The Judas Trap

‘So long,’ he agreed, his mouth drawing down at the corners. ‘Too long. What do you think, Diane?’

She didn’t understand what he was getting at. Why had he asked Diane to come down here? What possible motive could he have? He must know she was a working actress—he had intimated as much in the hall. And yet he thought he had persuaded her to come down here …

Sara pressed her lips together and stared anxiously up at those hooded eyes, dark behind their concealing lenses. What thoughts were going through his mind? What manner of man was he to imagine he could summon back a wife who had left him without scruple seven years before? If, sick and blinded, after the accident when it was suspected he had tried to kill himself, he had been unable to sustain Diane’s sympathy, why should he suppose she might come back now?

It was all getting rather deep and disturbing, and with the sky darkening outside, Sara was feeling a distinct sense of unease. It wasn’t just that she was here under false pretences. If she had been Diane herself, she felt sure she would have experienced the same kind of feeling, a sense of enclosure, of being trapped, of being imprisoned with this man in the darkness he had occupied for the past seven years …

‘Another drink?’ he suggested, but looking down at the almost untouched glass in her hands Sara demurred.

‘I—I shall have to be going soon,’ she murmured, and sensed rather than saw his stiffening features. ‘I—can’t stay here.’

‘Why not?’ His voice was harsh. ‘There are plenty of rooms; plenty, as you know only too well.’

Sara set down her glass on the hearth, welcoming the fire’s warmth against her chilled fingers. ‘I—I don’t think you understand’—she was beginning, deciding this had gone far enough, when once again he interrupted her.

‘It’s you who don’t understand, Diane!’ he declared coldly. ‘I didn’t bring you here for a friendly chat, as you’re aware. Nor do I intend that you should leave again, the minute you decide I’m no real threat to that comfortable life you’ve made for yourself!’ He tossed back the remainder of the whisky in his glass with a careless gesture. Then he faced her across the width of the faded patterned carpet, and if she had not known better she would have sworn he could see her there, sitting nervously on the edge of her chair. ‘You came because my letter frightened you, because you didn’t really believe it, but you couldn’t be absolutely certain. Since your arrival you’ve been watching me, studying my reactions, trying to decide whether I meant what I said, and if I did, what I could do about it.’

Sara got to her feet jerkily. ‘You don’t understand, Mr Tregower,’ she said then, fear combining with a natural nervousness to bring a tremor to her voice. ‘I—I am not—not your wife, not Diane Tregower. My—my name is—is Sara Fortune, and—and I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

There was silence for several pregnant minutes, minutes when she could see he was grappling with what she had just said, digesting it, dissecting it, testing it for flaws, and finding it wanting. Then a bitter smile twisted his lips and a short harsh laugh broke from them.

‘Oh, bravo, Diane, bravo!’ he complimented her mockingly. ‘Yes. Yes, indeed, that was worthy of the actress you undoubtedly are. To deny your own identity—how clever, and how apt! How could a blind man be sure you are who you say you are, particularly a blind man who has not seen you for so many years? The voice, the body, even the make-up of the face could have changed in that time. And he would have no way of knowing, no way of really being sure …’

Sara gasped. ‘It’s true. I’m not lying. I really am who I say I am.’

‘Then why did you not say so before?’

‘Why, I—because I—’

‘Because you didn’t think of it!’

‘No!’

‘Oh, come on …’ There was nothing to pity about him now. Standing squarely between her and the door, he epitomised the dominant male, hard and masculine, and totally without sympathy. ‘I know you, Diane. I know everything about you. I’ve listened, until I’m sick to my teeth, to stories about your charm, your looks, your likes, your dislikes, your absorption with self, self, self …’

‘No!’

‘I’ve watched a man disintegrate before my eyes, lose all his confidence, his self-respect, even his will to live, while he spoke of your needs, your demands, your success. Your selfishness, more like, your flawed image, your destructive self-indulgence that must be satisfied, whatever the cost!’

Sara didn’t understand all of this. ‘You—you watched a man …’ she whispered unsteadily, and with a savage oath he tore off the glasses which had concealed his eyes, revealing them to be a brilliant shade of amber, burning now with the hard light of malevolence.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said, as she stood there staring uneasily at him, realising weakly that he could see. And why not? This was not Adam Tregower—she realised that now. The resemblance was there, the features followed a similar pattern and given the half light she could be forgiven for mistaking his identity. But this man’s face was harder, stronger—younger. A relative, no doubt, but not Diane’s husband.

‘You—you’re not—’ she stammered, wondering why the knowledge gave her no relief, and he nodded.

‘No, I’m not,’ he agreed harshly. ‘I’m Michael Tregower. Adam is—was—my brother!’

CHAPTER TWO (#u6f252ea2-5da4-5a4a-8a97-f4f177acb976)

‘YOU LOOK SHOCKED!’ he declared a few moments later, as Sara continued to stare disbelievingly at him. ‘Didn’t you know Adam had a brother? Perhaps not. It doesn’t surprise me. I was always considered the skeleton in the Tregower family cupboard.’

Sara licked her dry lips. ‘Adam—Adam did not have a brother,’ she declared, faintly but succinctly. ‘I know. Di—Diane told me.’

‘Really.’ Plainly he did not believe the latter half of her statement. ‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but he did. A half-brother, at least. His—our—father was not averse to sowing a few wild oats of his own.’

‘You mean—you mean—’

‘I’m a bastard? Yes, that’s right. Bastard by name, and bastard by nature, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Look …’ Sara sought desperately for words to explain all this, ‘I don’t care who you are or why you’re here. I don’t even care what you think of Diane or—or the way she behaved towards your brother. What I must repeat is that—that I am not her. My—my name is Sara Fortune, as I’ve told you—’

‘Oh, spare me the dramatics, will you?’ Michael Tregower reached into his pocket and drew out a case of narrow cigars, placing one between his teeth while he sought for his lighter. ‘We both know who you are and why you’re here—’

‘No. No, you don’t—’

‘I beg to differ.’

‘Mr Tregower! Please! Listen to me!’ Sara took an involuntary step forward, and as she did so his hand came out and caught her wrist, his thumb pressing cruelly against the veins on the inner side of her arm.

‘No,’ he denied. ‘You listen to me. Adam is dead, didn’t you understand what I said earlier?’

‘No!’

‘Yes.’ Michael thrust his dark face closer to hers, the odour of whisky on his breath invading her nostrils. ‘Dead, do you understand? By his own hand. And there was nothing I, or any of us, could do about it.’

‘No!’

Sara moved her head futilely from side to side, her long pale hair contrasting with the darkness of her jacket, as the blood draining out of her hand had a curiously numbing effect. Staring into Michael Tregower’s vengeful features she had the uncanny notion that he intended to kill her, too. That that was why he had sent for Diane, why he had threatened her in some way that forced her hand, and brought her down here. Only she hadn’t come. She had sent Sara instead, hoping perhaps that the blind husband she had not seen for seven years would be unable to distinguish between them. And it might have worked, bearing in mind Sara’s own instinctive compassion for the man she had thought to be Diane’s husband. Whatever reason he had had for sending for his wife, she had banked on her counter-action to thwart it, though what excuse she could give Sara the girl had yet to wonder.

‘I tell you, I’m not Diane Tregower!’ she cried, fear forcing the note of panic into her voice. ‘You’ve made a terrible mistake!’

‘No, Diane. You made the mistake in coming here,’ he declared, a mocking smile curling his lips. ‘Really, Diane, I expected better of you. Were you really disturbed by my little note? So disturbed that you made a special journey down here—alone?’

‘You—you sent for Diane?’ Sara choked, trying impotently to free herself, but he was merciless.

‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Haven’t I just told you? Adam’s dead. He died three weeks ago. Three weeks in which I’ve thought of little else but the pleasure of getting my hands around your selfish little neck!’

Sara’s breathing had quickened alarmingly, and she could hear her heart thundering in her ears. Her blood pressure must be sky-high, she thought, though her own health had never meant less to her. Even so, a slightly hazy feeling was invading the corners of her eyes, and although she struggled to fight the wave of faintness that was overtaking her, the encompassing blackness engulfed her like a welcoming shroud.

She came round to find herself lying on a dust-sheeted sofa in a room she had not seen before. She guessed it had been a sitting room or a drawing room, and judging by the shapes beneath their ghostly covers, there were other sofas and armchairs, and was that a grand piano in the window embrasure?

The dizziness had subsided, and she was edging up on to one elbow when Michael Tregower came into the room carrying a glass of what looked like water. His face was paler, too, than she remembered it, but his eyes were just as hard when they alighted on her. He came to stand over her as she flopped back weakly against the cushions, and her heart began its familiar tattoo at the flintlike coldness of his expression.

‘Are you all right?’ he demanded, but it was more of an accusation than an enquiry.

‘What—what happened?’ she asked, playing for time, and grim lines bracketed his mouth.

‘I apparently frightened you so much, you fainted,’ he declared, contemptuously, offering her the glass and when she declined, disposing of it on to the mantelshelf, which was not shrouded. ‘Or was that affected, too? If so, you’re a better actress than even I gave you credit for being.’