Dangerous Deception (3 page)

So with his reluctant agreement and to Philip's obvious dismay, I moved to my flat and breathed more freely.

Slowly, life returned to what passed for normal. I still worked on the local newspaper and, telling myself it was what I wanted, spent most evenings alone in front of the television.

Philip phoned every day, though sometimes, guessing it would be him, I let it ring unanswered. Once, when he called at the flat, I stood watching him from behind a curtain and didn't let him in; and when I did see him, I increasingly turned away from his kisses, making excuses.

It was a difficult time in other ways, too. After discussions with Matthew and the family solicitor, I'd decided to put my old home on the market, which involved the heart-breaking task of going through my parents' things, sorting out which of the books, ornaments and furniture I'd known all my life would now have to be sold.

This was made even harder by the fact that the flat, convenient as it was, didn't feel like home and I couldn't settle in it. I wasn't sleeping well, and the doctor, approached in desperation, murmured platitudes about delayed shock. I was wondering just how much longer I would drift in this limbo when, out of a clear sky, the scandal broke.

My back went rigid against the warm wood of the window frame. Well, here we were, full circle, back to the point I'd been fighting to forget for the last three months.

Somewhere out on the hill a sheep bleated and was answered by another. The children had long since vanished inside. The first shadows were beginning to creep across the garden and, far above me, a silver microdot that was an aeroplane droned its way over the limitless sky. I drew a deep breath and let the memories come.

The first inkling I had of anything wrong was an early-morning phone call from Matthew, cancelling an invitation to lunch in town. He sounded strained.

“Something's come up which must be dealt with at once. Until it's sorted out, I shan't be very good company, my dear. I'll be in touch again soon.”

And before I could question him, he rang off.

I was not unduly worried at this stage, but it did cross my mind that it was about ten days since I'd seen Philip, though my reaction to his absence had been only relief. I pushed my uneasiness aside and left for the office.

In the middle of the morning, Tom Bailey, one of our newer reporters, tapped on the door, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

“So you
have
come in today! Good for you! I never thought you would.”

I looked up with a frown. “Of course I've come in; why shouldn't I?”

“Well, OK, so the story's not out yet, but you must know we have it and it'll be on the streets by lunch-time.” He eyed me curiously. “Any chance of an inside angle, since you're here?”

“Tom, I've no idea what you're talking about. Now leave me alone; I've got work to do, even if you haven't.”

To my annoyance, he hitched himself on to a corner of my desk. “Well, you're a cool customer, I'll give you that.”

“Look, what is this?” I burst out irritably. “What are you getting at?”

“Oh, come on now! Family loyalty is one thing, but the nationals have it now, and we can get an exclusive slant if you'll play ball. After all, you're engaged to the guy.”

My impatience was suddenly swallowed up in concern. I said urgently, “Tom, what is it? Has something happened to Philip?”

He looked up from the notebook he'd opened, his face a mask of amazement.

“You're not seriously telling me you don't know?”

“Know what? What
is
it, for pity's sake?”

He slipped off the desk, hastily pushing his notebook into his pocket. “God, Clare, I'm sorry. I'd no idea – I mean, I just naturally assumed – and when you seemed so cool about it, I thought there wouldn't be any harm—”

I stood up and leant over the desk. “Tom Bailey, if you don't stop beating about the bush I shall scream! Tell me everything you know, at once.”

He was plainly embarrassed now. He cleared his throat.

“Well, of course nothing's actually been confirmed. There'll probably be an official denial any minute.”

“Tom—” I began warningly.

He avoided my eyes. “Well, it seems there's been an almighty bust-up between Philip Hardy and his step-father.”

“Bust-up?” I repeated stupidly.

“That's the story going round. The old man discovered some discrepancies somewhere and it looks as though Philip was responsible.”

I said out of a dry mouth, “That just isn't possible.”

“Look here, Clare,” Tom said awkwardly, “let me at least verify it before I say any more.”

“No, go on,” I insisted, and my voice seemed to be coming from a long way away. “I don't believe it, but I want to know what's being said.”

“Well, several things have come to light, but the climax was the business with these clients – antique dealers, I think. They're heavily insured with your uncle's firm, and Philip handles their account. They were broken into the other night, and some new pieces which hadn't been valued were taken. There seem to be grounds for believing Philip was the only one who knew they'd arrived and where they'd been stored.”

“They're saying Philip
stole
them?” I couldn't take it in.

“No, not personally—that he sold the information to someone else. They've got hold of some character who insists he got the gen from him.”

“But didn't he tell them all to go to hell?”

“It seems not. At first his step-father refused to believe it, but the story goes that when he asked Philip for an explanation, he flew off the handle and resigned from the firm.”

I said slowly, “This is quite ludicrous.”

“Yes – well, there it is. I'm sorry, Clare. If I'd realised you didn't know, I'd never have busted in like that.”

“It's all right.” My voice was quite steady. “Now, would you mind leaving?”

“Sure.” He went quickly from the room.

With cold hands I pulled the telephone towards me, but it was a full ten minutes before the lines were clear to take my call, and even then I learned nothing.

“I'm sorry, neither Mr Bennett nor Mr Hardy is available today,” said the clipped voice of the switchboard. “I could put you through to their secretaries—”

“It doesn't matter.”

I walked through the outer office with head high, aware of quickly stifled whispers as I passed. The streets were busy with mid-morning crowds, but I drove on auto-pilot, my mind seething with my conversation with Tom.

There must be some mistake. He'd misunderstood. There couldn't possibly be any truth in it.

Conningley lay basking in the June sunshine. I drew up at the door and walked straight in. Mrs Withers, the housekeeper, was in the hall, her eyes red-rimmed. I remembered for the first time in years that it was my mother who'd engaged her, when Aunt Margot died.

“Oh, Miss Clare—” she began, her voice breaking.

“Is Philip here?”

“He's in his room, but I don't—”

I walked past her and up the stairs, conscious of her staring after me. I tapped on Philip's door and, without waiting for an answer, went in.

He was at the far side of the room, putting things into a suitcase. He turned quickly, and I was shocked by his face. For the first time, I wondered if the rumours could be true. He stepped quickly towards me, but I didn't move.

“Clare!”

He stopped and for a moment we stared at each other. Then he gave an odd, lopsided little smile. “Well, Clare?”

I moistened my lips. “Is it true?”

“That I've left the firm? Yes.”

“But Philip – why?”

He turned sharply away. “If you've heard so much, you must know the rest.”

“But – it isn't true?” I was pleading more for Matthew's sake than my own.

He turned back to me. “Do
you
believe it?”

I stared into his burning eyes. At that point I honestly didn't know what I believed, but I'd hesitated too long. He gave a harsh laugh.

“So! ‘
Woman's faith and woman's trust
'!”

I whispered, “It will kill your father.”

“He's not my father.” A far-away echo, which at the time I didn't stop to pinpoint, underlined his conviction.

“But he's been like one to you,” I said shakily. “All these years he's loved you, been proud of you—”

“All these years,” he repeated bitterly, “I've bowed and scraped to him – yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir. No question of asking what
I
wanted to do. No matter if insurance bored me stiff, I was expected to comply with his wishes. Well, I've had it – and him – in a big way.”

He looked at me challengingly. “Which leaves the million dollar question: what about you?”

I felt my mouth go dry. “Me?”

“Yes; who gets your vote, him or me?”

“You're asking me to – choose between you?” The words sounded stiff and melodramatic, but he didn't seem to notice. He was very still.

“I suppose I am.”

Even in my dazed state, I was aware of the undercurrent in his voice. This wasn't the light-hearted, debonair Philip I knew. His face was stiff and cold but his eyes held mine with a desperate appeal that was more than I could bear.

“Please don't, Philip!”

He moved at last. “As I thought. He wins, hands down. Very well. In the circumstances, I can hardly expect you to share my disgrace.” He forced a laugh. “I hereby release you from any commitment. Is that the right wording? Anyway, it's your cue, if you feel so inclined, to whip off your ring and hurl it at my feet.”

I made one last, frantic attempt. “Philip, if we all talked it over, surely—”

“
No
, Clare. In any case, the sanctimonious old devil has ordered me out of the house.”

That did it. I thought numbly,
If I loved him, I wouldn't be able to do this
.

Slowly I drew off my ring. He held out his hand. I dropped it on to his palm and stared down at my bare finger. The circle of white against the tan made it look as though the ring were still there.

Without a word, I turned and walked blindly from the room, down the stairs and past Mrs Withers, who still stood in the hall, out to the car.

That was the last time I saw Philip. Investigations were, I gathered, continuing, but as yet there was insufficient evidence to convict him. His solicitor was claiming the leak had been in the clients' own firm, though no one seemed to believe this. Opinion was overwhelmingly that he had been luckier than he deserved.

In the bewildering weeks that followed, no one at the paper mentioned the matter again and Tom took care to keep out of my way, though all he'd done was to bring forward the disclosure by a few hours.

Matthew, tight-lipped and grim, went about his business like an automaton. Yet through it all, he kept insisting that Philip needed me.

“Go to him, Clare,” he urged, time and again. “I can manage, but he needs you more than ever.”

I shook my head. “I'll never forgive him for what he's done to you.”

“Whatever he's done, he still loves you.”

“And I love you. You've always been a second father to me.”

He stared at me hopelessly. Then he said very softly, “My God, what have we all done to each other?”

“He's – not coming back?”

“I don't see how he can.”

“Then it's just the two of us,” I said. Incredulously, I realised that this was what I had wanted.

My face was wet with tears, but I felt a bleak sense of triumph. I've done it, I thought, I've been back over the whole thing, from start to finish, and looked at it from a distance of three months. And I still didn't see what else I could have done.

I stood up and eased my stiff back. Now, if this enforced holiday was to do me any good at all, I must put it all out of my mind. And as good a way as any of starting the cure would be to have a leisurely bath before dinner – which unfortunately, I remembered, meant venturing down the corridor.

I gathered my things together and opened the door, and at the same moment the door opposite suddenly opened and I was face to face with one of the old ladies I'd seen in the lounge. She peered across at me and her face cleared.

“Ah, so you've arrived, my dear!”

“Yes,” I acknowledged, a little doubtfully.

“Did you have a good journey?”

“The traffic wasn't too bad, but it was very hot.”

“Yes, yes, it must have been.”

She seemed to be waiting for something, so I said in explanation, “I'm just going along for a bath.”

“Most wise – I'm sure it will refresh you.”

And, as she still stood there, I added somewhat formally, “May I introduce myself – my name's Clare Laurie.”

“Yes,” she nodded amiably, “and I'm Miss Hettie. The younger one,” she added mysteriously, and moved away towards the stairs.

I watched her go with a slight frown. Then I turned in the opposite direction in search of a bath.

‘The guests are met, the feast is set.'

Coleridge:
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

I SAW the note as soon as I returned to the bedroom. It was propped against the dressing-table mirror, held in position by my hair-brush. For a moment I stood by the door staring across at it. Then I walked quickly over and picked it up.

Aladdin delayed, but Beanstalk still on schedule. Sinbad will make contact. Jack.

My first thought was that Gareth's note must have dropped out of my bag and someone – perhaps the chambermaid – had picked it up. But almost at once I realised that, although the message was identical, it was not in fact the same piece of paper. This was printed in neat block capitals.