Voice of the Heart (108 page)

As it turned out, he did not. He welcomed it. Katharine’s new venture was the search for a country house which they could use as a weekend home. Nick encouraged her in this, recognizing it would be a distraction, and therapeutic.
Once she became involved in its decoration and furnishing she would be reluctant to stop in order to make a film. Enlisting Francesca’s help, the three of them spent November weekends scouring New Jersey, Long Island, Connecticut and the Berkshires, looking for a suitable place. It was Katharine herself who finally found her perfect ‘retreat’, one weekday when she had gone off to Connecticut alone. Nick was dismayed to discover he did not like the house when she took him to see it. Ever since he had been a child, he had thought that houses had atmospheres, retained memories of their past, and this one was redolent of unhappiness. It seemed to reek of grief and gloom, but he kept his mouth shut, acutely conscious of her excitement and enthusiasm. As he had guessed, she threw herself into remodelling with energy and fervour, turning down a film and a play. Five months after Katharine had purchased the property in New Canaan, in March of the following year, it was finally finished. He and Francesca spent the first weekend there with her.

The Friday afternoon he and Frankie arrived, Katharine dragged them into the sunny spacious living room and immediately broke open a bottle of Dom Pérignon. Hovering in front of the great log fife in the stone hearth, she cried excitedly, ‘Nick, you must propose a toast to the house.’

He grinned. ‘To the house,’ he declared, lifting his flute high. ‘May all who dwell in her be safe and well and happy.’

Francesca exclaimed, ‘You sound as if you’re launching a ship! Why that’s exactly what we should do. I mean
christen
the house. What’s its name, Kath?’

Wrinkling her nose, Katharine faked a thoughtful moment. ‘How about Bide-A-Wee?’

‘That’s ghastly,’ Francesca shrieked. ‘Ugh! It’s so twee. Positively revolting, darling.’

‘Goddamned awful,’ added Nick, pulling a face. ‘Can’t you come up with something more imaginative, Katinka?’

‘I was kidding! And you know it. As for imagination, you and Frankie are the writers. Come on, think of a name, geniuses.’

Their hilarity increased over the next hour as Francesca and Nick gave her a string of preposterous suggestions, but they never did find one which was suitable and the house remained nameless.

By the early summer of 1967, Nick discovered he was totally relaxed with Katharine, and content in a quiet way. He had long known they would never be as deliriously happy with each other as they had been in Mexico in 1964, but he loved her and he thought there was a strong chance they could lead a good life together. By now he had managed to brainwash himself into believing Terry had accurately pinpointed the reason for Katharine’s mental collapse.
Work
. She had not been in front of a camera for a whole year, nor put a foot on a stage, and she was in good health, mentally as well as physically. In all truth, and to Nick’s surprise, she did not seem to miss acting. Encouraged by this attitude, he decided Katharine ought to go into semi-retirement.

He suggested it to her one Sunday afternoon, when they were sitting on the terrace of the New Canaan house. ‘Do a film a year, or every eighteen months, and an occasional Broadway play for a limited engagement. Pace yourself better than you have in the past.’

Katharine began to laugh. ‘I can’t go into retirement, Nicky. I’m only thirty-two. People retire when they’re
old
! Besides, I’d die of boredom.’

‘No you wouldn’t. It’s about time you enjoyed the fruits of your hard labours. And you certainly don’t need money.’

‘But what would I do with my time?’

‘Devote it to me.’ He leaned forward with eager boyishness. ‘We’ve talked about getting married in the past. Let’s do it, Kath.’

She stared at him in amazement, her turquoise eyes widening, and then she went and knelt in front of him, resting her
arms on his knees. ‘Oh do you really mean it, my darling Mr Latimer?’

‘I do, I do, my divine Miss Tempest.’ He kissed her deeply on the mouth. ‘I love you, Kath.’

‘I love you too, Nicky.’

‘So, what’s your answer, lady?’

‘Why it’s
yes
, you fool!’

His heart leapt. ‘Thank God for that. When? When shall we get married?’

‘Soon darling.’

‘Soon is not
soon
enough, my sweet girl. Nor is it very specific.’ He touched her cheek. ‘I’m not getting any younger, you know. I’m forty. Isn’t it about time we settled down, and had a couple of kids?’

Her lips parted, but she said nothing, simply stared at him for the longest moment. The trace of a smile slipped away entirely. ‘I’ll give you a date next week, darling,’ she promised.

But she never did, and suddenly everything started to fall apart again.

Lights blazed everywhere, but the nameless house in Connecticut was deathly quiet. Francesca had come to think of it in this way, since it never had been christened as she had suggested. Now, as she stood in the middle of the entrance hall, she muttered under her breath: We should have called it The Loony Bin.

She shivered, sudden apprehension clutching at her, and instinctively she tightened her hold on Lada’s leash. Nick came in with their luggage, and she swung around quickly. ‘There’s something wrong! I just know it!’ she exclaimed.

Nick was instantly aware of the eerie silence himself. It was abnormal. He dumped the bags on the floor, glanced around, cocking his head on one side, listening. Usually the house reverberated with the sound of the radio or records, distant bustle in the kitchen, echoes of Mrs Jennings’ motherly tones, Katharine’s tinkling actressy voice issuing orders, talking on the telephone. And it was unlike her not to greet him when he arrived from Manhattan. But then she hadn’t been like herself lately. He groaned inside. Maybe she had, maybe the strange abstracted disturbed creature who inhabited this place was the
real
Katharine Tempest.

Returning Francesca’s worried stare, he strode towards the living room, called over his shoulder, ‘Check the kitchen and the back of the house, Frankie, see if you can find Mrs Jennings or the maid. Perhaps Kath had to go out unexpectedly.’

‘Yes, Nicky. Meet you back here in a couple of minutes.’ Francesca hurried down the short corridor to the kitchen, taking the dog with her.

From the doorway of the living room everything looked in
order to Nick. Several lamps had been turned on, cushions were plumped up on the sofas and chairs, and not one item was out of place. The only oddity was the fire. It had almost burned out, the last few dying embers visible through the guard surrounding it. Katharine had a penchant for huge fires and they blazed constantly even on summer evenings. It was now November and there was a chill in the air tonight. His eyes fell on the clock. It was seven-forty. Wherever she was, she had been gone a long time if the fire was anything to judge by. Unless… unless she had not left the house. Had she hurt herself? But where were the staff? Had they all been hurt? Foul play? He thought of her jewellery. Oh God, intruders would kill for that collection.

Nick raced into the hall, saw no sign of Francesca, took the stairs three at a time, ran across the upstairs landing and burst into Katharine’s bedroom. He leaned against the doorjamb, panting and out of breath. The room was still, tranquil and undisturbed. Lamps glowed. The bed was unrumpled. Furniture was upright. And her fetish for meticulous order was very much in evidence. But here too the fire was low, crumbling to ashes. His eyes did a piercing second sweep of the room, and it was then that he noticed the empty jewellery cases lying open on the dressing table. He leapt across the floor, picked up the largest, which he had not seen before. It looked brand new, the leather pristine. He squinted at the inside lid, saw the name Van Cleef & Arpels stamped on the white satin, and underneath, in smaller letters: Beverly Hills. There were three cases in all, and of varying sizes. Was she wearing their contents? Or had they been stolen?

With a sinking heart he dropped the case, flung open the bathroom door and turned on the light. No sign of disarray here either. Gritting his teeth, Nick reached for the shower curtain, drew it back, looked down into the tub. A damp loofah was its sole occupant.

After checking every room on the two top floors, and finding nothing suspicious, Nick ran downstairs. Francesca
was crossing the hall, still holding on to Lada’s leash tightly. ‘There’s nothing unusual up there,’ he said, pausing on the bottom step, his hand on the bannister. ‘And no sign of anyone.’

‘The house is empty, Nicky, completely deserted. I’ve been to the maid’s room, the den, the dining room and the library. It’s mystifying.’

‘You didn’t find
anything
untoward?’

‘Not really. Except in the kitchen.’

‘What about the kitchen?’ he demanded sharply.

‘Mrs Jennings must have been in the middle of preparing food, a meal, when she was interrupted. Come and look for yourself.’ She led the way into the kitchen.

‘See, over there, on the counter top,’ Francesca said, inclining her head. ‘All those unfinished vegetables, even the peelings. They seem to have been there for hours. And that apron was on the floor. I picked it up, put it on the stool.’

Nick examined the apron, prowled around the kitchen, poked into the pantry and several broom closets. He said, ‘Stay here, Frankie. This is beginning to look mighty fishy to me. I’m going down into the basement.’

Francesca’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh God, Nick, you don’t think—’

‘I don’t know what to think. Just stay put, okay?’

She nodded, automatically bent down and lifted the dog into her arms. Francesca’s heart accelerated, innumerable dire possibilities running through her mind. She also thought of the jewellery, and then of Katharine’s fame. Everyone in the area knew she lived in this house. Such a prominent movie star was a prime target. Francesca closed her eyes, wishing Nick would hurry.

‘It’s all right, kid,’ Nick said a few minutes later, emerging from the basement, banging the door behind him. ‘We’ve covered the house. I’d better scout around outside.’

Francesca could only nod, her eyes huge in her troubled face as she followed him out. She watched him searching
for a flashlight in the hall closet, and then he opened the front door, flipped a switch on the porch wall. Instantly the driveway and the lawn were washed with pale lights from the spots hidden in the foliage.

‘Do you want me to go with you?’ she volunteered.

Nick pivoted. ‘No, absolutely not,’ he snapped. Stepping onto the lawn, he headed in the direction of the tangled mass of shrubs and bushes near the high stone wall surrounding the grounds. This area was dark and he beamed the flashlight on it.

The apprehension Francesca had experienced when first entering the house had turned into a nameless dread. She could not shake it off. She stood in the middle of the hall, rooted to the spot, staring out into the garden, her eyes seeking Nick. He had disappeared. She shivered, feeling terribly alone all of a sudden. And exposed. Exposed to this house. Although she had never said so, she shared Nick’s dislike for it, had always found it alien, unwelcoming and oppressive. Unexpectedly, Lada’s head lifted alertly, as if she had heard something, and then she barked, strained in Francesca’s arms, tried to jump down.

Calming the dog, Francesca glanced about, listening. What had alarmed Lada? Nothing stirred. She swallowed nervously and stepped out onto the porch, took a few deep breaths of the crisp night air. And she began to chastise herself for being over imaginative. There was nothing wrong with this place. It was perfectly beautiful. And anyway, if she thought about it intelligently, her fear was for Katharine and the staff and their safety. To be afraid of a house was irrational, and she was hardly that. She glanced up at the old stone structure, its windows spilling reassuring light, but she could not help asking herself why she still felt that stealth and pain dwelt within its walls. Oh stop it, she muttered, walking across the gravel to Nick’s car.

Francesca leaned against the wing, huddled farther into her thick sweater, shivering slightly in the wind. She looked
up. Dark clouds in a moonless sky, she recited inwardly. That’s by Rupert Brooke, isn’t it? Love in you went passing by… As the next line of the poem filtered through her mind, she held herself perfectly still. With a rush of perception she understood then.
There was no love in this house.
Only Katharine’s sickness. Why do Nicky and I constantly excuse her ghastly behaviour? Why do we continue to put up with it? Because we care for her. Oh poor dear Kath, she does need us both so much. We must try to help her…

‘You can relax, Frankie,’ Nick shouted, his voice carrying to her on the wind. He was sprinting across the lawn, waving the torch in the air. ‘The garden’s as deserted as the
maison
. Still, I’d better look in the garages just to be sure.’

‘Right you are, darling,’ she called back, some of the tension easing.

A couple of seconds later Nick was ushering her inside, shaking his head. He slammed the front door behind them, smoothed his wind-blown hah. ‘That’s the damnedest thing! Katharine’s car is in the garage. Come on, kid, into the living room with you. Jesus, you’re blue with cold. I think we both need a drink.’

‘Thank God nothing’s happened to Kath or the others. I’m sure she went out, that someone came to collect her. There’s no other explanation, Nicky.’

‘I guess so,’ he said. ‘But where is Mrs Jennings? She generally stays until ten. What interrupted her in the middle of her chores? And where in the hell is Renata?’

‘Nick, I’ve just thought of something else—’ Francesca grasped his arm. ‘Could Katharine have been
kidnapped
, and the others?’

His eyes locked on hers, and then he shook his head. ‘That’s a tough job, taking three women, and there are no signs of a struggle. No, I honestly don’t think any violence has taken place here today.’

‘Mrs Jennings might have had some sort of emergency at home, and it could be Renata’s day off. When is it?’