Dangerous Deception (18 page)

It was four o'clock when I next looked at my watch and belatedly realised I'd no idea where I was, nor of the way back to the hotel. My road atlas was little help on these moorland roads, and I'd no large-scale maps like Philip's.

I drove back on to the road, reversed, and turned back the way I'd come, telling myself I'd ask for directions at one of the villages I'd driven through.

But somewhere I must have taken a wrong turning, for after a while I realised I was no longer on the same road, and though I drove with increasing anxiety for mile after mile, I came across no sign of habitation, nor even any fellow motorists.

I was beginning to have visions of spending the night on the moors when, just before five, I came at last to a village, and learned from the lady in the post office that I must have been driving in a circle, and the hotel was still over an hour's drive away.

She gave me directions, and eventually, after what seemed much longer than an hour, I rejoined the valley road just short of the Plas Dinas.

Fleetingly I thought of Bronwen and Gareth, and wished it was they who'd be awaiting me instead of the sullen Mair and shifty Evan, to say nothing of Sinbad and Goldilocks. And Philip.

The fears and doubts from which I'd escaped all day came rushing back in a wave of apprehension. Reluctantly and with deepening unease, I turned off the road into the gateway of the Carreg Coed hotel.

‘Mad, bad and dangerous to know.'

Lady Caroline Lamb:
Journal

“CLARE! Where the
hell
have you been?”

I turned, startled, from reaching for my key, to find Morgan beside me.

“I went for a drive; why?”

“I've spent most of the day looking for you!”

I frowned. “Whatever for?”

He made an obvious attempt to control himself. “You seemed so upset last night, I was worried about your being alone. You didn't tell me you were going out.”

“Why should I?” I retorted, stung by his proprietorial manner. “I'm not accountable to you for my movements.”

“Clare—” He reached out and took hold of my arm. “Forgive me, I didn't mean to annoy you.” He smiled a little wryly. “It's just that, now Philip's out of the running, I'd hoped we could have spent the day together.”

“Well, as you can see, I'm perfectly all right,” I said coolly. “Now, if you'll excuse me I must go and change or I'll be late for dinner.”

And as he still hesitated, I picked up my key and went past him up the stairs.

By the time I reached my room, I'd forgotten about Morgan and his importunities and was wondering how Philip and Carol had spent their day. He'd almost certainly have taken her to the castle, to show her the layout and plan the assault. No doubt she'd have been more help to him than I was; it was her ‘baby', whatever that meant.

It occurred to me that although Philip had the brochure, the notes and letters were still in my possession. Swiftly I took them out and re-read them in the light of what I now knew.

With only Sinbad's identity still outstanding, they were quite explicit enough to take to the police – which, I reminded myself, had been my original intention. Now, in view of Dick's death and its possible link with the paintings, it was even more imperative. The only question was whether I could avoid implicating Philip.

I stood in an agony of indecision, the letters in my hand. Dick was dead, I reasoned, and no amount of speedy action on my part could bring him back. Surely one more day would make no difference, and it'd give Philip a chance to get clear. There should still be time to intercept the paintings.

My conscience partly assuaged, I replaced the letters in their hiding-place and hurriedly prepared for dinner.

With the beautiful Carol very much in mind, I took out my prettiest dress, an openwork crochet in deep coral pink. It complemented my tan and helped to restore my rocky self-confidence.

In fact, its effect became apparent only too soon, for as I closed my bedroom door behind me, a pair of arms came round me from behind and a voice said in my ear, “How do you always manage to look so delectable?”

I struggled round in the circle of arms to see Clive Mortimer smiling down at me. And in the second that we stood there, our faces close and his arms still round me, Philip's door opened and shut. I pulled myself free and turned quickly to face him. His eyes were completely expressionless.

“Good evening,” he said stiffly, and walked down the corridor to the stairs.

“
Faux pas
the second!” Clive said, with a laugh in his voice.

“Isn't it time you grew up?” I demanded hotly. “Why can't you leave me alone?”

“Honey-child, if you want me to leave you alone, you should change your dressmaker.” He smiled and poked one finger through the crochet-work to touch the flesh above my breast.

“I'm not one of your chambermaids!” I snapped.

“Oh-ho! Do I detect jealousy?”

Before I was aware of it, my hand had lashed out across his face – just as Pauline appeared behind him.

Cheeks flaming, I turned and fled for the stairs. As I reached the hall Morgan's voice called, “Hey, wait a minute! Whatever's wrong?”

“Everything!” I answered shakily, already ashamed of my outburst. After all, Clive was Clive. He'd meant no harm, and none would have been done had Philip not come out of his room when he did. It was, as I well knew, because he'd seen us together that I'd reacted as I did.

I made no demur as Morgan led me firmly to the cocktail lounge. Standing at the bar, still breathing fast, I caught unwelcome sight of my reflection, face the same colour as my dress and eyes stormy.

But the drink steadied me, as he'd intended. “Now,” he said gently as, minutes later, I put down the glass, “we're going in to dinner, and since you seem in need of moral support, I'll sit at your table, if I may.”

“Thank you,” I said meekly.

During the first course he talked lightly – about the food, the weather, an amusing remark by young Stuart Mortimer – and gradually I began to relax, closing my mind to Carol, utterly ravishing in a dress of peacock-blue, laughing over her glass at Philip.

But not before Morgan had caught the direction of my glance. “I admit to being slightly puzzled—” he began, but I shook my head violently and he did not go on.

“Tell me about yourself,” I said quickly, to distract him.

He smiled. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, where you live, and if you write full-time, and why nineteenth-century Welsh politics.”

“Enough to be going on with! To answer in order, I live in Cardiff – by myself, if you're interested; I was divorced three years ago. And no, my books unfortunately don't make enough money for me to live on. I have a ‘day job' with a local publishing firm.”

“That should be useful!”

He grimaced. “Except that they don't do biographies.”

“So what started you on this book?”

“I read an article about Thomas a few years ago. He'd been a fairly prominent figure locally, but little was known about his background before his rise to power. My curiosity was aroused and I began to dig.”

As I'd hoped, once launched into his subject he talked for some time, about the man's charisma and gift of oratory, and about coal miners and dockers and the Industrial Revolution. At any other time I'd have been interested, but there was too much on my mind and my thoughts began to wander.

What interpretation had Pauline placed on that little scene on the landing? I should have to apologise to them both, and the knowledge did little to help my appetite.

“You're very lucky,” I said, as Morgan finally came to a halt. “I wish I had a hobby that engrossed me like that. It must be so satisfying.”

“It is, especially when I come across something unexpected – the draft for a famous speech, or an illegitimate child no one knew about.”

There was a rattle of rain against the windows, and Harry moved to put the lights on. Immediately the garden outside sank into obscurity.

“Pity,” Morgan said reflectively. “I hoped we'd seen the last of the rain.”

“At least it waited till the evening.”

He smiled, and something in the smile sent an unexpected tingle up my spine. I shook myself impatiently. This was Morgan, who had comforted me, worried about me, even played bridge with me; who, in fact, had been my anchor over the last few days, a much-needed support during the chaotic confrontations with Philip.

He finished the last of his wine and put down the glass.

“Ready, Clare?”

I was watching Philip and Carol leave the room, his hand under her elbow.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Let's go, then.”

When we reached the hall, Carol had disappeared and Philip was standing alone, hands in pockets, staring through the swing doors at the curtain of rain. To my surprise, Morgan led me over to him. He turned quickly as we approached, and his face shuttered.

“Could you spare a minute, Philip?” Morgan spoke pleasantly. “Clare and I would like a word with you upstairs.”

I shrugged free of him, flushing with furious embarrassment. “Morgan, whatever are you doing? You know I don't want—”

“Or,” he went on inexorably, “if you'd like me to continue the charade,
Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman
.”

My breath clogged in my throat. The fact that I'd been waiting for something like this for three days did not lessen the shock when it actually came. For, though I'd certainly considered him in the role, this was the man who, only two minutes earlier, had been my attentive, admiring dinner partner. No wonder, I thought bleakly, he was in such a panic when I disappeared all day.

Philip had recovered more quickly. He said, “I'll come, of course, but don't involve Clare; there's been—”

“What do you mean, don't involve Clare? Don't think you can exclude her because of some stupid quarrel.”

I said breathlessly, “Morgan, what is it? What's going on?”

He turned to me, and for the first time it struck me that his eyes were like a snake's, hooded, glittering, dangerous. “You can stop acting now, my dear, we've finished with all the subterfuge.”

“For God's sake listen to me, Rees!” Philip broke in harshly. “You're making a dangerous mistake. I can explain, but—” He turned to me. “If you wouldn't mind waiting in—?”

“Look, I've had enough of this,” Morgan interrupted. “She knows everything; damn it, I gave her the information myself. Now upstairs at once, both of you.”

I made one last, hopeless attempt. “What information? What are you talking about?”

With an impatient exclamation he took my arm and marched me across the hall and up the stairs. When we reached the top, I looked frantically for Carol, who might yet come to my rescue. But no one was in sight and Morgan's hand was firm on my arm.

“In we go,” he said pleasantly, opening the door beyond mine. Philip followed us in. The window was open and the net curtain, caught by the wind, streamed out into the darkness like a banner. The door slammed in the sudden draught and I shivered.

Morgan pulled the net inside, shut the window, and drew across the heavy blue curtains.

“Now,” he said conversationally, “there's been a change of plan. The castle is to be stormed tonight.”

“Rees, in the name of heaven listen to me! You're wrong about Clare! Let her go, before she hears too much!”

Morgan spun round, his temper at last flaring. “What the hell's got into you? Let me spell it out: I passed her the notes – as instructed. You greeted her as a close friend – as instructed. I was there, remember. You took her to the castle – as instructed. What happened then, I neither know nor care. Nor do I understand the importance you're attaching to this quarrel, considering your affair's only camouflage.”

He looked from one of us to the other. “I was tempted to remind you of that when I saw you both in the TV room. Surely Bryn made it clear, as he did to me, that this girl is strictly out of bounds.”

“It's nothing to do with any quarrel,” Philip said in a low, urgent voice. “I can explain if you'll only let me, but first, get Clare out of here. Don't you see, man, Carol's the one you want!”

Morgan swung towards him. “Carol?” he said sharply. “The girl downstairs?”

Philip nodded. “All these bloody code names; no wonder there's been such a muddle.” He drew a deep breath. “Another complication was that I knew Clare in London. It was a pure fluke, her turning up out of the blue, but it certainly compounded the mix-up.”

Morgan stared from him to me, doubt and the seriousness of his error dawning in his eyes.

“I don't know what this is about,” I repeated doggedly, “and I don't think I want to, so please may I go?”

Before he could reply, there was a sharp tap on the door. We all froze, staring at each other. The knock came again, more urgently. Morgan moved to the door and pulled it open. Carol Lawrence stood outside.

“Greetings, Sinbad,” she said. “I've come to tell you you have the wrong Principal Girl.”

I had one moment's grace, while Morgan and Carol stood facing each other, and instinctively I took it. I darted past them through the door, and heard Morgan say, “Get her!”

Carol's fingertips brushed my arm, but I hurtled past her. One of the doors opposite was half-open. Like a fox down a hole, I flung myself into the gap and slammed it behind me, my fumbling fingers pulling down the catch. Then, as a hammering started on the door and the knob rattled violently, I turned, trembling, to see Miss Hettie staring at me across the room. I faced her, my hands spreadeagled on the door behind me.

“Please – please let me stay!” I pleaded. “I don't know why, but they're after me!”