A Christmas Escape (6 page)

“I think we should ignore it,” Finbar said wearily. He looked tired, and Charles felt a pang of concern for him. He was the oldest person here by several years. The fact that he walked considerable distances did not mean he felt no exhaustion, or that he did not require a certain degree of regularity in mealtimes.

Candace was also dressed in a pale muslin, but of a much less sophisticated cut than Isla's. She looked curiously at Finbar, then at Charles, but it was Isla she spoke to.

“Mrs. Bailey, I don't wish to be discourteous, but would you mind if we begin to eat while Stefano's food is fresh and looking so delicious? I think it is a way of thanking him that he would appreciate. He goes to a lot of care to make our food exceptional.”

Isla seemed to be relieved. “Yes, of course we should,” she agreed. “I'm sorry that my husband is late. It is most inconsiderate of him, but he seems to lose track of time. I do apologize, and I would feel far better about it if we all began to eat.”

“You have no need to apologize,” Bretherton said quickly. “Nobody imagines it was within your control. But…thank you for making us feel at ease.” He did not look at her, as if he had meant to say something different and at the last moment changed his mind.

Finbar sat at his usual place, and one by one everybody else took theirs, leaving one conspicuously empty seat for Walker-Bailey.

Stefano came in, beaming with satisfaction, and offered them a choice of white wines with their fish.

“And today I have a surprise for you,” he said happily. “The fish is very light. I think perhaps you would like a dessert, yes? I have a special dish here for you. A delicate pastry, with fruit and thick cream. You will like…I know this.”

“Thank you,” Isla murmured.

“You're wonderful,” Candace said enthusiastically. “You always know exactly what we would like. I'm so hungry I need potatoes! And here they are. Do you know, Stefano, Mr. Latterly and I climbed all the way up to the caldera?”

Stefano looked alarmed.

“No, no!” she said hastily. “Just up to the top of the mountainside. I wanted to go over and look in. Maybe I would have seen the fire in the center of the earth, boiling rock—red-hot like blood. Do you think? But I didn't, I promise.” She took some of the crispy potatoes. “Have you ever looked into it, Stefano? Please, tell me the truth. Is it boiling rock down there? Like the middle of the earth?”

He looked at her with pleasure and a bright light of conspiracy in his eyes. “Yes, I did, once when I was young and very foolish…”

“And…?” she asked breathlessly.

“And it was crimson as blood,” he told her, ignoring everyone else at the table. “It throbbed, like a living heart…”

Isla looked alarmed. Bretherton put his hand on her arm very gently, as if he hardly dared to do it. She did not move even an inch, nor did she look at him, but there was the very smallest smile on her lips.

“Go on!” Candace burst out, urging Stefano to continue.

He gave an exaggerated shrug. “It sent up a cloud of steam, very, very hot. I turned and ran for my life!” Then he burst into laughter till the tears ran down his cheeks.

“You're teasing me,” Candace protested.

“No, I'm not,” he denied. “Once I was as young as you are, and just as curious.” Then suddenly he was serious. “But I knew the strength of the mountain. I have seen it throw fire and rock up into the air and seen the lava flow till all the grass and the bushes burn and the people gather up their children and run as fast as they can down to the sea.”

“And you rebuild this house every time?” Quinn asked, a touch sarcastically.

Stefano regarded him with disapproval, as if he had exhibited bad manners at the table, which indeed he had.

“No, Signor Quinn. My great-grandfather took care where to build these houses in the first place. The lava does not come this way. Only sometimes hot rocks…on fire.”

“I'm glad to hear that.” Finbar looked at him warmly. “I have no wish to feel the mountain's displeasure. The fish is superb, Stefano. We are enjoying it very much. You are a master of this art.”

Stefano smiled, accepting the compliment, and went back to the kitchen.

“Do you think he's right?” Isla asked no one in particular.

“Of course he is,” Bretherton said quickly. “If his great-grandfather built this place, then there is every reason to believe him, and none at all to doubt.”

“It probably won't erupt at all while we are here, anyway,” Candace said in the silence that followed. She sounded rather disappointed.

The fish had been removed and the surprise dessert served when Walker-Bailey finally staggered in. He was filthy: his clothes were torn and stained with earth, dust, and what looked like blood. His hat was gone, his hair caked with dirt and sweat, and he was limping. He was clearly in a vile temper.

“Didn't wait for me, I see!” he snarled. “Could have been dead, for all any of you cared!” He looked at Isla as he said it.

She pushed her chair back and stood.

Candace turned to Bailey, her eyes wide. Without appearing to be aware of it, she reached out her hand and put it on Finbar's wrist gently.

“You appear to be hurt, Mr. Bailey,” she said calmly. “Did you fall down coming home in the dark?” She spoke with much concern, but her choice of words suggested it was his own fault.

Charles winced. He could see in Bailey's face the way he had read the remark.

“You're hurt!” Isla said anxiously, before he could respond. “We must clean your wounds and bandage them in case they become infected. Stefano will put something by for you to eat later.” She moved toward him nervously.

Bailey waved his hand to keep her away, as if her ministrations irritated him. He glared at Candace.

“No, I did not fall over on my way home in the dark, young woman. I was attacked. Just as the sun was setting. Someone tried to kill me!” He stopped, allowing the horror and amazement to soak into the room.

“Kill you?” Finbar said in amazement. It was not possible to tell from his voice whether he believed Bailey or not.

“They didn't do a very good job of it,” Candace whispered to Charles.

Charles tried to look stern and, knowing he'd failed, put his napkin up to his mouth. Please heaven Bailey did not look at him!

“That's terrible.” Candace tried to sound sympathetic.

“Have you any idea who it was?” Finbar asked him.

“No idea at all,” Bailey said bitterly. “It could have been any of you!”

Isla looked dreadfully pale. “That's an awful thing to say!” she protested. “Why on earth would you think it was any of us?”

“Because we know him,” Candace replied. Then realizing how that sounded, she colored bright pink with annoyance at herself and embarrassment.

Bailey glared at her, but he was too furious to speak immediately.

Charles tried to rescue the situation. “Were you robbed, Mr. Bailey?” He thought it more likely that the man had fallen but was too ashamed to admit it.

“Your watch, perhaps?” Quinn asked, his face perfectly composed. If there was a shred of sarcasm in him, he did not reveal it.

Bailey chose to ignore him.

“They did not need to half kill me simply to pick my pocket!” he snapped, but at all of them except Quinn, toward whom he kept his back turned.

“You are quite right,” Charles said soberly. “It looks as if you were unpleasantly injured, and it could have been much worse. Maybe you were stronger than they assumed?”

“Much,” Bailey agreed. “Many people have made that mistake.” He glanced over toward Bretherton. “People tend to imagine that because they are taller, they are also stronger.”

“Was he taller?” Charles asked, and then wondered why he was doing so. He was the latest arrival, the last in command, so to speak. But no one else seemed to be overly concerned. Either they did not know what to say or—on the other hand—they did not really want to know who was responsible. Or worse than that, perhaps they already knew. Was that possible? Could one of the people sitting here at this charming dinner table have crept up on Bailey in the dark and struck him down so that he was injured in the fall, his clothes torn and his legs bleeding?

If he had fallen some time ago, higher up the mountain, barely at dusk, then it was possible. They had all been alone, except for him and Candace.

Bailey looked around at them all, considering them one by one. “I don't know,” he said at last. “He had the advantage of surprise. I was deep in thought and did not hear him on the soft ground. He struck suddenly, and very hard.” He appeared somewhat mollified that at least someone was listening to him.

“A very vicious attack,” Finbar said, more to himself than to Bailey. “How unpleasant for you. And you are certain you have no idea who it was?”

“Didn't I already say that?” Bailey demanded. “And spare me your false sympathy. I know far too much about you and your pretenses. I think you'd be pleased if you were certain I could never tell any of your friends, even accidentally.”

Finbar looked straight at him. “You don't do much by accident, Bailey, except perhaps fall over.”

Bailey's face was scarlet. “You won't get out of it that easily…”

Candace could take it no longer. She stood up abruptly. “You have no right to say that, Mr. Bailey. Uncle Roger isn't the only person here who doesn't like you. But we are civilized people and we don't go around attacking one another. If we did, you wouldn't have had to wait so long!” Her face gave away that she knew perfectly well she was breaking every rule of good manners, and didn't care. No one attacked one of her own and got away with it.

Bailey drew in his breath to reply, but Isla interrupted him.

“You really must come and let me tend to your wounds, dear. They look quite serious. At least we should stop the bleeding.” Her voice trembled a little, as if she were frightened. Charles thought that actually Bailey's dignity was wounded more deeply than his body. The blood seemed to be dry already, as if he had been cut a couple of hours ago, and not so deeply that the bleeding had not stopped of its own accord.

Bailey put out his hand to fend her off, and she stopped, uncertain what to do.

“I've put up with it this long,” he said harshly. “I'll survive another few minutes. I want to know who attacked me! Surely you can understand that?”

“Of course,” Quinn observed with a gesture that was more a baring of the teeth than a smile. “They may do it again, since apparently they did not succeed very well this time.”

Bailey looked at him icily. “I wouldn't put it past any of you, but you have the best motive—don't you?”

Quinn flushed hotly, but refused to back down. “Since I don't know anybody else's motive, I couldn't say.” He was speaking only to Bailey and as if no one else in the room were listening.

Charles found his body aching with tension. What had been an easy, charming evening until Bailey's arrival had turned into something not only bitter but possibly even dangerous. To begin with he had thought Bailey absurd, but perhaps he was not. Maybe he had reason to fear.

Bailey seemed to be aware only of Quinn. “I always thought you were too damn stupid to understand Lucy,” he said between his teeth. “Not a shred of imagination, have you? I know you too well, just as I know old Finbar. I don't know Bretherton, but there's nothing there anyway—beyond a stuffed uniform and a pathetic lust after my wife…”

Bretherton moved to protest, but the table was in the way and all he succeeded in doing was banging his knees on one of the legs and rattling the china.

Bailey gave him a withering look.

Isla was close to tears with anger and embarrassment.

“You missed me,” Charles pointed out to him. “Why would I attack you? Simply that you're a cad doesn't seem to be enough. Admittedly, the house rests easier without you, but we're all here for only a short time.”

“Unless one of you kills me first!” Bailey was angry, but this time Charles heard fear in his voice as well. Quite suddenly, in an instant, it all changed. Until then he had been assuming that Bailey had tripped in the dark, and was using it as a chance to attack all of them and become the center of attention.

“You are quite right, Mr. Bailey,” he said aloud. “We are making light of it because it is a very frightening idea, and we don't want it to be true. We were assuming it was an accident, and there was no malice intended. But if, as you say, it was deliberate, then the whole picture alters and becomes very grave indeed.” He chose the word intentionally, and was rewarded by an instant of real fear in Bailey's eyes.

That look, there and then gone again in less than a second, changed Charles's mind. Walker-Bailey was afraid. His anger covered something close to panic inside him. Charles should have felt pity and was not proud of himself that he didn't.

“Perhaps you had better go and have your wounds attended to,” he suggested more gently. Finbar rose to his feet. “I think I'll excuse myself also,” he said quietly. “It has been a long day. Good night, Mrs. Bailey.” He inclined his head toward Bretherton and Quinn, and then to Charles.

Candace stood also, looking curiously at her uncle, then turned to leave. Charles walked beside her, a few steps after Finbar. There was an inexpressible weariness in the old man's movements.

Candace stood next to Charles for a moment.

“Do you really think someone pushed him?” she asked, her voice very low. “And please don't lie to me.”

“I don't know,” he said, and he was absolutely honest. “But I think he believes so. He could just have slipped in the dark.”

“He's so horrible I wouldn't blame someone, would you?” she asked.

“You have to have a very dreadful reason to want to kill anyone,” he said seriously. “Trying to scare him, I can understand. But it really is dangerous to push a man over in the dark, on that lava. He could have hit his head, and that would have been the end of him.”