Miss Columbine and Harley Quinn

by Hilton, Margery

  That also proved as far removed from gracious Georgian antiquity as it was possible to imagine, and after she had reached her room and undressed ready for bed she stood motionless a long time, then suddenly made up her mind. Why not?

  Her two rather worn and faded towels looked like orphans when they were hung over the gleaming heated rail while she ran abundant steaming hot water into the enormous sunken green marble bath. There was a shower spray overhead with gadgets for mixing the hot and cold, and the first mirror she had come across in a bathroom that didn't steam over the moment the hot tap was turned on. She looked at the small cake of soap in her sponge bag and didn't bother removing it; the great gorgeous cake of fern soap was irresistible, as was the flask of tangy bath lotion on the glass shelf above the taps.

  Enveloped in clouds of fragrant steam, she splashed and scrubbed, towelled herself dry, sampled the big flagon of ferny astringent and shuddered at its tingling coldness on her skin, sniffed ecstatically and patted herself dry, and wished for talcum. She was temporarily 'out' of it and there only seemed to be one kind on the glass shelf, a very masculine variety that must belong to the man of the house.

  She'd better not, she thought guiltily, she hadn't been in the place five minutes before starting to take liberties. Hoping she'd be forgiven, she rinsed out the bath until it was spotless and stepped on the little weighing scales.

  She was peering down at the dial when she heard the footsteps outside. The pointer oscillated wildly between seven and eight, then stilled as Shelley froze. Outside, the footsteps also stopped.

  The door handle clicked and Shelley held her breath. Then there was a slight exclamation of surprise from without and the handle turned again.

  Shelley gave her own small exclamation and reached hastily for her kimono. It was just her luck to start off by commandeering the bathroom! For all she knew there might be another bathroom on the next floor which she would be expected to use. She opened her mouth to call that she would only be a moment, and before she could utter the words a voice exclaimed sharply:

  `Is that you, Bruno?'

  Bruno! Shelley blanched and with trembling fingers reached to slide the catch on the door. 'N-no—it's all right. It's only me—'

  Her stumbling little admission dissolved with the wafting cloud of steam as she opened the door. Her eyes widened with shock and her mouth round with horror behind her hand. But Shelley's reaction was mild compared to that of the being whose aghast gaze she was confronting. Tall—very tall. Dressing-gowned—and male! Very male!

  It fell back a pace, blinked and gasped: 'Good God!'

  CHAPTER II

  THE little tableau remained petrified for all of twenty seconds. The slender girl with a flush of shock that reached the damp curling tendrils escaping from the bandeau round her hair, bare toes curling frantically where they peeped out

  under the old faded blue kimono, and the dark-haired man whose grey eyes had deepened to the hue of steel and whose mouth was etched in sharp grim lines of astonishment. Then from somewhere down near her toes Shelley found her voice, a thin choked voice that quavered as she stammered : 'Wwho are you?'

  The statue towering above her jerked to life. He took a pace back and not a single line relaxed as the steely gaze raked over her. He said coldly, 'I might ask you the same question. Just what are you doing here? In my house? In my—' Words seemed to elude him and he made an unconscious gesture of tightening the girdle of his maroon silk dressing gown. 'Who the devil are you, and how did you get in here?'

  Shelley's mouth trembled and she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Then it came to her suddenly, the absurd notion that he was afraid of her and a rising hysteria drowned her fear and astonishment. She began to giggle. 'It's all right. I—I'm not a burglar. I'm supposed to be here. Don't you remember?'

  `Remember what?'

  `I—I've taken the room. It's all right. I—'

  `But it's not all right! What the devil are you talking about?'

  'But I—' Suddenly the horror-stricken realisation began to dawn that it was not all right; on the contrary, it was dreadfully wrong. The rosy flush ebbed and left her face deathly white. 'But didn't you know? I mean, didn't M-Mrs Quinn ...? Didn't your wife ... t-tell you about ...?'

  Into the silence he said grimly, 'There is no Mrs Quinn. Unless you mean my mother, who should be back in Cheltenham by now, I presume. Go on.'

  `Well, I—I—' Shelley licked dry lips and looked everywhere except at the stern face down-turned implacably towards her. 'You had a room, a bedsitter, vacant, and a student, somebody called Geoff had it, and—and now he's gone. I thought I—I thought it was all—arranged. I—' The words had been getting quieter and more unsteady, and now they deserted her altogether. Her fingers twisted restlessly at the edges of her kimono and now to her horror they were beginning to tremble uncontrollably. Hardly knowing what she was saying, she began to edge past him. `I—I'm sorry, but there—there must have been some mistake. I--I'd better—'

  `just a moment.' The dark brows were narrowing, but the mouth wasn't quite so grim. 'I think you'd better have a, drink—you look as though you need one—and then we'll have the rest of the story.'

  `Oh, but I—I don't, think—' She looked down unhappily at her attire and edged another step away, to be checked by an impatient gesture that ended firmly round her wrist.

  `Having made the encounter so far I see no point in stopping to get dressed. This way.' He turned towards the stairs and there was something in his tone which silenced any further argument. Slowly she went down the blue stairs, past the niche and the translucent pastels of Meissen, across the hall to the panelled door he opened, and into the room beyond.

  A couple of paces inside, she stopped, her glance taking a slow sweep across and round the new strangeness. No blue now. Deep maroon pile stretched, away under softly gleaming rosewood and mahogany bowed legs and ball and claw feet, ending in shadow that lightened upwards to ivory satin-striped walls with thin darker shades catching the grain outside the ambience of ruby hooded candelabra wall brackets, and the white half-moon of rug that drew the glance to the graceful marble Adam fireplace, the hard shine of iron dogs, the basket grate that was unlit, coldly metallic, unwelcoming, and though the room was warm she was shivering violently ...

  Shelley huddled, made tiny by fear and the big room, and her unwilling host muttered something inaudible and touched a switch with his toe. A pale tinge of orange deepened to flame amid the darkness of the grate and he said: For heaven's sake sit down. You look frozen. Or is it fright?'

  `A--a bit of each, I think.' She sat uneasily on the extreme

  edge of a large, unsoft wingchair and fixed her gaze on the centre of the white rug.

  He was silent, his back to her and his hands reaching for a decanter of whisky. Then he checked, and instead opened the cabinet on which the tray stood. He took out a bottle of sherry and filled a glass, bringing it to her before he returned to mix his own drink.

  `Now,'- he said, taking up a stance just to one side of the other wingchair opposite hers, 'you'd better explain.'

  `Yes, Mr—Mr—'

  `Quinn.'

  `Mr Quinn.' She swallowed hard and set down the barely sipped drink, regarding him with worried eyes. 'You see I thought it was all arranged, that I was to have Geoff's room and—'

  `You know Geoff Taylor?'

  `N-not exactly.' She wished he wouldn't stare at her like that and make her even more nervous than she was already. `You see I ...' Again she stopped, the enormity of what must be a ghastly mistake overwhelming her once more. Her hands opened and closed in her lap and she tried again desperately. `I'm awfully sorry. I can see there's been a—'-

  `For God's sake stop saying you're sorry!' He dropped into the chair and said sharply, 'How did you get in?'

  `With a key, of course !' She stared. 'That's why I thought it was—'

  He cut her short. 'Where did you get the key? From Geoff? If so ...' The incomplete exclamation betokened
grimness.

  No. I don't know Geoff at all. But Tim said he did. He said he'd fixed it and—'

  `Tim who?'

  `Tim Peyne,' she faltered.

  The dark head jerked sharply forward and she saw the first sign of recognition, something to indicate that everything hadn't run so utterly off the rails as she'd feared. She said eagerly, 'I understood he'd seen you, and Geoff was going away, and the room was vacant, and—' Once again Shelley's voice petered out and only her wide eloquent eyes betrayed her distress and embarrassment. 'Didn't he see you? Fix it, and—?' she whispered.

  For a moment Mr Quinn did not respond, and when she felt she could not bear the silence a moment longer he suddenly relaxed back and shook his head unbelievingly. 'Yes, he told me, at least through Geoff, and I gave permission for the key to be handed on. But I'm afraid we—yes, both of us—have been taken for a decidedly malicious ride.' An unwilling smile touched the corners of his mouth and he said sardonically, 'I must say you're the most unmasculine student male I've ever set eyes on. You are the genuine feminine gender, I presume.'

  At the play of contrasting expressions and final horror that chased over her face he smiled grimly. 'I thought not. I have seen some specimens where justified doubt could exist, but never to this extent.'

  His gaze had flickered to the tender pearly curve revealed where the kimono had parted below her throat and noted her instinctive clutch at the edges of the material. He leaned back, folding his arms and crossing his knees, and surveyed her with ironic humour. 'Well, what are we going to do about this? I understood that a young male was to take up residence under my roof and paternal eye. Not ...' He closed his eyes expressively, then reached abruptly for his glass.

  And now all the suspicions Shelley had never been able completely to banish crystallised in a surge of hatred, against the way she had been duped. It had all seemed so plausible at the time, and yet, against her instinct, she had trusted. Because Tim was Samma's friend, and Samma was her cousin, the nearest to a sister she would ever possess. And then she had been convinced, when she had seen the house yesterday afternoon, seen the gracious, sweet-faced woman who she had decided immediately must be the owner.

  Chill gathered round Shelley's heart. He had said there was no Mrs Quinn! Except his mother, who was now in Cheltenham. That meant ...

  Suddenly she was on her feet, dragging the kimono tightly about her slight form as she started to run, her only thought now to escape from the dreadful situation into which she

  had so stupidly plunged. It was as much her fault. She should have insisted on seeing the place first, before ... `Where are you going?'

  Silk rustled behind her and the imperative voice cut across the room.

  `Away. I can't stay here. Not now I—' Her fingers closed round the crystal facets of the door knob and twisted at it. `I—I'm sorry you've been troubled. I—I can't carry all my things tonight, but I'll come back tomorrow morning andA hand came over her shoulder and firmly closed the door, and somehow a tall, immovable figure was now between herself and the door. Cynical eyes looked down at her with a mixture of impatience and amusement as their owner said : `Where are you proposing to go now?'

  `To—to a hotel, or—or something,' she said desperately. `Which hotel, or something?'

  `I don't know. Any one.'

  `At this time of night.' He leaned back against the door and laughed derisively. 'You're just a baby. What on earth are your parents thinking of to let you loose?'

  `I haven't any.' Her mouth twisted and quivered. 'Please let me go. A-and I'm not a baby. I-I'm nearly eighteen. I couldn't help it if—if they played a—a—' Suddenly she knew she was going to cry, and she didn't want to break down in front of this arrogant, sarcastic devil who might—He might be anybody. He might—

  'As bad as that?' He was shaking his head. 'Come on now, I won't eat you. Calm down and try to be sensible.' He patted her shoulder and smiled slightly. 'You are just a baby. Now come and sit down and stop crying while I think what we're going to do about you.'

  `I'm not going back to them!' she sobbed vehemently. 'I hate them! I wish I'd never believed them. But I should have known.' Fresh sobs flowed and she groped in the pocket of the kimono, alas, hankieless.

  `Here. Traditionally you 'never have one at the right time, do you?' With a resigned gesture he thrust his own handkerchief into her' hand. 'Who are "them"?'

  'My cousin—Samantha—and Tim, he's her boy-friend, and Coralie and Daniel—the beasts! They must have known. They cooked it all up between them to get rid of me.'

  `And why should they want to get rid of you?' He frowned. 'I think you'd better have something stronger than sherry this time. Here,' he came back to her, 'and drink it.'

  She choked a little over the brandy fumes and gave an involuntary grimace. 'Are you trying to get me drunk?' she demanded with a suspicious look.

  'No,' his mouth flickered, 'merely under control.'

  `Oh.' Another suspicious look and she set down the glass. 'I don't want any more, I'm under my own control now.'

  `Good.' He walked across to the tray to replace the two glasses and swung round. 'Well, short of taking you out myself to search for some suitable accommodation, which, quite frankly, I don't feel inclined to do—I've had a long and extremely difficult day—I see only one solution; the most obvious. You have, I gather, already taken possession of the spare room?'

  She nodded.

  `Then you may as well stay there till morning. By then we will, I hope, be able to look at the problem in a more practical frame of mind.'

  `But .' Her expression was uncertain. `If—' Suddenly she remembered something. 'Who is Bruno?'

  `Bruno?' He appeared startled for an instant. 'Oh, Bruno is my man. He's having a weekend off. I thought he must have returned unexpectedly when I—er—found the bathroom occupied. But in any case Bruno wouldn't have used--' He checked himself. 'It doesn't matter.'

  `Is Bruno not a housekeeper, I mean a butler or something?'

  'My valet, and an ex-heavyweight.' Amusement animated Mr Quinn's features, not entirely without a trace of wickedness. 'Bruno was once Buffeting Bruno, the all-in wrestling champ.'

  'Oh.' For the moment Shelley couldn't think of another single thing to say.

  `Have you had any supper?'

  She nodded. 'I hope you don't mind. I borrowed a tin of baked beans.'

  `Large or small?'

  `Small!' she said sharply.

  `I'll send you a bill. Oh, I'm not serious, child!' He shook his head despairingly. 'Would you like something else? A hot drink or milk, perhaps?'

  `No, thank you.' She was beginning to regain her composure now. Perhaps it had been the brandy, but whatever it had been it had not aided loquacity, and she sat there, uncomfortably aware of her tongue-tied silence lengthening. But her brain was in a turmoil, a clashing of anger against Tim and Samma—Samma must have known, connived; how could she?—and wild surmise about the man into whose household she had landed. He was looking down on her with his grave, imperturbable countenance and she wondered how Tim had dared to involve him in a senseless, tasteless prank. Who was he, anyway? Whatever he was he was authoritative. His features were strong and well formed, he had dignity and he certainly had taste, she decided, stealing a quick encompassing glance round the big study. His taste was the kind Aunt Lou would approve of. He was also what Aunt Lou would term a gentleman, she thought with a small inward giggle. Aunt Lou was old-fashioned in the way she assessed and placed people into categories. Then she caught his glance and hoped the nervous glimmer of a smile hadn't registered. There was a certain hardness in the lines of his mouth and a definite sternness in those eyes when they turned steely. Suddenly it came to her that the stupid business wasn't yet over by a long shot, and somehow she wouldn't care to be in Tim's shoes if and when nemesis decided to exact vengeance. She stood up and said uncertainly, `Thanks for not bawling me out. I'm terribly sorry to be such a nuisance and—'

  Will you stop apologising!'
He gestured resignedly. 'And for heaven's sake stop worrying about it.' He was moving as he spoke towards the mahogany pedestal desk that stood square across the window. His broad, maroon silk-clad shoulders were outlined against the silvery grey velour curtains as he searched in a drawer and somehow they conveyed a steady strength. Presently he turned. 'Here, take this. It should help you to feel more secure. Geoff never bothered, but in this case ...' His brows lifted as he held out a key. `For your room.'

  `Oh, I—' After a brief hesitation she took it and murmured an awkward, 'Thank you.'

  He waved it aside and opened the door for her. 'I trust

  you sleep well. By the way, I still don't know your name.' `Shelley,' she murmured, after another hesitation. `Miss Shelley?'

  No—Shelley Columbine.' The admission came unwillingly and she waited for the amused reaction which frequently greeted her after introductions.

  But there was none, and she glanced up at him, to see amusement, annoyance and something that was almost but not exactly scorn flit in rapid succession across his face. He took a deep breath and smiled grimly. 'This explains all. The picture is now complete.'

  `Picture? What do you mean?'

  `My baptismal name is Harley Quinn.' He bowed ironically. `Goodnight—Columbine.'

  After an uneasy night's sleep Shelley rose silently at a fairly early hour. Today was Saturday and she did not have& to go to the office, thank goodness. She had the day free to carry out the plan which had occupied her thoughts for a considerable portion of the night hours. The solution resolved plainly into three positive alternatives; she could go back to Samma's and reinstall herself in defiance of Samma's own plans, backed by the threat of telling the whole horrible tale to Aunt Lou, or she could go home on the next train to Aunt Lou, to Upper Anbury and the timber-framed cottage nestling in a fold of the Vale of Evesham which had been home for as long as she could remember, or she could find a place of her own.