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Authors: Jennifer; Wilde

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BOOK: Betrayal at Blackcrest
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I was standing in front of the study door ready to go up to my room when Derek Hawke stepped onto the landing. He was still wearing the dull gold sweater. He didn't say anything for a moment. He stood with his arms folded across his chest, regarding me with narrowed eyes. I was exhausted after four hours of typing, and in no mood for verbal gymnastics. I started to move past him. He sidestepped quickly and blocked my way. That was getting to be a habit with him. I frowned.

“Finished already?” he asked.

“We've completed the first chapter.”

“Remarkable. You really
can
type.”

“Did you think I was lying?”

“I don't know,” he replied slowly, his eyes on mine.

“If you don't mind, Mr. Hawke,” I said irritably, “I am tired and rather anxious to get up to my room.”

“By all means,” he said, stepping aside and making a mock bow like an eighteenth-century gallant. “Andy is quite pleased with your work, Miss Lane. I do hope you don't regret your decision to remain at Black-crest.”

I had already started up the staircase. I turned and stared down at him.

“Regret it? Why should I?”

Derek Hawke smiled. It was not at all pleasant. “That remains to be seen,” he replied.

He chuckled softly. The sound of it echoed against the walls and followed me as I hurried up the dark spiral staircase.

8

The waiter led me through an almost empty room. I noticed the enormous fireplace, a copper tub filled with logs sitting on the hearth. Beams of smoky blackwood supported the low ceiling, and ancient shields hung on the dark paneled walls. Candles with green glass shades burned at a few of the tables, casting long shadows. Music played softly, making a background for low voices and an occasional tinkle of glass.

I was nervous and ill at ease. I was not in the habit of accepting dinner invitations from men I'd just met, and learning what I had about Alex Tanner made me all the more wary. I had to confide in someone, and he was a member of the family. I had dressed carefully in a dark orange frock with short, flaring skirt. I followed the waiter, wondering if I shouldn't drop the whole thing and return to Blackcrest.

There was a rough wooden terrace in back. Rustic tables and chairs were placed beneath Japanese lanterns strung from the branches of the oak trees. The river ran directly behind the terrace. I could hear it washing along the banks. Only a few people sat beneath the bobbing colored shadows cast by the lanterns. Alex Tanner was sitting near the railing, looking out over the river. He did not see me approach.

“I'm ten minutes early,” I said. “It's one of my idiosyncrasies—arriving early.”

He leaped to his feet. A smile of pleasure spread on his face. He was wearing a gray-and-white-checked sport coat and a dark green tie. A lock of rich brown hair had fallen on his forehead, giving him a boyish appeal. He took my hand. His charm was almost tangible.

“Only when I'm looking forward to something, though,” I added.

“You were looking forward to this?” He helped me to my seat.

“Surprisingly—yes.”

He sat down, still smiling. “Why surprisingly?” he asked.

“I don't usually accept pickups.”

“Must you think of it as that?” he asked. “I feel like I've known you for ever so long—I suppose it's seeing you on the screen. I've not thought of anything but this meeting since last night.”

“You were sure I'd come?” I inquired.

“Naturally,” he replied, grinning.

“Conceited of you,” I said lightly.

“Women have made me that way,” he retorted.

“I'll bet they have,” I remarked.

The waiter came to take our order. I refused a cocktail, insisting that Alex go ahead and have one. He shook his head politely and ordered our meal. We chatted lightly after the waiter left. I commented on the restaurant, and he made a few remarks about the quality of the food. By the time the food arrived, I felt completely relaxed. There was something about Alex Tanner that put one immediately at ease. I wondered how many women had felt this way. Plenty, I thought.

“I understand you're a man of mystery,” I said when we had finished the first course.

“Oh? How so?”


Bloodstains on Bella
,” I replied.

“You found out about that. I hope you didn't read it?”

“I didn't,” I admitted.

“Good. I'd hate for you to get the wrong impression of me. I write those things in about five weeks—I have no talent, but I've got the bloodiest imagination in captivity. They're not art, but they keep me in caviar.”

“Are they all mysteries?” I inquired.

He nodded. “Murder and mayhem, dastardly villains and pretty young girls who keep on being chaste all over the English countryside.”

“I think I've got a new plot for you,” I said.

“Really?”

“Girl vanishes. She tells all her friends she is going to get married, then leaves town and is never heard from again.”

He laughed quietly, his brown eyes glowing. “I've used it already in an epic called
Strangler of the Moors
. The girl was actually leaving for an illicit rendezvous with a handsome stranger she'd met in a pub. He was actually an escapee from a lunatic asylum who had a yen for young ladies with blond hair and trusting dispositions. It was one of my biggest sellers.”

“What happened to the girl?” I asked.

“You really want to know?”

“I'm very interested.”

He went on to give me some of the more gruesome details, telling me about the various murders. His voice was beautifully modulated, and he spoke lightly, making fun of the plot and people he had created. I could feel the color leaving my face as he described the climactic chase over the moors. I did not visualize Alex's blond, blue-eyed heroine pursued by the villain. I saw a girl with short red curls, an outrageous dimple on her left cheek, terror in her brown eyes. He might as well have been talking about Delia.

He looked up at me. He cut himself short.

“Is anything wrong?”

“No. Nothing at all.”

“Come on—” he said, frowning. “Suddenly your face grows pale, and your voice quivers. What is it?”

“Your description is … very vivid.”

“I didn't take you for a girl with such delicate sensibilities. All the talk about blood and gore upsets you?”

“It isn't that,” I replied, rather irritated that he should think I was so fragile I would turn pale at the mention of blood.

“What is it, then? Look, I don't have dandruff on my shoulders, do I? I saw a commercial on television where a girl turns pale—” He was trying to make light of it. I smiled at the effort.

“I'm fine now,” I said, “and you don't have dandruff.”

“That's a relief. You sure there isn't something you want to tell me?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Later?”

“Perhaps.”

“You are the mysterious one.”

“Do you mind?”

“I'm intrigued,” he said.

We finished our meal, talking casually about unimportant things. I found that I was enjoying myself, despite my problem, and I warmed toward this man who was so witty, so wry, and yet so sincere. I felt that we might really have been friends for a long time. I wondered whether I should confide in him or not. I had a desperate need to tell someone about Delia, and yet this man was Derek Hawke's cousin.

I delayed the decision for a while. He questioned me about the film industry and didn't seem to be at all disappointed that I wasn't a real celebrity. He told me about some of his experiences with his publishers and talked quite humorously about a series of lectures he had given in London to groups of ladies in flowered hats who had an insatiable fascination with murders, the bloodier the better.

“They hung on my every word,” he said.

“People are curious,” I remarked.

“I know I am,” he admitted. “About you. I wonder what a glamorous creature like you is doing in Hawkestown. Last night you told me you were coming to visit a relative, and yet you haven't mentioned a sister or a brother, an aunt or uncle. I have the suspicion that you're here on a secret mission, that there is no relative at all.”

“You're right about the last part,” I said. “There is no relative.”

“Oh?”

“That's my problem.”

“How so?” he inquired, propping his elbows casually on the table. There was a look of expectation in his warm brown eyes, a slight smile on his wide lips. He clearly expected to hear some frivolous, feminine story. I took a deep breath.

“I'm not sure I should tell you about it,” I said.

“Why not?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Try me,” he said. “I'm an excellent listener.”

I hesitated only a moment. “Very well …”

I told him everything, starting with the night Delia had first come in and told me about the marvelous man she'd met at a party in Soho. I talked quietly, calmly, hesitating now and then to fit in a detail. He sat back in his chair, his hands wrapped about his elbows, listening to me with a look of incredulity on his face. When I finished, he summoned the waiter and ordered two whiskeys, doubles, with no soda.

“I think you need it now,” he told me as the waiter left.

“Do you think I'm insane for suspecting your cousin of—of harming Delia?” I asked.

“I don't know what to think,” he replied. “It's incredible.”

“I know. One just doesn't vanish into thin air nowadays. It's not done.”

“Not in real life. It's all very well in books, but there has to be a logical reason for it when it actually happens. We can't afford to jump to conclusions. We have to talk this thing out, look at it from every angle.”

“I've tried. If you knew Delia—”

“Don't rush me. I need to think about it for a while.”

We were silent until the waiter returned with the drinks. A splotch of soft blue light fell over one side of the table, a splotch of yellow at my feet. The colors swayed with the wind, moving like live things as the oak boughs groaned. Music from the main room drifted out on the terrace, soft and muted. Alex Tanner sat with his shoulders hunched up. He fingered the knot in his tie, a deep frown creasing his brows. When the drinks arrived, he downed his in three gulps. I took a tentative sip of my own.

“This is the second time in twenty-four hours I've had alcohol,” I remarked. “I hate to spoil your illusion of a worldly sophisticate, but I really don't drink.”

“Finish it anyway. You need it.”

I finished the drink. It was terribly strong. Alex Tanner tapped on the tabletop, still frowning. I could feel the warmth of the liquor surging through me. It made everything temporarily hazy, but I was no longer tense. I had handed my problem to him, neatly tied with a bow, and it was out of my hands. I felt a curious relief. I knew he would help me. I was no longer in this alone.

“You don't get along with Derek Hawke, do you?” I asked.

“I hate his guts, as a matter of fact, but that's no reason for me to think him guilty of a heinous crime.”

“Do you think him capable of it?”

“Derek is capable of anything. But, tell me about your cousin. I know she's an actress, but what kind of person is she?”

“Vivacious. She loves a good time—a
clean
good time. She doesn't drink or smoke, although she does have a rather coarse vocabulary—like a sailor, in fact—but that's all part of Delia. She'll do anything on a dare. She once climbed up on the bronze fountain in the center of Piccadilly Circus and tossed candy kisses to the crowd that gathered around to watch. Of course, her agent put her up to it and it got in the paper with a flattering snapshot and helped enhance her reputation as a madcap music-hall performer. Madcap—that describes Delia, but she's real and warm and thoughtful and kind as well. I've seen her empty her purse for a group of urchins and cry real tears because she didn't have more. We shared the flat in Chelsea all these years. We could have moved to much grander quarters, but neither of us is very grand. She—she's just not the kind of person to run off with some man.”

“I see,” he replied. “I believe you.”

“I believe that man has done something to her,” I said. My voice trembled, and I looked away from him.

“I—I don't know,” Alex said. “Everything seems to point to it, but there's no apparent motive.”

“There has to be one,” I told him. “There must be.”

“You said your cousin drew her savings out of the bank?”

“Eleven hundred pounds. Why—why do you ask?”

“I was just wondering.” His voice was very serious. He seemed to find it hard to express what was on his mind. “Derek has investments in London. A firm handles them for him. I know he's been speculating rather heavily of late, and I know he asked Andy to lend him the money to cover some loss. I haven't got any of the details, but I know she refused to give him the money. They quarreled about it. Still—that isn't important.”

“It gives him a motive,” I insisted.

“Eleven hundred pounds? It's not likely, Deborah.”

“A man like that—”

“We've got to be fair,” he replied calmly. “He claims he's never met your cousin. That could be true, you know. She could have seen the article and made the whole thing up, just as he suggested. Perhaps there isn't a man involved at all. Perhaps she merely wanted to get away for a while. The entertainment world must be frantic and nerve-wracking. Perhaps she wanted to get away from it for a few weeks without telling anyone where she was going. Perhaps she wanted to think things out, organize her life. That's very fashionable at the moment. Gurus—”

“Delia would go stark raving mad if she had to be alone for twenty-four consecutive hours,” I said, “and her life was perfectly organized. She had a good job with a revue that was doing big box office, and she was perfectly contented. The idea of her consulting a guru is laughable, to say the least. They'd both have screaming nervous breakdowns.”

BOOK: Betrayal at Blackcrest
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