Читать книгу Innocent Sins - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 8

OLIVER awakened with a thumping headache.

For a while he lay quite still, trying to work out where he was and how he came to be there. He couldn’t understand why his room felt so cold. It didn’t get this cold in Malaysia. And if he wasn’t there why couldn’t he hear the steady hum of the Knightsbridge traffic? Despite double-glazing, he was always aware of the heart of the city, beating away just yards from Mostyn Square.

Then he remembered. Remembered, too, why his head was pounding as if there were a pile driver in his skull. He was in Wales; at Penmadoc, not in London. And it was the fact that he’d consumed the best part of a bottle of Scotch before falling into bed in the early hours that accounted for his hangover.

He groaned. He should have had more sense. But after seeing Laura again and learning why his mother had been so desperate to get in touch with him he’d needed something to fortify his strength.

The will…

Levering himself up on his elbows, he endeavoured to survey the room without feeling sick. But the bed swayed alarmingly, and although he swung his feet on to the floor he had to hold on to the mattress to keep his balance. Dammit, he was too old to be suffering this kind of nonsense. In future, he’d sustain himself with mineral water and nothing else.

Cursing whatever fate had decreed he should return to England at this particular moment in time, he got to his feet. Then, steadying himself on the chest of drawers beside his wardrobe, he shuffled across the room like an old man.

Despite a lengthy exploration, there were no painkillers in the bathroom cabinet. The light in there was blinding. He hadn’t thought to pull down the blind the night before and the brilliance of sun on snow was the equivalent of a knife being driven into his temple. It was the kind of light he usually only saw through a filter, but right now the idea of estimating aperture, shutter speeds and distance was quite beyond his capabilities.

‘For God’s sake,’ he muttered, jerking on the cord, only to have the blind rattle up again at lightning speed. He swore again, grabbing the cord and repeating the procedure. ‘This is just what I need.’

At least the water was hot and he stepped into the shower cubicle and ran the spray at a crippling pressure. He hadn’t looked at his watch yet, but he guessed it must be after nine o’clock. He could have done with a cup of Thomas’s strong black coffee. Instead, he would probably have to make do with the instant variety which was all Laura’s aunt ever had.

Fifteen minutes later, dressed in black trousers and a chunky Aran sweater, workmanlike boots over thick socks keeping his feet warm, he left the room. His hair was still damp and he hadn’t shaved, but he doubted anyone would notice. If his mother was still in the same state she’d been in the night before, his appearance was the least of his troubles. So long as she felt she could rely on his support in her conflict with Laura, she’d avoid doing anything to upset him.

Despite the intensive-heating programme his mother had inaugurated over the years, the corridors and hall at Penmadoc remained persistently chilly. Why Stella should want to stay here when she could buy herself a cosy apartment in Carmarthen or Llanelli, he couldn’t imagine. He found it hard to believe that she was so attached to the old place. There had to be more to it than that.

The stairs creaked as he descended them, but at least the fire had been lighted in the hall below. Flames crackled up the blackened chimney, and the logs split and splintered in the massive grate. Years ago, he supposed, the hall would have been the focal point of the whole house. According to Griff, parts of Penmadoc dated from the sixteenth century, but so much had been added on to the original structure that its origins were hard to define.

He had paused to warm his hands at the fire when a dark-clad figure emerged from the direction of the kitchen. He saw it was Eleanor Tenby, Laura’s aunt. Although he knew she could only be in her fifties, she looked years older, her straight hair almost completely white these days.

An angular woman, she had barely tolerated him as a teenager. But, because Laura had been fond of him, she’d treated him more kindly than she had his mother. Then, when the family had broken up, she’d blamed him for Laura’s exile, only softening again in recent years when she’d seen how much Griff looked forward to his visits.

‘So you’re up at last,’ she remarked without enthusiasm, proving that, as always, nothing went on at Penmadoc without her knowing about it. ‘I offered to bring you up some breakfast, but your mother said to let you sleep. If you’re hoping that I’ll cook you something now, you’re too late.’

‘All I want is some coffee,’ said Oliver flatly, the thought of grilled bacon and fried eggs turning his stomach. ‘Anyway, how are you? This—’ He spread his hands expressively. ‘It must have been a great shock.’

‘It was.’ The woman’s thin lips compressed into a fine line. ‘And you’ll not find any consolation in the bottom of a bottle. No one ever improved a situation with alcohol.’

Oliver might have disputed that on another occasion, but this morning he was inclined to agree with her. ‘Believe me,’ he said, ‘I’m regretting it. And I am sorry you had no warning that Griff was ill.’

‘Yes, well…’ Laura’s aunt sniffed deprecatingly, somewhat mollified by Oliver’s words. ‘You always had more sensitivity than anyone gave you credit for.’ She paused. ‘I expect you know that Laura’s here.’

Oliver nodded, and then regretted the action. His head thumped and he raised a hand to the back of his neck. ‘Do you have any aspirin?’ he asked, wincing. ‘I’ve got to do something before my skull splits in two.’

‘Come along into the kitchen,’ said Aunt Nell tolerantly, and without waiting to see if he was following her she started back the way she’d come. ‘What you need is something to eat,’ she added, despite the refusal she’d made earlier. ‘You’ll feel altogether better with a bowl of my oatmeal inside you. You don’t want to be poisoning your system by popping pills.’

Aspirin? Oliver grimaced. He’d hate to think what she’d say if she found out he’d been offered cocaine. Thankfully, he’d never been interested in what some people called ‘social’ substances, but these days they were increasingly hard to avoid.

The kitchen looked much different this morning than it had done the night before. As in the hall, a cheerful fire was burning in the grate and the scent of woodsmoke was not unappealing. There were other smells he was not so keen on, like the many species of herbs that grew in the pots on the windowsills and hung in dried bunches from the beamed ceiling. But there was the smell of freshly baked bread, too, and the crisp crackle of roasting meat from the oven.

Aunt Nell watched him take a seat at the table, and then busied herself pouring milk into a pan. The same pan that Laura had burnt the night before, thought Oliver ruefully. But clean now and sparkling like new.

The idea of drinking some of the thick creamy milk that was farmed locally made him shudder, and he wished he could just help himself to a cup of coffee instead. But there was no welcoming pot simmering on the hob, and he guessed he’d have to make some instant himself if he wanted it.

To distract himself, he glanced out of the window. As he’d noticed when he’d drawn his curtains upstairs, it had stopped snowing for the present and the sun was causing the icicles drooping from the eaves to drip. But it was a white world, only marred by the skeletal shapes of the trees. However, the evergreens that surrounded the vegetable garden outside looked like snowmen with their clinging mantle of snow.

‘Have you spoken to Laura?’

Aunt Nell’s question was unexpected. ‘Don’t you know?’ he asked, with faint mockery. Then, because her lips had tightened reprovingly, and she was trying to help him, Oliver relented. ‘Yeah. She was up last night when I got here.’

‘Ah.’ Aunt Nell had made a pot of tea and carried it to the table. ‘I wondered why she didn’t have a lot to say before she went out.’

‘Went out?’ Oliver glanced at his watch. ‘What time did she go out?’

‘She said she wanted some air,’ replied Aunt Nell evenly. She set a cup and saucer and some milk beside the teapot. ‘Go on. Help yourself. It’ll do you more good than taking pills.’

Oliver could have argued. He knew where the coffee jar was kept. But his head was still thumping and he couldn’t be bothered. There was caffeine in tea, wasn’t there? he thought. For the time being, he’d make do with that.

The dish of oatmeal wasn’t long in following the tea. Laura’s aunt sugared it liberally before passing it over. ‘There,’ she said, as he put down his cup. ‘Get that inside you. I always say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.’

Oliver was sure he was going to be sick, but he forced himself to swallow several mouthfuls of the oatmeal. He’d eaten worse things in Malaysia, after all. People there ate rice at almost every meal.

‘So where has she gone?’ he asked at last, reluctantly aware that he was actually feeling much better.

‘Into the village,’ replied Aunt Nell, tidying the dresser. ‘She didn’t have a lot to say, as I said.’ She turned to give him an appraising look. ‘What happened last night? Did you and she have a row?’

‘No.’ Oliver was indignant.

‘I thought your mother was supposed to be waiting up for you,’ continued the woman. ‘What was Laura doing down here?’

‘She’d come down to get a drink,’ said Oliver patiently, aware that he was falling back into the old patterns of defensiveness where Eleanor Tenby was concerned. ‘Ma had fallen asleep, or so she said. That’s why I came round the back.’

‘And Laura let you in.’

‘Yeah.’

‘But I imagine your mother eventually turned up.’

‘Yeah.’ Oliver regarded her with a wry expression. ‘But you know all this, don’t you? Laura went to bed as soon as Stella appeared.’

‘So she didn’t discuss her father’s death with you?’

‘No.’ Oliver was wary. ‘What was there to discuss? I already knew how he died. Stella told me when I rang. He had a heart attack. It must have been appalling for her, finding his body. Had he been seeing a doctor, do you know? If he had, he should have warned her.’

‘Griff hadn’t been seeing the doctor,’ replied Aunt Nell firmly. ‘When Tenniel Evans came to examine him after—afterwards, he was as shocked as anyone else. Who knows why he died? He’s not here to tell us. Perhaps he’d had a shock—or a fall from his horse. It may be that we’ll never know.’

Nevertheless Oliver sensed that Laura’s aunt had her own opinion. Not that she was likely to confide that opinion to him. But the very fact that she was asking questions was unsettling. For God’s sake, surely this was one occasion when she could have given Stella some support.

‘Do you know what’s in the will?’ he asked now, forcing himself to deal with facts, not fantasies, and Laura’s aunt lifted her thin shoulders dismissively.

‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ she said, turning away, which wasn’t an answer. But Oliver guessed it was the best he was going to get.

‘So—were you here when it happened?’ he probed, deciding that in spite of everything he deserved to know the details.

‘No.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I was away for the day visiting a friend in Cardiff. Griff had said he was going out with the hunt, and your mother had arranged to go shopping, or so she said. She told me she’d be eating out and not to bother preparing lunch before I left.’ She licked her lips. ‘But I did leave Griff a sandwich.’ She grimaced. ‘He never touched it.’

‘I see.’ Oliver’s headache was definitely easing now and his brain had started functioning again. ‘So she was alone in the house when she found him. Poor old Stella. God, she must have been frantic!’

‘I dare say.’

Oliver frowned. There was something about the woman’s tone that caught him on the raw. ‘Do you doubt it?’ he exclaimed. ‘For God’s sake, even you must feel some sympathy for her. There can’t be any advantage in finding your husband dead!’

‘Did I say there was?’

‘No, but—’ Oliver broke off abruptly. Then, in a calmer tone, he continued, ‘Look, I know you’ve never liked her, but in these circumstances we’ve all got to make compromises.’

Aunt Nell shrugged. ‘If you say so.’ She paused. ‘Did your mother tell you she was alone when she found—Griff’s body?’

Oliver stared at her shoulder blades, turned to him again now and jutting painfully through the fine wool of the sweater she was wearing over her worsted skirt. Her question disconcerted him. Why did she want to know that?

‘Of course she was alone,’ he said tersely. ‘You know that. You were in Cardiff, as you said earlier.’

‘Perhaps you should ask her why it was two hours before she discovered his body,’ Aunt Nell remarked, looking at him over her shoulder. ‘If she was here, why didn’t she hear him come in?’

‘Perhaps she did.’ Oliver blew out an irritated breath. ‘Have you asked her?’

‘It’s nothing to do with me.’

‘Of course it is.’ Oliver was impatient and it showed.

‘Not according to your mother,’ replied the woman smoothly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.’

Olivia wanted to question her further. He was angry, and he wanted to know what she meant by making out there was some big secret about Griff’s death. There wasn’t, he assured himself. Men of Griff’s age had heart attacks all the time, and without doing anything as strenuous as riding to hounds.

As Laura’s aunt let herself out of the room, he moved to the windows to stare out unseeingly. As always, he never came off best in any encounter with Laura’s aunt, and while he knew she wasn’t a liar he suspected she’d do anything to cause trouble for his mother.

He scowled, pushing his hands into the waistline pockets of his trousers and forcing the sunlit garden into focus. It was a pretty scene, he thought, considering the frame of poplar trees whose bare branches formed a stark contrast to their surroundings. He would use a colour negative, he mused, to take advantage of the band of sunlight that was presently creating a rainbow of artistry in the thawing icicles. Some of his best work had been done spontaneously, and his fingers itched to capture it on film.

But then his gaze alighted on the line of footsteps that led to the gate and all thought of photographic composition vanished beneath a wave of frustration. Laura was out there somewhere. The footsteps led in only one direction, away from the house, and he wondered what she had thought of what had happened the night before. Was she aware that if his mother hadn’t interrupted them he’d been in danger of resurrecting the offence that had driven them apart all those years ago?

Dammit, was he crazy, or what? He hadn’t wanted Laura then and he didn’t want her now. What had happened had been a reaction to circumstances, that was all, and he ought to be grateful to his mother for preventing him from making an even bigger fool of himself.

And he was. He was! But that didn’t explain why he’d needed to anaesthetise himself with Scotch before he could get to sleep.