Dragon's Lair (5 page)

me. I do work for Hanson Greer, you know. Please try to

understand, Mother. The easiest way for me to get a divorce is to

persuade Gethyn to agree to it. If he won't answer letters then it will

have to be in person. I just want us to end our marriage in a

civilised manner ...'

'Civilised!' her mother cut in, with a bitter laugh. 'With that

barbarian? He has no decent feelings—leaving you ill and alone

while he gallivanted across the United States.'

'I wasn't ill when he went,' Davina pointed out. 'In fact it was you.

You had that bad dose of 'flu, and I stayed to look after you.'

'Oh, I see.' Her mother's lips were trembling again. 'So it's all my

fault. But for my inconvenient virus, you'd have gone trailing after

him like some pet dog.'

Davina bit her lip. 'I don't know what I would have done,' she said.

'And there's little point in discussing it now. I—didn't go.'

Looking back, she realised it was not merely the nursing of her

mother, who had been a fractious patient, that had made her so

tired, but the early pregnancy she had only dimly begun to suspect.

Mrs Greer had refused to have a private nurse, and had insisted on

Davina doing everything for her during her illness and

convalescence, and it had been while Davina was helping her

mother downstairs one day that she herself had slipped and fallen

and precipitated the loss of her baby.

Afterwards she had wondered sometimes if she had confided her

suspicion that she might be pregnant to Gethyn whether it would

have made any difference, but on the whole she doubted it. Gethyn

had already chosen his own path, and his hasty marriage had only

been a temporary aberration from this. His-solitary departure for the

States had been an acknowledgment of their mistake, and a

repudiation of his part in it.

Perhaps, Davina thought painfully, it was just as well he had not

responded to her urgent call for him when she was in hospital. They

might have been together even now, tied only by her dependence

and his pity. It was a speculation that she found frankly unbearable.

Ahead of her, down the hill, a thread of smoke was rising from a

clump of trees. Houses, she thought with a quick thump of the

heart. People. And among them would be Gethyn. So far she had

refused to contemplate what she would say to him when they were

actually face to face. The situation was a potential minefield, and

she would have to rely on her instincts to guide her, although they

had not proved to be very reliable in the past.

She drove slowly, telling herself it was because the road sloped

steeply with sharp bends, refusing to acknowledge the emotional

reluctance that kept her foot on the brake. But it was not such a

terrifying prospect that faced her after all as she turned into the

narrow village street. A handful of slate-roofed cottages facing each

other. A post office, combined with general store., A petrol filling

station and an inn. No estranged husband stood forbiddingly in the

middle of the highway ordering her away. In spite of herself, her

lips twisted wryly at the prospect. And the only dragon was a

painted one—black with a fiery red eye—on the inn sign.

Davina drove carefully down the street. Some of the cottages had

names, others numbers, but not one of them was called Plas Gwyn.

And they didn't seem right either, with their lace-curtained windows

and neatly kept front gardens bright with summer flowers. What

part had Gethyn with all this quiet domesticity?

She licked her dry lips. Her obvious course was to enquire at the

post office, but it seemed to be closed for lunch. That left the inn,

which was a much more inviting proposition. She had been driving

for a long time with no refreshment except a cup of coffee

purchased in Shrewsbury. And a board outside the inn had

mentioned bar snacks. There was a tiny gravelled car park at the

side, and she drove in there. She leaned round to the back seat to

recover her handbag, and took a deep steadying breath as she got

out of the car. She pushed open the front door and found herself in

a small lobby, with dark wooden doors opening on each side of her.

On the right she could hear the soft drift of voices, predominantly

male, with an occasional burst of laughter, and guessed this was the

public bar. She opened the left-hand door and found herself in a

small room, comfortably furnished with oak tables and high-backed

settles. An old-fashioned wood fire had been laid in the grate but

not lit. An elderly-looking golden labrador had been lying on the

rug in front of the hearth, and as Davina came slowly into the room

he got up ponderously and ambled across to put a damp but

welcoming nose into her hand. Then he put his head back and gave

a deep-throated bark.

'Quiet, you old fool,' a woman's voice called from the regions

behind the bar. 'What's the matter with you?'

The curtain that hid the doorway through to the other bar was

pushed aside and she came in, small and dark with glasses pushed

up on her forehead. She put her hand to her mouth in mock dismay

when she caught sight of Davina.

'There now,' she said. 'Me calling him names, and he was only

trying to tell me you were here. What can I get you?'

'I'd like a lager.' Davina hoisted herself gracefully on to one of the

tall padded stools along the bar counter and returned the woman's

smile. 'And a sandwich, if that's possible.'

'More than possible,' the woman said briskly. 'There's ham, cheese

or turkey. Or I've a menu somewhere ...' She began to fill a glass

with lager, peering round for the menu card as she did so.

'Turkey would be fine,' Davina assured her.

'Come far, have you?' The woman set the glass down on a mat and

pushed it towards Davina. Her twinkling eyes frankly assessed the

classic lines of the cool shirtwaister dress, and the cost of the gold

chain Davina wore round her throat.

'Quite a way,' Davina agreed noncommittally. The lager was

ice-cold, frosting the outside of the glass, and she sipped it

gratefully.

'It's chilly in here.' The landlady hunched her shoulders in a slight

shiver. 'Shall I put a match to the old fire for you?'

'Oh, no, please.' Davina put out a detaining hand. 'It's a gorgeous

day. Perhaps I could take a chair outside.'

'No need for that. There's a patch of grass at the back and a few

tables. You can sit and look at the river and I'll bring your

sandwiches out to you.'

'Do you get many tourists?' Davina asked, gathering up her handbag

and preparing to follow.

'Oh yes. Surprising it is. Families, mostly, which is why I have the

tables outside—for the children, see. Funny old licensing laws we

have. And there'll be more visitors, I daresay, if the old mill up the

valley gets working again as they reckon.'

'Mill?' Davina raised her brows questioningly.

The woman nodded vigorously. 'An old woollen mill. Very

dilapidated, but they say it will work again. Fine thing, too, for

Moel y Ddraig when it does. A bit of local industry to keep the

youngsters from drifting away.'

She led the way along a narrow passage and flung open the door at

the end.

'Through the yard, see, and round the corner,' she directed. 'I'll bring

your lunch in a minute.'

It was a wide lawn, sloping gently down towards the river at the

bottom. Davina strolled down to the bank and stood on its edge,

gazing down into the clear fast-flowing water. It was quite shallow

at this point, but further out there were deeper pools and in one of

these two small boys stood fishing happily. They gave Davina a

friendly wave, and she waved back, suddenly enjoying the fresh

sparkle of the water and the kiss of the sun on her face.

The sandwiches which arrived with amazing promptness were

delicious—thick slices of turkey breast with a slight sprinkling of

salt laid between chunks of undoubtedly home-made bread. The

butter too had a taste which had nothing to do with supermarkets.

Even the crusts were good. When she had finished, Davina sat back

with a sigh of repletion. She smilingly refused an offer of apple pie

and cream, but accepted a cup of coffee.

'You don't do bed and breakfast, I suppose?' She was only

half-joking. It had occurred to her that she would need to stay

overnight somewhere, and that the inn would make as good a base

as any.

'I'm sorry, I don't.' The landlady set a cup of coffee down on the

small iron table and added a bowl of brown sugar. 'But Mrs Parry

might be able to help you, that is if she's not full up with her

pony-trekkers. Are you going to be staying long?'

'I'm not sure.' Davina realised with irritation that she was being

deliberately evasive. Yet what was the point? Sooner or later she

would have to ask someone if they knew Gethyn, and this woman

was friendly and approachable. She hesitated. 'As a matter of fact,

I'm here on business. I—I'm looking for someone—a Gethyn Lloyd.

He's a writer.'

'Mr Lloyd—a writer? Well, there's a thing, now.' The other woman

sounded amazed. 'You won't have to look much further, though.

He's up at Plas Gwyn. In fact, it belongs to him.'

'Yes, that's the place,' Davina said, relieved that her search was

turning out to be relatively simple. 'Can you tell me where it is?'

'Why, of course I can. That's where I was going to send you for the

bed and breakfast. It's Mr Lloyd's aunt, Mrs Parry, who does all

that side of it, and young Rhiannon who takes out the riders.'

Davina smothered a gasp of disbelief. Gethyn might have his

reasons for burying himself in the solitude of a remote valley, but

she found it hard to take that one of them could involve the running

of a pony-trekking centre. And she was frankly dismayed to learn

that the only accommodation she could obtain locally seemed to be

under his roof. That had not entered her plans at all. She had taken

it for granted that any interview she might have with him could at

least be conducted on some form of neutral territory.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask the landlady if she could not

make an exception and put her up for the night, but she stifled the

impulse. Friendly she might be, but this was only a small place and

gossip would be rife. Davina guessed her arrival and revelation

about Gethyn's identity would be sufficient of a nine-day wonder

without giving more grounds for speculation. And if she was only a

business acquaintance as she had said, she had no real reason for

rejecting Mrs Parry's accommodation. All she could do was hope

that Plas Gwyn would be full of pony-trekkers and that there would

be no room for her. If that was so, she would have to start for home

again that evening and trust to luck that she could find somewhere

to stay on the road. It did not give her a lot of time to see Gethyn

and talk to him, and she drank the remains of her coffee with a

sense of resolution. She had little time to waste. She paid her bill,

and listened to the landlady's explicit directions on how to reach

Plas Gwyn. She was thankful she had asked. Without them, she

might have wandered round for hours, as it appeared the house

itself lay at the end of an unmarked track which was unsuitable for

cars. Pony-trekkers, she thought with a wry inward smile, must be

an intrepid bunch!

She was so busy watching the road and looking out for the

landmarks that would guide her that she quite forgot the

implications of her visit. It was not until she climbed out of the car

to open the big white gate which closed off the track that the old

misgivings assailed her. She paused. It was still not too late to get

in the car and drive away like the wind. Then with determination,

she dragged the heavy gate into place behind the car and fastened it

with the loop of wire provided for the purpose. She had the oddest

feeling she had burnt her boats, as she set the car going again,

bumping forward over the rapidly deteriorating track. She found the

parking place the landlady had mentioned quite easily about

half-way down. Three cars were drawn up there and a

battered-looking Landrover. Davina parked her own vehicle and