The Spiral Path (30 page)

"How is he doing?"

She sighed. "He has good days and
bad days, but he never complains. Such a fine gentleman. I believe he's taking
the sun in the garden now. You know the way. Shall I send out a tea tray for
the two of you?"

He agreed, knowing it would please her,
then made his way through the house toward the rear exit. Would any of the
employees of Ramillies Manor be tempted to contact Nigel Stone and tell what
they knew about Kenzie Scott? Probably not; since this establishment catered to
moneyed people, employees were chosen for discretion. Even if an employee
revealed his regular visits to Charles Winfield, none of them knew anything
about his past.

Charles Winfield sat in the shade of a
rose arbor, a knee blanket tucked over his lap and a set of earphones on his
head. Thinking it had been too long since his last visit, Kenzie approached,
touching the old man's shoulder to get his attention. "Charles. Sorry I
couldn't come sooner. How are you?"

Winfield tugged off the headset and
stopped his tape recorder. "Kenzie, my dear boy, what a pleasure! No need
to apologize--I know you've been madly busy ever since arriving in London."
He spoke with the deep, sonorous voice of a stage actor. "Do have a
seat."

"What are you listening to?"
As Kenzie sat on the stone bench, the older man adjusted his wheelchair so that
he could see his visitor with peripheral vision; macular degeneration had
robbed him of most of the sight in the center of his eyes.

"That delightfully malicious
Hollywood autobiography you sent me. Not so witty as the British equivalent,
but quite amazingly forthright."

"You should dictate your memoirs.
They'd be a bestseller."

Winfield shook his head regretfully.
"As a gentleman, I'd have to leave all the best bits out, which would
remove much of the appeal."

"Speaking of revelations, are you
familiar with a reporter called Nigel Stone?"

"A miserable weasel of a fellow
who's probably the most malicious entertainment reporter in London. I believe
he's British born, but spent some years working in Australia. For our sins, he
returned home a couple of years ago and became established at the
Inquirer.
He's
known for his scandal mongering. You've met him?"

"Yes, and he's decided he owes it
to the British public to reveal the truth about my background. He's made an
open call for information and is offering money for early photographs."

"A dreadful man. Mean to the
bone." Winfield's lips pursed. "He won't find anything, if that's
what you're worrying about."

"I hope you're right. But if he
does a good job investigating my years at RADA, he could learn that you helped
me get into the school."

Winfield made an airy gesture.
"Nonsense. It was your audition that got you admitted. I merely pointed
you in the right direction and dropped a word in the ear of the principal."
He gave the evil smile he'd used when playing Macbeth. "And if he tracks
me down, I shall delight in sending him off in all the wrong
directions."

Kenzie smiled. "Don't get too
creative--Stone isn't stupid."

"Don't worry, I shall have only a
small amount of sport. If you wish, I can also speak with the surviving members
of the old circle. Not that any would reveal secrets to a low-bred reporter,
but forewarned is best."

"Thank you. I'd appreciate that,
especially since the production will leave London in another couple of
days."

"Ah, yes,
The Centurion.
The
novel was a favorite of mine. I'm glad that it's finally being made into a
movie. I suppose it couldn't have been done properly before now." He
cocked his head. "I hear the tea tray coming."

"They continue to take good care of
you?"

"Yes, and well they should, given
the absurd amount of money you pay them to look after this decaying carcass of
mine."

"It's a small return for all you
did for me." Charles had been quite successful in his day, but he'd lived
lavishly, and working in the theater was less lucrative than television or
feature films. One of the pleasures of money was being able to help friends,
and Kenzie owed Charles his career.

Despite Kenzie's passionate love of
movies and the theater, he'd never dreamed it was possible to become an actor
himself. Seeing his interest, Charles had drawn him out, then become his tutor
when he recognized Kenzie's talent. Next to Trevor Scott-Wallace, the professor
who'd taught Kenzie reading, manners, and the ways of society, Charles had been
the greatest influence on Kenzie's life.

"Here you are, gentlemen." The
young attendant set the tea tray down on the circular cast-iron garden table
between the two men. After a lingering glance at Kenzie, she withdrew.

"You'd best pour, my boy,"
Charles said. "With my vision, I'd probably drown the cucumber sandwiches.
Do tell me the latest gossip, and what it's like to be directed by that
frightfully talented demi-wife of yours."

Kenzie had saved Hollywood and actor
tidbits he knew Charles would enjoy. As he poured their tea, he thought how
pleasant it was to be with the one man in the world from whom he had nothing to
hide.

Charles
tired easily these days, so it wasn't long before Kenzie left. As he walked
toward Kensington High Street to look for a taxi, he realized he was passing
the flat of one of his old RADA girlfriends, Jenny Lyme. On impulse he went to
the door of the building and rang the bell, not really expecting to find her
in.

He was turning to leave when the
intercom came to life. "I don't know who this is," she said tartly,
"but it's been a vile day, so unless you're prepared to buy me a
frightfully expensive dinner, go away."

Jenny was in good form. "It's a
deal," he said. "Where shall I take you?"

"Kenzie, is that you? You beast!
Come up instantly."

She buzzed him into the building and
kissed him with enthusiasm when he entered her second-floor flat. Tall, lush,
and dark-haired, she had a thriving career as a television actress.
"You're divorced now, aren't you? Have you come to seduce me with
champagne and Belgian chocolates? Please?"

He had a swift memory of his night with
Rainey. Gently he disentangled himself. "Tempting, but the divorce isn't
final yet, so technically I'm still a married man."

Her extravagant manner fell away.
"Ah, it's like that. Fair enough." She hooked an arm through his and
drew him down beside her on the brocade sofa. "What about that
dinner?"

"Your choice. Anywhere we can get
into on short notice."

"There's a magnificently trendy and
insanely dear bistro in Chelsea. I'll give them a call." She looked up the
number and called, using his name for the reservation.

"Success," she reported after
hanging up. "They usually have a two-week waiting list, but for Kenzie
Scott, they can find a table in an hour. So handy to have old classmates who've
become wildly successful."

"You haven't done badly
yourself."

She made a face. "After you, I'm probably
the most successful from our RADA year. I think half the class has given up
acting altogether, and the others are working sporadically at best. It's a
terrible business, Kenzie. Why do we do it?"

"Because we're too odd to be
employable anywhere else?"

"There is that." She curled up
in the sofa corner and studied his face. "We have some time before we need
to leave for Cachet. What's wrong, Kenzie? The divorce?"

Jenny had always been wickedly
perceptive. They'd been friends and sometimes lovers through the RADA years,
and kept in touch ever since. "Nigel Stone of the
Inquirer
is
enlisting the British public in a full-fledged campaign to uncover my past.
He's bound to investigate my time at RADA, so you might be hearing from
him."

"I can't tell things about you that
I don't know. You made the average oyster look like a blabbermouth." She
looked hopeful. "Shall I make something up?"

There was something to be said for
laying a false trail, and Jenny was less likely to go overboard than Charles.
"What did you have in mind?"

"How about if I say that I'm not at
all sure, because you were a very private person, but based on occasional bits
and pieces, I deduced that you were born in England, then taken to Africa as a
small child when your parents emigrated." Her mobile face transformed into
a woman being forthright to an interviewer. "I'm not sure where--perhaps
Zimbabwe when it was Rhodesia, or maybe South Africa. Your parents were
massacred during the political unrest, so poor orphaned you returned to England,
and entered RADA shortly thereafter. The subject of your family was so painful
that you wouldn't ever discuss it. Dreadfully sad."

A good story that would explain the lack
of school records before his time at RADA. "Clever. If you can convince
Stone I grew up abroad, he could waste a lot of time searching the former
British Empire for evidence of my existence."

"He'll believe me. I'm an actress;
I can make anyone believe anything." She stood. "I'd better go
change. I'm not going to Cachet in anything less than my glittering best."
Halfway across the room, she hesitated. "If Stone is a big enough sneak,
he might be able to get your records from RADA. Is there anything in your
original application that might reveal more than you want him to know?"

"The application was as vague as I
could make it--privately educated, no next of kin, and not much more."
Charles Winfield's friendship with the RADA principal had helped with that.
Old-boy networks were useful.

"One of the things I always liked
about you, darling, was how very unobvious you are. Are you ever going to tell
me the real story of your working-class past?"

He concealed the jolt of surprise.
"What makes you say that?"

"You hadn't quite perfected that
aristocratic accent when you started at RADA." Jenny drifted into her
bedroom, dropping into the role she'd play if interviewed. "I've always
had quite a good ear for accents. I do believe I detected a trace of South
Africa in your voice when we first met."

She'd tie knots in Nigel Stone.

CHAPTER 17