“He’s moved, I told you. But you’ll find all the details in there.” She looked at her watch. “God, I’ve got a meeting downstairs in three minutes. Good luck with the article.”
Jo didn’t open the file until she was home. She threw herself down on the sofa and, kicking off her sandals, put her feet on the coffee table before taking out Ben Clements’s photo and studying it closely. As Bet had said, he looked a nice old boy.
She tipped the contents of the file out onto her lap and looked through it. His address and phone number were on a card by themselves, the last item to come to hand. Jo picked up the card and looked at it, then she put it down. For a moment she stared into space, then slowly she began to laugh. “You are seven kinds of no-good clever scheming cow, Bet Gunning,” she said out loud to the empty room. “But it won’t change my mind!”
The card read:
Pen y Garth
Mynydd
Near Brecon
***
The headline in the morning paper in huge black letters was Bad King John Good for Jo. Judy stared at it in stunned silence as she stood on the curb, not seeing the traffic as it streamed within inches of her along the Fulham Road. Pete had done it! He had printed what she had told him, word for word!
Advertising executive Nick Franklyn can comfort himself after his latest big disappointment in the world of business. In the wake of live-in girlfriend Jo Clifford’s revelations about her previous life as a medieval femme fatale, Nick, not to be outdone, had himself hypnotized by his psychiatrist brother. Imagine his surprise when he found out that in his previous life he had been, not Jo’s lover, nor her husband, but her king!
Judy folded the paper abruptly and shoved it in the litter bin on the lamppost beside her. She felt slightly sick. Turning, she began to walk slowly up the road, pushing her hands deep into the pockets of her peacock-blue jeans. Pete had promised he would not tell anyone who had given him the story, but would he keep his word? She bit her lip nervously. Nick was in the States, but someone was bound to tell him about the article. Jo would see it too. And Sam. She shivered.
***
Sam had spent the rest of the night he had been arrested in jail. He had appeared before the magistrates on Wednesday morning contrite and very sober, accompanied by his impeccable character and his professional qualifications, to say nothing of Nick’s solicitor, Alistair Laver. The outcome had been a heavy fine, and he was bound over to keep the peace. When he rang Judy later to apologize she hung up on him.
She bought a pint of milk and some bread and cheese, and on second thoughts another copy of the paper, then she made her way back to the studio.
Pete answered on the second ring. “Hi! Have you seen the article?”
Judy grimaced. “It’s a bit sensationalized, isn’t it?”
Pete laughed. “I thought you wanted it shouted from the rooftops. That was the biggest print I could persuade the editor to use without being considered vulgar! Has the victim screamed yet?”
“Pete! You’re looking for trouble!”
“No. No. I was just doing a lady a favor.”
Judy sighed. “I almost wish I hadn’t told you now. It seems a cheap thing to do. Nick’s in the States. Jo is the only one who is likely to see it.”
Pete chuckled. “And the redoubtable Ms. Gunning. I can’t wait for her to spot it. I tell you what, sweetie. Why don’t you and I have lunch? We’ll split a bottle of bubbly and plan your next revelation. At this rate I shall have to pay you a retainer. What do you say? Joe Allen’s at one?”
“Okay. Thanks, Pete, I’d like that.” She hesitated suddenly. “But supposing someone sees us? They might guess it was me that told you!”
“Deny it.” Pete was smiling to himself as he stirred milk into his cereal. “Deny everything, Judy. I always do. I’ll see you at one o’clock!”
***
Bet rang Jo at four minutes past eight. “Have you seen what that unprincipled bastard Pete Leveson has done now?”
Jo sat down, pulling the phone onto her knee. “That’s a good one, coming from you, Bet! What has he done?”
“He’s printed the sequel to your story.”
Jo froze. “The sequel?”
“About Nick. Dear God! No wonder I thought there was something odd about him last time I saw him. And to think I nearly—” She shut up abruptly.
“You nearly what, Bet?” Jo said sharply.
“Nothing, Sweetie.” Bet swiftly turned on the charm. “Jo, love, you must have known all this for ages. You might have told me! It explains his crazy behavior, for God’s sake. And it makes the story so much more exciting. And to have had a declaration of love from him too! You must go through with it, Jo. You must! You do see that, don’t you?”
“Bet—” The muscles in her stomach were clenching nervously as Jo sat forward on the edge of her seat. “What exactly does Pete say?”
“Listen. I’ll read it to you.” Bet read the article aloud in a fast monotone. She paused expectantly when she had finished. “Well?”
For a moment Jo said nothing. Her hands were sweating. She could feel the receiver slipping as she held it to her ear. The room was spinning slowly around her.
“Jo? Jo, are you there?” Bet’s insistent voice cut slowly through the pulsing in her head.
Jo managed to speak at last. “Where did he get the story from?”
“He doesn’t say. Quote “Close friend of Nick’s” unquote. He’s timed it well with Nick abroad. It is true, I suppose?”
“I don’t know,” Jo said. “He never told me he’d been regressed. I asked him but he avoided telling me. It’s…it’s grotesque.” Her voice sank to a whisper.
Her suspicions, her worst secret fears—they were true, then, and now the whole world knew. She suddenly felt sick.
“Are you going to call him?”
“No.”
“But you must! You’ve got to ask him if it’s true.”
“Over the phone? When he’s three and a half thousand miles away? If it’s true and if he had wanted me to know, he’d have told me.” Jo took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Leave it, Bet. I can’t cope with all this. Not now. Please, leave it alone—”
“But, Jo—”
“Bet, you told me Nick wanted to kill me. It wasn’t Nick. It was John. It was John who ordered Matilda’s death.”
There was a long silence. At the other end of the phone Bet’s eyes had begun to gleam. “Jo,” she began cautiously.
“No,” Jo said. “I don’t want to talk about it.” She changed the subject abruptly. “I called your Mr. Clements in Brecon.”
“Oh, good.” Bet contained her excitement about Nick with an effort. “When are you going to interview him?”
“On Tuesday. I’ll drive down on Monday afternoon and stay with Mrs. Griffiths again. That’ll give me a week to write and polish the article for you.”
“I knew you’d do it, Jo. And then, if while you’re there anything should happen—”
“It won’t.” Jo’s voice was repressive. “Believe me, Bet, it won’t. Especially now.” Her last words were barely audible.
Bet bit her lip, trying to keep her voice casual. “When was Nick planning to come back?”
“He didn’t know. It depended on how things were going in New York.”
“And you’ll still be going out there when you’ve finished the article?”
There was a long silence. “I don’t know, Bet,” Jo said at last. “I’ll have to think about it now.”
***
The lane was steep and very rutted when Jo finally arrived at Pen y Garth. Nervously she put the MG into first and crawled up it, waiting to hear the hard-crusted earth ripping out the bottom of the car. At the top of the hill the pitch debouched suddenly onto a mountainside ablaze with gorse and ended in front of a low, whitewashed farmhouse. After drawing up with relief, Jo climbed out and reached for her bag. The familiar smell of mountain grass and wild thyme and bracken filled her lungs, mixed wi
th the acid sweetness of the pale-pink roses that clung and tumbled around the sentry-box porch at the front of the house. Above the white walls there was an uneven roof of thick Welsh slates, green with lichen and speckled with yellow stonecrop.
Jo stared around. The farm faced east toward the Wye Valley. She could see for miles.
“You like our view?” A figure had appeared in the doorway.
Jo smiled. “It’s quite breathtaking.”
Ben Clements laughed. “In every sense, if you’d walked up from the road. Come in.”
She followed him into the single large room that made up the ground floor of the farmhouse. Half kitchen, half living room, the stone floor was scattered with brightly colored rag rugs and littered with toys, the walls crammed with books and pictures.
Jo looked around, startled by the color and the untidiness of it all. “I didn’t realize you had small children!” she hazarded as she avoided a wooden train set.
He threw back his head and laughed. “One of the penalties of growing old is insanity in our family! I got married at the age of fifty-seven and, unequal to the horrors of family planning, found myself pregnant, as you might say. Have a drink. I never ask anyone up here before twelve and then I don’t have all this silly social nonsense of poncing about with coffee and what not. You can have Scotch or beer.”
Jo grinned. She could feel she was going to like this man. “Scotch. Please.”
He nodded approval. “I hope you didn’t want to see Ann and the kids particularly. She’s taken them to Hereford for the day to see some cousin or other who’s paying a flying visit.”
Jo felt her heart sink. “It would have been nice. I’m writing for a woman’s magazine. So the woman’s angle is important.”
“Ah.” He grimaced. “I’ve screwed things up, haven’t I? Conceited male thought it was me you would want to see. My usual interrogators are nearly always men, my dear. Forgive me.” He handed her half a tumbler of Scotch, undiluted.
Jo laughed. “I wanted to see you both. Perhaps I could come back when Mrs. Clements is at home and interview her then, and interview you now?”
It would mean staying longer in Hay. Was that what she wanted really? Pushing away the thought, Jo concentrated on the gentle face of the man in front of her. He was still smiling. “Fair enough. So, do you want to see the farm at all?”
Jo reached into her bag for her notebook and camera. She nodded. “I’m going to take some snaps if I may, then we’ll send down a proper photographer if mine aren’t good enough!”
“Of course they’ll be good enough.” He led the way to the door. “You mustn’t be defeatest, my dear. That won’t do at all.” He turned. “Ann told me you were a formidable lady, whose articles are nearly always very scathing. That true?”
“Often. Does it worry you?”
“Not a bit!” He ducked under the low doorway and preceded her around the farmhouse to the back, where a stone wall surrounded a large vegetable garden. “I’ve had everything thrown at me by the farming guys who think I’m crazy. Luckily more and more people are seeing it my way now, and I think people of the organic persuasion are slowly winning through.”
Quickly and methodically he showed Jo around the smallholding, supervising her notes and taking most of her photographs for her. Then he led the way back inside and refilled her glass.
“Ann’s left a cold lunch for us. Shall we eat outside?” He glanced at her. “I amuse you, don’t I?”
Jo smiled. “No. I was just thinking you might as well have given me duplicated notes at the door. You are too used to giving these interviews.”
“Okay, I stand reprimanded. Now, you interview me.” He carried the plates out to a table outside the back door where the blazing sun was partially deflected from them by a trellis hung with honeysuckle. “Ask me all the questions I haven’t answered yet.”
Jo sat down. “Does your wife get lonely up here?”
“Shouldn’t you ask her that?” His face lit with humor.
“I shall. I just wondered what you thought she felt about it.”
“Well.” He took a huge mouthful of food. “Ann is a remarkable woman. She has enormous inner resources. Of course, I am presupposing her genuine love of the country, but there is more to it than that. She loves the mountains and the rivers and the loneliness. She loves the soil, the joy of making things grow, just as I do. She likes the people, the villages, the towns—we’re not antisocial just because we live up here alone, but neither do we miss people when we don’t see them for a while. Like me, she came to Wales as a foreigner. I’m a north countryman; she, God help her, is American! But we have both been completely absorbed by this country with its people and its traditions, its history. These hills may look lonely to you, but they are full of life and dreams and memories. Fascinating. What is it? What have I said?” His shrewd blue eyes had noticed Jo’s sudden tenseness.
She forced a smile. “Nothing. Go on.”
“You’re a skeptic? A townie?”
“No.” Jo met his gaze. “I’ve lived up here too.”
“Ah. I wondered why they’d sent you particularly. So you understand what I meant. Whereabouts did you live?”
Jo hesitated. Now she had said the words she could hardly retract them, and besides, she had an overwhelming urge to confide in him. After glancing across at his face briefly, she looked away across the falling mountainside toward the misty distance and took a deep breath.
“You’ll probably think I am mad. It was a long time ago. In a previous existence.” She paused, waiting for his laughter.
He said nothing, however, watching her intently, and after a minute she went on.
She told him everything. When she fell silent at last he did not speak for several minutes, gazing silently out across the panoramic view.
“That is a truly amazing story,” he said at last. “Truly amazing. I had heard of Moll Walbee, of course. Who hasn’t around here? But to have entered so completely into her life, that is extraordinary.”
“You believe me, then?”
“I believe it has happened to you, yes. As for the explanation—” He shrugged. “I think I must seek for a more mundane explanation than reincarnation.” He smiled enigmatically. “To do with the relativity of time perhaps. I would suggest that you have an area of your brain particularly sensitive to what one might call the echo of time. You have tuned in, as you might say, to Matilda’s wavelength and can, when in a state of receptiveness, ‘listen in.’” He put his head on one side. “How does that theory sound to you?”
Jo grinned. She leaned forward and pulled her plate toward her again, helping herself to a slice of Ann Clements’s crumbling stone-ground bread. “To be honest, my brain has given up asking how and why. The last few times it happened I wanted to fight it. I don’t want it to happen again. And I think I know how to stop it now. One must not let one’s brain be distracted into blankness. It is only receptive when it’s idling, like a car engine out of gear.”
“Fascinating,” Ben said again. “You know, you must talk to Ann about this. She was a psychology major at UCLA and past life recall was a particular interest of hers. She wrote an article about it for one of your sister magazines some time ago. Your editor might even have seen it.”
Jo stared at him. Then she gave a wry smile. “I think she may indeed,” she said. “It would have been almost too great a coincidence, my coming here otherwise, I suppose.” She sighed. “But I am glad I’m here now. Talking about it has helped. Perhaps Bet has done me a favor after all.”
He glanced at her under his heavy eyebrows. “I’m not surprised that it has worried you, though. It would scare the pants off me!” He reached for some bread and applied a rich lump of cheese to the crust, then, munching thoughtfully, he sat back in his chair. “But from what you have said it’s not your journeys into the past that have upset you and put you off repeating the exercise. It is the involvement of other people in the present. If you don’t mind my saying so, it sounds t
o me as if you’ve allowed yourself to be too much used by people who seem to have points they all want to prove at your expense, from your journalist colleagues to your boyfriend.”
“But they are all involved—”
“Perhaps.” He reached forward and touched her hand. “It’s a nice theory, but don’t be too ready to believe what others say, my dear. Look in your own heart for the answer. That is the only place you’ll find the truth. Now, let me get you some cheese. This is our own cream cheese from Aphrodite and her daughters, or there is a curd cheese from Polyphema, the one-eyed goat.” He twinkled at her mischievously. “You must keep your brain fully alert while you are here, Joanna. I am not sure I could cope with a visitation from a baron’s lady as well as afternoon milking!”
30
Jo took the wrong road at the bottom of the hill and found herself heading northwest instead of back along the Wye Valley toward Hay. She almost stopped to turn, then on a sudden defiant impulse she drove on into the narrow busy streets of Brecon itself, slowing the car to a standstill in the knotted traffic. She found a place to park, then wandered slowly around the town before climbing to the cathedral with its squat tower. By the time she had reached it she had made up her mind.
After pushing open the door, she walked in, staring around. The guidebook was very informative. It was during the lifetime of Bishop Giles de Breos and his brother Reginald that the eastern part of the original Norman church of Bernard of Newmarch had been replaced by the chancel, tower, and transepts that exist today. Her eye traveled down the lines of close print. Reginald was the only Lord of Brecknock to be buried in the Priory Church. She bit her lip, staring around. Reginald was buried there. There, somewhere beneath the lovely arching vault of the chancel…Suddenly she didn’t want to know. Reginald, that sturdy, cheerful boy, her third son, whom she loved in such an uncomplicated way and who had loved her. Her eyes filled with tears, and it was only with an effort that she pulled herself together. After all, she had not needed to come into the cathedral. If she had really wanted no more to do with the de Braose family she should not have gone to Brecon at all. She stood staring up at the high altar with its carved reredos and its offering of flowers below the huge stained-glass window, then forced herself to look back at the guidebook that told about the church of the de Braoses.
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