gently; it caught her chin and turned up her face so that she had to meet the merciless grey eyes. “He’s really under your skin, isn’t he? You’re not sure you can bear to give him up to Carmen?”
“That isn’t true!” She averted her head and jumped up. “Let’s go,” she said, breathless with the tightness of her throat. “I don’t like this place.”
She had thought it would be heavenly to be shut away from the world in this fortress, with Philip. But now she ached to get back to the house where others could claim him and she could retire to the anonymity of her bedroom. More than anything, she wanted the oblivion of sleep, so that she might awaken to another day.
He did not comment upon the fact that she hadn’t seen the tower. Without a word, he shone the flashlight into the chamber below and stood at the top of the iron ladder till she had reached the ground. Then he put out the lamp and followed her.
Outside, the wind met them squarely and he drew her hard against him as he had before. But whereas then she had known a swooning joy in his proximity, he was now a wall of positive, active dislike. She knew he was glad when, eventually, he had helped her from the boat to the beach; and when he drew apart from her as they went upwards between the mastic trees, she had the fatalistic conviction that this was the end.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THEY left Majorca earlier next day than they had anticipated. The steamer did not depart till late evening, but Chris knew someone who was sailing his motor yacht over to Barcelona just for the fun of it, and at Philip’s suggestion he asked this friend of his to take the three passengers. There was a brief argument between Chris and his guests after he had hinted, in his pleasant manner, that Philip had merely come over to work and that the girls had been bored. And Veronica had shaken her head vaguely and wondered what had got into Philip; she didn’t recollect any previous occasion on which he had not stayed a full week.
Philip was polite and faintly smiling. He was anxious, he told them, to get started on the new phase of his work; he would probably be over again immediately it was finished. To Chris’s demand that he leave the two girls in Majorca till the end of the week he returned a shrug, and the comment:
“I brought them, and I’d better see them safely home.”
“But you’ll be coming over alone, next time.”
“Will you mind?”
It was Veronica who replied, plaintively, “We’d like you to bring a wife with you, one of these days. One of these two would do awfully well.”
Still smiling coolly, Philip said, “Well, if it isn’t one of these two I’ll come alone. Suit you?”
It was a passably good joke, it seemed, and all the mo
re enjoyable because a germ of sincerity behind the utterance brought a radiance to the green eyes of Maxine. They said good-bye and many thanks to Chris and Veronica, and went aboard the motor yacht. Fifteen minutes later Majorca was disappearing in its own brilliant haze.
There was nothing to do on the journey but sunbathe and read. Philip spent his time with the owner of the craft, Maxine ostensibly slept, and Linda contrived to slide into a frame of mind in which nothing had reality. The one meal they were offered was a sketchy affair of biscuits, cheese, oranges and smoky coffee, but it didn’t matter because there was no way of working up a hunger.
When they reached Barcelona the sun had quite gone and the sky was amethyst, with a few stars struggling into being. And awaiting them, near the taxi rank, was Dr. Reeves with his car. The ever-present urchin stacked their bags in the carrier and received his tip, a bootblack offered his services and murmured a benevolent “Gracias!” when they were refused, and at last they were all in the car and it was drawing out from the curb.
“I don’t get it,” Philip said, as they joined the main traffic. “What were you doing around the docks at the exact moment we arrived?”
Hugh Reeves, being a more nervous driver than Philip, took a corner carefully before he replied, with a rather studied casualness, “I was enquiring about the steamer sailing times for a friend, when your yacht happened to come in.”
To the point, as always, Philip commented, “You could have made your enquiries in the town.”
“Yes, but I enjoy an occasional visit to the docks.” To obviate any further remark on this aspect, he added, probably with complete honesty, “I watched the motor yacht come in from mere curiosity, and was astonished to see you three on deck. So, of course, I waited.”
“It was good of you.” But reserve sounded in Philip’s tones. He obviously found something to distrust in Hugh Reeves’s opportune presence at the quay.
In spite of his training as a doctor, Hugh Reeves was not a good dissembler. That was why Linda spoke quickly about the beauties of Majorca and the pleasantness of the trip. The diversion was transparent, but it succeeded. For most of the way to Montelisa they talked of the intense cultivation of the Balearics, the fascinations of the little ports, the cooking practised by Majorcan wives and the sobriety of most of the islanders.
Hugh pulled up outside Philip’s house. “I’ll take the ladies next door,” he said. “How about all three of you coming over to my place for dinner one night?”
“Thanks.” Philip was non-committal, even in agreement. “Good night, girls. Sleep well.”
Linda got the impression that he was heartily glad to have done with his two companions for a while. Well, she felt a little that way herself; she even admitted to herself that she would like to be invited to spend the rest of the evening with the doctor. It seemed that he, also, had rather the same notion, for after he had carried their bags indoors, he said,
“I’ll say good night to you, Maxine. Will you come out to the car with me, Linda?”
Maxine’s lip curled and her eyelids drooped suggestively. She returned him an offhand “Good night,” and went from the room.
Linda frowned anxiously. “You want to talk to me, Dr. Reeves?”
He said resignedly, “I don’t believe you’ll ever call me Hugh. Yes, I want to talk to you, but not here. Do come out to the car.”
There was that in his voice which was stronger than urgency; it seemed a compound of worry and disgust. So Linda went with him, and got into the car while Hugh took the driver’s seat beside her. For a moment after he had closed the door he was silent. Two vertical lines had appeared between his brows and as he looked at her another emotion had joined the others: compassion.
“What time did you leave Majorca?”
“Fairly early. Not long after breakfast.”
“So you didn’t see the Barcelona newspapers?”
“No.” She was alarmed. “What do you mean?”
He let out a sigh. “I hardly know how to tell you, but let me ask a question. Did you give an interview to a reporter?”
“Good heavens, no. Why should I?”
“I knew it wasn’t you. The whole thing was all wrong—coming from you. Linda, there was a two-column article in this morning’s paper, and the information in it was reported as having come from you. Your name was mentioned several times, and merely by inference you were made to appear hard and selfish and disloyal.”
She slumped into her corner and stared at him. Suddenly, she saw the patio last Sunday afternoon, the man with the notebook, who had called her Miss Odell.
“Maxine,” she breathed.
Hugh nodded. “Yes, Maxine. I was sure of it.” He leaned towards her and spoke quickly, beseechingly. “You can’t go on like this. Have a showdown with her, Linda. I knew the second I first saw her that where you were concerned she was callous and cruel. You’d injured your foot and she wished the injury had been more serious. Only you know the whole of what she’s done to you, but this article tells plenty.” He drew from his pocket a sheet torn from the morning paper, but Linda was in no condition to elucidate even the headline. “I’ll give you an idea what it says. The facts, remember, are supposed to have come from you. The heading is ‘Romance in Montelisa,’ and the first paragraph gives details of the conditions of your aunt’s will.”
Linda listened in total disbelief. Miss Linda Braden had described her aunt as a mad Englishwoman; she had confessed to an immediate infatuation with Sebastian de Meriaga, made stupid remarks about other Spaniards she had met and generally given an impression of irresponsibility. Far worse, she had made derogatory comments about the English along the coast—not individually, Maxine was far too careful for that; but even a collective insult was bad in a foreign country. And she had slipped in references to their occupations: writers, artists, composers, a doctor and an archaeologist.
Linda went on staring at Hugh Reeves, her eyes puzzled and wounded. “But, why?” she whispered. “It doesn’t seem possible, does it, that a woman could go to such lengths? What can she possibly hope to accomplish?”
He shrugged his wretchedness for her. “It’s difficult to understand how such a creature’s mind can work, but you can be sure that in giving the interview as though she were you, she had a definite object. She slipped up in one thing; she must have given that interview before you went to Majorca, and she possibly hoped it would be printed on Monday, so that a denial would necessarily come several days later. By then, of course, those interested who hadn’t read it would have been told about it. As it happened, other news crowded out the padding of the paper and it had to wait over till today. The denial of the whole thing will appear tomorrow.”
Her blue eyes were suddenly stung with gratitude. “Did you do it for me?”
“I had to, Linda. A patient showed me the article at about five o’clock this afternoon, and I straightway called it nonsense and told the woman to pass on the opinion. After that, I couldn’t rest, so I hurriedly cleared up my calls and drove to Barcelona to see the editor of the paper.” His smile at her was rueful and a little exasperated. “I knew you wouldn’t want me to expose Maxine, so I insisted that the reporter had got his facts so muddled that he was likely to find himself confronted with an expensive libel action. To do the editor justice, he was very annoyed, and he agreed to print an expansive apology tomorrow morning.”
“So ... so it’s all right?”
“No, it isn’t all right,” he said with some asperity. “Nothing will alter the fact that Maxine meant to do this thing to you. Answer me truthfully. Has she a hold on you?” He deserved to be told the truth; in a way he even had the right. And it would have been so simple to tell him about John, and say: “Even though Maxine is no longer in love with him, he wouldn’t want me to hurt her; because he’s terribly steadfast and loyal, and it will be a long, long time before he’ll recover from losing her.” But she couldn’t descend to Maxine’s level and break faith.
“Not really,” s
he said. “I don’t think she did it purposely. I believe the reporter had got wind of the odd terms of my aunt’s will and came to see me, but I was out. Maxine has always been one to turn any accident to her own account—she’s built that way.”
“But why should she discredit you?”
Impossible to tell him the whole article had appeared in order to include one tiny item—that an archaeologist was among those of the English of the coast for whom Linda Braden was supposed to have voiced contempt. So this was one of the cards Maxine had boasted of having up her sleeve!
She shook her head. “She has a warped personality.”
“How true! Look here, Linda, would you like me to go and see Philip about this?”
Her heart turned. “No. No, he may not see the article.”
“His servant may point it out.”
“If she does, she’ll also show him the apology tomorrow.” She shivered. “I’m so grateful for all you’ve done for me.”
“You mustn’t leave it there, Linda.” He spoke consideringly, not looking at her. “I’ve a pretty good idea why Maxine has behaved so badly towards you, but after all, the cottage is yours for the time being, and you don’t have to have her on the premises. Promise me you’ll go straight to her now and tell her to leave.”
Linda hesitated. She was far more hurt than angry, but she did admit that it would be impossible to go on as they were now. The trouble was, nothing, at the moment, would make Maxine leave Montelisa. If she did not live at the cottage she would certainly live elsewhere in the vicinity; and the village, and perhaps even the newspaper, would seize upon this titbit. Could she, Linda wondered, threaten Maxine that she would tell Philip who had instigated that newspaper article?
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