Читать книгу A Secret Rebellion - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 8

ALEX’S fingers felt numb.

They shouldn’t have felt numb, he thought irritably, wondering how he could feel so cold on such a warm day. It was absurdly warm for May in England. But the chill he was feeling came from deep within himself.

He wanted to put his hands in his pockets, but standing beside his son’s grave with his hands in his pockets seemed disrespectful somehow. Not that Tony would have reproached him. His son had always been complaining about his father’s concern for doing the right thing.

Well, he wasn’t doing the right thing now, Alex thought bitterly, watching his son’s casket being lowered into a grave in an English churchyard. Tony’s grandfather had wanted—had demanded—that Alex bring Anthony’s body back to Greece for burial. Constantine had wanted his grandson laid to rest beside his wife and his mother, but Alex had ignored him. It was a small thing, a small rebellion, but Tony would defeat his grandfather in death as he had never done in life.

Besides, there was the girl to deal with. Tony’s wife, if that incredible scrap of paper was to be believed. Was she the reason his son had crashed his car? Because Tony had been afraid to tell his father and his grandfather he’d married without their consent?

Alex’s jaw hardened. He couldn’t believe that was so. It was too easy. Too simple a solution for something that surely had a deeper significance. But what? He had racked his brain trying to come up with an answer. He had hoped the girl could tell him. Linda. He tried out the name on his tongue. Linda Daniels—no, Linda Thiarchos. His lips twisted. His daughter-in-law!

The service was ending. Bending to scatter a handful of soil over the mahogany casket, Alex felt a crippling sense of pain. God, he wished he had someone he could turn to right at this moment. Even Lucia—though she was far away in South America, too wrapped up with her new life, and her new family, to spare the time to attend her eldest son’s funeral.

Besides, it was a maudlin wish. He and Lucia had never had anything in common—except their son—and their marriage had ended, as it had begun, in acrimony. Something else he had to thank his father for, he thought wearily. And if he thought Constantine had had a hand in this …

He straightened and, as he did so, his eyes were riveted by the sight of a tall slim woman, standing behind, and to one side, of his son’s wife. He blinked once, twice, and then shook his head, as if the tumult of his emotions had caused some blurring of his vision. But no. She was still there. Across the grave. Her hand resting lightly on the girl’s shoulder, as if offering silent support.

He looked down at the ground, incapable of believing that she was actually there. That Elizabeth Ryan was standing at the other side of the grave. And now, conversely, he hoped she hadn’t recognised him. It was obvious his name meant nothing to her. Alexander Thiarchos was a far cry from plain old Alex Thorpe.

But his fear that she might recognise him had nothing to do with who he was. On the contrary, in the past three months, he had used all the means at his disposal to try and find her. And that had meant employing the whole weight of the Thiarchos name to get a result. But it had been for nothing. As of this morning, he had been no nearer to discovering where she was or why she’d disappeared.

No, his fear now was that she might recognise him, and disappear again. And he wanted to know where she had been hiding. Needed to know, with an intensity that had bordered on the insane sometimes. It wasn’t just that such a thing had never happened to him before— though it hadn’t. No, he was furious that she had treated him like a fool.

He chanced another glance in her direction, keeping his head lowered, looking at her through the dark veil of his lashes. Yes, that was Elizabeth Ryan all right, if indeed that was her name. Good God, after all the money he had spent on private investigators, that she should turn up at his son’s funeral. Who the hell was she? What was she doing here?

The ironic thing was, he’d never once thought of calling his son and asking him if he knew her. It would have been difficult anyway, and it hadn’t occurred to him that Tony might know who she was. Perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps she was just a friend of Linda’s. After all, both Nick and Christina had denied they’d ever invited her to the party.

‘Mr Thiarchos …’

The priest was at his shoulder, offering him his condolences, and Alex was obliged to lift his head to give his thanks. But he turned, so that the priest stood between him and the two women, as he exchanged a few words with the mourners, before they all trooped to their cars.

His brother, George, was there, of course, with his wife, Simone, and their two sons, Nick and George Junior. There were uncles and aunts, a whole army of cousins, and numerous other relatives and friends, who regarded any ceremony, happy or sad, as a reason for getting together.

Only his father was absent. Ostensibly, Constantine was recovering from a cold, but Alex knew the old man had stayed away, in the hope that he would change his mind. But, in this, Alex had been determined to have his own way. Besides, if Tony did have a widow, he defended himself, it would be easier for her to visit his grave if it was here, in London.

He hunched his shoulders. What ought he to do now? In other circumstances, he would have been expected to join his daughter-in-law, and escort her back to the house. But these were not normal circumstances on two counts, and the one conversation he had had with the girl had not been a comfortable affair.

But what the hell? he thought tersely. How was he supposed to react to the news that his twenty-year-old son had been a married man for almost six months? Tony had been wrong. He should have told him. And now Tony was dead, with no chance of conciliation on either side.

Squaring his shoulders, preparing himself to face not only his new daughter-in-law, but also the woman who had haunted his dreams for the past ten weeks, he turned round—and then felt a dizzying sense of disorientation. They’d gone. Linda, and Elizabeth Ryan. While he had been observing the proprieties, they had both disappeared. Lord, he thought, as his stomach hollowed, was he going mad?

‘Something wrong, Uncle Alex?’

It was Nick, and Alex gazed at his nephew with blank unseeing eyes. For a moment, it was beyond his capabilities to get any words past his lips, but then the world around him steadied, and he expelled a nervous breath.

‘I—Linda—she appears to have gone,’ he said, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt, and Nick nodded.

‘I noticed.’

‘You noticed?’ Alex repeated his words harshly, and then, getting himself under control again said, ‘So, perhaps you noticed where they—where she went. I need to speak with her.’

Nick frowned, pushing his hands into the pockets of his dark suit. ‘Is that wise?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘Perhaps you should just let her come to you, if she wants to.’ He paused. ‘Dad thinks you’ve been more than generous letting her come here.’

‘Does he?’ Alex was curt. He didn’t much care what George thought. The fact was, his brother found it a damn sight easier being tough with a woman than he ever did with a man. ‘Well, if you’ve heard that she and I exchanged a few words at the college a week ago, forget it. We both said a lot of things we probably shouldn’t have. And, if she is Tony’s wife—widow—–’

‘Dad says the marriage certificate is authentic.’

‘—then I guess I have to find out what she intends to do, don’t I?’

Nick nodded again. ‘I guess so.’

‘And—whether she had any idea what Tony—–’

Nick shrugged. ‘Do you think she’d tell you? Even if she knew?’

‘She has to talk to someone,’ said Alex flatly, as the image of a slim, startlingly beautiful woman, with silvery blonde hair, flashed across his mind. ‘Come on, Nico, do you know where she’s gone or don’t you?’

‘They might know,’ answered Nick obliquely, gesturing towards a group of young people who were just dispersing from the graveside. ‘They’re students—from the university. They all came down from Yorkshire this morning.’

Alex brought the Mercedes to a halt at the kerb, but although he switched off the engine he didn’t immediately get out of the car. He was tired, he thought wearily, gazing at the lace-curtained windows of the small semi. Bone-tired, and in no mood to conduct any kind of interview. But it had to be done. From what he could gather, Linda was planning on going back to the university in a couple of days. To take her exams, if the students he had spoken to could be believed. How she could think of taking exams in the present circumstances was beyond his comprehension. But if that was what she intended to do, the sooner he spoke to her the better, before time, and his resentment, got in the way.

Not that that was the only reason he had come here tonight, he conceded, hunching his shoulders against an unwilling tide of emotion. He hadn’t left his brother to make his excuses to the rest of the family just because he needed to speak to his daughter-in-law. It was the woman who had accompanied her he needed to see. Forgive me, Tony, he prayed, but his confrontation with Elizabeth Ryan was long overdue.

He glanced at his watch. It was nearly half-past six, but he was surprised to find it was still so early. A whole lifetime seemed to have passed since he’d seen her in the churchyard earlier that afternoon. Since then, he had had only one objective. To see her, and tell her what he thought of her.

He knew his family and friends, his business acquaintances, and the members of his household staff, all thought grief was responsible for the unnatural air of optimism he had adopted throughout the reception that had followed the burial. And perhaps it was. Conversely, during the past week, he had thought of little else but Tony, and the guilt he felt at not being there when his son might have needed him most. He had gone around in a daze, hardly aware of what he was doing. All through the police enquiries, and the inquest that followed, he had felt as if he was living some awful nightmare. Only when he’d spoken to Linda had he let his feelings show.

But now his mind felt active again. Ever since he’d seen Elizabeth Ryan in the churchyard, it had had a new focus. For a period, at least, he could use his anger towards her to blot out the pain of his son’s death. Thinking of her could keep him sane; give his mind time to heal.

Pulling the keys out of the ignition, he thrust open his door and got out of the car. He was still wearing the dark suit and black tie he had worn to the funeral, and his sombre clothes stood out in the quiet street, where most men were in their shirt-sleeves. The warm day had given way to an even warmer evening, and the usual activities of trimming hedges and mowing lawns were much in evidence here.

But not at Number Seventeen, he noticed, locking the car, and approaching the gate. Apart from an upstairs window being open, and a curtain billowing in the gap, the house looked deserted. They were probably all in the back, he decided. Linda, her parents, and—Elizabeth Ryan.

There was no bell, so he knocked on the panels, which were interleaved with strips of fluted glass. An encouragement for thieves, he thought, imagining how easy it would be to break the glass and unlock the door. Would he go that far, if they refused to speak to him?

Deciding his mind was wandering again, he rested one hand against the wall beside the door and knocked again. He should have let Spiro come with him, as George had wanted him to do, he thought. His burly chauffeur could be relied upon to handle most situations. It was only because he hadn’t wanted to intimidate the girl that he had insisted on coming here alone.

At last, when he was seriously considering all alternatives, he heard someone coming along the hall to the door. He could see a shadow through the glass panels, and his stomach clenched in sudden anticipation. What if it was Elizabeth Ryan? he thought, aware that he was not as in control as he’d imagined. God, why did the woman do this to him? He was as apprehensive now as he had been on his first date.

A key turned, the door opened—and his daughter-in-law was standing there, looking at him. ‘Why—Mr Thiarchos!’ she exclaimed, briefly too shocked to show any hostility. And then, less hospitably, ‘What do you want?’

She had been crying, Alex noticed. Her eyes were red, the lids white and puffy. In normal circumstances, he supposed she was a pretty girl. Attractive, anyway, with her wide, mobile mouth, and short brown curly hair. She wasn’t tall, and she was inclined to carry a little weight, but in something other than an oversized T-shirt and worn jeans he guessed she could look quite presentable.

‘I—we need to talk,’ Alex replied at last, looking beyond her into the narrow hall of the house. ‘May I come in?’

Her breath escaped in a rush. ‘Why?’

‘Because I’d prefer not to discuss my private affairs on the doorstep,’ declared Alex evenly, and she raised a protesting hand.

‘No, I don’t mean that. I mean—why do you want to talk to me? I—I don’t think we have anything to say to one another.’

‘Don’t you?’ Alex endeavoured to hold on to his patience. He had to remember that this had to have been almost as hard for her as it had been for him, and he couldn’t rush her. ‘Well, trust me, we do.’