Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (91 page)

She went into the kitchen, made the lemonade and fetched some glasses, then as she went past the drawing room with the tray, put her head round the door, smiled, and said, ‘Come up and join us, why don’t you?’

And then, seeing them relax, smiled at them all again, closed the door quite firmly, and walked to the first floor, into the room that was Boy’s study, closed that door, and picked up the phone. She was not Laurence Elliott’s daughter for nothing. She knew how to deceive when she wanted to. And she knew a lie when she heard it.

Keir paid off the taxi, and started to walk through the fog. He had no idea where he was walking, he just needed to keep moving. To get away from Battersea, from Marcus: and from Elspeth. He walked and he walked, first across the bridge, and then in a zigzag across Chelsea, taking first left then right turns, doubling back on himself, almost wanting to be lost, so that he had something else to think about, to worry about.

Getting lost was not difficult that night; there is something about fog that distorts direction, confuses distance. After half an hour he had no idea where he was. Some of the streets were wide, some narrow; at one point he thought he was in St James’s, at another he seemed to be approaching Buckingham Palace, and then, almost illogically, he was at Hyde Park Corner. It was all a swirling, freezing blur. He felt numb, he was so cold, not just his hands and feet but his entire body, it was oddly hard to force his legs to keep moving; his brain began to get mercifully numb, too. He would just go on like this, walking all night if necessary, and wouldn’t be able to think, wouldn’t be able to remember anything at all. Least of all seeing Marcus Forrest running into what was, after all, his own front door.

‘Mrs Hardwicke? It’s Jenna. I’m sorry to ring you so late, but could I possibly speak to Mr Patterson? He might be asleep, I know he’s not well, but it’s really important. Yes, thank you, I’ll wait.’

She waited, sipping at the iced lemonade, tapping her foot, trying to keep calm. If Boy came in now—

Mrs Hardwicke sounded apologetic.

‘I’m sorry, Jenna, but Mr Patterson’s not in his room.’

‘Not in his room? But – well, is he in the drawing room, maybe, or the snug? Pardon me, the morning room? Would you mind checking?’

Mrs Hardwicke checked; no, Mr Patterson definitely wasn’t there.

‘He – you don’t think he had to go and see a doctor, do you? He had a terrible headache earlier.’

‘I don’t know, Jenna. I haven’t seen him at all. I’m sorry.’

‘Oh – OK. Can you ask him to call me when he does get in, do you think? Leave a note out for him, if you’re going to bed. I’m at Mrs Warwick’s house. No, I’m sure they won’t mind. Thank you, Mrs Hardwicke.’

She opened the door cautiously; no sound from the drawing room. She went quickly upstairs, deposited the tray of drinks on the floor outside the playroom, and put her head round the door, beckoning to Cathy. Cathy came out reluctantly; she had been dancing with Fergal.

‘What?’

‘When you spoke to Charlie, where was he?’

‘At Adele’s, of course.’

‘Are you sure? Did he say that’s where he was?’

‘I suppose not. But he said he wasn’t well, he was going back to bed. Where else could he have been?’

‘I don’t know. But he’s not there, and as far as I could make out from Mrs Hardwicke, he hasn’t been there all evening. It’s a bit odd.’

‘Oh, I’m sure he’s fine,’ said Cathy, ‘he’s old enough to take care of himself. Maybe he’s gone to get some fresh air, maybe he’s gone to a bar somewhere. Look, come on, Jenna, let’s get back to the party. It’s such fun.’

‘Yes – all right,’ said Jenna.

Alan Stewart had had a rather good evening: drinking with his mates in a bar in Soho. One of them was getting married on Saturday; this was his stag night. The last time Alan had seen him, he’d been sitting in the gutter in Windmill Street, holding an empty bottle of champagne, pretending it was a guitar, and singing ‘Lipstick on Your Collar’. Alan had wondered if maybe he ought to have stayed with him, but a couple of the other lads were still around, even if they were pretty legless as well; and Peckham was quite a long way away. In this fog, and on his motorbike, it was going to take a while.

Rather unsteadily, he waved to them all and wove his way in the direction of Piccadilly.

Charlie decided he’d had enough of the Savoy. He’d had a very good dinner, in anticipation of his new wealth, and he wanted to get his head down. He had a lot to work out: and no doubt a lot of crap to listen to. He’d been very careful not to drink too much. Plenty of time for that, when he was safely back in New York.

He picked up the holdall, and made his way out to the Savoy courtyard. The fog was so thick it looked completely impenetrable. There was not a taxi to be seen.

It really wasn’t his fault, Alan told himself over and over again as he sat in casualty, waiting to have his arm bandaged. Nothing much wrong, just a bad cut. But the chap he’d hit, he obviously wasn’t so good. They’d taken him off somewhere. He’d just walked straight out in front of Alan. Off the pavement and into the road. At Hyde Park Corner of all places. Just hadn’t looked at all. Not that you could see much in the fog. But Alan had had his lights on and he’d been going really slowly. And yes, he’d had a few drinks, but not so many he didn’t know what he was doing. The road being icy hadn’t helped, he’d slammed his brakes on, but he’d skidded, on and on. That was really how he’d hit the bloke. He’d just skidded into him. He’d felt the blow, the heavy shuddering thud as he hit him. He’d remember that for the rest of his life: the thud and the cry. And then the silence.

But – it was going to be all right, surely. He hadn’t killed him or anything, had he? Had he? Oh God. Oh dear, dear God.

CHAPTER 49

He supposed he should let them know. He didn’t want the girls worried. And they might be, if they found he wasn’t at Cheyne Walk. He would phone and tell Elliott that he was staying at the Savoy for the night, that he’d be back at the house in the morning, and to tell the girls. It was an absolute bitch, this fog. It looked set for days. It would mean his flight would probably be delayed as well. Which would be OK, but not exactly comfortable. Very uncomfortable, in fact. Maybe he should just stay at the Savoy.

He picked up the phone and asked for the Warwicks’ phone number.

It was Giles who seemed to have found the solution. The wonderfully simple solution.

‘I think,’ Boy had said, ‘we’re going about this the wrong way altogether. We should call his bluff, tell the police, get him arrested. He’s committed a burglary, for God’s sake. We’re just assuming we’ve got to go along with him, play it on his terms. Why should we do that?’

‘Because, as he said, there’d be some pretty unpleasant publicity,’ said Jamie, ‘he’s only got to make a song and dance when he’s removed from the house, or worse still at the airport, and the press would be on to it. On to the fact that the diaries exist. Some scandalous diaries. That in itself is dangerous. And he’d be let out on bail, almost certainly, and God knows what he’d do then.’

And that was when Giles had said it. ‘I’ve just realised,’ he said, and he looked quite surprised himself, ‘he can’t possibly sell them.’

‘Why on earth not?’

‘We’re being utterly stupid. We know the law of copyright, for God’s sake. We’ve completely failed to realise a very important fact.’

‘Which is?’ said Boy.

‘No newspaper can publish those diaries. They’re copyright. The copyright of the person who wrote them. It’s out of the question.’

‘You’re right,’ said Kit. ‘Of course. Why on earth didn’t we think of that? We’re all panicking. Giles, you’re a genius. Let him have them, let him do his worst.’

There was a silence; they all digested this, panic briefly eased. Only briefly.

‘That may be right, of course,’ said Adele.

‘It is right.’

‘Fine. But do you really think that’s all there is to it?’ She was white, trembling, seemed near to tears.

‘What else is there? It’s perfectly simple. No one can publish the things.’

‘So what? Do you really think that’s the end of it?’

‘Yes, of course. Calm down, Adele, for heaven’s sake, you’re being hysterical.’

‘No,’ said Sebastian, ‘she has a point. There are other things Patterson can do, I’m afraid. He can talk. To all manner of people. A clever journalist could make a pretty good article out of that, hearsay or not. With all kinds of meaningful phrases like “impeccable source” and “a close friend of the family”. And I believe you can use two hundred and fifty words, or something like that, it’s fair usage, without impinging on copyright. Nicely illustrated with family photographs. Specially ones of Celia.’

‘Oh, Christ,’ said Giles.

‘And just think of that,’ said Adele, ‘think of those two hundred and fifty words. What exactly do you think they might say? Quite a lot. Most of it, I would say. All our most private and personal lives, dragged into the public domain. Oh dear. I don’t think I can bear this.’

She got up, started pacing the room, tears streaming down her face. Venetia went over to her, put her arm round her.

‘Dell, come on. It’s not so bad.’

‘It is, it’s awful, horrible.’

‘She’s right, I’m afraid,’ said Giles slowly, ‘apart from the personal aspect, Lyttons just can’t afford any more scandal. We’ve had enough of it. I still have nightmares about
Deer Mountain
and what that did to us.’

There was another long pause; panic was rising again in the room, almost palpably.

‘Of course,’ said Kyle, ‘you could always take out an injunction. That will stop him. He won’t be able to do anything then.’

They all stared at him.

‘Of course,’ said Boy, beaming. ‘Of
course
. There’s our answer. Kyle, you’re a genius. Why on earth didn’t we think of that before? We bloody well should have done. Shall we ring the police now?’

‘Hold on, hold on,’ said Sebastian. ‘Let’s just think about this a bit. It isn’t that easy to get an injunction. You have to show a judge you’ve got a pretty good reason for doing it. That you’re going to be very seriously damaged by publication.’

‘Sebastian,’ said Giles testily, ‘I do know about injunctions. I – we – have been involved in a few in my time. And of course it’s not easy. But I think we could get one. Especially as he’s stolen the damn diaries.’

‘What do you actually have to do to get one?’ said Boy.

‘You have to go with your solicitor to a judge and make your case. Swear an affidavit. You can do it very quickly, once the judge has agreed, but he has to agree.’

‘So – the first thing is to talk to our solicitor?’

‘Yes.’

‘Should we telephone him now?’ said Kit.

‘Seems a bit drastic,’ said Venetia.

‘Venetia, this is more than a bit drastic.’

‘I don’t think we need do it tonight,’ said Giles finally. ‘It’s very late, Patterson thinks he’s got us where he wants us, and he certainly can’t do anything. Half the country’s ground to a halt with this fog. I’d suggest we speak to the lawyers in the morning. Plenty of time.’

‘And the police,’ said Kit, ‘have him arrested?’

‘I think,’ said Adele, ‘that would be unnecessarily cruel. To the children, I mean. Think what it would do to them, waking up to find him being led off in handcuffs.’

‘But Adele—’

‘I think that’s right,’ said Sebastian. ‘If we can stop him with an injunction, it’s far cleaner, less distressing for everyone.’

‘Yes, but we don’t know we can. Not for sure.’

‘Well, if we can’t, then arresting him won’t necessarily stop him, either. I agree with Adele, I hate the idea of some brutal arrest. Especially in her house,’ he added with a grin. ‘No, we’ve got the might of the law behind us. Let’s rely on that.’

It was Jenna who heard the phone first: she had been listening for it, waiting for Charlie to ring. She fled down the top flight of stairs, made Boy’s study just in time. She thought.

‘Hallo?’

‘Hallo? Hallo, who is this?’ It was Boy’s voice, on the phone in the hall, charged with anxiety. ‘Boy, it’s all right. It’s for me. Sorry, so sorry.’

‘Jenna? Who on earth is ringing you at this time of night?’

‘It’s – well, it’s a friend.’

‘A friend?’

‘Yes. Boy, I’m so sorry. I rang him earlier and gave him this number. I met him the other night. I’m really sorry.’

‘I should hope so. Funny sort of behaviour, ringing you in a strange house at nearly midnight. Get him off the phone straight away, will you?’

‘Yes. Yes, I will.’

She waited; the extension clicked off.

‘Charlie?’ she said, very quietly. ‘Wherever are you?’

Elspeth was playing with the children: a very complicated game of hide and seek. Whoever was hiding had a bell and they had to keep ringing it till they were found. It was a very persistent bell, on and on; she could not find Cecilia anywhere, she was somewhere out there in the fog, it was getting quite worrying, and the bell was still ringing – she woke up with a jump. The phone! At this hour! At – she looked at her luminous alarm clock – at two in the morning. What on earth had happened? She got out of bed, went out to the hall, shivering, cursing Keir for the hundredth time, for refusing to have a phone by the bed.

‘Hallo?’

‘Mrs Brown? Mrs Elspeth Brown?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry to disturb you in the middle of the night like this, Mrs Brown. This is St Anthony’s Hospital, Old Brompton Road. I’m so sorry to bring you bad news, but your husband has been brought in, knocked down by a motorbike—’

At about three in the morning a stiff breeze started up in the English Channel; by three-thirty it had reached the outskirts of the capital, flying up the river, whipping at the fog, tearing it to shreds. By five, the air was almost clear, sound and sight restored to the city. Jenna had been awake most of the night, staring at the lightless window; as her open curtain suddenly fluttered, she leapt out of bed, looked out. She could see the streetlights, see the river; she could go.

Elspeth paced up and down her room, imprisoned by the fog, knowing no one could help her, not her parents, not even Marcus, drinking endless cups of tea, arranging for a neighbour to mind the children, making phone call after phone call, to silent taxi ranks, willing them to answer, terrified that Keir would die without her, without knowing she loved him, making bargains with God – if he was all right, if she got there in time, even, she’d give up work, never go near Lyttons again, go back to Glasgow, to that terrible flat, have six more babies . . . and then she heard the breeze suddenly in the trees outside her window and looked out. She could see the street; she could even see the park opposite. She could go.

Jenna knew she had to turn left out of the house; after that she was a bit hazy. She had hoped to find a cab, but there weren’t any. The city might no longer be blind, but it was resting. She walked on. She knew she had to stay by the river; that way she couldn’t go very wrong. She had asked Lucas, casually, where the Savoy was, and he had said by the river, towards the City. So – she’d be all right. It just might take rather a long time.

Elspeth decided to walk; if she saw a cab on the way, she could hail it, but it wasn’t so very far to the Brompton Road. She could walk it in half an hour. Run it in less. And mostly she ran.

Charlie Patterson had woken up very early; he had slept rather badly. Not surprising, really, he supposed. It was a miracle he’d slept at all. He got up, pulled his curtains aside and looked out. It was half past five. The fog had gone. Completely gone. He could see lights moving on the river, hear the occasional car moving along the Embankment. Thank God. He could get his plane after all.

He had decided not to go back to Cheyne Walk. He had what he needed with him; he had the diaries, he had his wallet, he had his air ticket and his passport. The girls knew he had to go back to New York on business, they wouldn’t worry. And he’d feel a lot safer at the airport. He might even get an earlier flight. You never knew what that lot might do. They might even call the police. He didn’t think so, but they might.

Yes, that’s what he’d do. He’d check out as soon as he could and make his way to London airport. He lifted the phone and ordered breakfast – he could get used to this life very quickly – and started to run a bath.

‘Yes? Can I help you?’ She didn’t sound as if she wanted to help, sitting there in Casualty reception, looking officious.

‘My name’s Mrs Brown. Mrs Elspeth Brown.’

‘Yes?’

‘Mrs Keir Brown, actually.’

‘Yes?’

‘My – my husband’s here. He was brought in last night?’

‘Well he won’t be here now. We don’t keep people overnight here. This is Casualty. He’ll either have gone or be in a ward.’

‘He certainly hasn’t gone,’ said Elspeth. This was rather like a slap in the face, bringing her round from a faint. ‘Could you tell me where he might be, please? Which ward?’

‘What name did you say?’

‘Brown. Keir Brown.’

‘We’ve got a lot of Browns,’ said the nurse severely, rather as if Elspeth should apologise.

She ran her finger down a list of names; finally it stopped. She looked at Elspeth in silence. He’s died, Elspeth thought, it’s too late, I’m too late, he’s dead.

‘You all right, young lady?’

It was a policeman; walking towards her, looking rather frightening in his helmet and heavy boots.

‘Yes,’ said Jenna, ‘yes, I’m fine, thank you.’

‘What are you doing out on your own?’

‘Just – going for a walk.’

‘At not quite six in the morning. Funny time for a walk. Not running away from anyone, are you?’

‘No, of course not. Really, I’m fine. I was hoping to find a cab, but—’

‘Don’t get many cabs this time of day. You from America?’

‘Yes. Yes, that’s right.’

‘And – where are you walking to?’

‘The Savoy Hotel. How am I doing?’

‘The Savoy? Well, you’re nearly there. But you’ve taken a bit of a detour.’

‘Have I? Oh dear.’

She was afraid of that. She had reached Parliament Square, had recognised it, of course, but had walked straight ahead, down Whitehall, away from the river. And wasn’t sure how to find it again.

‘Yes. But at the end of this street, you’ll find Trafalgar Square. Turn right up the Strand and you’re nearly there.’

‘Oh, thank you. Thank you very much.’

She smiled up at him; but he didn’t get out of her way. He stayed there, looking rather stern, frowning down at her.

‘What’s at the Savoy Hotel, then?’

‘My – my stepfather.’

‘Oh yes? And why isn’t he with you?’

‘Well, because – because he doesn’t know I’m coming to see him. I was staying with friends last night. Relatives, I mean.’