not? It is after ten o’clock, you know.”
“Mercy me! Ten o’clock!” The girl raised her eyes heaven-ward. “I thought you Londoners were used to late hours. What’s happened to the swinging seventies?”
“I think they hanged themselves,” returned Joel dryly. “Goodnight.”
His room was under the eaves, and the ceiling sloped towards the window. He could stand upright just inside the door, but from then on it was a losing battle. Still, the bed looked long and comfortable, and he would be glad to stretch his aching limbs. That work-out in the gym that morning had been intended to relax his mind as well as his body, but the way he felt right now it hadn’t succeeded in either direction.
The bathroom didn’t sport a shower, but he ran a shallow bath and sluiced himself before going back to his bedroom. Then he removed his robe, turned out the light and slid between the cotton sheets. The bed was icily cold. The inn was not centrally heated. But the heat generated by his thoughts soon warmed him through.
He lay on his back with his arms behind his head and stared grimly towards the shadowy flowers visible on the cretonne of the curtains. So — he was here, in Langthwaite, and somewhere out there, within a mile’s radius, was Rachel — Rachel Gilmour as she called herself now, but Rachel just the same.
Bitterness brought the sickly taste of bile to the back of his throat. That Rachel should think she could do this, to him! His hands balled themselves into fists. If he had her here now, he thought, he would wring her neck!
But such passion was wasted, and he knew it. Coolness and calmness, and a sense of objectivity would serve him far better. After all, he could not be absolutely sure she was doing it to spite him, although the alternative was equally unpalatable…
He deliberately unclenched his fists and forced the muscles of his neck to relax. Was it really only three days ago that Francis had come to him with the story? It seemed as though he had known it for much longer than that.
He had been working, he remembered, putting the finishing touches to the portrait of Lady Antonia Barrie, when Francis came hammering at his door. He had not been pleased at the intrusion. He had got up especially early to take advantage of the light, and when his half-brother interrupted him he had been less than civil. It wasn’t until Francis had stammered out the story in that way he had when he was distressed that Joel realised this wasn’t another of the simple monetary scrapes Francis had often got himself into.
Even then he had been loath to get involved. “But I don’t see why you should imagine the fact that our father is thinking of getting married again should trouble me!” he had declared impatiently.
Francis, as tall as himself but thinner, fairer, had paced restlessly about Joel’s studio. “Of course, it wouldn’t bother you, would it?” he had demanded fiercely. “Your grandmother left you more than adequately provided for. Unfortunately, I don’t have rich relations like that on my mother’s side. And if Father marries again, why shouldn’t he disinherit me, as he disinherited you?”
Joel had raked his hair back from his forehead with frustrated hands. “That didn’t trouble you too much at the time,” he observed dryly. Then: “It was different with me, Fran, you know it was! Father could never see that I wasn’t cut out to play power politics at the Bank. And, as you say, my grandmother made Father’s participation in my career less than necessary. You’re different, Fran. You’re his son. And even if he does marry again, which I personally doubt, there’s little chance now that he’ll sire more children. Good God, he’s sixty-three!”
Francis turned on him then. “Men have been known to have children at ninety, and you know it!” He paused, his face changing, becoming more calculating. “Besides,” he regarded his half brother scornfully, “you haven’t heard it all yet. You haven’t asked who the woman might be.”
Joel shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“It might. Her name is Gilmour, Rachel Gilmour.” He hesitated, enjoying the effect his words were having. “Her name was Rachel Abbey before she married her first husband!”
And that was when Joel had crossed the studio and done something entirely uncharacteristic. He had caught his haf-brother by his shirt front and dragging him up close to him said savagely: “What are you saying?”
Francis, abashed by his older brother’s intimidation, had struggled to free himself. “It — it — it’s the — t—truth, Jo—Joel! It — it is — Ra-Rachel, it — it is!”
Joel had released him so violently that Francis had spun across the studio and landed on the floor amidst a pile of canvases and an easel. His face had twisted angrily as he got to his feet, and as he brushed his clothes he had stared maliciously at his brother.
“It — it’s not m-my fault!” he muttered, grimacing as his stammer continued. “Just — just because — you d—don’t like the — tr—truth when you — hear it!”
Joel had hardly been listening to him. He believed Francis all right. He wouldn’t come here with a story like that unless he had proof that it was true. But that didn’t make it any better. Searching for a cheroot amongst a mess of paints and sketches on the long board beneath the window, he put one between his teeth and lit it with hands that were no longer steady. Then he stared grimly out of the window for several silent minutes, looking over the rooftops of London to the curve of the Thames in the distance. When he had himself under some semblance of control he turned back to Francis. The younger man had lit a cigarette and was puffing at it nervously, but his expression was defiant when Joel said:
“Tell me what you know,” in low uncompromising tones.
Francis shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m not sure I want to tell you anything,” he muttered.
Joel’s jaw stiffened. “Don’t tempt me, Francis,” he said, in the same low tone. “Now, how do you know it’s — Rachel?”
“I’ve seen her!”
“You’ve — what!”
“I — I’ve seen her. Oh, for God’s sake, Joel, stop looking at me like that! It’s not my — f—fault.”
“Go on. Where did you see her?”
“L—last night. With — with Father! It — it’s true!” This as Joel threw his cheroot to the floor and ground it under his heel. “They — they were — d—dining together.”
“Where?” Joel took a step towards him, and Francis took a step backward.
“At — at — Peruccios. I — I saw them, I tell you.”
Joel moved his head disbelievingly from side to side. “Start at the beginning.”
Francis drew heavily on his cigarette, and blew the smoke into the air above their heads. “Well — well, I’ve — I’ve known for some time that — that there was a woman … oh, yes, I have. Since — since my mother left — I’ve always been able to tell.”
“For the Lord’s sake, get to the point!”
“Well — well, about — about a week ago, Father told me that — that there was someone —”
“But
