Pretty Maids All In A Row (7 page)

'Oh love, I'm sorry. It's my parents' last night—they're flying back tomorrow. Charlotte's here, and we're going out for a meal. She sends her regards, by the way.'

Webb had a brief mental picture of Hannah's aunt in a sunlit square, seconds before its calm was shattered. 'Thanks—mine to her. How about tomorrow, then?'

'Well, I've arranged to see Gwen. With my getting back so late, we haven't had time to go over timetables, and school starts on Monday. Still, it needn't take the whole evening. Would nine o'clock be any good?'

'Fine.' He paused. 'I've missed you.'

'That's nice.' There was surprise in her voice. In their no-strings relationship, they seldom made such admissions. 'You're sure nothing's wrong?'

'Not now.' With Susan sitting opposite him, it had suddenly, appallingly, been as though Hannah were erased from his life, her very existence in doubt; an impression underlined by six weeks' absence.

She said softly, a laugh in her voice, 'As it happens, I missed you, too.'

His spirits rose suddenly. What was he getting so steamed up about? His life with Susan was past. Hannah, thank God, was his present. 'Bless you. Nine o'clock tomorrow, then.'

As he put the phone down, Crombie's inquiring head came round the door. 'OK to come back in?'

Webb laughed, and his remaining unease dissolved. 'Yep, the coast's clear. Now, about that darts team—'

It was cloudy that afternoon, and Jessica did not go into the garden. She still felt exposed there, despite common sense and Matthew's reassurances. Particularly after the rape. Suppose it had been the same man who was watching her, staking out his next victim? She shrugged the thought impatiently aside—but she remained indoors.

Closing her ears to Matthew's erratic typing bch'ind the study door, she settled herself on the sofa and opened her book. And the telephone rang. Fortunately it was within reach.

'Freda—hi! I'm at Heathrow—we'vejust landed. Smooth flight, thank God, so I didn't need my tranquillizers!'

Jessica wished her landlady had been less secretive about her movements. 'This is Jessica Selby speaking. I'm sorry, but Mrs Cowley isn't here. She's away on holiday.'

'Not there? She must be! I'm coming to visit with her on the weekend.'

Jessica frowned. But at least this caller hadn't rung off in her ear. 'There must be some mistake. My husband and I have the cottage for a month.'

'But this is Wilma Bernstein, from New York! Freda spent her vacation with me last year, and the return visit was planned then. She called me only two weeks ago with the final arrangements. I'm to spend two nights in London, and come out to Broadshire Saturday for two weeks.' A pause, then, more suspiciously,
'Who
is this?'

'Jessica Selby. I really am sorry, Miss Bernstein, but I can't help at all. Perhaps she left a forwarding address with the agents.'

Anger replaced suspicion. 'You're saying I flew three thousand goddam miles for nothing? What is this? Here I welcomed Freda into my home—'

'Their name is James Bayliss, in Marlton. Would you like me to look up their number?'

'I guess so. This is the craziest thing I heard.'

As Jessica scrabbled through the directory, the pips began their rapid bleeping and the line went dead. She scribbled down the number in case Miss Bernstein rang back when she'd found the right coin, but after a few minutes, deciding she wasn't going to bother, Jessica returned to her book. It wasn't her affair, anyway.

'Darling, I've some news for you!'

Guy put his briefcase on the table. 'Not another rape, I hope.'

'No, good news this time. Interesting, anyway. Remember that man I saw in the post office? Well, he's Matthew Selby, the writer. Carrie Speight told me this morning. Even better, you know who he's married to, don't you?'

'Surprise me.'

'Jessica Randal! Carrie didn't know that bit—who she is, I mean, but I remember seeing the wedding on TV about a month ago.'

Their fifteen-year-old daughter was standing in the doorway. 'Jessica Randal, did you say? Here?'

Kathy smiled at her. 'I thought that would interest you.'

'But how fabulous! Will you ask her round?'

'Oh, come on!' Guy protested. 'They're still more or less on their honeymoon. The last thing they'll want is to be bothered with star-struck fans.'

'But she's broken her leg, Carrie says, and he's researching the Sandons. I reckon that makes it open season.'

'Then you
will
ask her, Mummy?'

'I don't see why not. It can't be much fun, stuck at home with a broken leg while your new husband hobnobs with the gentry! She'd probably be glad of the invitation.'

Guy's expostulations were lost as his daughter, with a whoop of joy, seized her mother round the waist and waltzed her round the kitchen till they collapsed, laughing, against the table.

'Jessica Randal!' Angie exclaimed again. 'I can't believe it! She used to be married to Howard Kane, didn't she? What's her new husband like?'

'The intellectual type, but attractive. Not as beautiful as Number One, but I bet his IQ would knock Kane's into a cocked hat.'

Guy said pointedly, 'I'm going to cut the grass.' He was ignored. 'What will you ask them to?' Angie demanded.

'I thought drinks on Saturday.'

'It's pretty short notice. You'll have to invite them straight away.'

'All right, I'll phone now. It'll be Freda's number.' Angie waited in a fever of excitement while her mother dialled.

'Mrs Selby? You don't know me, but I'm Kathy Mark-ham, from the top road. I heard of your arrival from Carrie Speight.'

'Good evening, Mrs Markham.' Jessica's husky voice came over the line.

'We're having a few friends for drinks on Saturday, and wondered if you could come. We should love to see you, and it'd be a chance to meet your neighbours.'

'How kind of you. We'd be delighted.'

Kathy smiled at her daughter's radiant face. 'That's marvellous. Six-thirty, then. Ours is the house with the copper beech at the gate, just past The Willows. We look forward to meeting you.'

Matthew had come in while Jessica was speaking. 'What are you letting us in for?' he asked, as she put down the phone.

'Drinks on Saturday, at the Markhams'. It should be fun. She'd heard of us through Carrie.'

Matthew smiled. 'The Westridge bush telegraph in person. Right, darling, if you're ready it's time we were leaving for the Hall. I didn't expect to need an engagement diary up here, but it seems I was wrong!'

Jessica felt immediately at home. The familiarity of the Hall surprised her, till she realized it resembled a set she'd once acted on. And the Sandons could have been characters from a play, the silver-haired dowager, the elegant Countess— and particularly the younger brother, Leo. He was tall and thin, and wore his black hair long, though it had receded to form an abnormally high forehead. Resplendent in plum-coloured jacket, frilled shirt and floppy cravat, he sported a small beard—proof, as Matthew said later, of his poetic leanings.

By contrast, Lord Sandon was disappointingly conventional. Tall, broad and clear-skinned, he looked more farmer than earl. But the charm Matthew had spoken of was in his smile and the warmth of his welcome.

Dinner was served in a magnificent room that could have seated fifty, and they were waited on by a manservant.

'This is in your honour,' Dominic told Jessica with a twinkle. 'When we're alone, we use the morning-room.'

'I'm duly impressed!'

'But it is such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Selby,' the Countess said in her attractively accented voice. While her English was correct, it was peppered with French phrases without any hint of affectation. It was simply that she thought in both languages, and selected the most apposite phrase from either. 'We never miss one of your plays. I hope your accident will not keep you off the stage?'

'I don't think so. We're due to start rehearsals at the end of October, by which time I should be completely back to normal.'

'And what is the play?'

'Quite
a
change for
me. Agatha
Christie's
Ten Little Niggers.'
'I do not believe I know that one.'

'It's taken from a nursery rhyme, Giselle,' Leo put in, in his surprisingly deep voice. '"Ten little nigger boys went out to dine. One choked himself to death, and then there were nine."'

'Not a happy quotation while we're dining ourselves!' his mother chided him, and they all laughed.

'My great-grandmother was an actress,' Dominic remarked. 'The old man was one of the stage-door Johnnies who abounded at that time. She was sweetly pretty, from all the portraits, but of course without a thought in her head!'

'Cher
i
—' Lady Sandon interrupted, with an embarrassed glance at her guest, who, however, dissolved into laughter.

'I do beg your pardon! In fact the word actress was a euphemism, she was actually one of the chorus line. But whatever her intellect, my great-grandfather ad
ored her to the end of his life
. I'll show you her portrait later. More grist to your mill, Matthew.' He turned back to Jessica. 'Are you comfortably settled in the village? I'd hoped you'd be our guests here, but Matthew didn't care to live over the shop!'

'I entirely agree with him!' Leo declared. 'One needs to escape one's work environment, however pleasant—step back, as it were, and see things in perspective. If one breathes the same atmosphere working and resting, one becomes positively clogged with it.'

As they left the table, Jessica found Leo at her elbow. 'Might I ask you a favour, Jessica? I may call you Jessica, mayn't I, since I've always adored you from afar?'

'Of course,' she murmured, hoping she was assenting to the first name rather than the still-unstated request.

'Might I ask you to read aloud a few of my offerings? To hear you recite them would give me enormous pleasure.'

'Certainly, I'd be most interested to see your work.'

'Splendid! Then if I may, I'll call round in a day or two, and we shall indulge ourselves.'

Over his shoulder, Jessica caught Matthew's quizzically raised eyebrow.

'Is he real?' she demanded, as they were driving home through the woods. 'Does he always proclaim like that?'

'Always. I wondered what was coming when he asked you for a favour. I was on the point of flicking him with my glove and demanding satisfaction.'

'Idiot!' She smiled at him fondly. 'It was an interesting evening, wasn't it? My first brush with the landed gentry; I found it most stimulating.'

Carrie, on her way home from baby-sitting, waited for their car to pass before crossing the road. She didn't know who was inside it, and they hadn't noticed her. As she turned into Donkey Lane, she saw there was a light in the front room. That meant Bob Davis was still there, which was a pity. He stood up as she let herself into the cottage.

"Evening, Carrie. I didn't realize it was so late. We've a cow about to calve and I promised Dad I'd look at her before turning in.' He paused. 'You didn't come home alone, did you? You must be careful, while this maniac's about.'

Matron had said the same thing. 'I hadn't far to come,' she replied.

'Even so . . . Well, I'd best be going.' Bob turned to the door, and as Delia made no move to show him out, Carrie opened it for him. 'Thanks for the beer, Delia. Good night then.'

Carrie closed the door behind him and turned the key. 'He's in love with you,' she said flatly. 'More fool him.'

'But he's such a nice chap.'

'Look, it's not my fault. I've told him it's no go. If he wants to spend his evenings making eyes at me, that's up to him.'

'But he's been hurt enough, with his wife dying and all.'

'Well, what do you expect me to do about it? He hasn't had any encouragement.'

'You could stop him coming. That would be kindest. It upsets me to see him here, looking all—humble and devoted.'

'Your trouble is you're too sensitive. Now stop going on at me, for Pete's sake. I'm not in the mood for it.'

Carrie sighed. 'You remembered to shut up the hens, didn't you? I don't want a fox getting them.'

'Yes, I shut up your precious hens. I don't know about you, but I'm ready for bed. Do you want to go to the bathroom first?'