Dangerous Deception (6 page)

I stared at it for a long time, while my anger ebbed away and panic spread its sticky tentacles over me. The game wasn't a game any more. I wished vehemently that I'd not opened the envelope. But I had and whoever had pushed it under my door – Sinbad, presumably, whoever he might be – would know that I had.

My fingers were shaking so much I had difficulty in refolding the paper. I slipped it and the booklet back in the white envelope, and only then did I remember the buff one. Since the damage was done, I might as well open it, too.

It contained a single slip of paper, printed in the same hand as the note on my dressing-table.

How now, Goldilocks!
it began breezily.
Glad to report Aladdin will be with us by lunch-time tomorrow. Operation Beanstalk scheduled for Tuesday – reconnaissance necessary Saturday or Sunday among holiday crowds. Can't disclose identity except in emergency – you know the rules! – but will be on hand if needed. Good luck! Over and out
.

‘Sinbad'

Snippets of conversation flitted through my brain like crossed telephone wires:
The young lady won't be here till Sunday
. Evidently someone didn't know that.
When the gentleman joins you … The chap can't get here till tomorrow
.

So what could I make of it all? I wondered feverishly. It seemed a man and woman should have arrived here today, but had been independently delayed. Jack had phoned the Plas Dinas – where, perhaps, they'd arranged to meet and come on together? – to let her know ‘Aladdin' had been held up, but was told she'd already left for Carreg Coed. So he'd phoned Sinbad – on his mobile, presumably, since the hotel knew nothing of the call. And Sinbad, not knowing the girl's arrival had also been postponed, assumed, like Gareth before him, that I was she.

But what lay behind it all? What did the cross on the plan of the castle signify, what was ‘the loot', and what, in heaven's name, was ‘Operation Beanstalk'? In a macabre way, the use of these nursery names made the whole affair more menacing.

My first basic instinct was flight. If I left straight after breakfast, with luck no one but the Davieses would miss me till lunch-time, and by then I could have got clear. But Sinbad, having delivered his message, might well be keeping an eye on me.

I had a terrifying vision of the little car racing for its life up the tortuous mountain roads, with Aladdin and Sinbad, in grotesque pantomime masks, hot on my heels.

Anyway, where could I run to? My name and address were in the hotel register – there was nowhere I could hide indefinitely.

Useless, now, to plead innocence. From whatever motive, I had opened the envelopes and seen the plan. I couldn't in any event appeal to Sinbad, because I didn't know who he was. For that matter, I couldn't trust
anyone
at the hotel, for if ‘the full company' was gathered here, there was no saying how many were involved.

There remained the police, but what could I tell them? I didn't know anything, I had only a plan with a pencilled cross, and I could imagine official reaction to stories about Sinbad and Aladdin.

There was also still a very faint chance that the danger was imaginary; it
could
still be an elaborate scavenger-hunt, organised by a rambling club or some such, as Jack had told Gareth. In which case, I'd look very silly if I ran to the police about it.

The argument, rational though it might be, didn't convince me. Despite the closeness in the room, I was shivering with apprehension and it was imperative to steady myself so I could think clearly. A hot drink might help.

I flicked through the assorted packages of beverage on the stand, selected one containing chocolate powder and tipped it into a cup. Then I filled the kettle at the basin and, despite the proverb's warning, stood watching as it came to the boil, my mind going round and round this latest development. Was there anything of significance that I'd missed?

Yes! A sentence came back to me, offering a pinpoint of hope. Abandoning the kettle, I hurried back to the bed and opened Jack's letter again.
You know the initial impact you have.
Initial impact! Then Aladdin had never met Goldilocks!

Slowly a fantastic idea was forming. Could I – dare I bluff him into believing I really was her? Because otherwise, things might get very unpleasant. I had, after all, been handed what could be regarded as incriminating evidence, and even if I told him of the mix-up, he'd realise I knew too much.

If, on the other hand, I could go along with them until I learned what ‘Operation Beanstalk' and ‘the loot' were, I could present the police with the complete picture.

The sound of the kettle boiling merrily intruded on my brooding and I made my drink. Then, hands round the hot, soothing cup, I tried to marshal my thoughts.

On the plus side, Sinbad was already convinced of my identity; I could reel off a string of code names, and I had the plan. And Aladdin for his part would hardly be expecting a substitute.

The crux would come when the real Goldilocks arrived. When the expected approach wasn't made, she would contact Jack, who'd get on to Sinbad.

Well – I straightened my shoulders – if it came to that, I'd have to brazen it out – say I'd thought it was a joke. Blondes were supposed to be dumb, weren't they?

At best, I only had until Sunday; to have any chance of pulling off my deception, the proposed ‘reconnaissance' must therefore take place tomorrow. After that, I should know exactly what was involved, and could decide my course of action. And with luck I could still be away before she arrived.

I glanced down at the letters. I was under orders to destroy them, but they and the notes were all I had to support my story and there was no way I was going to dispose of them.

Fumbling in my handbag, I took out the identical notes which had started the whole affair and slid them, together with the letters, into the buff envelope. Then, since I should later be showing the map to Aladdin, I obediently rubbed out the pencil markings on it with the eraser on my diary pencil and slid it back into the white envelope.

Now to find a suitable hiding-place. Sipping my cocoa, I carefully studied the room. Then, setting down the cup, I dragged the dressing-stool over to the wardrobe, climbed on it, and, reaching up, explored the top with my fingers.

It was lined with sheets of newspaper, screened from below by the bevelled edge of the ornate frontage. Ideal, I thought, and climbed down to retrieve the envelopes, which I carefully inserted between the newspaper and the top of the wardrobe.

Feeling like a character in a spy novel, I replaced the stool and checked that no sign remained of my dead-of-night manoeuvres. Then, confident that I had done all I could for the moment, I climbed back into bed, switched off the light, and prepared to wait for the dawn.

‘Jack and Jill went up the hill …'

Nursery Rhyme

WHEN I opened heavy eyes the next morning it was as though I'd barely slept, though in fact I must have had four or five hours, since the hands of my clock pointed to seven-thirty. Breakfast, I'd been told, was from eight to nine.

Sighing, I reluctantly got out of bed and went to open the window. On the lawn beneath, the Mortimer children were again playing ball. There was the sound of a cow lowing, a sudden bleat from a sheep. In this normal, morning world, the night's adventures seemed absurd and unbelievable.

I turned from the window to make myself a cup of tea. Today, at lunch-time, Aladdin would be here, but in the morning sunshine I could feel no more than a tingle of anticipation. Surely my imagination had run away with me – there must be a simple explanation.

I washed in cold water in an effort to wake myself and, by the time the breakfast gong sounded, felt, despite my lack of sleep, ready for the day ahead.

As I emerged from my bedroom the honeymooners were approaching the stairs from the opposite direction, and we went down together. Morgan Rees was in the hall, a bulky envelope in his hand.

“Clare,” – he came to meet me – “I'm so sorry, but I shan't be able to make our walk after all. I've been waiting all week for these notes to arrive, and I really must work on them. In fact, I've had an early breakfast in order to get down to it straight away. Will you forgive me?”

“Don't worry, I'll explore by myself. I don't envy you, having to work on a morning like this.”

I followed the Dacombes into the dining-room. Dick Harvey's table was empty, a marmalade-smeared plate evidence of his impatience to return to his find. The Misses Jones, with a bowl of porridge apiece, nodded and smiled, and across the room the Americans were busy with their orange juice and soft-boiled eggs.

I sipped the hot coffee, my eyes following the school-teachers to their table. In spite of their reference to Aladdin, I couldn't imagine them as a joint Sinbad, creeping round at midnight pushing envelopes under doors. For that matter, none of the guests seemed in the least sinister.

It was a pity about Morgan's work; I'd have welcomed his company this morning. Nevertheless, I'd no intention of staying in the hotel, rushing to the window every time a car drew up. A little fresh air and exercise would do me good, and the breeze today alleviated yesterday's oppressive heat.

When I came out of the dining-room, the Mortimer children were in the hall, a boy and girl, aged about ten and seven. They were nice-looking children, tall for their ages, with thick dark hair like their father. To my surprise, the little girl approached me with a smile.

“Would you like to play ball?” she inquired hopefully.

“Well, I—”

“Just for a few minutes? We're going to the beach soon.”

“All right,” I said, “just for a few minutes.” It couldn't be much fun for them here, I reflected, with no other children to play with.

We walked round the side of the house to the lawn under my window where I'd seen them earlier. I was informed that their names were Stuart and Emma, that I'd guessed their ages correctly, and that they lived in Surrey.

At Stuart's suggestion we played a version of Pig-in-the-Middle, which, since the ‘pig' was invariably Emma, didn't seem too fair to me. After about ten minutes, Clive strolled round the corner.

“You've monopolised Clare quite long enough,” he told his offspring. “Off you go now, and get ready for the beach.”

“Thanks for playing with us!” Emma called over her shoulder as she ran after her brother.

“Lovely kids,” I said, watching them go.

“Of course – they take after their father!”

“Yes, I noticed that.”

I'd meant their physical likeness, but as soon as I'd spoken, realised that my comment could have – indeed, from his pleased expression, had – been taken as a personal compliment.

“What are you going to do with yourself today?” he asked as we walked slowly back towards the entrance.

“I thought I'd walk up the hill there and see what's on the other side.”

He grinned. “Because it's there?”

“Something like that.”

“All by yourself?”

“Yes, unfortunately, but I'll take a book with me.”

As we went inside, Pauline and the children were coming down the stairs, armed with rugs, buckets and spades. I nodded goodbye to them and went up to my room to prepare for my own outing.

Ten minutes later I set off, planning, as I'd told Clive, to follow the path beyond the hotel and aim for the little pine wood I'd seen from my window.

The path itself petered out almost at once into a pebbly sheep track, climbing quite steeply up the rough grassy slope. The bracken, knee-high and already tipped with gold, brushed my bare legs with a feathery caress. A rabbit scuttled from almost under my feet.

After climbing steadily for a while, I turned to look back the way I'd come. Even from this height, the view was breathtaking. Below me and slightly to my left, the Carreg Coed lay sprawling between its gravelled car park and its neat gardens. The Dacombes, I saw, were back on the tennis court; I could just recognise their tiny figures.

Beyond the hotel, hidden in places as it dipped to follow the lie of the land, the white road along which I had come yesterday ribboned its way through the valley. On its far side, a patchwork of fields, separated from each other by low stone walls, lay in a motley of gold and green, stretching away to a cluster of buildings on the horizon, which must be the nearest village.

My view to the right was obscured by a jutting of the hillside, but the road fell away in the direction of the Plas Dinas, fringed on this side by tall, spare pine trees, dark green in the mellow sunshine.

I drew a deep breath of mountain air, and resumed my climb. The next time I turned, the view was cut off by a bluff of rock – I was in a little dip on the fringe of the pine wood. When I came out above it, I should be able to see round the projection right down to the foot of the valley.

Behind me in the stillness, a twig cracked suddenly. I turned, my heart accelerating. There was no one in sight. Ahead of me, a bird flapped up out of the grass, squawking shrilly. Something had alarmed it – and I hadn't moved.

Deliberately I relaxed my clenched hands. I was on a Welsh hillside, for goodness' sake, not in some notorious no-go area. Nevertheless, danger stalked even remote woodlands these days – and perhaps, considering the night's events, these woodlands more than most. Belatedly, it occurred to me that it had hardly been wise to come out alone.

Another twig cracked, and my control snapped with it. I turned swiftly from the shadows of the wood and started back up the slope as my imagination pelted me with possibilities: they'd discovered I wasn't Goldilocks – Aladdin had arrived and somehow knew where I was …

The figure of a man loomed suddenly on the edge of my vision. I screamed and stumbled, and a hand snaked out and caught me as Clive Mortimer's voice exclaimed breathlessly,