Sins Out of School (13 page)

“You're exactly what I expected,” she said. It didn't sound like a compliment.

Two could play that game. “You're not. Come in. That is, I take it you're Gillian Blake?”

“Just Gillian. I use only the one name.” She stopped in my narrow hall and looked around. “Do you have an ashtray?”

“No. We don't smoke. And we'd actually rather that our visitors didn't, either.”

“Yeah. Right.” She stepped back outside the door, flipped the cigarette in a fiery little arc into the shrubbery, and came back looking hostile.

I led her into the parlor. I use that old-fashioned name for my living room because it seems appropriate. The house itself is roughly four hundred years old, and though I've made no attempt at “period” furniture, I've tried to use styles and fabrics that blend in. The effect is cozy and comfortable, especially with cats draped over the furniture here and there, but it'll never feature in
Architectural Digest
.

Gillian Blake—or simply “Gillian”—looked about as much at home in that setting as a Martian in Buckingham Palace.

Alan came into the room. He was wearing a shabby pair of old trousers, a stretched-out turtleneck sweater, and bedroom slippers. I introduced them and watched with interest. Alan's expression didn't change by so much as a flick of an eyelash from his usual reserved courtesy. Gillian, on the other hand, took in his conservative-old-fogey dress and rolled her eyes up as she accepted his proffered hand and sat down.

“Would you care for a drink, Gillian?” He'd gotten the name right the first time. I wasn't surprised, but she was.

“Whiskey, gin, vodka? Or of course white wine or sherry.”

She found her voice. “White wine. Please.”

Well, the “please” was a start. Alan raised his eyebrows at me. I nodded. When he brought Gillian her wine, he also brought some Jack Daniel's for both of us. I felt I was going to need it.

“Cheers,” said Gillian, and took a sip of the wine.

I cleared my throat, not sure how to begin this conversation. “I—um—I'm not sure what your situation is. Your daily schedule, and your—er—means—”

“All right, we'll cut to the chase. I write. For television. Soaps. It pays damn badly, but I manage. I live alone in a
very
small flat, and it would be pure hell to have a kid around making a row while I'm trying to get some work done. But there doesn't seem to be much choice, does there? Miriam needs to get away from this mess, and unless Mandy has made some good friends here, which I very much doubt, it's me or nobody.”

“Your parents?” I said doubtfully.

She reached in her purse and took out a cigarette, then gave both of us a baleful look and put it back. She took a healthy swig of wine. “How much do you know?” she asked. “About our family, I mean. You found me, for a start. I'll give you long odds Amanda never told you about me, and I'm not all that eager to be found, so you must know something.”

Alan responded to that one. “We know that your father is Anthony Blake, the prominent Conservative member of Parliament. We know that your sister became pregnant with Miriam before she was married. All the rest is supposition.”

“Well, if you suppose that my father went up like a rocket when he found out Mandy had been and gone and done it, you suppose right. It wasn't quite never-darken-my-door-again, but he made it perfectly clear that she was a terrible embarrassment to him, and he wouldn't be shattered if she vanished from his life. I was still living at home then, and I'll never forget the row. He was all for sending her off to America to have the kid well out of his way, and put it up for adoption, but then he found out he'd have to pay a small fortune in hospital bills, what with no National Health over there. My dear papa is as tight with money as he is in other departments. And then, you see, Mandy didn't want to give the baby up for adoption, and she was stubborn about it. She sometimes has more guts than you'd think, to look at her.

“So then Father found this Doyle person, God knows where. I think he'd worked in a campaign once, or something. Anyway, he seemed to my father to be a ‘Godly, righteous, and sober' person, and he had no family. No brothers or sisters, I mean, and his parents were dead. Well, of course, that pleased Father no end, because it meant that fewer people would know about the situation. So Doyle agreed—for a sum—to marry Mandy in some moldy old chapel. It was a thoroughly dim affair, notably minus champagne and ‘The Voice That Breathed O'er Eden.' She was showing by then, but she wore shapeless clothes to cover it up, and if anybody in the constituency ever knew, there was never any talk.”

“What did your mother have to say about all this?” I hated to interrupt, but I wanted to know. Maybe the mother could help in the current crisis.

Gillian finished her wine in a gulp. “Lydia Blake, perfect wife. That's the image Father projects. It's true, up to a point. She's gone along with everything my father wanted, and been a good politician's wife, and all that rot, but Mum's—well, she's a decent person at bottom. She tried to intervene when Mandy was in trouble, look after her, find her a place to live nearby. She wanted to get to know her grandchild, you see. This was the only one she was ever likely to have, after all, unless Mandy had more kids. She knew I never wanted marriage and a family; I have a career to think about.”

“And your brother?”

“Jack's gay.”

“Oh, dear. Your father—”

“Too bloody right. Thanks.” This was to Alan, who had refilled her glass. “Yes, the dustup when Father found out about Jack was even worse than when he found out about Mandy. As far as Father is concerned, you see, his family is a total washout. Not only are we of no use to him politically, we're actually liabilities. And since politics comprise Father's entire life …” She took another swig of her wine.

“That's one reason I dropped the Blake a few years ago. The entertainment industry is among the many things Father disapproves of. He was on the news just last Wednesday fulminating about the trash one is offered on TV these days. Ironic, isn't it? The Beeb didn't dare not run it, even though he was ripping them to shreds. Anyway, I saw no reason to give him excuses for the diatribes he likes to deliver when his children displease or embarrass him. Besides, it's a highly competitive business and, his views being what they are,
he
was just as likely to embarrass
me
if our relationship was known. How
did
you find me, by the way?”

“Computers are wonderful. And your telephone is still listed under the name of Blake.”

“Damn! What a slipup! I'll change that.” She finished the wine and shook her head to Alan's interrogative look. “No, thanks. I need a clear head to tackle Amanda. We don't get on all that well. I think she's a wimp and she thinks I'm a terror. I admit to a few rough edges; the business does that to you. But Amanda's always tried to act the sweetness-and-light bit, and she thinks I'm crude.”

“I don't know about that sweetness and light,” I said a trifle grimly. “She's been fairly abrasive with me. Now that I know you a little better, I can tell you're sisters. However,” I went on before she could react to that, “it's late by our standards. I imagine you keep odd hours, but in Sherebury we start rolling up the sidewalks about ten-thirty or eleven, and as it's nearly midnight, I'm sure Amanda's already in bed. I'm putting you in the guest room for the night.”

She frowned. “I was expecting to stay with Amanda, so I didn't take time to pack. I knew she'd lend me something for the night.”

“I've plenty of spare nightgowns, and if you don't have a toothbrush, I trust you can make do with floss and some mouthwash.”

“I have one. I do draw the line at sharing some things.”

“Good, then come on up. I'll show you which room it is, and then you can stay up as late as you like, but Alan and I are going to bed.”

“You know,” said Gillian, rising from her chair, “you're not quite what I expected, after all. A little more vinegar and a lot less sugar. Live and learn.”

I
HAD
expected Gillian to sleep very late Monday morning. Somehow she seemed like a night person, rather than morning, and I knew for a fact that her light had still been on at about two-thirty when I'd gone to the bathroom. But she appeared at the breakfast table a little after eight, attired in a nightgown of mine and a robe of Alan's, which she could have wrapped around herself twice. I wouldn't say she was exactly awake, but she sat silently and drank coffee while we had cereal and toast.

“Shall I go with you when you visit your sister?” I offered when she seemed to have ingested enough caffeine to be coherent. “It's not easy to find, and then, too, she's been in a sort of state of siege these last few days. I'm not sure what kind of welcome you'll get.”

She yawned. “How hard can it be to find a street in a town this size? And I think Mandy'll talk more easily with only me there. She'll be all right, now that the bastard's dead. He was the one who caused the real trouble between us.”

“I did wonder,” I said frankly. “You seem to care for your sister, yet you've been estranged for years.”

“That wasn't the way I wanted it. I went to London just after she got married. I knew I couldn't stick it at home without her. We didn't always get on well—I told you that—but we were close, all the same. Do you have sisters?”

“Just one left, now, and yes, I know what you mean. I used to fight with the other sister all the time, but we loved each other dearly, anyway. Go on.”

“Well, it was just that without Mandy, there was nothing at home for me. And I had this job offer, a pretty dire job actually, and only part-time, but it was with the Beeb—sorry, the BBC—and I thought it could lead to great things.”

“The BBC? In Canterbury?”

“Who said anything about Canterbury? In London, of course.”

“Sorry. Amanda's good friend—she does have one—thought you lived in Canterbury.”

Gillian shrugged. “If she let slip to somebody that I existed, she would have made up a location for me, because—well, I'll explain all that.

“So, anyway, I went to London, but for the first few weeks, I tried to stay in touch with Amanda. I wanted to be with her when the baby came, for one thing. I knew damn well Mum wouldn't be allowed to go, and there aren't any aunts or cousins or anyone.

“Well, so I rang her up every few days. At first it was all right. She sounded more or less normal. Oh, she was tired, and a bit fed up, but of course the whole situation was a mess. She had a husband she didn't care tuppence for, and her father had thrown her out, and she'd had to move house when she was seven months pregnant—all that. But she always seemed happy to talk to me, and of course she was excited about the baby. We never talked very long, but we made plans for me going down when the time came.

“And then one day I phoned a bit later than usual, and the bastard answered. I asked for Amanda, and he said I couldn't talk to her. Of course I thought he meant she was having a bath, or something, so I asked when I should call back. And he said never.”

“He said
what?
”

“He told me, quite coldly, that I was a ‘bad influence on her,' that he was ‘trying to reform her, save her from her life of sin,' and that ‘she had no need for her wordly family.' Those were his exact words. He told me he would not allow her to see or talk to me anymore.”

“How would he know, if you were careful to call only in the daytime?”

“You think that didn't occur to me? I phoned the next day. She hung up on me, and when I rang again, she didn't answer. Two days later I got a note in the mail saying he'd put a tape recorder of some kind on the phone, and I mustn't phone again, or even write, ever.

“That was the last I heard from her until she dropped in out of the blue that day in London. We didn't talk much then, as a matter of fact. When it's been years, there's too much to say, and not enough, all at the same time. And she was nervous as a cat the whole time. I really think she thought the bastard was going to find her there, somehow, and punish her.”

“Do you think,” I asked unwillingly, “that he ever actually beat her? Her good friend says not, but—”

“I asked her, that day when she came to visit. Miriam was out of the room for a minute, and I asked, straight out. I hadn't seen any bruises, but that wasn't why I believed her when she said not. There was something about the way she said it that was absolutely convincing. Almost as if she wished it were that simple.”

I shivered.

“Right. Chilling, isn't it?”

“Utterly. I hope you'll find her happier now.” It didn't take the heavy irony of Gillian's look to make me realize what a stupid idea that was. Happy, right. With a possible murder charge hovering in the background and nameless fears about her daughter, fears I thought I understood.