sounds suspiciously like a hint for a declaration.’
‘No—nothing like that.’ Her protest was instant. ‘It’s just that—Oh, for heaven’s sake, everyone knows that you’re involved with Ginny Fraser. And how many others before her? How many so-called declarations have there been?’
Tell me about Evie. Offer some explanation—express some compunction for what you’ve done to her. I’m giving you this chance…
He said quietly, ‘I’ve never pretended I’ve lived like a Trappist monk while waiting for the right woman to walk into my life. Ginny had her career and I had mine. Our relationship has been—convenient. It is now in the past.’
Consigned to oblivion—like Evie.
She watched him fill the cafetière with boiling water, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She said, ‘But Ginny wasn’t the only one. What about the others? What happened to them?’ ‘You’re beginning to make me feel like Bluebeard,’ he commented unsmilingly. ‘All I can tell you is that I never made any woman a promise I wasn’t prepared to keep. And that, my lovely one, will also apply to you.’ He paused. ‘Now shall we relax a little and discuss how to spend our day?’
In the end, they drove to Whytecliffe, a village on the South coast set on a small bay.
She’d been surprised to find a sleek black convertible two-seater parked a few yards from the apartment block.
‘No Terry?’ she asked.
‘A driver is more convenient on working days. But at weekends, I like to drive myself. And as I said—we’re spending the day together.’ He slanted a smile at her. ‘Don’t you trust me to take care of you?’
‘Of course.’ But, in truth, she wasn’t altogether sure. This car looked to have a lot of power under its pared-down lines.
Hood down, they headed out of the city, and Tarn soon realised she hadn’t the least cause for concern. He was a terrific driver, positive without being aggressive, treating other road-users with consideration.
‘So where are we going?’ she asked as they left the suburbs behind.
‘It’s a surprise.’
And a very pleasant one, she discovered, as they eventually wound their way through narrow lanes with the sea shining in front of them, and reached Whytecliffe.
It was small and sleepy in comparison to other nearby resorts, its harbour catering primarily for private sailing dinghies rather than the fishing smacks of the past, while further round the bay, at the foot of the chalk cliff, a row of brightly painted beach huts stood sentinel over the stretch of sand and pebbles leading down to the sea.
The village itself had a Norman church, and a pleasant main street, partly cobbled, which housed a few shops and cafés. They walked slowly, her hand in his because he’d reached for it and she couldn’t think of a solitary reason to deny him, looking into the windows of the various antique shops, as they went and wandering round the small gallery displaying the work of local artists.
There was also a bistro-type restaurant which turned out to be only open in the evenings, but Caz declared that was unimportant and headed for the solitary pub overlooking the breakwater.
‘The Smuggler’s Chair.’ Tarn looked up at the swinging sign above the door. ‘That’s a strange name.’
‘And it goes with a strange story.’ Caz had to bend to negotiate the low entrance. He guided Tarn down a tiled passage and through a door with ‘Fisherman’s Catch’ painted on it.
She found herself in a wood panelled room, with old-fashioned settles flanking tables set for lunch, several of which were already occupied.
Caz ordered a white wine spritzer for her and a beer for himself, and they took the remaining table by the window.
The menu was chalked on a board, offering Dover sole, hake, crab and lobster, but they agreed to share the special, a seafood platter served with a mixed green salad and crusty bread.
‘So tell me about the Smuggler’s Chair,’ Tarn said when their order had been given.
‘Well, in the bad old days, the village had a reputation for being involved in free-trading,’ Caz said. ‘And cargoes from France were regularly landed here.
‘The leader of the gang used to come here to drink quite openly—apparently he had an eye for the landlord’s daughter—and he always sat in the same chair by the fire.
‘An informer told the Excisemen who organised a surprise raid. When they burst in, there was this man sitting in the chair with his pipe and his pint pot, just as they’d been told. They ordered him to stay still, but he reached into his coat, and thinking he was going for his pistol, they shot him.
‘However, when they searched the body, they found government papers authorising him to compile a secret report on the local free trade. It seems the smugglers had their own informers, and were expecting his visit.
‘Which is why, when he arrived at the inn, he was made welcome—and offered the best chair by the parlour fire.’
‘Nasty.’ Tarn wrinkled her nose. ‘What happened to the gang leader?’
Caz shrugged. ‘Got away, scot-free, and presumably found somewhere else to drink, complete with some other obliging wench.’
‘And the chair?’
‘Oh, that’s allegedly still here in the other bar, but it seems no-one fancied using it after the shooting in case the Excisemen returned and made a second mistake, so it was always left empty, and the story got around that it was haunted, and that doom and disaster would pursue anyone reckless enough to sit there. Even these days, it’s given a wide berth.’
Tarn laughed. ‘You surely don’t believe that.’
‘I heard the story at a very impressionable age,’ Caz said solemnly. ‘My parents used to rent a house nearby for the holidays. The then landlord used to offer a fiver to anyone who’d take the risk. I gather it’s currently gone up to a hundred quid, but still no takers.’
Tarn took a reflective sip of her spritzer. ‘It’s quite a reward—just for sitting down. I think I might try it.’
Caz put down his glass. ‘No.’ The negative was sharp and held a note of finality.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ she said laughing. ‘It probably isn’t even the same chair.’
‘Possibly not,’ Caz agreed. ‘That doesn’t change a thing.’
Tarn gave a provocative whistle. ‘Palmistry, now superstition,’ she marvelled teasingly. ‘I would never have believed it. But you were quite right,’ she added. ‘This is certainly a voyage of discovery.’
‘Nothing of the kind,’ he returned. ‘If you sit in the smuggler’s chair and lightning fails to strike, you’ve ruined a perfectly good legend forever, and it’ll be the landlord’s curse you need to watch out for if you spoil his trade.’
‘The pragmatic response,’ Tarn said
