Dangerous Deception (24 page)

“Yes, he told me.”

Philip glanced back over his shoulder, hesitated as though about to say something, then, instead, continued. “We went fishing together, and I must say I enjoyed his company. He was interesting and amusing to be with – and, having grown up hereabouts, knew the best pubs to go to, which was another advantage! During those two days we covered all kinds of topics, among them, our jobs; he told me he was an art dealer, and I mentioned that I was in insurance.

“Then the holiday ended, we said our goodbyes, and I never expected to see him again. But you know how it is: once you've met someone, you seem to keep hearing about them in various contexts – like never having heard of a place, and then seeing it mentioned all the time. And sure enough, a few months later his name came up a couple of times in connection with some rather dubious dealing.

“I was surprised, but there are always rumours circulating and I didn't pay too much attention. Until we heard him mentioned in the context of a series of frauds we'd been looking into for years, and it was at that stage that I began to wonder if I could make use of our acquaintance to get at the truth.

“I was reluctant to do it, though – it smacked too much of duplicity – and I didn't make a move until things came to a head with the fire at Portland House.”

He turned again to look at me, a smile touching his mouth. “Which, as I obligingly told you, cost us a cool two million. And again, though obviously we'd no proof, it seemed highly likely Bryn Roberts was involved.

“It was at this point that Carol arrived on the scene – a different kettle of fish altogether. Bryn, as I know from personal experience, can be warm, friendly and amusing, even if he uses these traits to his own ends. Carol, on the other hand, has no redeeming features.”

I said drily, “You amaze me.”

Philip grinned. “All right, she's a looker, I don't deny that, but she's as hard as nails. If she wants something, she goes for it, no matter who gets hurt in the process. She and Bryn met about a year ago, and he fell for her pretty heavily. Before long, they were planning The Big One.

“If you're wondering how I know all this,” he added over his shoulder, “she filled me in pretty thoroughly during our day at the castle. Very full of herself, she was. She couldn't have known how illuminating it was.

“Their first move was to get her installed as secretary-cum-bookkeeper to Lord Glendenning, but in view of Bryn's gallery connections and the occasional whispers about him, they kept their association secret.

“So, she settled into her job, quickly made herself indispensable, and became a trusted member of staff. But as the Hunt Ball drew near, she and Bryn began to crystallise their plans.

“The old boy has gout and never goes to the Ball, but the rest of the family does and traditionally the servants are given the evening off, with one exception who stays behind to serve his lordship his supper. You can guess who volunteered last time.”

He paused, his eyes following the scroll of an aeroplane across the sky.

“The rest was easy,” he continued. “Though the pictures they'd selected were valuable, they were fairly small and easily portable. So when the time came she passed them out to Bryn, set fire to the gallery, and made great play about ‘rescuing' a whole pile of other canvases and trying to contain the fire till the brigade arrived. Needless to say, the gallery was completely gutted and Glendenning gave her a handsome cheque in gratitude for the number she'd saved.”

“So what aroused your suspicions?” I prompted.

He grimaced. “Insurance men always suspect fires, specially if valuables are involved. But although by now we had Bryn firmly in our sights – and this seemed to be very much his style – there was nothing whatever to connect him with Carol, and he continued to be seen around with his usual harem. As for Carol herself, Lord Glendenning wouldn't hear a word against her, and it did seem that she'd fought hard to save the majority of the collection.

“The cause of the fire was soon established – a cigar butt in a wastepaper basket; which was a clever touch, because it had happened before, when one of the servants had found the basket merrily ablaze. The old boy's a bit absent-minded, and he's very fond of his port.

“They were also careful to take paintings from only one corner of the gallery, thereby backing up her story of not being able to reach them for the flames, and left enough paintings to be found among the ashes to obscure the exact number that were lost.

“Bryn meanwhile had removed them from their frames – which are still missing, by the way – wrapped them as we saw, and shot straight up here to Cefn Fawr, probably even before the fire was out.

“The next development was sheer luck – good for me, disastrous for them. I was out on business in a little market town not far from Portland House when I saw them together, having a drink in a bar. I knew who she was – there'd been photos in the press after the fire. So I reported back to Matthew, and we dreamed up the Big Split.”

“And you never told me.” My voice was low.

“No; I accept full blame for that. Matthew was very anxious you should be put in the picture – he hated the whole idea anyway. But I made it a condition that you weren't told.”

That hurt. Philip wasn't looking at me; he was still clasping his knees and staring out over the valley, but a nerve jerked at the corner of his mouth, and I knew that for him, too, this was the hardest part.

I moistened my lips. “Are you going to tell me why?”

“Ostensibly, because your reactions would be carefully watched in certain circles, and it was imperative that they should be entirely natural.”

“And – unostensibly?”

I saw his knuckles whiten. “It was by way of an escape clause for you.”

“Which,” I said bitterly, “I seized with both hands.”

“Yes.”

“You knew I would?”

“I was pretty sure; the writing had been on the wall for months. It occurred to me that you'd met someone else, which was why I fell so readily for your story about Bryn.”

“Your story,” I corrected him. “I only confirmed what you said.”

“I was pretty wound-up anyway by the time I arrived at Carreg Coed,” he said grimly, “and when I saw you waiting in the bar—”

He broke off and drew a long, shuddering breath. I wanted to reach out to him, but something kept my hands tightly clasped in my lap.

“So, to go back,” I said, more or less steadily, “you leaked the whereabouts of those antiques. Was that true?”

“Yes; it had to be, so much hung on it. It's amazing the contacts you can make when you try. Bryn rang me, as we'd hoped, to offer his sympathy, and things went from there. He introduced me to business colleagues, they passed me on to others, and the thing snowballed. But it was all very small-hat at first; they were cagey of me for a long time, and took some convincing that I was in it for as much as I could get.

“I'm still not sure how far Bryn trusted me – I was never given any job which could be traced back to him – but I had undeniably useful contacts.

“So I was sent to the States to find a buyer and I lit on Zimmerman. He's well-known as a private collector who doesn't ask questions about provenance. Consequently he has quite a cache of stolen goods stashed away. He did, however, insist on coming over for a ‘holiday' to view what we had on offer before any commitment was made.

“Once the dates were set, Matthew arranged for undercover police to be laid on, and over the last few days all the suspects – including you, though of course he didn't know that – were kept under surveillance. Hence that red car you were so worried about on Sunday.”

And possibly, I thought, the fisherman whom I'd come across twice yesterday.

“You could have told me the truth when I said I wasn't involved. That was the second time you didn't trust me.”

He said gently, “It wasn't a question of not trusting you, darling; each time I kept things from you, it was for a different reason. The first was because I thought you didn't love me, the second because I hoped you might. But God, Clare, if you'd known what a strain it was! When you asked me not to give you away for Matthew's sake, it was almost more than I could bear. I suddenly saw myself as you must – a ruthless, hardened criminal, capable of anything.” He gave a short laugh. “It wasn't a pleasant experience, I can tell you.”

“What happened at the castle?”

“Well, the original plan had been that I'd tip Andrew off before we set out. As you probably know by now, he and Cindy were our police contacts – which, though I couldn't tell you, explained his returning to the TV room that night: we used it as our post-box, leaving notes for each other inside the video recorder. No one ever used it.”

“You even suggested that Cindy could be ‘Cinderella',” I said indignantly.

He shrugged. “At that point you were still the enemy, and I was intent on muddying the waters. Anyway, last night I'd no chance to warn him, which was why I enlisted your help. Fortunately, though, he became alarmed by our absence and reinforcements set out after us.”

“Just as well, because I didn't get the chance to phone.”

“No; as soon as I'd passed you that note, I regretted it. I was praying you wouldn't go near the cottage because Morgan, spitting mad at losing you in the dark, was hanging round there, thinking that's where you'd make for.

“The police came down the road with their lights off, and the wind and sea were making so much row he didn't hear the car. Before he knew what was happening, he was securely handcuffed in the back of the police car. Then two of the men came round the headland and were waiting for Carol and me when we returned with the loot.

“After which, of course, we came posthaste in search of you. I couldn't think how you'd got so far unless you'd managed to get a lift. Then Carol remarked with great satisfaction that Bryn must have picked you up. That was the first we knew of his being up here.

“We tore along, and sure enough came on his empty car and, just round the corner, the Dacombes lying out cold by the side of the road. It turned out they'd been given the tip-off when Bryn's car was sighted, and were following it at a discreet distance. They even saw him stop to pick you up, but of course didn't know who you were until we rang them on the mobile asking them to look out for you.

“The rest you know. Incidentally, you probably saved my life up there on the cliff, for which I haven't yet thanked you.”

“You're welcome,” I said facetiously.

There was a brittle silence, which Philip broke by saying quietly, “Was I right, Clare, about you feeling differently now? Are you going to give me another chance?”

I said in a small, choked voice, “I'm surprised you still want me.”

He turned then, and the look in his eyes removed for all time any doubts I might have had. But I went on wretchedly, “I can't think why you loved me in the first place. I was silly and shallow and selfish, and when you needed me most, I turned and ran.”

“Sweetheart, don't be too hard on yourself. It was partly my fault, anyway; I handled things appallingly badly. Still, it's all behind us now, and it's the future that's important. Will we be spending it together?”

“Oh yes, please!” I said.

They were the last words spoken for a considerable time. We were both very conscious of how close we'd come to losing each other, and that knowledge made our coming together doubly precious.

Much later, Philip raised his head and said with a smile, “I should have known you couldn't be Goldilocks – you were the Sleeping Beauty. All I can say is, thank God you've woken up at last! It certainly felt like a hundred years!”

I lifted a hand to his face, my fingers gentle on the stretched, bruised skin of his jaw. “Even if it had been, it would have been within my rights; this
is
the storybook ending, isn't it?”

Philip reached into his pocket, drew out my engagement ring, and slipped it back on my finger.

“It's the storybook beginning,” he said.