Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (86 page)

‘Dad! She’s my cousin.’

‘I know. Perfectly legal of course, for cousins to marry.’

‘I don’t want to marry her, Dad. You’ve got it all wrong. Anyway, I’ve got Sarah now . . .’

Sarah was at university with him, also doing veterinary studies, a sweet, rather manically cheerful girl, a perfect antidote to Joe’s silent shyness. ‘But she’s real special, Jenna is. I’d like to go on being her friend. Only I’m scared she might have got all fancy airs and graces.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Billy, ‘I doubt it very much. She’s a Miller, don’t forget, through and through, not a Lytton. And you did a lot for her, the night her mum died. She’d never forget that.’

‘She’s an Elliott as well, Dad.’

‘I know that. But if ever Barty was born again, it’s in Jenna. Might not look like her, but my word, she thinks like her, talks like her, even if it is with an American accent.’

‘I wonder what he was really like,’ said Joe, adjusting the cups on a couple of cows’ udders, ‘her dad.’

‘Well, Barty loved him, that’s for sure. We’ll never know no more ’n that.’

‘That’s good enough for me then,’ said Joe.

Giles’s role in the service was modest; he was reading the first lesson. He had chosen the 52nd Psalm. It was one of his own favourites, and for the sheer beauty of its language, so precious to his mother, infinitely suited to the occasion. But he was aware that of all the people speaking and reading that day, his voice was the least musical, he was the least charismatic figure and he feared that, compared to Sebastian Brooke or Jenna Elliott or even small Rupert Lytton, he would seem – as always – dull, dry stuff. There was to be a run-through without music at the church that morning; like Jenna, he was dreading it almost as much as the actual thing.

Lucas woke up with a severe hangover. Bloody stupid, getting so drunk last night. That brandy had been a real killer. Very fine, no doubt, but . . . He groaned, turned over in bed, holding his stabbing head, details of the evening rushing back at him.

Pretty stupid of him, spilling the beans as he had, about the diaries. Unforgivable, really. He could only hope it hadn’t been too dangerous. After all, they were all more or less family – and none of them were likely to go rushing off to Fleet Street to sell them to the highest bidder. And anyway, he felt everyone was getting a bit over-excited about their value. What could be in them, for heaven’s sake, apart from a few details about a handful of long-finished affairs? And who would care about them anyway? As Noni kept saying, they weren’t film stars . . .

God, he felt awful. He’d have to go in search of some Alka Seltzer and some fresh air. Thank goodness the service wasn’t in the morning. He wondered how Noni was feeling; she’d been pretty drunk. And that little Cathy, she could put it away.

Cathy: she was the one person in that room he wouldn’t have trusted. But – what was she going to do about the diaries? And why should she want to, anyway?

He was worrying too much. They were all worrying too much . . .

He eased himself out of bed, wincing at the pain in his head, and went in search of a cure.

Charlie was reading
The Times
in the morning room when Cathy came in.

‘Hi darling. You all right?’

‘Yes, sure. You?’

‘I’m fine. Wouldn’t mind a bit of fresh air. Want to come for a walk with your old dad?’

‘Yes, OK. I’ll just get my coat, it’s freezing out there. Mustn’t be too long, though, Adele said I could go to the rehearsal.’

‘We needn’t be long.’

She looked fine, he thought, smiling at her; maybe he’d imagined how much she’d drunk last night. He was probably over-sensitive about it. Hardly surprising.

‘You have fun after I went to bed?’ he said as they set off along the River Walk, her arm tucked into his. It was very cold; cold and very grey, with a heavy mist on the river. The noises of the morning were muffled, except for the screeching of the gulls, wheeling greedily overhead; the cars all had their lights on, driving slowly along the Embankment. It was a foggy day in London town, as the song said; and exactly as he had always imagined a November London to be.

‘Yeah, great fun. Noni found some records and we were dancing. Until Adele came down and ticked us off for making a noise.’

‘Cathy!’

‘Well, it wasn’t just me. And then—’ she looked round, over her shoulder, as if she was afraid of being overheard. He smiled at her.

‘What’s this? Spy story or something?’

‘Nearly as exciting. Can you keep a secret?’

‘I’m wonderful at keeping secrets, I promise you.’

‘Good. OK.’ She looked round again and then said, ‘Apparently they’ve found these really amazing diaries that Celia kept.’

They had all gone off to the rehearsal; Charlie had declined. He said he’d get too nervous and he wanted to enjoy the service in all its glory that afternoon.

‘Unless you’d rather I came?’ he said to Jenna. But she shook her head.

‘No, I feel much better now. Thanks to you.’

‘That’s my girl.’

He waved them all off and then went back to
The Times
; until he was sure Mrs Hardwicke and the daily woman were both safely upstairs, doing the bedrooms.

Then he walked very casually across the hall, opened the door leading to the cellar and went down the dusty steps.

Right. Behind the dolls’ house, she’d said. Dolls’ house, dolls’ house – yes, that must be it, under those sacks. And you could see the trail on the floor where it had been dragged out the day before.

OK; best make sure he didn’t make fresh ones. Pull it in the same direction exactly. Now. Torch shining on the wall: somewhere here – Lord, these people were extraordinary. That wine! Must be worth thousands and thousands. What they’d had last night, of course, had been pretty good. That idiot Elliott seemed to know his wine. And wanted them all to know he knew it. Smug bastard. Chatting up Adele like that. Well, she was very pretty. And nice. He really liked her . . .

As for Brewer, with his wobbling chins and his red face, getting redder by the minute, he wasn’t fit to be let out in polite society. Barty had really liked him, though. Said he’d been wonderfully kind to her when she’d first arrived in New York. Oh well. Her judgement altogether hadn’t been too good . . .

There it was. Little safe in the wall. Not even locked. Like taking candy from a baby.

He only wanted to take a look at the damn things out of curiosity. He was quite sure they were nothing like as important as Cathy had said. Just details of the social life of a rich old lady; which the family had no doubt inflated into some great drama.

‘Lucas said they thought it would be really dangerous if they got into the wrong hands,’ Cathy had said.

So they put them back in an unlocked safe in a hiding place two dozen people already knew about. Not very clever . . .

He tucked them into his pockets and pushed the dolls’ house back into position.

Elspeth was on her way home to Battersea to get ready for the afternoon and leave her children with Mrs Wilson; halfway along the Embankment Cecilia said she wanted the potty.

‘Won’t be long, darling, nearly home. Hang on.’

‘Can’t, can’t, can’t.’

‘Sweetie, please. Only about five minutes.’

‘Can’t wait. It’s coming, it’s coming now—’

‘Oh Cecilia – ’ she sighed. It would be at least ten minutes before she crossed the bridge, parked the car and reached the bathoom in the flat; on the other hand, Cheyne Walk was wonderfully just in front of her. She swung the car across the road, pulled up in front of the house, opened the door and dragged Cecilia out.

‘Come on quickly. Into Granny’s house, run—’

It was too late; by the time she had got Robert out of the back, a large puddle had formed round Cecilia’s small feet. She started to cry. ‘It’s all right, poppet, it doesn’t matter. Come on, we’ll go in and get you all cleaned up. Take my hand.’

She rang on the door; no answer. Of course, they were all out at the rehearsal. But Mrs Hardwicke should be there, and the cleaner – still no answer; Cecilia was crying harder.

Elspeth actually had a key to Cheyne Walk; her grandmother had entrusted her with it, so that she could use her library if she was out. But did she have it with her? She rummaged in her bag. Yes. Yes, here it was.

She opened the front door, ushered her children into the hall; as she did so, the cellar door opened and Charlie Patterson emerged.

‘Hi,’ he said, grinning at her easily. ‘You’ve caught me. Guilty of a fearsome crime.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Checking out your grandpa’s wine cellar. We had such wonderful stuff last night, I thought I’d go and have a browse.’

‘Yes, I see.’

She liked Charlie, he seemed extremely nice and charming; she couldn’t see why at least half the family was so down on him.

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘can’t wait. We’ve had an accident, as you can see—’ she indicated the dripping, shivering Cecilia.

‘Oh, I do see. Well look, let me help. Want to give me the little fellow while you go and hose her down? It’s all right,’ he added, laughing, as she looked at him doubtfully. ‘I’m used to kids.’

‘He might cry.’

‘That’s OK. I’m used to that too. Come on, young man. Let’s go find some cookies, huh?’

And Robert, who normally screamed at the mere approach of strangers, allowed himself to be carried into the kitchen, giggling cheerfully while Charlie tickled his tummy. What a treasure, Elspeth thought; maybe he could be hired as a nanny.

She was just returning downstairs with a dry and smiling Cecilia when she heard the phone in what had been her grandmother’s study and answered it.

It was Jamie Elliott.

‘Hi, Jamie. It’s Elspeth.’

‘Is Charlie Patterson there?’

‘Yes. Shall I get him?’

‘Please.’

‘Charlie,’ she called down the stairs, ‘telephone call for you. It’s Jamie.’

No answer; she ran down the stairs, went into the kitchen. Charlie was sitting at the table, feeding Robert biscuits and playing Round and Round the Garden with him. She smiled.

‘You really are a wonderful babysitter. Let me take him. There’s a call for you. It’s Jamie. You can take it upstairs, if you like, in my grandmother’s study. Know where that is?’

‘I – think so. Thank you.’

His expression didn’t change; but his colour did. It went from a normal healthy shade to one she could only describe as ghastly: a sort of greenishwhite.

She watched him anxiously as he left the room. Obviously half expecting some bad news.

But when he came back, he was smiling, although he seemed a little on edge.

‘Sorry about that. Family business. Look – you’ll have to excuse me, I’m afraid. I have to write some letters.’

‘Honestly, it’s fine. We’re going back to my flat now anyway. Thanks for all your help. I’ll see you later.’

‘Sure.’

It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be. The baby wasn’t due for three-and-a-half weeks. The consultant had said, last time she saw him, that the head wasn’t even engaged. And he should know.

And first babies were notoriously late. Everyone knew that. She was famous in the family for being three weeks late herself. Although if this baby was another six-and-a-half weeks arriving, Clementine would go completely mad.

Anyway, she obviously wasn’t going into labour today. She couldn’t be. All that was happening was one of those practice contractions the consultant had warned her about. Added to a very vigorous bout of kicking. Anyway, it had gone now.

She took Kit’s hand.

‘We’re there,’ she said, ‘come on, let’s go and find a taxi.’

The bastard. How he had loved it. Absolutely loved it. Telling him, in that bland, courteous voice, that he had the information he needed to do his tax return. Knowing, of course, exactly what he was saying, what he was doing to him. ‘Yes?’ he’d said and he really had thought he was going to faint, standing there, staring out of the window at the fog, holding the phone so hard his knuckles were white, the nails of his other hand digging into his palm, so deeply that when he looked at it later the imprint was clear.

‘You’re OK,’ said Jamie. He’d tried to work out quite what that meant, and he’d had plenty of time to think because the whole conversation, time itself, seemed to be going in slow motion. Did he mean he was OK, that the claim hadn’t been waived? No of course not. Elliott wouldn’t put it like that. Or would he? Was it just possible?

‘It’s good news, I think.’ Another pause. Come on, you bastard, come on. Get it over with, tell me.

‘You won’t be liable for any extra tax.’

‘Oh I won’t?’

How did his voice sound so normal?

‘That’s what you were worrying about, wasn’t it?’ said Jamie.

‘Yes. Yes of course.’

‘Because we’ve heard back from Barty’s lawyers. There’s no question of Jenna getting any further money. Barty had waived the claim on her behalf, in court.’

‘Oh really?’ He could hear his own voice, so easy and relaxed. Even with a hint of relief in it. ‘Oh that’s good.’

‘Yes. So I hope that’s helpful.’

And then, because there was no point pretending any more, and because Jamie so clearly knew and because he felt so dreadful, with a pressure in his head so great he really thought he might faint, Charlie said, ‘You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you Elliott?’

‘No,’ said Jamie, and his voice sounded genuinely puzzled, ‘no of course not. Well, I must go now. I’ll see you this afternoon, no doubt. Good morning, Charlie.’

So that was it; the end. Of all his hopes, his plans, his careful, clever solution to his problems. Over. The requisite bit of paper had been found; and he would continue to get nothing, nothing at all. Except a load of shit from the lot of them.

It had taken them long enough. Pretty incompetent lawyers, taking around two and a half weeks to find a document. Jenna ought to get rid of them. He suddenly wondered if they’d guessed, or if they’d known all along, and delayed telling him, watching him suffer, thinking of him squirm. They probably had. It would have given them great pleasure. The bastards. He felt sick; sick and so angry, he couldn’t contain it. He wanted to smash things, destroy them, destroy everything that these people had. Self-righteous, vindictive, devious, greedy people: given so much, giving so little. All he had ever wanted was what was due to him: as Barty’s husband, Jenna’s guardian. Not vast wealth, not riches, he would never have even considered trying to get at that money if they’d treated him decently, given him just – enough: enough to live with dignity, without the humiliation of having to scrabble around, borrowing here, begging there. How dared they, how dared they take so much from him and offer nothing in return. He was only good enough, it seemed, to look after the child, to attend to the tedious daily business of her care – not that he resented that, she was worth ten, a hundred, of every single one of them. But: some reward, some acknowledgement, some thanks, even, would have helped.