reaction from him? Or perhaps that was exactly what she wanted to achieve. The idea struck him forcibly, leaving him cold with anger. And no doubt his father was a willing accomplice.
Yet still he couldn’t believe it. But what other conclusion could he draw? He turned his head restlessly into the pillow and wished he had had that last drink in the bar. A strong double whisky might have soothed his nerves, dulled the sharp edge of exhaustion that was keeping him awake, cast into oblivion the destructive desire for revenge which was tearing him apart.
AT breakfast the next morning it was a simple matter to ask Mrs. Harris where the Old Hall was situated.
“Colonel Frenshaw’s place?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “You’re a friend of his, Mr. Kingdom?”
Joel attacked his grapefruit with more determination than enthusiasm. “Not exactly, Mrs. Harris. I — er — I do know someone who works for him, though.”
“Oh, that would be Mr. Hanson, would it, sir?”
Joel’s head jerked up. Pushing the straight hair off his forehead, he frowned. “Hanson? No, I know no one of that name, Mrs. Harris.”
Mrs. Harris pursed her lips. “Oh, don’t you?” she shrugged. “I thought as how you might. Mr. Hanson, he’s the Colonel’s secretary, see. Educated young chap, he is. Gets in here sometimes of a weekend.”
Joel’s frown deepened. “Indeed?” He hesitated. “No. The person — the person I know is, I believe, Colonel Frenshaw’s housekeeper.”
Mrs. Harris’s face cleared, but she was surprised, and looked it. “Young Mrs. Gilmour?” she exclaimed.
Joel looked down at the grapefruit again. “That’s right.”
Mrs. Harris raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know the young lady, except to say hello to. She doesn’t come in here, and being the publican’s wife, I don’t get out a lot.”
“No, of course not.” Joel’s brain was working furiously. “Are — are there other — members of staff? At the Hall, I mean?”
“Not as I know of, sir. There’s just the Colonel, and Mr., Hanson, and Mrs. Gilmour, of course. Oh, and the little girl Sara.”
Joel felt his nerves prickle. “Mrs. — Gilmour’s — child?”
“Yes. But of course, you’d know that.”
Joel made no reply. So the child was a girl, Sara. He shook his head. He couldn’t imagine Rachel being old enough to be a mother. And yet…
“You were going to tell me where the Old Hall is situated,” he reminded Mrs. Harris.
She nodded, taking away the half eaten dish of grapefruit and replacing it with a plate of ham, eggs, sausages and tomatoes. Ordinarily Joel would have done full justice to such a meal, but this morning after his restless night, the fried breakfast looked nauseating. Nevertheless, he had to make an effort, and tackled the bacon first.
“If you follow the Cragstone road for about a mile, you’ll come across it, sir. On your left. You can’t miss it. It’s the only house for miles.”
“Thank you.”
Joel poured himself some coffee and drank slowly. It was half past eight. Was nine o’clock too early to go calling? He had contemplated telephoning first, but dismissed the idea. He wanted to see Rachel’s face when she saw him. He wanted to feel the surge of satisfaction that would come when he confronted her with his contempt.
He ate sparingly, much to Mrs. Harris’s disappointment, but he thanked her warmly for the meal and her hospitality, and added a not ungenerous gratuity to the bill. Then he collected his belongings from his room and carried them out to the car.
It was an unexpectedly mild morning for early March, and he decided to stow his sheepskin coat in the boot and wear instead the jacket that matched his dark blue suede pants. Sliding his arms into the sleeves of his jacket, he surveyed the village square with more enthusiasm. Seen in the light of a strengthening sun, it had a certain charm which he had missed the night before. He noticed that there were daffodils and narcissi growing in every available patch of earth, and all the buildings had a scrubbed, well-cared-for appearance. A couple of dogs were scratching beside the drinking fountain that formed part of the wall that edged the churchyard, and even as he stood there the church clock chimed the hour. He glanced quickly at his watch. The time had come, and he wished he felt more prepared for it.
Unlocking the door, he slid behind the wheel of the Mercedes sports. The engine fired at the first flick of his wrist, and a faint smile of satisfaction momentarily dispelled the deep lines beween his brows.
With Mrs. Harris’s directions, it was not difficult to find the Cragstone road, and not far outside the village he came upon a rambling stone building which could only be the Old Hall. Smoke drifted from chimneys so obviously someone was up and about, and an old station wagon was parked on the forecourt. Rusty wrought iron gates hung half off their hinges leaving the entrance wide for anyone to drive through. Joel had stopped just outside the gates, undecided whether to leave the car there or not, but then, with a characteristic shrug of his shoulders, he released the brake and drove between the gateposts, and cruised along the gravel drive to stop beside the station wagon.
His arrival aroused no immediate response beyond a halfhearted barking from the back of the house. He got out of the car and stood for a moment looking up at the blank windows. So this was where Rachel had lived — how long? The last two — three years, maybe? He flexed his shoulder muscles. Since her husband died, no doubt. Francis had said she was a widow. And Gilmour? Who was Gilmour? What had this man been who had married her so briefly? Why had she married him? Because she loved him? If so, love came more easily to her than it had done to him…
He flung the thoughts aside, and walked round the two vehicles to the porch. A bellrope invited usage, and with a tautening of his stomach muscles, he pulled, hard. The sound echoed and re-echoed throughout the house and he hoped that no one was sleeping in there. The noise would awaken the dead.
He waited. For a few minutes he began to think that either no one was in or no one was up. But the smoking chimneys and the station wagon seemed to negate such an idea. And indeed, after an interminable time footsteps sounded across the hall beyond the half fluted glass door and presently it was opened. A young man stood regarding him expectantly, a thin, reddish-haired young man, with a small beard and moustache that were no doubt intended to give his face maturity. “Yes?”
Joel was taken aback. He had half expected Rachel to open the door, and now she hadn’t he was temporarily speechless. Then he gathered himself, and said shortly: “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Gilmour.”
“Rachel?”
The young man raised his eyebrows, and there was a touch of hostility in the way he said her name. Joel felt a ridiculous temptation to grab him by his collar and demand whether he had been given the right to use her Christian name, but instead he replied: “Yes, that’s right. Rachel.”
The young man was definitely hostile now. “I’m afraid she’s busy at the moment,” he said. “Perhaps you could call back later.”
Joel
