but that twitch of unease, that premonition this morning, had not been as clear as all that.
It was Birgitte.
CHAPTER TWO
There were five of them at dinner. Conversation flickered for a few moments and then began to burn steadily. They prodded cosy formalities towards the reassuring flame.
“Such a privilege,” Birgitte was saying, “to have a celebrated music critic at our table.”
Her eyes narrowed in a little grimace that he well remembered. Once it had been an intimate communication between them, a silly twitch of supposed affection. Now he found it distasteful.
It was wrong that she should be capable of turning it on again so readily. The two of them had parted, and would never come together again. She had always talked a great deal about marrying some rich man and apparently she had succeeded.
“After the adventurous life you once led,” said Henning Holtesen, “it must be a great change to write about music. After the excitement—”
“Music is very exciting,” said Martin, “exciting enough for me, anyway.”
He looked across the table at Eiler who smiled heartily back at him.
Martin had never liked or trusted Eiler. Now he seemed larger and more broad across the shoulders than ever. One could see him as the descendant of the old sea raiders, with his massive head and those great hands. The only resemblance between himself and his sister Birgitte was in their hair: but where his was streaked with sandy hue, hers was a rich auburn.
And if it was surprising that Birgitte should be Eiler’s sister, it was even more surprising that the other member of the group should be his daughter.
Inge Nielsen was, oddly, more like Henning Holtesen. She was fair and had severe, well-defined features—the living image of the cold clarity and determination of her Nordic race. She said little. She was quiet and reserved, rather like a grave, attentive child, but with the face and body of a beautiful young woman.
From time to time Martin glanced at her. He could not account for the wry sadness in her eyes. It made him uneasy.
There was something wrong in this house—something wrong with all these people. He was sorry he had come.
Of course, Birgitte was behind the invitation. She must have seen his name in one of the papers where visiting journalists and musicians were mentioned, and suggested to her husband that the invitation should be issued. A typical Dane, Henning Haltesen would set great store by the hospitable formalities of his country, and would readily have fallen in with his wife’s wishes.
It was so like her, thought Martin. He and she had parted, and it had been definitely the end…but now she was curious to see him again.
It was nothing more than curiosity: and he didn’t want it to be. Anyway, they would not be alone together at any time.
That was where he was wrong.
As they were preparing to leave for the Royal Theatre, Eiler began to talk earnestly to Henning Holtesen, and the two of them moved away down a corridor towards the back of the house. Inge had gone upstairs, and Martin found himself with Birgitte.
She said; “Will you do something for me?”
Her voice was hushed and urgent.
Taken by surprise, he turned to her. She was very close. The musky temptation of her perfume drifted about him, and he looked down on the creamy perfection of those shoulders on which his hands had rested so often—so long ago, it seemed.
She laid her hand on his arm as her husband had done when Martin arrived; hut there was vitality in her slim fingers.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“I can’t tell you now. We must have a talk tomorrow. Soon. I want you to take something out of the country for me.”
He laughed mirthlessly. “Those days are over. I don’t go in for that sort of thing any more.”
“Not on a large scale, perhaps, but—”
“Not at all,” he said.
“There’s nobody else I can ask.”
The light glowed redly in her hair. Her lithe body was tense. He was aware of every taut, imploring line of it.
“For old times’ sake?” she said. The words sounded queer; their sentimentality, touched by her faint accent, was so inappropriate.
Martin said: “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I don’t want any part in it.”
“It will be worth your while.”
“No.”
“Martin…anything you ask. I made a mistake. I know it now. I should never have married Henning. When this…this job is done, I shall leave him. Would you like me to come to England? Would you, Martin? When you have done this for me, shall I come to you?”
“I’m not going to do it,” said Martin coldly.
“We must talk about it. You’ve got to listen. Martin, you must help me, and then….”
Her voice faltered and died away. She looked past Martin and up the stairs.
Martin turned.
Inge was coming down. She was pale, remote, and exquisite—and still there was that disturbing, haunted look in her ice-blue eyes.
“Are you all ready?” she asked distantly.
She was young and enchanting, but not happy; and she should have been eager, happy and impulsive.
Birgitte had moved away from Martin, her lips set in a petulant line.
Curiosity plucked at his mind. What was it she wanted him to smuggle out of the country for her? She must have other friends, other contacts, who would risk taking small things out on a business or holiday trip. For her to appeal to him with such urgency meant that something big was involved.
But it was better for him not to know.
He did not want to know.
“Shall we go?”
Hollesen had returned. Eiler stood beside him, towering over him. Martin noticed the briefest flicker of a glance exchanged by Eiler and Birgitte. He saw the faint shake of Birgitte’s head.
As they went down to the car Birgitte brushed against him.
“You will see me tomorrow?” she whispered. “We must talk more.”
“No,” said Mark bluntly.
She had no further opportunities for argument.
At the Royal Theatre they separated, Mark going to the Press seat reserved for him. During the interval he looked around, and saw the auburn glow of Birgitte’s head beside the fair
