Charade In Winter

The drive was winding among the trees, and realising she was wasting valuable time, she asked quickly: ‘Do you and your wife live at the Lodge, Mr…er…’

‘Giles, ma’am. And I’m not married. Never have been. I manage quite well for myself, and I have the dogs. They’re company enough for me.’

‘I’m sure they are,’ murmured Alix dryly, aware of another pang of discomfort. Were there any other women at Darkwater Hall? And if not, to use a cliché, might she not have bitten off more than she could chew? What did she know of the family that was reassuring? They always made news, but that was more for their notoriety than their popularity, and Joanne Morgan’s death in unusual, not to say mysterious, circumstances could not be dismissed. Until now, she had barely stopped to ask herself why Oliver Morgan should require the Darkwater library to be catalogued when he had taken such pains to put himself beyond the reach of would-be sympathisers and press alike. Surely a man in his position would avoid unnecessary visitors in his home—and cataloguing a library, however extensive, could not be an urgent task. But when Willie had first shown her the advertisement, the opportunity it presented had been the most important consideration, and she had not even considered that Lady Morgan could be interviewing some entirely unsuspecting girl on her son-in-law’s behalf.

Then she chided herself impatiently. There had been men at the interviews, as well as girls. Oliver Morgan could not have foreseen that the qualifications required might not have been found in a man. He could not have guessed that all but two of the applicants would be deterred by the remote location of Darkwater Hall, or that Alix’s magazine would dispose of her final competition by offering the other girl a more lucrative position elsewhere. Besides, this was no time to be getting cold feet. Nothing she had read about Oliver Morgan had led her to believe he was a patient man—as witness his physical ejection of one of her colleagues from an exhibition he had been holding in Kensington, when it had been suggested that without his wife’s patronage he might well have found his work harder to sell—and whether or not the exercise was worthwhile she was committed to attempting the job she had been brought here to do. If, in the process, she could discover a little more of the truth behind Joanne Morgan’s death and why her husband should now choose to shut himself away in the wilds of Northumbria, so much the better. This was one story no one else should deprive her of, ungrammatical though that might be.

Her only real regret was that she had had to use her mother’s name, without her knowledge, to get the references she needed, but when she read the feature her daughter intended to produce, surely she would understand. And if there was no story… Alix lifted her slim shoulders in a gesture of dismissal. It shouldn’t be too difficult to get herself fired, should it? Although even she had had no idea of the circumstances of her employment, and she doubted anyone could get away—she hesitated over the word escape—from Darkwater Hall without its master’s permission.

As Giles seemed disinclined to indulge in casual conversation, the remainder of the journey was accomplished in silence, a silence unbroken by the calls of birds or the sounds of darting insects. The ominous deepening of the mist increased their isolation and aroused in Alix a tension she had never before experienced. With it came thoughts hitherto suppressed—what if Oliver Morgan had had her investigated? What if he had already discovered she was not who she claimed to be? Would he have allowed her to come here in those circumstances? Surely not. Surely if he had even suspected she was a member of the profession he clearly abominated, he would have refused her admission at the gates. Unless he had his own methods for dealing with recalcitrant journalists…

But what? She sighed. This was ridiculous! She had always had a vivid imagination and now she was allowing it free rein. And in what direction? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen pictures of Oliver Morgan, she had. She knew what he looked like. Tall and dark, with those hard, intelligent features that older women seemed to go for. Of course, he was quite old—forty-one or two, but in no way did he resemble the devil, with horns and a tail. And besides, what could he do to her? Her editor knew where she was. The bus driver, and he had certainly paid her enough attention, would surely remember dropping her at the gates of the Hall. And now there was Giles…

Alix cast a sideways look at him. Of course, he could be discounted. No doubt he was loyal to his master, and might be prepared to overlook her disappearance. And after all, Joanne Morgan had died in curious circumstances…

‘Here we are, ma’am.’

Alix started violently. ‘What? Oh—yes.’ She licked her lips. ‘That—didn’t take long.’

‘No, ma’am?’ Giles looked surprised. ‘I got the impression you were getting bored.’

‘Bored?’ Alix almost laughed out loud. ‘Oh, no, I wasn’t bored.’

Giles contented himself with a wry grimace, and thrusting open his door, descended from the vehicle. For a moment Alix remained where she was, peering through the mud-spattered windows at the house. Wreathed in mist, like the lodge, there wasn’t a lot to see, but its stone walls were creeper-clad and solid, the bays on either side of the iron-studded door tall and narrow-paned. Curtains had already been drawn against the darkening day, but the light beyond was heartening.

Giles appeared at her side of the Landrover, and swung open the door. ‘Will you come with me?’ he requested, and gathering herself with more haste than enthusiasm, Alix obeyed.

She shivered as they mounted the steps to the door, but before Giles could reach the iron bell-rope, the door was opened, and a stream of light dispersed the gloom. An elderly man stood within its illumination, grey-haired and slightly stooped, yet with a not unkindly face.

‘Come in, come in, Mrs Thornton,’ he urged, when Alix hesitated, waiting for Giles to introduce them then added as she stepped over the threshold: ‘I heard the engine coming along the drive, and I guessed you’d be feeling the cold here after London.’

‘Thank you.’

Alix stood aside as Giles deposited her cases on the polished floor of the entrance hall, briefly savouring the warmth within, and then felt another wave of anxiety engulf her as, after a tacit farewell, the heavy door was closed, trapping her inside the house. Trapping! She quelled the sudden rush of panic. She must stop feeling as if every step she took brought her nearer to Nemesis.

She looked swiftly round the hall, professionally noting the comforting wealth of her surroundings. Panelled walls, gleaming with the patina of age, a fan-shaped staircase, carpeted in green and gold, that forked into two at the first landing and circled the floor above with a carved gallery, a crystal chandelier that cast its light in a thousand trembling prisms. Even the chest that supported a bowl of red and bronze chrysanthemums was inlaid with lacquered panels, and mocked the striking contemporism of the telephone, which seemed strangely out of place. Nevertheless, to Alix, it was a link with the outside world, and therefore more than welcome.

‘Did you have a good journey?’

The butler, if he could be termed as such, was speaking, and Alix looked at him with more assurance. ‘Yes, thank you. But it’s a terrible afternoon.’

The butler nodded. ‘The mist—yes, I know. We get a lot of it at this time of the year. It’s the dampness, you see, rising among the trees. There are so many trees…’

‘Not that many. Are you trying to frighten the lady, Seth?’

A film of perspiration broke out on Alix’s forehead. She had been so intent on behaving normally that she had been unaware of a door opening across the hall and of the man standing in the aperture, watching them with sardonic amusement. But his words echoed so closely her own imaginary fears that for a minute she was convinced he had called the butler Death. She turned so pale that the man shook his head and moved forward in reluctant apology, regarding her with evident impatience.

‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ he drawled, and even in her distraught state she noticed how attractive his voice was—deep and husky, almost as though he had a cold, but without the nasal overtones. He looked older than his pictures, as she had expected, and yet he still had the power to disturb her, and she had not expected that. ‘What’s the matter?’ he continued. ‘Has our weather convinced you we must have some nefarious purpose for living in such a God-forsaken spot?’

His perception was so acute that her unwilling admiration brought a little colour back into her cheeks, and his heavy lids shadowed eyes cooling to steel grey. ‘So,’ he commented dryly, ‘I was right. The lady has imagination, Seth. We must see we don’t stimulate it more than we can help.’

‘No, sir.’ The old man bent to lift Alix’s cases. ‘Shall I show Mrs Thornton to her room, sir?’

Oliver Morgan’s dark brows ascended. ‘Is that her name?’ He paused, and the cold appraisal he gave Alix would not have disgraced a dealer at a cattle auction. ‘We haven’t yet been introduced, have we?’

His behaviour brought Alix a measure of defensive composure, and holding up her head, she replied sharply: ‘Your staff don’t appear to consider introductions necessary, Mr Morgan. It is Mr Morgan, isn’t it? Not another of his employees!’

His lips twisted in wry acknowledgment of her audacity. ‘Yes, I’m Oliver Morgan, although I beg leave to doubt your uncertainty in the matter. However…’ he indicated the open door behind him, ‘I suggest we consider the proprieties satisfied, and continue our discussion in the library.’

Alix looked down at her sheepskin coat, and guessing her thoughts, Morgan added briefly: ‘Leave your jacket with Seth. He’ll see that your things are taken up to your room while I offer you a drink to dispel your fears, real or imagined.’

The buttons of her coat had never seemed more difficult to unfasten, but at last Seth helped her to shrug out of it and picking up her bag she followed Oliver Morgan into a room lined with books from floor to ceiling. It was a large room, with an iron-runged ladder leading to a narrow gallery which gave access to the books too high on their shelves to be reached by normal methods. The floor was carpeted, there were half a dozen easy chairs, a rather worn-looking table with drawers, and a tapestry-covered sofa faced the hearth, the papers strewn upon it indicating that this was where Oliver Morgan had been sitting. Flames leapt up the chimney from the pile of logs burning in the huge grate, giving the room a comfortable, lived-in air.

Oliver Morgan closed the door behind them, and Alix walked uncertainly towards the fireplace, not quite sure whether she ought to sit down as he did. Still, this was to be her area of activity, and she looked around at the shelves of books with feigned enthusiasm.

Her host had moved to a trolley beside the sofa, and was presently examining the contents of various bottles. Unobserved, Alix attempted to describe him for her own satisfaction, convinced that her initial reactions to him had been merely due to her overactive imagination. In a tweed jacket hardly any less shabby than that of his lodgekeeper, and dark brown cords, his streaked black hair hanging over his collar at the back, he was hardly a figure to quicken her pulse rate, and yet there was an unconscious sensuality about his movements that belied the ill-fitting carelessness of his clothes. She was a tall girl herself, but he was taller, and she guessed that the reason his clothes hung upon him was because he had lost weight. Then he lifted his head, and she felt the same sense of disruption she had experienced in the hall. His own reactions were completely different, however. His features betrayed a certain irritation when he looked at her, and his mouth, with its fuller lower lip, was uncompromisingly straight.

‘Whisky or sherry?’ he asked now, and guessing he expected her to choose sherry, she chose the opposite. ‘Straight?’ he queried, pouring a liberal amount of the spirit into a heavy-based glass, and Alix quickly asked for water.

Shrugging, he opened an ice-flask and dropped two cubes into her glass. ‘No water,’ he said as he handed it to her, and although she was tempted to say something more, she kept silent.

‘Sit down,’ he said, gesturing towards the easy chairs, and taking him at his word she subsided into the nearest one. He remained standing, which was rather disconcerting, and more disconcerting still was his first comment: ‘I have to tell you, Mrs Thornton, you’re not exactly what I expected.’

Alix was glad of the glass in her hand. Raised to her lips, it successfully provided a barrier between herself and an immediate reply. But eventually, of course, she had to answer him. ‘What—exactly—did you expect, Mr Morgan?’

He had poured himself whisky, too, and this he swallowed straight before speaking again. ‘You’re younger,’ he remarked at last. ‘How long have you been married? Doesn’t your husband object to you working so far away from London?’

‘My—my husband and I are separated,’ she responded, giving the reply she had rehearsed.

‘Really?’ His expression mirrored a certain contempt. ‘I wonder why.’

Alix stiffened. ‘I don’t think that need concern you, Mr Morgan. I’m here to do a job, and providing I do it satisfactorily—’

‘Yes, yes, I know.’ He cut her off abruptly. ‘That still doesn’t alter your age—’

‘I’m twenty-six, Mr Morgan.’

‘Are you?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You look younger.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He shrugged indifferently. ‘I suppose it’s of no matter. Presumably Grizelda thought you were suitable.’

‘Grizelda?’

‘My aunt—my mother-in-law, Lady Morgan. She did interview you, didn’t she?’

‘Yes.’