Читать книгу Moon Witch - Anne Mather - Страница 7

THE pretty stewardess came down the aisle of the Super VC 10, and stopped beside the seat of one of her first-class passengers. ‘We’ll be landing in fifteen minutes, Mr. Kyle,’ she said, smiling politely.

The man looked up from the file of papers he had been studying with deep concentration, frowning slightly at the interruption. ‘What? Oh yes, fifteen minutes, thank you.’ He nodded briefly, and returned to his papers, and the stewardess gave an almost imperceptible lift of her shoulders before returning to her position at the rear of the plane. She looked resentfully at her fellow-stewardess and said:

‘Honestly, I don’t know when I’ve ever been so disappointed!’

The other girl smiled questioningly. ‘Why?’

‘Well, having Jarrod Kyle as a passenger, of course. Heavens, the reputation he has I thought he’d at least notice me! As it is, I don’t think he sees me as anything more than part of the fuselage!’

The other girl laughed. ‘And is he attractive?’

The stewardess shrugged. ‘Not particularly. In fact he’s quite unattractive. He has one of those hard, craggy faces; I’m sure his nose has been broken. He’s big, of course, and having hair of that silvery shade is unusual, I suppose, but he’s very thin!’

‘Poor Mr. Kyle,’ said the other girl, still amused. ‘You’re certainly exploding the myth. Which one is he?’

‘I’ll show you, as they leave,’ replied the stewardess tartly, and returned to her duties.

Jarrod Kyle was surprised when the huge airliner landed at London Airport to find both stewardesses appraising him thoroughly. Turning his blue eyes on them, he said: ‘Say, is anything wrong? Did I snore in my sleep or something?’

Both girls gave embarrassed smiles, and one of them said: ‘I hope you enjoyed the flight, Mr. Kyle.’

Nodding, he shrugged his broad shoulders and walked down the catwalk into the airport buildings. As he disappeared, one of the girls looked exasperatedly at the other. ‘Did you say he wasn’t attractive!’ she exclaimed.

Meanwhile, Jarrod Kyle was given V.I.P. clearance of Customs and carrying his briefcase, his overcoat slung over one shoulder, he crossed the reception hall to where John Matthews, his personal assistant, was waiting for him. ‘Hi, Matt,’ he said warmly.

‘Good to see you, Jarrod. Did you have a good holiday?’ responded Matt, grinning.

‘Fine,’ Jarrod nodded, falling into step beside the other man. ‘Plenty of fishing—the way I like it.’

‘Catch anything?’ Matt glanced his way.

‘Depends what you mean,’ remarked Jarrod dryly. ‘How’s the old man?’

‘J.K.? Oh, he’s okay, I guess. Are you driving up there tonight?’

Jarrod glanced at his watch. ‘I guess so. It’s after five-thirty—let’s go have a drink and you can tell me what’s been happening.’

Matt looked at him thoughtfully. ‘I think that would be a good idea, Jarrod,’ he agreed mildly, pushing open the door of the bar.

Over whisky on the rocks, the way Jarrod liked it, Matt said: ‘There’s been quite an unexpected bombshell, actually. Want to hear about it?’

Jarrod lit a cigar. ‘Of course,’ he said, his eyes narrowing. ‘Not the Bradford merger?’

‘No,’ Matt shook his head. ‘That deal went through all right. J.K. handled it himself. I guess he thought he ought to pick up the reins in your absence, so to speak. I don’t think he’ll ever completely retire, do you?’

Jarrod took his cigar out and studied the glowing tip. ‘So? What’s this bombshell? Don’t keep me in suspense, Matt.’

Matt swallowed a mouthful of whisky before replying. ‘You might find it amusing,’ he said. ‘You seem to have got yourself a ward, unless your solicitors can extract you from the involvement, which, knowing them, I guess they will.’

Jarrod stared at him curiously. ‘A ward? What the hell are you talking about? A ward!’ he looked exasperated. ‘What kind of ward? A hospital ward? A political thing? What?’

‘No, Jarrod, nothing like that! A ward—a kid, you know!’

‘You mean like I’ve been made guardian to some kid?’ Jarrod looked astounded.

‘Something like that!’ Matt grinned. ‘Quaint, isn’t it?’

Jarrod swallowed his whisky at a gulp, and ordered another. ‘I don’t know what in hell you’re talking about, Matt. Come on, let’s have it. From the top!’

Matt twisted his glass round in his fingers. ‘It’s quite simple, really, Jarrod. Some old guy has made you his granddaughter’s guardian, till she’s twenty-one. Or eighteen, maybe. I’m not too sure about that.’

Jarrod was growing impatient. ‘What old guy?’ he asked shortly.

Matt looked amused. ‘A man called Jeffrey Robins. He died a couple of weeks ago.’

‘Jeffrey Robins!’ Jarrod looked blank. ‘Do I know him—or should I say—did I know him?’

Matt shook his head. ‘Unlikely,’ he replied, ‘he was a foreman in the Bridchester warehouse for forty years before he died.’

Jarrod breathed down his nose hard. ‘Matt, I’m warning you——’

Matt laughed. ‘Hold it, Jarrod, don’t blame me! It’s not my pigeon. Your father knows all about it. He used to know Jeffrey Robins.’

‘At last! The first bit of information. How did my father know him?’

‘Well, I believe they began in the textile trade together, years ago, but when J.K. left to start his own company, they lost touch. Then in the war they met again, and I believe it was during the early fifties when your father moved the head office to London they lost touch again.’

‘I still don’t understand, Matt. If J.K. knew him so well, why didn’t he make my father this kid’s guardian? And where are her own parents, anyway?’

Matt accepted his second whisky. ‘Well, it’s like this, you see, Jarrod, old man Robins made the chairman of Kyle Textiles his granddaughter’s guardian. He wasn’t to know your father would have to retire and give the chairmanship over to you when he was only fifty-eight.’

Jarrod stubbed out his cigar savagely. ‘My God!’ he said, shaking his head. ‘That was eight years ago!’

‘Yes, well, like I said, he was out of touch. I don’t suppose he expected to die so suddenly—after all, he was only sixty-eight himself.’

‘I see.’ Jarrod thrust his arms into the sleeves of his overcoat. ‘What a goddamned situation! And what about this kid’s parents? Where are they?’

‘Her mother died in childbirth, and the father got himself killed in an earthquake in South America. He worked for an insurance agency or something.’

‘Ah!’ Jarrod nodded, chewing his lip thoughtfully. ‘Oh well, come on, Matt. You can tell me more on our way to town.’

Outside the warm brilliance of the airport buildings a chilly fog had descended, making a damp January evening even more dismal. Jarrod turned up the collar of his coat, and glanced cheerfully at Matt. ‘I guess I should have stayed away longer. Who in hell would want to come back to London from Jamaica at this time of the year? I must be crazy!’

Matt allowed Jarrod to slide behind the wheel of the huge Mercedes that awaited them. ‘You know fine you can’t keep away,’ he remarked dryly. ‘It’s in your blood: high finance, boardrooms, mergers, take-overs; you name it, you can do it!’

Jarrod shrugged, turning the car expertly on to the main thoroughfare. ‘You make me sound like a machine,’ he remarked wryly.

Matt grinned, glancing out of the windows at the heavy gloom, illuminated by the orange glow of fog-lamps. ‘You’re far from that, Jarrod, thank God!’ he said, with enthusiasm. ‘Sometimes your father would say—too far!’

Jarrod gave a short laugh. ‘Jealousy, that’s all, Matt. The old man was never able to settle for a quiet life. He’d love to have been born thirty years later.’

Matt laughed now. ‘Oh yes, one of the jet set, eh? Dolly birds, fast cars, the dolce vita!’

‘Something like that,’ agreed Jarrod, pressing his foot down on the accelerator. ‘Tell me about the child now. What is she like?’

Matt shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea. I haven’t seen her. I only know she’s still at school.’

Jarrod raised his eyes heavenward. ‘And what does the old man say we do?’

‘I think he’s waiting for you to come home to discuss it. He wanted to bring you back sooner, but I persuaded him you needed a holiday.’

‘Thanks,’ said Jarrod dryly. ‘That’s what I was wondering about. It’s not like J.K. to hold back on me. He doesn’t usually pull his punches.’

‘No, well, anyway, you’ll hear all about it soon enough. He expects you to drive up to Malthorpe tonight.’

‘Does he? Yes, well, maybe I’ll take a rain check on that,’ said Jarrod, swinging round a jay-walking pedestrian.

‘Do you think you should? You know—his blood-pressure——’

‘All right, all right,’ muttered Jarrod impatiently. ‘All right, Matt, we’ll just call at the apartment and leave my things for Hastings, What a life! Six weeks in Jamaica, and within an hour of arriving back in this country I feel as though I’ve never been away.’

Malthorpe in the Forest was in Yorkshire, a comfortable village not far from the textile mills of Leeds and Bradford where the Kyle empire had had its source. Now, with factories in most of the larger countries of the world, it was an international organisation whose head office was in London. Jarrod’s father had founded the business before the Second World War and even he had had no idea of the impact his materials, carpets and designs would have on the rest of the world.

Jarrod and Matt arrived at the outskirts of Malthorpe late in the evening of the same day. J.K., as Jarrod’s father was always called, liked the kind of country squireship he had assumed upon buying the old country home of the Malthorpe family, all of whom were now only remembered by the gravestones in the cemetery beside the village church. Malthorpe Hall was large and sprawling, without much elegance of design outside. Its part-Georgian façade had been added to by succeeding generations without much discrimination and in consequence it now belonged to no period. Inside, Jarrod’s father had installed every kind of modern convenience. The large rooms suited his expansive personality, and he had spared nothing to make it the most talked about house in the district, much envied and admired by his friends and acquaintances. It stood in thickly wooded grounds, which stretched for some distance across the fields that gave on to the open moors. A high fence prevented would-be sightseers from getting too close, and as Jarrod approached its entrance he was forced to stop and identify himself to Hedley, the lodge-keeper.

‘Well, we’re in,’ he remarked dryly to Matt, as the car sped up the dark tree-lined drive. ‘It gets a little more like Fort Knox every time I come!’

‘Your father is afraid someone will steal his precious antiques,’ said Matt, as Jarrod brought the car to a halt in the gravelled courtyard before the front doors. ‘And every new piece he gets adds to his collection.’

‘And to his nerves,’ said Jarrod, sliding out of the car. ‘God, it’s cold! Have you had any snow yet?’

‘No, not yet. And it’s not that cold, Jarrod. It’s not even freezing, or you wouldn’t have been able to go as fast as you did on the motorway.’

‘Want a bet?’ asked Jarrod, mockingly, as the doors opened and light flooded out on to them. ‘Hello, Morris. On cue as ever!’

The uniformed butler bowed politely. ‘Good evening, Mr. Jarrod. I trust you’ve had a good journey.’

Jarrod nodded, walking round to the rear of the Mercedes and opening the boot. ‘Fine. How’s my father?’ He extracted his cases easily.

Morris came forward and took the cases from him firmly. ‘Your father is quite well, Mr. Jarrod. He is waiting for you in the library. Will you be wanting any supper, sir?’

Jarrod mounted the steps followed closely by Matt, carrying his briefcase and overcoat. ‘No, thanks, not tonight. See you later, Matt.’

Matt nodded and turned to follow Morris up the stairs to the first landing. Jarrod crossed the wide hall, and entered a room on the far side. The hall was lit by an exquisite crystal chandelier and Jarrod heard the prisms tinkling slightly in the sudden draught from the front door. The hall was carpeted in dark blue and gold, the balustrade of the staircase echoing the gold in filigree work overlaying the mellowed panelling which Jarrod’s father had retained. The library which he entered was carpeted in dark green, its walls lined with hundreds of hidebound books that Jarrod was sure his father had never even opened. J.K. was not a scholarly man, his success had been due to his hard work and personality, and he was not content to sit back and let someone else handle all the action. Unfortunately, a severe heart attack eight years ago had convinced him that to carry on living at the rate he was doing would kill him inside a year, so he had handed over the chairmanship of the Kyle companies to his son Jarrod, with the intention of retaining an active role in its administration. However, he had acted without thought to Jarrod’s own part in the proceedings, and found that his son could be as obstinate as he was. Thus, Jarrod took complete control of the business, only consulting his father rarely, much to J.K.’s chagrin. Now, though, he found he admired his son immensely, and what he had done was no less than he would have done in his place.

Tonight J.K. was sitting beside a roaring fire, smoking a cigar and drinking some superlative cognac from a balloon glass as his son entered. Although the whole house was centrally heated, J.K. insisted that he retained the fire in the library. He looked up as Jarrod entered, and smiled warmly.

‘Well, hello, Jarrod,’ he said, nodding to the chair opposite him. ‘Come and sit down! Is it freezing outside?’

‘Not according to Matt,’ remarked Jarrod, pouring himself some brandy and taking the seat his father indicated. ‘But it’s bloody cold!’

J.K. laughed. ‘You’ve grown soft, out there in the Caribbean. Don’t know how you stand the heat myself. Give me a crisp autumn day and a good fire, and I’m content.’

‘You’re getting old, J.K.,’ said Jarrod deliberately, and laughed when his father looked annoyed. ‘Say, but let’s not waste time on trivialities; what’s all this about some kid I’m guardian to?’

J.K. drew on his cigar, nodding. ‘Yes, Sara Robins. Old Jeff’s granddaughter!’

‘But this is crazy, isn’t it?’ Jarrod looked impatient, running a hand through the silvery hair which grew low on the back of his neck. ‘Hell, how did he come to make you his granddaughter’s guardian?’

‘Not me, you!’ said J.K. with some satisfaction. ‘You, Jarrod! The chairman of Kyle Textiles!’

‘That’s only a formality,’ muttered Jarrod, chewing his cigar. ‘You know damn fine it was you, and not me, he was talking about. Anyway, you still haven’t explained.’

J.K. shrugged his broad shoulders. He was like his son; he had the same thick hair, but his was iron grey, and his features were more deeply carved. Also, his eyes were grey; Jarrod got his unusual eyes from his mother. ‘When I was a young man, Jeff and I were good friends. I guess when his daughter and son-in-law both died he felt disturbed for the child’s welfare. After all, his own wife died during the war, he must have felt the girl was completely alone.’

‘But why pick on you? For the money?’

J.K.’s lips curled. ‘If you had known Jeff Robins you wouldn’t say a thing like that. He was the most honest, upstanding man I know. If he had wanted money he could have had it. I offered him plenty of chances one way and another. No, Jarrod, it must just have been a kind of hopeful desperation, I guess. I don’t think he knew about his heart condition, or if he did, he didn’t broadcast it. I guess he hoped to be around till Sara was old enough to find herself a man and get married.’ He sighed. ‘But it wasn’t to be!’

‘And the child, have you seen her? Since her grandfather died, I mean.’

‘I’ve never seen her,’ said his father, lying back in his chair reflectively. ‘I suppose I ought to have gone over to Bridchester this past week, but I thought I’d wait——’

‘And let me do it,’ said Jarrod dryly. ‘Clever!’

His father grinned. ‘Well, Jarrod, you did insist on taking over every part of my duties. How was I to know you wouldn’t object to me interfering?’

‘Crafty devil!’ muttered Jarrod, walking across to help himself to another drink. ‘Okay, okay, what are we doing about it?’ He leant against a table, looking at his father. ‘Seriously!’

His father frowned. ‘Well, I guess it would be an easy matter to contest the will. After all, it wouldn’t be difficult to prove that it was I, and not you, who ought to be the—how shall I put it?—trustee! And as I’m now retired, I imagine that would absolve our responsibilities legally.’ He rocked the liquid in his glass. ‘Besides, the will was made without our consent, and I suppose that means something.’

Jarrod heaved a sigh. ‘What a situation! What will happen to the kid if we do—absolve ourselves?’

‘I suppose she’ll be put into a foster home, or something. Unless we provide funds to keep her until she’s capable of keeping herself.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘Staying with a neighbour, but as this neighbour has seven children of her own she’s made it plain, to the solicitors at least, that it can’t be a lasting arrangement.’

‘Poor kid!’ Jarrod swallowed the remainder of his brandy. ‘Well, I suppose you expect me to go see her.’

‘One of us has to,’ said his father, leaning forward. ‘After all, it’s only the decent thing to do.’

‘And then what?’ Jarrod stood down his glass, and loosened the top button of his shirt. ‘That’s better,’ he sighed. ‘I guess the best thing is to provide for her, isn’t it?’

His father shrugged. ‘I have a fancy to see Jeff’s granddaughter, Jarrod. Bring her here, to see me.’

Jarrod raised his dark eyebrows. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, I mean, you’re going to bring a kid here, to see—well—all this, and then put her back in her place! Don’t you think it’s likely to make her discontented?’

‘Not if she’s Jeff’s granddaughter,’ replied J.K. firmly. ‘He’ll have seen she has both feet on the ground.’

‘Anyway, how old is she?’ Jarrod frowned. ‘You never did get round to that.’

J.K. shrugged. ‘I’m not exactly sure. Fifteen or so, I think.’

‘Fifteen!’ Jarrod glared at him. ‘Fifteen. Don’t you realise that girls of fifteen are practically grown up!’

His father narrowed his eyes. ‘How do you know that, Jarrod? Or are your tastes in women changing?’

Jarrod threw the end of his cigar on the fire. ‘If anyone else had said that to me …’ he said harshly.

‘I know, I know.’ His father rose to his feet. ‘Nevertheless, you have known plenty of women, and maybe you’re right. Maybe she’s not a child after all. If this is the case, it would make our job easier. Unless …’ J.K. looked thoughtful. ‘I always wanted a daughter, Jarrod,’ he said reflectively. ‘Oh, I know I wanted a son—but afterwards——’ He sighed.

Jarrod walked to the door, stretching. ‘Oh, brother,’ he said with some sarcasm. ‘The brandy must be making you maudlin. I’m tired. I’m going to bed. Sleep on it, and let me know what you’ve decided in the morning.’

His father compressed his lips, looking annoyed. ‘All right, Jarrod, you’ve made your point,’ he said shortly. ‘How hard you are!’

Jarrod looked back at the slightly stooped figure of his father and repented. ‘I’m as you’ve made me, J.K.,’ he said slowly. ‘In your own image!’

Sara Robins walked home from school with Brian Mason, the eldest son of Mrs. Mason, who had been her grandfather’s neighbour for over fifteen years. It was with them that Sara was staying, while her future plans were considered. Although it was only a little over two weeks since her grandfather’s death, Sara felt as though a lifetime had gone by.

The reading of the will, and the discovery that her grandfather had placed her virtually in the care of a complete stranger had come as a shock to her. If she had ever considered her grandfather’s health, she had never dreamed that he might collapse before she had left school and got herself a job. Somehow he had always seemed so young, so robust, that he had never invited any anxiety about his condition. It was only now that Sara realised he must have had some warning of the heart disease he had suffered.

Mrs. Mason and her husband, who always seemed such a meek, long-suffering little man, compared to his domineering wife, had been very kind, but Sara knew that she could not stay with the Masons indefinitely. Accommodation was limited, and at the moment she was sleeping on a camp-bed in their sitting-room. The house next door had been put up for sale, but it was not expected that they would get much for it. Such furniture as had been suitable had been taken to the saleroom, and Sara averted her eyes when she passed the blank empty windows.

A huge cream car was standing at the Masons’ gate this afternoon and Brian said: ‘Gosh! It’s a Mercedes, Sara! It must be someone from that man—that Mr. Kyle, for you!’

Sara shook her head, her mouth suddenly dry. Since the solicitors had first advised her of that clause in the will she had deliberately put all thoughts of it out of her mind. Now, seeing the cream Mercedes, it all came flooding back, and with it a frightening sense of panic.

Brian was looking at her strangely. ‘What’s wrong? You’ve gone all white, Sara! Heavens, there’s nothing to be scared about. I wish it was me that was going to be involved with a man like that—as rich as that!’

Sara looked scornfully at him. ‘Money! Is that all you can think about? I feel like a bartered object—like something at the saleroom!’

Brian laughed. ‘Well, you don’t look like one, Sara. Wait until he sees you. He’ll probably turn out to be a real sugar-daddy!’

‘You mean a dirty old man,’ said Sara gloomily.

‘Is he old?’

‘Well, it stands to reason, he must be,’ exclaimed Sara. ‘He was Grandfather’s contemporary!’

‘Y–e–s,’ said Brian slowly. ‘Well, come on, let’s go and see!’

They entered the narrow hall of the Masons’ house. There was the low murmur of voices coming from the sitting-room, and Sara looked apprehensively at Brian. He grinned cheerfully at her, and then the sitting-room door opened and Mrs. Mason came out. When she saw Sara she quickly closed the door, and came across to her.

‘Mr. Kyle’s here to see you,’ she whispered conspiratorially. ‘At least he says he’s Mr. Kyle. He’s much younger than I expected, and of course, I didn’t like to ask questions.’

Sara reserved her own opinion. Mrs. Mason was not the type of person not to ask questions, and it could only mean that Mr. Kyle had not appeased her by answering them.

‘He’s waiting to see you,’ went on Mrs. Mason, as Sara did not reply. ‘Do you want me to come in with you?’

Sara bit her lip. ‘Er—no, I don’t think so, Mrs. Mason,’ she said awkwardly.

Mrs. Mason stiffened and folded her arms across her ample breast. ‘Well, of course, if that’s what you want, Sara,’ she said reproachfully.

Sara moved her shoulders. ‘I—I think it would be best, Mrs. Mason.’

‘Very well. Come along, Brian.’ Mrs. Mason swept off along the hall towards the kitchen, and sighing, Sara walked to the sitting-room door. Gathering up her small store of courage she opened the door, and walked in, closing it firmly behind her.

A man rose from his seat in a low armchair at her entrance. He was tall and lean, with crinkly, ash-blond hair that persisted in lying over his forehead, despite his attempts to brush it back. His face was tanned a deep brown, as though he had just spent several weeks in the sun, while he had the bluest eyes she had ever seen. He was not handsome, she thought nervously, but he was certainly no contemporary of her grandfather’s.

If she was surprised at his appearance, he seemed no less surprised at hers. ‘You are Sara Robins?’ he exclaimed.

Sara swallowed hard. ‘Yes, Mr. Kyle. I’m Sara Robins.’

‘How old are you?’

Sara shrugged. ‘Um—well—seventeen, actually,’ she faltered.

‘Seventeen! I see.’ He drew out a cigar case. ‘Do you mind?’ and as she shook her head, he took a cigar out and lit it. ‘My—my father thought you were perhaps fifteen. Instead, you——’ He halted. ‘Are you planning to leave school soon?’

‘I suppose I can leave when I like,’ replied Sara carefully, studying her fingernails. ‘When—when Grandfather was alive I did intend to go on to take “A” levels, but now …’ Her voice trailed away.

He moved impatiently, and gave her a strange look. ‘Well, Sara Robins, haven’t you any questions you want to ask me?’

Sara was taken aback. ‘You—you’re younger than I expected.’

‘Well, maybe so.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Your grandfather made a slight error of judgement. He left your future in the hands of the chairman of Kyle Textiles expecting my father still to be in that position.’

‘Your father!’ Sara stared at him. ‘You mean—it was your father who knew my grandfather!’

‘That’s right. Unfortunately, my father retired eight years ago through ill health. I am now the chairman of Kyle Textiles. My name is Jarrod Kyle, too.’

‘Oh, I see!’ Sara’s expression cleared. ‘That explains it.’

‘Yes, to you perhaps,’ remarked Jarrod thoughtfully, his eyes appraising her very thoroughly, so that Sara felt uncomfortable under his scrutiny. This was definitely a situation her grandfather had not envisaged when he added that awful clause to the will. ‘Tell me,’ went on Jarrod, ‘do you have any relations at all?’

Sara flushed. ‘No,’ she replied, nervously brushing back the swathe of heavy chestnut hair that swung silkily to her shoulders.

‘And what would you have done had that particular clause not been added to your grandfather’s will?’

Her flush deepened. She had the feeling he was being slightly sardonic, even though his expression had not changed. ‘I—I suppose I should have left school immediately and got a job,’ she said defensively.

‘As what?’

She shrugged awkwardly. ‘I don’t know—in an office, or perhaps as a trainee nurse! The nursing profession always appealed to me.’

‘Hmn!’ He seemed to grow tired of this questioning, and turned away, walking to the window overlooking the sparse patch of lawn in front of the small house. ‘Nevertheless, the clause was added, so’—he swung round again—‘collect your coat. We’re leaving!’

‘Leaving?’ Sara’s greenish-hazel eyes were wide. ‘Leaving?’

‘Only temporarily, for the moment,’ he replied smoothly. ‘My father wants to meet you. Afterwards—well, afterwards we shall see!’ he finished enigmatically.

Sara wanted to argue with him. She wanted to say she knew nothing about him and that she didn’t want to leave all that was known and familiar to her for some unknown destination, but her position was too nebulous, too helpless, for her to be intrepid enough to argue with the chairman of Kyle Textiles. He might not be as old as her grandfather, but he was obviously in his thirties, or thereabouts, and that seemed a great age to someone who was only seventeen. So she gave him a reluctant nod and went to explain the position to Mrs. Mason.

The white Mercedes was superbly comfortable, and even after Jarrod had left Bridchester and was moving swiftly along the road towards Malthorpe in the Forest she felt little sensation of speed. In fact she was a little bemused by the whole operation, and couldn’t help but see it in the light of a crazy dream that could not be substantiated with fact.

Jarrod Kyle was wearing a dark lounge suit, a thick fur-collared overcoat overall, and even with her limited experience of life and material possessions, she could tell his clothes were expensively tailored. Her own fur-collared blue tweed, which she had donned in preference to her dark school duffle coat, looked cheap and inelegant by comparison, and she felt faint stirrings of alarm when she contemplated meeting Jarrod Kyle senior. His son was intimidating enough for both of them. He did not seem particularly pleased about something, she thought, and as she had little to go on she could only assume it had something to do with her.

She sighed, and he glanced her way. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘have you spent any time away from Bridchester?’

Sara frowned thoughtfully. ‘Only on holidays,’ she answered. ‘I’ve been to Blackpool twice, and to London, and once we went to Hastings.’

‘I see. You’ve never been abroad, I gather.’

‘No, I’m afraid not.’ She looked across at him solemnly. ‘I—I suppose you have.’

‘Some,’ he replied non-committally, and Sara realised it had been a stupid, childish question to a man like him. ‘What are your interests, then?’ he was asking now. ‘What do you do when you’re not at school?’

She frowned. ‘Well—I like reading, of course, and records, and occasionally Grandfather used to take me to the theatre in Leeds, or even a cinema.’

‘What is your favourite subject at school?’

‘Do you mean my favourite subject—or the one I’m best at?’ she asked candidly.

He looked half-amused. ‘Is there a difference?’

‘Yes. My favourite subject is English Lit., but I’m best at art.’

‘Art!’ Jarrod sounded surprised. ‘And don’t you like art?’

‘Well, I passed in “O” level, and I quite like messing about, but Miss Finch, our art teacher, is a bit of a—well——’ She was obviously stumped for a suitable word. ‘Anyway, nobody likes her, so I suppose that’s why I’m not keen on art,’ she finished, sighing.

Jarrod swung the car off the main road on to a minor road which led to Malthorpe in the Forest. As the wheel slid expertly through his hands, Sara noticed the length of his fingers. Long and tanned, they looked hard, capable hands, a broad gold signet ring inset with a huge ruby on the little finger of the right.

It was quite dark when they halted at the lodge gates and Jarrod sounded the horn which brought Hedley to the gate. Sara looked at him again and trembled a little.

Jarrod, as though aware of her nervousness, said: ‘Don’t be alarmed. This is routine procedure. My father has a valuable collection of antiques which he wants to protect.’

‘I see.’ Sara bit her lip. Even in the gloom the place had an air of grandeur to which she was not accustomed, and the thought of the interview ahead filled her with trepidation.

The car halted before the front doors which opened as if by magic. ‘That is our butler, Morris,’ murmured Jarrod, rather mockingly, glancing her way. ‘I’m convinced he has installed radar in the kitchen quarters so that he knows when any car is within a certain radius.’

Sara couldn’t prevent the smile that lifted the corners of her mouth. Although Jarrod had said nothing to reassure her, his manner was more relaxed, probably because he’s got me off his hands, she thought uncharitably, and he seemed to be trying to relax her also. As Jarrod slid out, she got out too without waiting for anyone’s assistance, and stood looking awkwardly at the tall, imposing figure of Alister Morris.

‘Good evening, Mr. Jarrod,’ he was saying smoothly. ‘Your father is waiting for you in the lounge.’

‘Thank you, Morris.’ Jarrod mounted the steps easily, and then looked back at Sara standing lost and alone at the foot of the steps. ‘Come on, Sara Robins. Surely you’re not afraid!’ His tone was mocking.

Sara stiffened and climbed the steps too. ‘No, Mr. Kyle, I’m not afraid,’ she said tautly, and he smiled sardonically.

‘Are you not? Then you must indeed be unique. I would have thought these circumstances might represent quite an ordeal to a child like yourself.’

Sara followed Jarrod inside the entrance on to the luxurious blue carpeting of the wide hall. She looked about her in wonder for a moment, and then turned her attention to Jarrod, who was watching her with undisguised sarcasm.

‘My grandfather used to say that only a fool was afraid,’ she said in small clear voice. ‘A coward dies as swiftly as a brave man.’

Jarrod bowed his head in mocking salute to her comments. ‘I think your grandfather had quite a lot to commend him,’ he said. ‘After all, it’s not every man who thinks to endow his granddaughter with the richest guardian available!’

Sara stared at him in shocked surprise. ‘What do you mean by that, Mr. Kyle?’ she exclaimed.

‘My son is a cynic, Sara,’ said a voice from behind her. ‘I heard you arrive, my dear. Welcome to Malthorpe Hall.’