The Judas Trap

It had to be Ravens Mill, she realised, the thought banishing her earlier depression from her mind. Diane had described the area in some detail, and it fitted exactly her description of bleakness and isolation. What Diane had not told her was its size, and its formidable appearance, and she gazed in trepidation at the stark stone walls that rose above her.

A stone gateway gave access to a weed-strewn drive that had to lead to the house, and pulling her mouth down at the corners, Sara stood on her brakes. This wasn’t the sort of place one could spend a couple of weeks in privacy, this was no country cottage where one might regain one’s peace of mind, she thought in dismay. It was a country seat, a family pile, the kind of place where half a dozen servants were needed just to keep down the dust. Diane had given her her key, and picturing a house of reasonable proportions, Sara had equipped herself with a sleeping bag for using until she had tidied the place out and aired bedding, etc, but that seemed ludicrous now. Diane had said a Mrs Penworthy came in now and then to open windows and so on, but sitting there, Sara began to doubt the truth of that statement. Did one open up such a place, just for airing? Could one? There would be so many rooms—reception rooms, sitting rooms, dining rooms, bedrooms …

Hunching her shoulders, she looked at the square masculine watch on her narrow wrist. It was already after five. It would be dark in a couple of hours, and although she did not look forward to driving back to the nearest town over those roads in this weather, the prospect of spending the night alone in this gloomy mansion did not appeal.

Glancing behind her, she surveyed the pile of baggage that overloaded the back seat of the Mini and spilled on to the floor. As well as her sleeping bag and pillows there were suitcases containing her clothes, fresh linen and food enough for a couple of days—and the briefcase containing the first draft of her novel. Compressing her lips, she sighed. The book—it was an adventure story for children—needed a lot of work, but in her professional opinion it had the makings of a publishable novel. She had planned to re-write it during these unexpected weeks of freedom. It had been her goal and, she hoped, her salvation, and maybe, with a published book behind her, she would have more confidence in herself and her future.

She shifted round again in her seat. If she left now, she would never re-write the book: she was sure of that. Back in London, work would overtake her, no matter how understanding her boss had been in allowing her to take her holiday so early, and there was always the possibility that she would give in to phoning Tony again and lose what little self-respect she had.

The storm suddenly dispersed as quickly as it had appeared, and a watery sun filtered through the clouds. April showers, thought Sara wryly, watching the amber rays strike gold on blank panes. The upper floors of the house were visible between the yews that marked the drive, and on impulse she decided to take a look. After all, it was foolish coming all this way without even venturing inside, and now that the sun had come out its aspect was so much less forbidding. On the contrary, Sara could see that with care and attention Ravens Mill could become a most attractive dwelling place, and she could well imagine Diane’s sense of triumph when she first became mistress of the house.

The drive had a slight curve that successfully cut off any prying eyes from the road, but the lodge that stood at its gates was unoccupied. Someone, perhaps the boys from the village, had broken several of the windows in the lodge, but so far the house seemed to have avoided accident.

The gravel of the drive itself sprouted weeds and crab grass, and the yews, left untended, had lost all shape and design. The lawns, that had once swept to the edge of the cliff itself, were no less neglected, and only a scythe would make any impression on such rampant vegetation.

Blinds were drawn at all the windows at the front of the house, and Sara thought, rather imaginatively, that it seemed to be presenting a guarded face to the world. It was a shame that no one could afford to live here any more, she reflected, wondering if there was anything more melancholy than an empty house.

She stopped the Mini, switched off the engine, and climbed out. Immediately the chill wind off the ocean caught her breath, and she quickly reached into the car for the jacket of her jersey pants suit which she had discarded during the journey. Pulling it on over the matching brown silk shirt, she was glad of its high collar and the warmth it engendered as she rummaged in her handbag for the key Diane had given her.

The heavy studded door swung inward surprisingly easily on its hinges as she inserted the key, with none of the creaking and groaning she had been expecting. Half smiling at her own ghoulish imagination, she saw with relief that the sun was filtering through the blinds that shuttered the windows on either side of the door, and she was able to close it against the elements without fear of being unable to see. Nevertheless, she opened one of the blinds as soon as the door was shut, and looked about her with less confidence than curiosity.

She was standing in the hall of the house, she saw, with an enormously high ceiling arching away above her head. Directly ahead of her, twin staircases curved to a central flight that rose to the first floor, and in the dust-moted shafts of sunlight she could see the square portrait of a man that faced the first floor landing. To right and left, closed doors indicated the sitting rooms and drawing rooms that Sara had envisaged, while in the well of the stairs, a square oak chest shone with the patina of years. Shone …

Sara’s eyes widened, then she blinked. She had not really noticed before, but now she came to think of it, the place was surprisingly clean considering that no one was living there. Looking down at the polished wooden floor at her feet, strewn with rugs in a variety of shades and colours, she realised it, too, was well polished, and the faint smell that rose to her nostrils was that of beeswax.

A sense of unease rose inside her. Either Mrs Penworthy was as worthy as her name suggested, or Diane was wrong about the house being uninhabited. What if Adam, like his wife, had offered the place to a friend? What if right now, the present inhabitants of the house were out for the afternoon, visiting other friends or shopping …

Her immediate impulse to flee was stifled. Surely if anyone was living in the house, they would have opened the blinds? Besides, wouldn’t Diane have known if her husband was back in England? She wouldn’t have sent her, Sara, down here if there was the remotest chance that Adam was back in the country, would she?

Her heart slowing its quickened beat a little, she tried to think coherently. After all, Diane had known she was coming down here, and what more natural but that she should ask this Mrs Penworthy, whoever she was, to come in and tidy round in readiness? Surely that was the only explanation, and justification in fact for her decision to come and investigate. If she had turned round and left without even entering the building, she would never have known the trouble that lady had gone to on her behalf, and she assured herself that she ought to be honoured to be treated in this way. A wave of warmth towards Diane engulfed her. It had been kind of her to go to all this trouble. Uncharacteristically so, remembering the callous way she had denounced Tony’s behaviour. How could she in all conscience turn it down?

‘So you came, Diane!’

The deep masculine voice that riveted her to the spot came from an opened doorway to the right of the hall. It was a leather-studded door, the kind of door that indicated its usage beyond, and until that moment had scarcely imprinted itself on Sara’s mind. A library, or a study, she had registered in passing, and moved on to other things.

But now the door stood wide, and a man was standing in the aperture, the dim light behind him hardly illuminating his still form. A tall man, with a lean body, and straight dark hair that fell smoothly across his forehead. His features were vaguely distinguishable—high cheekbones, a prominent nose, a thin-lipped mouth—but it was not these characteristics she recognised. She had seen pictures of Adam Tregower, and she had no doubt that this was he, but it was his motionlessness that identified him for her—that, and the dark glasses he wore, and the drawn blinds behind him. What would a blind man want with sunlight?

His words were less easy to interpret. So you came, Diane! What did it mean? What did he mean? Had he sent for his wife? Had he contacted Diane and asked to see her? Asked her to come down here, in fact?

Sara’s heart pounded unevenly. Her immediate impulse to deny the identity he had placed upon her was silenced by a feeling of intrusion, an invasion into this man’s privacy that she had had no right to make. It was not herself who should be standing here, but Diane, and to deny the truth of that statement was to tear aside Adam Tregower’s self-respect. How could she tell him that Diane had sent her here? How could she admit to being an unwilling tool in some game Diane was playing, for as the minutes passed she became more and more convinced that the other girl had known her husband was waiting at the house.

Yet, equally, how could she not deny it? This man had been married to Diane for five years. He must know her face, the sound of her voice. But Adam Tregower was blind now, a victim of his own despair, and it was seven years since they had lived together …

‘Diane …’

The man spoke again, and Sara stared helplessly in his direction. She had to speak, she had to answer him. Dear God, what did Diane expect of her?

‘Adam?’ she breathed tentatively, and she heard his sigh of relief. ‘I—how are you?’

‘How do I look?’

Evidently her husky tones were unidentifiable, and a trembling breath escaped her. What ought she to do? Denounce herself here and now, or tread deeper into this mire of deception? Adam Tregower had suffered so much. Could she honestly prevent him from suffering more? Why had he sent for Diane? Why did he want to speak to her? And why hadn’t Diane told her?

Anger gripped her. Diane had known her husband was here: she was convinced of that now. So many small things were falling into place, not least the obvious one of Diane’s suggestion that she should spend a couple of weeks at the house, a house she had taken care never to describe, so that Sara had expected something entirely different. Diane had known Adam was here, had known he was expecting his wife—and had sent her in her place, knowing that in her own grief, her sympathies would respond to this man’s helplessness.

‘You—you look well,’ she got out now, although she could hardly tell his colouring in this half light. ‘Adam, I—’

‘It was good of you to come.’ His words interrupted any explanation she might have hoped to make, and there was a curiously ironic note to his voice. ‘I wondered if you would. You lead such a—busy life. So different from my own.’

Sara’s mouth was dry. Outside, she saw with alarm, the clouds were gathering once more, and even as her eyes darted to the blind she had drawn, a few drops of rain spattered the window. All of a sudden the precariousness of her position seemed untenable, and she took an involuntary step backward.

‘Please.’ As if aware of her panic, Adam Tregower stepped forward, moving surely across the hall towards her. ‘Won’t you come into the library? We can have a drink together before dinner, and it’s easier to talk in less formal circumstances.’

‘Oh, but …’ Sara cast another longing look towards the windows. She couldn’t stay here, she thought wildly, but how could she get away without proving that Diane had made a fool of him yet again? Maybe he did not expect her to stay. Surely he knew Diane would never agree to remain at the house, alone with him. Perhaps his invitation was for dinner only, a chance for them to talk together about—about—what? Old times? Hardly. Her work? Hardly that either. A divorce? She breathed more freely. Yes, perhaps that was it. Adam wanted a divorce. He might have found someone else, someone he wanted to marry. A Portuguese girl maybe. A biddable Portuguese dona da casa, with no desire to do anything but care for her husband and bring up his children.

‘Diane.’

He was closer now, and in the shaft of light issuing through the unguarded window she saw his eyes, shadowed behind the tinted lenses of his glasses. Deeply set eyes they were, beneath heavy lids, strangely piercing eyes that while she knew could not see her, seemed to penetrate her guilty façade His face, too, was deeply tanned, evidence of the warmer climes he had been inhabiting, and his throat rising from the opened neck-line of a dark blue shirt was strong and corded with muscle. There was a disc suspended from a gold chain about his throat, one of those coins that could be used as a means of identity, and he wore two rings, a plain gold signet ring, and a flat copper amulet. Although he resembled the pictures she had seen of Adam Tregower, in the flesh he seemed so much more disturbing somehow, and she began to understand why Diane had been so eager to become his wife. She wondered at the ambition which had driven the other girl to leave him, for while Lance Wilmer was a handsome man, he had never possessed this man’s purely sexual attraction.

‘Come …’

He was holding out a hand towards her now, and avoiding it she had no choice but to cross the hall towards the library door. There was a moment’s pause before he followed her, and then she heard his footsteps right behind her.

The library was large, by anybody’s standards, but age and neglect had added an air of dampness and decay. Nevertheless, a fire was smouldering comfortingly in the grate, and the smell of Havana tobacco went a long way to disguising its less pleasurable aspects. Shelves of books lined two long walls and half the third, where drawn blinds indicated a shaded window. The fourth was taken up by the huge fireplace, and a pair of darkwood cabinets, in which resided a collection of chess pieces, from jade and ivory, to ebony and alabaster. There was a desk, on which a tray of drinks rested, and as well as the leather chair that faced it there was a pair of worn green velvet armchairs that fronted one another across the hearth.

Hovering in the centre of the room, Sara heard Adam close the door behind him, and presently he passed her to indicate the chairs beside the fire.

‘Won’t you sit down?’ he suggested, and with a sureness born of long practice, his hand sought the tray of drinks upon the desk.

Sara sat, partly because her legs felt a little unsure, and partly because it put more distance between them. It was all very well, posing as Caesar’s wife, but she did not know what he might expect of her, what indeed he might do to induce her to stay.

The temptation to confess her identity rose within her again only to be squashed as she watched him fumbling with the bottles. Evidently their shape and size identified them to him, and presently he turned and said: ‘What can I offer you? Whisky, gin? Or your usual?’ His lips twisted suddenly, the first sign of bitterness? ‘Or perhaps it’s not your usual any more.’

Sara hesitated. Diane’s usual drink these days was bitter lemon, with an occasional dash of vermouth, when calories permitted.

‘My—usual, I think,’ she conceded doubtfully, and swallowed rather convulsively when he presented her with a tall glass that looked as if it contained Coke, and smelled strongly of rum. She guessed Bacardi had been added, and when she tasted it her suspicions were justified.

‘Ah …’ Adam had poured himself a measure of whisky, holding the neck of the bottle against the rim of the glass, listening to the sound it made and measuring its contents accordingly. ‘It’s been a long time, Diane.’

Sara nodded, realised he couldn’t see her, and said: ‘Yes,’ in a low tone.

‘I must say you’re less—aggressive than I would have expected,’ he continued, surprisingly, supporting himself against the lip of the desk. ‘I guessed you’d come—but not without protest.’

Sara took a sip of her drink to give herself courage. So it was confirmed. Adam had sent for Diane. But why? Had he told her?

‘Do you think the place has changed much?’ he was asking now, and as this was safer ground she felt able to answer him.

‘I think—there’s dampness,’ she ventured. ‘I expect, because the house has stood empty for so long …’