Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection

‘Sure, why not. One for the road, I guess.’ He released his hold and his eyes following her as she walked across the room were filled with tenderness. ‘Do me a favour, baby, kill the lights in here, please.’

‘All right. Shall I put on a record, one of the Sinatras maybe?’

‘Terrific idea … the Cole Porter selection … together those two are an unbeatable team, about the greatest.’

Within minutes the room was entirely in darkness, its edges grey and murky, but the fireside was bathed in roseate tints and the logs spurted and flared in the grate so that a pool of isolated golden light surrounded them like a nimbus. They sat for a long time on the sofa, wrapped in each other’s arms, listening to the romantic ballads, speaking hardly at all, content to be alone together. At one moment Victor turned his head and glanced out of the windows which intersected the wall opposite. Beyond the glass, an indigo sky, speckled with the brightest stars, was being intermittently streaked with silver radiance as the moon came out from behind black clouds. It clearly illuminated the landscape, breathtaking even at this hour in its white and silent beauty.

It’s so peaceful out there, he thought, just as this room is also enveloped in tranquillity. Victor averted his face and stared into the fire, his eyes reflective now. Images of the dinner party danced before him in the flames. It had been perfect down to the last detail. And so civilized. The guests had been charming, cultured, intelligent and well informed, the men elegantly attired, the lovely women exquisitely gowned and bejewelled, and all had been gathered together in the most gracious of settings, partaking of excellent food and vintage wines. yes, it had been an occasion of gaiety and joyfulness as befitted Diana’s birthday.

Coming so quickly after this glittering, happy scene, the story of Kurt von Wittingen had been chilling, had had a curious unreality about it to Victor, as though it were somehow out of sync. Yet this was not the case, and it was only too real, just as Auschwitz, Buchenwald and Dachau had been real, as Christian’s ruined legs were real. Victor dwelt on all that had been said in the last hour and his disquiet returned, and he felt a sudden and terrible coldness in the region of his heart. Evil had cast its dark shadow over this night. But evil is always there, lurking, he found himself thinking, as it has lurked since the beginning of time when man first discovered his immense capacity for it. And as long as man walks this earth it will flourish, for it is man’s invention not God’s. A sigh rippled through him and he closed his eyes.

Francesca shifted her body against his, swivelled her head and looked up into his face. ‘What is it? Is something wrong, Vic?’

He opened his eyes and stared at her. He was tempted, for a moment, to voice his thoughts, but changed his mind. ‘I’m okay. Nothing’s wrong, Ches,’ he murmured and lifted his hand and touched the top of her head, and she relaxed and settled back in his arms and a silence fell between them again. It was long after the music had stopped and the fire had burned low to dying embers that Victor finally roused himself. He led her out of the sitting room, down the long gallery and up the great staircase, and not once did he let go of her hand so tightly clasped in his.

Chapter Twenty-Nine (#ulink_07b2f508-0311-52ab-88b8-2b66f22013c7)

Three months later, Terrence Ogden walked briskly across the ancient Market Place in Ripon, dropped a large manilla envelope in the post box and went into the first tobacconist’s shop he saw. He bought a newspaper and a packet of cigarettes, exchanged a friendly word with the girl behind the counter, and swung through the door of the shop, whistling under his breath.

He headed out of the Market Place, past the Town Hall and the Wakeman’s House, and down the hill at a rapid pace, returning to the Spa Hotel at the edge of town where the cast and crew of Wuthering Heights were staying.

It was a Saturday morning in late June, and the kind of glorious summer day he remembered so vividly from his childhood, but which had been sadly infrequent in the ensuing years. Or so it seemed to him. Terry wondered absently if, in the way that memory can play peculiar tricks, he had simply imagined those golden days of his early boyhood. Perhaps the summers had been as inclement then as they were now. A faintly ironic gleam flashed in his light blue eyes. It was odd how the lovely weather, whether real or a figment of his imagination, was the only pleasant thing he remembered about those poverty-stricken years of growing up in Sheffield. All his other recollections had a desperate, almost Dickensian flavour to them. Empty belly. Patched clothes. Socks so darned they were all darn. Broken-down shoes letting the snow and the rain seep through. Dad on the dole. And when he was working, it was down the pit, filling his lungs full of coal dust. Mam scrubbing and cleaning, washing, ironing, charring for the rich. Old before she was young.

Terry shrugged and blinked and discarded these thoughts. They served no purpose now. Those days were long gone. Times had changed in merry old England and he, thank God, had been able to change his parents’ lives. And for the better. He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders, feeling healthier than he had in years. Terrence Ogden was also a somewhat chastened man after his drunken brawl with Rupert Reynolds earlier in the year. He was fully conscious that he had had a close call, a brush with death, and he had taken himself in hand, with firmness. If he was not exactly abstinent, he had cut down on his drinking considerably, and had thrown all of his energies into his work. Now he wondered vaguely where Reynolds had skipped off to, where he was hiding. Norman had said he was most likely on the Continent. Not far enough away for me, Terry mumbled under his breath.

‘Hey, Terry, what’s the hurry, me old cock?’

Terry swung around. Jerry Massingham, astride a bicycle, was pedalling down the road as if his life depended on it, his red hair mussed by the light breeze, his coat flapping out behind him. Dressed in an unsuitable heavy tweed suit, a Viyella shirt and a canary-yellow wool tie, Jerry looked like a country doctor on his morning rounds.

‘Good God, Jerry, this is one way to make certain you get a heart attack!’ Terry said as the production manager slowed to a stop and jumped off the bicycle. ‘And what the hell are you doing rushing up and down the country lanes on a bloody bike in the first place?’

‘I like riding a bike, it’s good exercise,’ Jerry informed him, a wide grin creasing his flushed face. He fell into step with Terry, wheeling the bicycle between them. ‘I had to get to the post office before it closed, to send an express package to London. There weren’t any production cars available an hour ago. The second unit’s using them. They’re out on the moors, getting some background shots. And what are you doing abroad at this hour? Taking a constitutional?’

‘I also went to post a letter, and to buy a paper. Besides, it’s turned eleven.’ He gave Jerry a swift look, finished caustically, ‘I don’t normally spend my mornings liggin in bed, contrary to what you might think.’

‘What does liggin mean?’

‘It’s Yorkshire dialect for lying – as in lying in bed wasting the day away.’

‘Is it now. Humph. No offence intended, laddie. I mean about being out and about at this hour. I was merely surprised to see you, considering how whacked you looked at two this morning. Mind you, the night shooting was gruelling, especially hard on you and Katharine. Come to think of it, the rest of the cast were pretty done in by the time we finished. Or so it appeared. Actually, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of a single actor this morning. Usually they’re milling around the hotel when we’re not filming. Have you run into any of your confrères perchance?’

‘No, I haven’t perchance,’ Terry responded with a chortle. ‘I did speak to Katharine earlier, on the ’phone. She sounded full of beans, as usual. She told me half the cast have gone off on a picnic, up to Middleham Castle in Wensleydale. Shades of Richard III, no doubt. He was born there, you know.’

‘They must be made of iron.’

‘Stamina is an actor’s stock in trade, Jerry.’

‘True enough. But a picnic. Ugh! Jolly good luck to them! I saw you do Richard III. At Stratford. Memorable, Terry, memorable.’

‘Thanks, Jerry. It’s a bloody tough role.’

‘Mmmm. Funny though, how you make it look so easy.’ The production manager glanced at Terry and said, ‘We got some damned good footage in the can last night, and providing there are no more mishaps, and the weather holds, we should be able to get out of here next Friday, as planned. That should make you delirious.’

Terry threw Jerry a baffled look. ‘I haven’t minded being on location, mate. As a matter of fact, I’ve quite enjoyed it this time around. I was pretty miserable when we were here in May, but then who wasn’t, with all that rain. Getting sodden to the skin every day is hardly my idea of a joyride.’

Jerry laughed at Terry’s dour expression, his glum delivery. ‘Nor mine. And I wasn’t singling you out in any sense,’ he remarked. ‘We’ll all be glad to get back to London and the studios. A week of final interiors and then it’s a wrap.’

Terry eyed him, a faint smile flickering. ‘Still, despite the problems, and the weather, we’re on schedule and within the budget. That should make you delirious, Jerry.’

‘It does.’ He leaned across the bicycle, and said, ‘You’ve been a real trouper, Terry, taking so much rotten flak from Mark Pierce as good-naturedly as you have. He’s a difficult bugger.’

‘But a great director. I simply put it down to the temperament of a genius. And to be fair, he’s been hard on the entire cast, as well as on me. They’ve been troupers too.’

‘Yes,’ Jerry said quietly. He thought: But Mark’s had his knife in you and to the hilt. He had his own ideas about the real cause of the trouble between the actor and the director. Victor was suspicious and had attempted to get to the root of it, without success. Too much tension, too many undercurrents on this film, Jerry said inwardly. I’ll be relieved when the last bloody frame has been shot.

‘I heard a rumour you’re going to be on the Bolding picture, Jerry. True or false?’

‘Affirmative, old boy. And I’m looking forward to it. A classy production. Shooting in the South of France later this summer. Good cast too.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘And you? Anything in the offing?’

‘A couple of things,’ Terry said cautiously. ‘A play in the West End for starters, if I want it.’

‘Stick to films from now on, Terry,’ the production man advised. ‘You can really cut it, and you come off well on the screen. When I saw the rushes I was most impressed. You’ve brought something very special to the role of Edgar Linton, given it dimension and stature.’

‘Thanks. That’s nice to hear. Especially from you. Getting it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.’

Jerry smiled but said nothing and the two men walked on in silence. Within a couple of minutes they reached the entrance to the hotel grounds, and ambled through the gates and up the short driveway. As they drew closer to the front steps of the Spa Hotel, both of them stopped short and glanced at each other swiftly.

‘Our star departs!’ Terry said.

‘Looks like it.’ Jerry’s response was gruff and a flash of annoyance replaced his startled expression as he surveyed the scene ahead. Victor Mason’s gleaming wine-coloured Bentley Continental was parked in front of the door, and Gus was loading the boot with Victor’s expensive luggage.

‘I thought he wasn’t leaving until next week,’ Terry said.

‘So did I. Tuesday to be precise.’

At this moment Jake Watson came through the door and hurried down the steps, his arms laden with cans of film. He carried these to the car and placed them inside on the back seat. Turning, he saw them and waved. ‘Hi, you guys!’

‘’Morning, Jake,’ Jerry said, moving forward quickly, pushing the bicycle.

‘Good morning.’ Terry returned Jake’s wave and grinned. ‘Are we losing our star?’

Jake nodded. ‘Yep. Victor’s about to leave for London.’

‘I wish to hell you’d told me!’ Massingham exclaimed heatedly, his face colouring. ‘If I’d known earlier it would have saved me the bother of getting that package of documents to the post office. Victor could have taken it with him,’ he groused. ‘Racing up and down the roads on this bloody thing is all I need this morning.’ He stomped off to park the bicycle, bristling.