Grave Doubts (17 page)

Nightingale shook her head in confusion. Her father had never revealed a secret to her. At seventeen she had been sent away to what her mother liked to call a finishing academy but in effect had been a school of last resort for difficult girls, so her ‘coming of age’ had been a muted dormitory party.

Instead of feeling closer to her aunt, the letter with its odd language and strange ideas had alienated her. It was as if the aunt she remembered so fondly had betrayed her by growing strange with age – just as the priest had suggested. As for reading her other letters and diaries and delving into some mystery invented by a disturbed Aunt Ruth, that was the last thing she felt capable of doing. She had come here to live simply, to escape her old life, not to become entrapped by her Aunt’s fantasies.

The sudden joy of her arrival faded and she felt cheated. The only antidote to her discomfort was action. Nightingale unloaded the cleaning materials she had thought to bring with her from the back seat and took them inside. She started in the kitchen, checked that the flue was clear and lit the Aga. Three hours later hot, filthy but happy, Nightingale stood in the middle of the damp stone floor and turned full circle to admire her handiwork. A few coats of paint and it would be an attractive room again. Her spirits had bounced back.

After demolishing half a loaf of bread and a bottle of orange juice, she explored. The sitting room was dominated by an inglenook fireplace that she had been able to stand up inside the last time she was here, but she was too tall now. Upstairs, one of the bedrooms was so damp that plaster had fallen from the walls but the other three were sound and the old fashioned bathroom was in better shape than she had feared. The stairs groaned under her weight as she returned to the hall and she held on tight to the bannister. It was just as well as the tread at the corner gave alarmingly under her weight.

She was tempted outside by the sunshine glinting off the remains of cold frames in the kitchen garden where summer had vanquished winter in an unwitnessed battle. Moisture steamed off the overgrown vegetation within its walls. Unpruned fruit trees dominated the neighbouring field and a grapevine sagged, pregnant with flowers, from the south wall.

A tough, low-lying shrub sprang up as she stepped out of the door and a wonderful aroma reminiscent of Sunday lunch, filled the air. In the rest of the herb garden purple heads of chives fought their way through marjoram and blue sage. A massive rosemary muscled its way over half the bed, and the mint had escaped from its terracotta prison and was making a run for freedom.
This
would be her first project once she had finished inside. She would plant salad crops, renovate the herb garden, and after that the vine and anything else that looked as if it might respond to some tender loving care.

At nine o’clock she stopped for the day and washed in stream-water, warmed on the Aga and infused with rosemary, a natural antiseptic for her cuts and stings. She ate sandwiches then set out her sleeping bag on the floor as the sun set. Her breathing grew heavy and slow, and she imagined that she could hear the clip clop of ponies’ hooves as smugglers hid their cargoes of spirits and silks away from the Excise men in the caves in the cliffs below.

Lucinda Hamilton had had a frustrating day trying to persuade a very snooty magazine to cover her client’s launch party. With her connections from school and her family background, Lucinda had assumed that a career in public relations would be a cinch. She had persuaded one of the newer agencies of her credentials but unfortunately working life was proving somewhat tougher than she had expected. Her first client had insisted on another representative within a week; her second had been fulsome with praise…until an impromptu dinner with one of Lucinda’s friends from school, now a society columnist, had resulted in a ghastly piece in one of the Sunday papers.

Her current client was her last chance. He was opening a themed restaurant to be launched with an innovative and lavish party – Lucinda’s idea – and surrounded by appropriate publicity. The expenditure on the party was enormous, well over budget, but so far the acceptances were pitiful, even from the C-list she was using as back-up.

People who didn’t know Lucinda assumed that she was frivolous and disconnected from the life the majority of the population was forced to lead. The reality was quite different. She was ambitious and determined to prove herself without having to rely on a family inheritance. She made up for what she lacked in intellect (and it had to be said, sometimes, common sense) with abundant charm and a ruthless streak that took friends and colleagues alike by surprise. There was a sense about her that, if she once had a lucky break, she might surprise the world with her determination to succeed. Most acquaintances wished her well and worked to stay on the right side of her, just in case.

It was in a typically audacious frame of mind, masked by a buttercream smile, that she had joined her boss and a senior representative from the client for a review of the party arrangements that afternoon. After a gruelling thirty minutes she had just managed to save the account, and her own role representing the client, but she had only five days in which to deliver a decent guest list that would guarantee quality press coverage. Lucinda left the meeting feeling that she would rather die than accept defeat.

The Frog and Nightgown pub in Knightsbridge had become a popular meeting place for the smart set who enjoyed pretending that they liked beer not wine or cocktails these days. After decades during which there had been no limit to experiences and experimentation provided one had money, it was considered cool to return to basics. But the ‘Frog’ was hardly slumming it. The range of beer matched Belgium’s best and the chef had already been approached by a White restaurant. It had become one of Lucinda’s favourite haunts.

She arrived earlier than usual and the bar was almost deserted. Brian, the reserve barman, offered to mix her a cocktail but she shook her head and ordered champagne. As she sipped from the long chilled flute, she confronted the idea of defeat for the first time. If she failed there was no way she could accept demotion and she would have to move on. The spicy bubbles didn’t cheer her but she finished the drink anyway and decided that it was time to leave.

A fresh glass of champagne appeared on the polished wooden bar in front of her.

‘From the gentleman at the far end,’ Brian explained. ‘He thought you might need cheering up. No obligation, he was quite specific.’

Lucinda looked towards the man at the end of the bar. He was smoking despite the law, with a shot glass in front of him almost full of colourless liquid. She took in the designer watch, Ralph Lauren shirt, with a soft sweater looped over his shoulders. The blond hair was longer than fashionable but well styled, and she liked the tan that spoke of sun, not a bottle. After a moment’s pause she raised the glass in a salutation she hoped was casual and took a small sip. He saw her watching, raised his own glass in the briefest of acknowledgements, then returned to his perusal of the
Evening Standard
. She waited for his next move but he didn’t make one. In fact he barely looked in her direction as she sipped her champagne.

The bar started to fill and a couple of friends invited her to join their table. She acknowledged their offer but stayed at the bar, becoming piqued by the man’s apparent indifference. Two glasses of champagne on an empty stomach didn’t help her equilibrium and as she drained the last drop she had almost decided to go and talk to him despite his cool demeanour. Almost.

It was difficult to decide whether the man at the other end of the bar was worthy of her attention. The gallant gesture of the champagne without strings had been appreciated, but the goodwill created was being undone by his studied indifference. Lucinda was used to being the pursued, not the pursuer, and the fact that he was attractive only added to her irritation.

His blond hair was thick and wavy. It tickled his collar and gave him a raffish look. The eyebrows were the same colour, almost sculptured like a girl’s, and beneath them his eyes were beautiful, dark brown and impossible to read. She watched him take a drink from his glass. Either he was a slow drinker or he’d had a refill. His hands had the long elegant fingers of an artist.

She ran through a familiar routine of summarising her strong points. The act of repetition was like a litany against the powers of doubt and darkness. She was attractive – very, quite a catch in fact. She was more accustomed to fending off advances than standing in line. Her dark hair was long and silky, her eyes grey and her skin creamy-white. Breeding showed in her bone structure, poise and demeanour. Above all, she was naturally slim, bordering on skinny. No wonder some of her friends found it difficult to love her, but she pitied and forgave them.

Two women arrived. Well made up, dripping jewellery, they might as well have worn a sign around their necks that said ‘available’. They spotted the lone attractive man at the end of the bar and went into a classic courtship routine. He remained unmoved, but raised his mysterious eyes to Lucinda’s and smiled at her, inviting her to join in his ridicule of the women he had already dismissed as unworthy of his attention. She smiled back and brushed aside a momentary sense of guilt as she betrayed her own sex to his censure.

On impulse she raised her hand to buy another drink but before Brian had turned around to see it, the man was at her side.

‘Allow me.’

‘No, it’s my turn.’

‘Those words don’t exist in my vocabulary. Please.’

He wasn’t condescending so she accepted the chivalry, surprised at herself. Brian served them immediately and delivered a little plate of olives to accompany their drinks.

‘Your very good health.’ He raised his glass in a formal toast that made the corners of her mouth twitch.

‘Cheers.’

‘I’m Edmund, Edmund Althorpe.’

‘Lucinda Hamilton.’ For an awful moment she thought he was going to offer to shake hands but he didn’t. Instead he pulled up a stool and arranged his long-legged body on top. He had wonderful shoulders and whilst his mouth was too thin to allow him to be truly handsome, he was stunning. She wondered whether the tan extended below the V of his open-necked shirt and blushed at the thought.

‘Are you too warm? Would you like to move to the terrace?’

‘No, I’m fine…Edmund,’ she smiled, in her element, ‘and thank you for the champagne.’

‘It was my pleasure. You deserve it. I saw you sitting there, your face framed by your beautiful hair and I hated to see a frown mar that perfect complexion.’

She smiled in a one-sided way that suggested she was used to more skilled compliments.

‘I’m sorry, but you are beautiful. It puts a man on the defensive to see someone so lovely. I wanted to come straight over and say hello but I didn’t know how to.’

His child-like candour was disarming. Gradually she began to talk to him about herself. It was easy, he listened patiently, like an old friend. He had a lovely voice, with a trace of an accent she could not place, and an old-fashioned turn of phrase that Lucinda found appealing. The dried crustiness of her miserable day flaked away as their conversation flowed. When he was kind or complimentary she didn’t push his remarks back in his face but accepted them as her due. Her defensiveness melted as she finished her third glass and they asked for another round.

‘It sounds as if you’ve had an awful few weeks.’ He looked at her with genuine sympathy and she found that she had tears in her eyes.

‘Oh that’s not the half of it.’ She found her tongue a little difficult to manage but he didn’t seem to notice. ‘This restaurant is a blend of sci-fi and mystic. Star Wars meets King Arthur if you know what I mean.’

‘Very retro,’ he said and something in his tone made her frown. Was that sarcasm?

‘Pardon?’

‘I said, you don’t say so.’ There was a sudden tension in him. ‘This is extraordinary. I can’t believe that I just met you by chance. I was attracted to you as soon as I saw you, I admit, but I had no idea that the meeting would be so…relevant.’

The excitement in him was obvious and she felt slightly disconcerted. He made a visible effort to relax and smiled at her, his eyes sparkling, his teeth brilliant white.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Are you familiar with THE GAME?’

‘Of course I am. Thousands of people play it. The inventors are multi-millionaires.’

‘I wish,’ he murmured, but ignored the question in her look. ‘You’ve never played?’

‘No, I’m not good at computer games.’

‘That would explain why you haven’t made the connection with your party. It’s perfect. You should invite all the celebrity players of THE GAME – and its creators – they would attract headlines too. It’s a perfect fit.’

Lucinda listened, entranced. His enthusiasm and ideas were exactly what she needed. As she finished her fourth glass of champagne her stomach rumbled loudly and she giggled in embarrassment, hoping he hadn’t heard. She wanted to keep him talking. If only she could persuade the producing company of THE GAME to back her party – it would be a great advertisement for them she told herself – her problems would be over.

‘How come you know so much about THE GAME? Are you a star player?’

He stared at her and a light flickered deep in his eyes, like the sun catching the flanks of a tiger between thick trees.

‘I am, yes, but I’m more than that.’ He looked at her solemnly and raised his hand to cup her chin so gently that it was barely there. ‘I’m one of the inventors of THE GAME. I still own the copyright.’

The smile of Lucinda’s face was beatific.

‘Your party sounds a perfect opportunity to promote THE GAME among a more upmarket audience. I know we’ve only just met but you don’t have much time and I’ve always believed in capturing the moment. Could I take you to dinner? I know the perfect place. Quiet, not ostentatious.’

Lucinda didn’t give the negative option a thought.

‘I’d love to. Is it far?’

‘No. Shall we?’ He grinned at her boyishly and she wasn’t sure whether the jelly in her knees was due to alcohol or her reaction to him. Outside he offered her his arm, just as her father did and she took it, leaning in to him.

‘Lucinda means light. Were you born at dawn?’

‘I have no idea.’ She hiccoughed and almost tripped but he didn’t seem to notice. She looked up at him, the perfect coquette. He stroked her cheek lightly, making her senses shiver in anticipation of his next touch. They were walking easily through thinning crowds.

‘So tell me, as you know so much about names, what does Edmund mean?’

He turned and gave her a flash of his eyes, then pulled her gently closer to the warmth of his body.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘here is another coincidence. It is an old name and it means “happy protection”. Which is exactly what I am going to be for you.’

Lucinda relaxed her weight into his supporting arm, feeling the cares of the week evaporate. She didn’t believe in any particular god but as they turned away from the traffic into the quiet evening, she did offer thanks to whom- or whatever was responsible for her meeting Edmund. She was positive that her troubles of the day were about to disappear and, in a way, she was right.