Читать книгу Lady of Hay: An enduring classic – gripping, atmospheric and utterly compelling - Barbara Erskine - Страница 18

Two faces swam before her gaze. Absently she tried to focus on them, her mind groping with amorphous images as first one pair of eyes and then the other floated towards her, merged, then drifted apart once more. The mouths beneath the eyes were moving. They were speaking, but she couldn’t hear them; she couldn’t think. All she could feel was the dull pain of the contusions which fogged her throat.

Experimentally she tried to speak, but nothing happened as she raised a hand towards one of the faces – the blue eyes, the red-gold moustache, the deep furrowed lines across the forehead coming sharply into focus. It drew back out of reach and she groped towards the other. It was younger, smoother, the eyes lighter.

‘I’ve phoned Dr Graham.’ A woman’s voice spoke near her, the diction clear, echoing in the hollow spaces of her head. ‘He was at home, thank God, not on that damn golf course! He’ll be here in five minutes. How is she?’

Jo frowned. Ceecliff. That was Ceecliff, standing close to her, behind the two men.

She breathed in slowly and saw her grandmother’s face near hers. Swallowing painfully, she tried once more to speak. ‘What happened?’ she managed to murmur after a moment.

As Ceecliff sat down beside her Jo realised she was lying on the sofa in the dimly lit living room. Her grandmother’s cool, dry hand took hers.

‘You fainted, you silly girl. Just like a Victorian Miss!’

‘Who’s there?’ Jo looked past her into the shadows.

‘It’s me, Jo.’ Nick’s voice was taut.

‘Why is it so dark?’ Jo levered herself up against the cushions, her head spinning.

‘There’s the mother and father of a storm going on, dear,’ Ceecliff said after a moment. ‘It’s dark as doomsday in here. Put the lights on, Nick.’ Her voice sharpened.

The three table lamps threw a warm, wintry light in the humid bleakness of the room. Through the window-panes the sound of the rain was deafening on the broad leaves of the hostas in the bed outside.

‘Where’s the doctor?’ Jo stared round.

‘He’s not here yet, Jo.’ Ceecliff smiled at her gravely.

‘But I saw him –’

‘No, dear.’ Ceecliff glanced at Nick. ‘Listen. That must be his car now.’ Above the sound of the rain they could all hear the scrunch of tyres on the gravel. Moments later the glass door of the entrance hall opened and a stout figure let himself into the hall.

Ceecliff stood up. She met David Graham in the dim, heavily beamed dining room, which smelled of pot pourri and roses, and put her finger to her lips.

‘It’s my granddaughter, David,’ she murmured as he shook himself like a dog and shed his Burberry on the mellow oak boards.

David Graham was a fair-haired man of about sixty, dressed, despite the heat, in a tweed jacket and woollen tie. He kissed her fondly. ‘It’s probably the storm, Celia. They affect some people like this, you know. Unless it’s your cooking. You haven’t been giving her that curry you gave Jocelyn and me, have you?’ He did not wait to see her mock indignation. His case in his hand, he was already moving towards the door of the living room.

Nick smiled down at Jo uncertainly. ‘I’ll leave you both to it, shall I?’

‘Please.’ David Graham looked at him searchingly for a moment, noting the tension of Nick’s face – tension and exhaustion, and something else. Putting down his case beside Jo, he waited until Nick had closed the door behind him. Guilt, that was it; Nick Franklyn had looked guilty.

He sat down beside Jo and grinned at her, picking up her wrist.

‘Do you make a habit of this sort of thing, my dear?’ he asked quietly.

Jo shook her head. ‘It’s never happened before. I’m beginning to feel such a fraud. It’s just the storm, I’m sure. They always make me feel strung up and headachy.’

‘And you’re not pregnant as far as you know?’ He smiled.

‘Certainly not! And before you ask I’ve given up smoking. Nearly.’

‘There’s something wrong with your throat?’

She moved away from him slightly on the sofa. ‘A bit painful, that’s all. I expect I’m getting a cold.’

‘Humph.’ The doctor bent to open his bag. He withdrew a wooden spatula. ‘Open up. Let’s have a look, shall we?’

Her throat was agony. Not sore. Not raw, but bruised and aching. Without registering any emotion at all the doctor put down the spatula and reached for a thermometer. When it was in her mouth he brought his hands up gently to her neck and, brushing aside her hair, he felt beneath her ears and under her chin with cool impersonal fingers.

Jo could feel her hands shaking. ‘What is it?’ she said as soon as she could speak.

He held the thermometer up to the green-shaded table lamp and squinted viciously as he tried to see the mercury. ‘I’m always telling Celia to get some proper lights in this damn room. In the evening you can’t tell your gin from the goldfish water. It is thirty-seven which is exactly what it ought to be. Your pulse is a bit above average for a Sunday afternoon, even in a storm, though. Let’s try some blood pressure shall we?’

‘But my throat?’ Jo said. ‘What’s wrong with my throat?’

‘Nothing that I can see.’ He was rummaging in his case. ‘Where does it hurt?’

‘It aches. Here.’ She raised her hand to her neck while her eyes focused on the little pump in his hand as he inflated the cuff around her arm.

It was all coming back to her. She had been in the conservatory with Nick. He had stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders, then slowly he – or somebody – had slid them up around her throat and begun to squeeze … She could remember what happened quite clearly now. It was Nick. It had to have been Nick. No one else was there. Nick had tried to kill her! She felt sick. Nick wouldn’t hurt her. It wasn’t possible. It must have all been some hideous nightmare. She swallowed painfully. But it was too real for a nightmare.

She realised suddenly that the doctor was watching her face and turned away sharply. ‘Is it high?’ she asked as he folded away his equipment.

‘A little, perhaps. Nothing to get excited about.’ He paused. ‘Something is wrong, my dear, isn’t it? You look worried. Is there something you ought to be telling me?’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing, Dr Graham. Except that perhaps I should own up to a few late nights, working. I expect that could make me feel a bit odd, couldn’t it?’

He frowned. ‘I expect it could.’ He waited as though he expected her to say more. When she didn’t he went on, ‘I can’t explain the throat. Perhaps you’re getting one of these summer viruses. Gargle. That will help, and I suggest you take it easy for a bit. Spend a few days here, perhaps.’ Smiling, he stood up. ‘Not that Celia is my idea of a peaceful companion, but this is a good house to rest in. It’s a happy house. Better than London, I’ll be bound. If it happens again, go and see your own doctor.’

‘Thank you.’ Pushing herself up, Jo managed to stand. Outside the window there was another pale flicker of lightning. ‘I’m sorry my grandmother called you out in this.’

He laughed as he picked up his case. ‘If she hadn’t I’d have slept through it and kicked myself for not closing the vents in the greenhouse, so she did me a favour! Now, remember what I said. Take it easy for a bit. And do see your own doctor if you go on feeling at all unwell …’ He gave her a piercing glance, then with a nod he turned to the door.

As soon as he had stepped out into the hall Jo turned to the sideboard. The lamp shed a green, muted light behind it towards the mirror, and tipping the shade violently so that the naked light of the bulb shone onto her face Jo stood on tiptoe, peering at the glass. Her reflection was white and stark, her eyes shadowed and huge in the uncompromising light. Leaning forward she held her hair up away from her neck and peered at it. Her skin looked normal. There were no marks there.

‘Jo! You’re burning the silk on that shade!’ Ceecliff’s cry made her jump. Hastily she put it straight, noticing guiltily the brown mark already showing on the lining. She could smell the scorched fabric.

‘What on earth were you doing?’

‘Just looking at my throat.’ Jo glanced behind her grandmother. ‘Where is Nick?’

‘He’s holding an umbrella over David while he gets in the car. I suppose you won’t do what David suggests and stay here for a few days?’

Jo sighed. ‘You know I can’t. I’m too busy.’

‘Then you’ll have some tea before you let Nick drive you home –’

‘No!’

Ceecliff stared at her in astonishment. ‘Jo dear –’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so abrupt.’ Jo swallowed. ‘It’s just that I don’t want Nick to drive me.’

‘Well you can’t drive yourself, Joey. David was quite clear about that.’ Ceecliff’s tone was surprisingly firm. ‘You stay here or you go with Nick.’

Jo glanced towards the door. Her lips had gone dry. She took a deep breath. ‘Who was the man in here as I came round?’

Ceecliff had turned away, patting her injured lampshade with a proprietorial hand. ‘There was no one else in here, Jo. Only Nick and I.’

Jo crossed to the door, steadying herself with her hand on the back of a chair. Swiftly she closed it. Leaning against it she looked at Ceecliff.

‘Someone tried to strangle me this afternoon.’

Her grandmother pursed her lips. ‘Jo, dear –’

‘I am not imagining it. Out there in the conservatory. Nick was massaging my shoulders. Then –’ She shrugged wildly. ‘Someone tried to kill me!’

‘Nick was the only person there, Jo.’ Ceecliff came towards her slowly and put her hands on Jo’s arms. ‘Are you accusing Nick?’ She was scandalised.

‘No, of course not.’ Jo’s voice had fallen to a whisper.

‘Did you tell David all this?’

‘I said my neck hurt.’ Jo shook her head.

‘I think he would have been able to tell, Jo, if anyone had tried to kill you. There would have been bruises on your throat for one thing.’ Ceecliff moved towards the sofa and sat down on the edge of it. ‘I think Nick was right to be worried about this hypnosis, Jo. You are too susceptible –’

Jo flung herself away from the door. ‘This has nothing to do with the hypnosis! I wasn’t imagining it! You would know if someone had tried to kill you!’ She put her hands to her throat. ‘There was someone else there. Someone else, Ceecliff. It can’t have been Nick. He wouldn’t … He wouldn’t want to kill me. Besides, there was someone else in the room when I woke up. You must have seen him. You must! For God’s sake, he was standing right behind Nick!’

‘Joey, there was no one there,’ Ceecliff said gently. ‘If there had been, I would have seen him.’

‘You think I’m imagining it?’

‘I think you’re tired, emotionally upset, and what we as children used to call thunder-strung.’ Ceecliff smiled.

She turned as Nick pushed open the door. He went straight to Jo, who had tensed nervously as he came into the room. ‘How are you?’ he asked.

‘I’m fine, thanks.’ She forced herself to smile at him.

‘But she is going to let you drive her back, Nick, after you’ve both had some tea,’ Ceecliff said firmly. ‘She can come and pick up her car another time.’

Jo swallowed. Her eyes had gone automatically to Nick’s hands, resting on the back of the chair. They were firm, strong hands, tanned from sailing, slightly stained now with lichen from the rain-soaked wood of the summerhouse door.

As if feeling her gaze on them Nick slipped them into the pockets of his jeans. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ he asked. ‘I’ve never had a woman faint at my feet before. It was all very dramatic. And you still look very pale.’

Ceecliff stood up. ‘She’s fine,’ she said firmly. ‘You know where the kitchen is, Nick? Go and put the kettle on for me, there’s a dear. I’ll be out in a minute.’

As he left the room, Jo caught her hand. ‘Don’t tell Nick what I said, will you. He’ll think it is something to do with the hypnosis too, and I’m not going to fight with him all the way back to London.’

Ceecliff smiled. ‘I shan’t tell him, Jo. But I think you should,’ she said slowly. ‘I really think you should.’

The storm crackled viciously across Hyde Park, highlighting the lush green of the trees against the bruised sky. Sam stood looking out of the window of Nick’s flat in South Audley Street feeling the claustrophobia of London all around him. He sighed. If it weren’t for that keyhole glimpse of the park up the narrow street in front of the flat, he would not be able to stay here. It calmed and restored the quiet sanity of self-perception. He spared a moment’s regretful thought for his high-ceilinged flat in Edinburgh with its glorious view across the Queen’s Park towards the Salisbury Crags, then turning from the window he drew the curtains against the storm and switched on the light. Throwing himself down on the sofa, he picked up his third glass of Scotch and reached for the pile of books stacked on the coffee table.

The first which came to hand was A History of Wales by John Edward Lloyd, M.A., volume two. Turning to the index he began to look for William de Braose.

‘What the hell is wrong, Jo?’ Nick glanced across at her as he swung the car at last onto the M11. The windscreen wipers were cutting great arcs in the wet carpets of rain which swept towards them off the road. For the second time, as he reached forward to slot a new cassette into place, he had noticed her shrink away from his hand. And she was obviously having trouble with her throat.

With an effort she smiled. ‘Sorry. I’m still feeling rather odd. My head is splitting.’ She closed her eyes as the car filled with the bright cold notes of Vivaldi. Don’t talk. Don’t let him see you’re afraid. It did not happen. It was a hallucination – or imagination. Nick is no killer and the other … the face with the hard, angry blue eyes and the beard. It was not a face she knew. Not from this world, nor from that other time of wind and snow and spinning distances. It was not William, nor the young and handsome Richard. It was a double vision; a dream. Part of the dream where someone had tried to kill her. Something out of her own imagination, like the pain.

‘The traffic is building.’ Nick’s voice hung for a moment in the silence, coming from a long way away as the tape came to an end. He leaned forward and switched it off before it had a chance to start playing again. ‘You should have stayed with Celia. You’re worn out, you know.’

She forced her eyes open, realising that the engine was idling. Cars were round them on every side; the end-of-weekend rush back to London, earlier than usual because of the bad weather, had brought the traffic to a standstill.

‘You’ve been asleep.’ He glanced across at her. ‘Do you feel any better?’ The light in the sky was already fading.

Jo eased her position slightly in the seat. ‘I’ll be OK. I’m sorry I’m being such a nuisance. I can’t think what came over me.’

‘That damn hypnosis came over you.’ Nick eased the car forward a few yards behind the car in front and braked. His elbow out of the open window, he drummed his fingers in irritation on the roof above his head. ‘I hope this has finally convinced you, Jo, of the idiocy of persisting with this research. Sam must have spelled out the risks for you.’

Jo coloured angrily. ‘What the devil has my fainting to do with the fact that I was hypnotised a couple of days ago? Oh Nick, drop the subject, please!’

She hunched her shoulders defensively. How was it possible to feel so many conflicting emotions for the man sitting next to her? Love. Anger. Despair. And now fear. Real fear, which would not listen to the reason which told her it was groundless. She knew Nick had not tried to kill her. The thought was farcical. But if not his, then whose were the hands which had encircled her neck? And if they had been imaginary, then why had she imagined them? Perhaps he was right. Perhaps being hypnotised had some delayed effect. Some dangerous, delayed effect. She shuddered violently.

Half of her wanted to beg Nick to pull onto the hard shoulder and put his arms around her and hold her safe, but even as she glanced towards him she felt again that irrational shiver of fear.

It was another hour before they turned into Cornwall Gardens. She had already extricated her key from her bag and was clutching it tightly in her hand as the car drew to a halt and she swung the door open. ‘Please, Nick, don’t come in.’

She almost threw herself onto the pavement. ‘I’m going to take an aspirin and go to bed. I’ll call you, OK?’ She slammed the door and ran towards the steps, not looking round to see if he followed. She had banged the front door shut behind her before he had levered himself out of the car.

Nick shrugged. He stood where he was in the middle of the road, his hand resting on the car’s roof, waiting until he saw the lights go on in the room behind the first-floor balcony doors, then he climbed back in and drove away. He was very worried.

Jo double-locked the door behind her. Throwing down her bag she went into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

Flu. It had to be flu. That would explain everything. A horrible, vicious summer flu which had given her a few fleeting moments of delirium before changing direction and locating in her throat. She found a Beecham’s Powder in the back of the cupboard and tipped it into a glass, filling it up with hot water. Carrying the glass into the bathroom, she turned on the taps full and began to take off her dress. The mirror steamed over. As she stepped into the warm silky water she could feel her headache already beginning to relax its grip and cautiously she sipped the liquid. It made her feel slightly sick, but she forced herself to drink it all and then she lay back, staring up at the fawn patterned tiles on the bathroom walls with their delicate misty swirls.

It was twenty minutes before she walked slowly into her bedroom, wrapped in her bathrobe, and pulled the heavy sash windows up. Outside, the night was very warm and still. Darkness had come early with the heavy cloud and there was an almost tropical humidity about the air. She could hear the sound of flamenco coming from the mews and, suddenly, a roar of laughter out of the dark.

Half drawing the curtains, she switched on her bedside light with a sigh and untied her bathrobe, slipping it from her bare shoulders.

The light was dim and the small antique mirror which stood on her low chest was the other side of the room, but even from where she stood she could see. Her body was evenly tanned save for the slight bikini mark, but now there were other marks, marks which had not been there before. Her neck was swollen, and covered with angry bruises. For a moment she could not move. She could not breathe. She stood transfixed, her eyes on the mirror, then she ran naked to the bathroom, dragging the main pull-switch on, flooding the room with harsh cold light from the fluorescent strip in the ceiling. She grabbed her bath towel and frantically scrubbed at the condensation which still clung to the large mirror, then she looked at herself again. Her neck was violently bruised. She could even make out the individual fingermarks in the contusions on the front of her throat.

She stared at herself for a long time before walking slowly to the living room and, kneeling down beside the phone, which still lay on the coffee table, she did not even realise she had memorised Carl Bennet’s number until she had dialled it.

There was a series of clicks, then the answering machine spoke. Jo slammed the receiver down and glanced up at the clock on her desk. It was nearly midnight.

For a moment she contemplated ringing Sam. Her fingers hovered over the dial, then her hands dropped to her sides. Nick might have gone back to the flat, and besides, she knew without a shadow of doubt that whatever Sam or Nick might think she had made up her mind to return to Carl Bennet.

Slowly she made her way back towards her bedroom. She was shaking violently, beads of perspiration standing out on her forehead. Somewhere in the distance she heard a rumble of thunder. The storm was coming back. She walked to the window and stood looking out at the London night. It was only at the sound of a soft appreciative whistle from somewhere in the banks of dark windows behind the mews that she realised she was standing there naked in the lamplight.

With a wry smile she turned away and switched off the light, then she climbed into bed and lay staring up at the darkness.

It was very early when she woke and the room was cold and fresh from the wide-open windows. Shivering, Jo got up and put on her robe. For a moment she did not dare look at her reflection in the mirror. The pain in her throat had gone as had her headache and all she felt now was an overwhelming longing for coffee.

In the bathroom she dashed cold water over her face and reached for her toothbrush. Only then did she raise her eyes to the mirror. There wasn’t a single mark on her throat.

At the flat in South Audley Street the following evening Nick threw himself down into the armchair facing the windows and held out his hand for the drink Sam had poured for him.

‘I see it didn’t take you long to find my booze,’ he said with weary good humour.

‘You can afford it.’ Sam looked at him enquiringly. ‘So, what did you want to see me about? It must be important if it brings you here from the lovely Miss Curzon.’

Nick sat forward, clasping his glass loosely between his fingers. He sighed. ‘I haven’t seen Judy for two days, Sam. If you want to know, I spent last night in an hotel. I went to Judy’s then I couldn’t face going in.’ He paused. ‘I want to talk to you about Jo. How did you find her on Saturday?’

‘Tense. Excitable. Hostile.’ Sam was thoughtful. ‘But not, I think, in any danger. She was thrown by what happened at Dr Bennet’s, but quite capable of handling it, as far as it went on that occasion.’

‘But you are worried about her being hypnotised again?’

Sam swirled the ice cubes around in his glass. ‘I am worried, yes, and I spoke to Bennet this morning about it.’ He glanced at Nick. ‘Unfortunately the man was on the defensive. He seemed to think I was trying to interfere and spouted a whole bag of crap about medical ethics at me. However, I shall persevere with him in case Jo goes back to him. Tell me, why are you still so interested? I should have thought the beautiful Miss Curzon took up most of your time these days, and if she doesn’t, she ought to!’

Nick stood up. ‘I still care for Jo, Sam, and there is something wrong. On Sunday she and I went to Suffolk. She was taken ill –’ He stood staring out of the window towards the park as he drained his glass. ‘There was something very strange about what happened. We were talking during a violent thunderstorm and she had some kind of fit. The local quack said it was exhaustion, but I’m not so sure he was right.’ Putting his glass down, he held his hands out in front of him, flexing the fingers one by one. ‘I think it was in some way related to what happened at Bennet’s on Friday.’

Slowly Sam shook his head. ‘I doubt it. What were you doing in Suffolk anyway?’ He was watching Nick carefully.

‘Just visiting Jo’s grandmother.’

‘I see.’ Sam stood up abruptly. ‘So, you’re still in with the family, are you? Nice, rich, respectable Nick! Does grandma know you’re living with someone else?’

‘I expect so.’ Nick stared at him, astonished at his sudden vehemence. ‘Jo tells her most things. Sam, about Jo’s illness –’

‘I’ll go over and see her.’

‘You can’t. She’s taken the phone off the hook and she’s not answering the door.’

‘You tried?’

‘Earlier this evening.’

‘She wasn’t ill –’

Nick laughed wryly. ‘Not too ill to tell me to bugger off over the intercom.’

Sam smiled. ‘In that case I should stop worrying. The whole thing will have blown over in another few days. She’ll write her article and forget all about it. And I’ll have a word with Bennet to make sure he won’t see her again, just in case she does take it into her head to try. But I’m not taking any of this regression bit too seriously and neither should you. As to the fainting fit, it probably was heat exhaustion. A day’s rest and she will be right as rain.’

Nick did not look particularly convinced as he turned his back on the sunset and held out his glass for a refill. ‘That is what she said when I dropped her off on Sunday night.’

‘Then she’s a sensible girl. Hold on, I’ll get some more ice.’ Sam disappeared towards the kitchen.

With a sigh Nick walked over to the coffee table and picked up the top book on the pile which was there. It was a biography of King John, borrowed from the London Library. Surprised, he flipped it open at the place at the back, marked by an envelope. There, in the voluminous index, underlined in red pencil, was the name Briouse, Matilda of.

Putting the book down, he glanced curiously at the others. A two-volume history of Wales, the Everyman edition of Gerald of Wales’s Itinerary and Poole’s volume of The Oxford History of England.

‘Phew!’ Nick let out a quiet whistle. Gently he put the books back in place and moved away from the table. ‘So, you’re not taking it seriously, brother mine,’ he whispered thoughtfully. ‘Like hell you’re not!’

It was Tuesday morning before Carl Bennet could see Jo. Sarah Simmons was waiting, as before, at the head of the stairs, her restrained manner barely hiding her excitement as she led Jo through into Bennet’s consulting room. He was waiting for her by the open window, his glasses in his hand.

‘Joanna! I am so glad you came back.’ He eyed her as she walked towards him, noting the paleness of her face beneath her tan. Her smile, however, was cheerful as she shook hands with him.

‘I explained what happened on the phone,’ she said. ‘I had to come and find out why. If it had anything to do with the past, that is.’

He nodded. ‘Your throat was bruised, you said.’ Putting on his glasses he tipped her chin gently sideways and peered at her neck. ‘No one else saw this phenomenon?’

‘No. It was gone by yesterday morning.’

‘And there has been no recurrence of pain or any of the other symptoms?’

‘None.’ She threw her canvas bag down on the chesterfield. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if I imagined the whole thing.’

He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘We can’t be sure that it had anything at all to do with your regression, Joanna. It is, to be honest, so unlikely as to be almost impossible. It presupposes a degree of self-hypnosis on your part that I find hard to credit and even if that were possible, we had no intimations that anyone tried to strangle you in your previous existence. However –’ he drew his breath in with a hiss ‘– what I suggest is that we try another regression, but very differently this time. I propose to regress you to an earlier period. Your Matilda was scarcely more than a child when we met her last. Let us try and find her again when she is even younger, and when, hopefully,’ he grinned disarmingly, ‘the personality is less strong and more malleable. I intend to keep a tight control of the session this time, and before we start, whilst we drink our first cup of coffee – please, Sarah –’ he laughed in suppressed excitement, ‘I suggest that you and I draw up a list of questions which I can ask her. Knowing who she is and the period to which she belongs makes everything so much easier.’

He picked up a volume from his desk and held it out. ‘See.’ He was as pleased as a child. ‘I have brought a history book. Last night I read up the chapter on the reign of King Henry II and there are pictures, so I even know roughly about her clothes.’

Jo laughed. ‘You’ve done more research than me, then. Once I knew she was real, and what happened to her –’ She shivered. ‘I suppose I was more interested with the technicalities of regression originally and I never considered that it would really happen to me. Or how I would feel if it did. But now that it has, it’s so strange. It’s an invasion of my privacy, and I’m conscious all the time that there is someone else there in my head. Or was. I’m not sure I like the feeling.’

‘I can’t say I’m surprised. People react in different ways. Interest, fear, resentment, complete disbelief, mild amusement. By far the most common reaction is to refuse to have anything more to do with regression.’

‘For fear of becoming involved,’ Jo nodded almost absently. ‘But I am involved. Not only professionally, but, somehow, inside myself. Because I’ve shared such intimate emotions with her. Fear … pain … horror … love.’ She shook her head deprecatingly. ‘Am I being very gullible?’

‘No,’ Bennet smiled. ‘You are sensitive. You empathise with the personality.’

‘To the extent where I develop the symptoms I’m describing.’ Jo bit her lip. ‘But then while it’s happening I am Matilda, aren’t I?’ She paused again. ‘I don’t understand about my throat, but after Friday’s regression …’ She stopped in mid-sentence. If she told Bennet about Sam’s warning, he might refuse to risk hypnotising her again, and she did want very much to go back to Matilda’s life. She wanted to know what happened.

‘You’ve had other symptoms?’ Bennet persisted quietly.

She looked away. ‘My fingers were very bruised. I hurt them on the stones of the castle wall, watching William kill those men …’ Her voice died away. ‘But they only felt bruised. There was nothing to see.’

He nodded. ‘Anything else?’ She could feel his eyes on her face as she took her coffee from Sarah and sipped it. Did the ability to hypnotise her mean he could read her thoughts as well? She bit her lip, deliberately trying to focus her attention elsewhere. ‘Only stray shivers and echoes. Nothing to worry about.’ She grinned at him sheepishly. ‘Nothing to put me off, I assure you. I would like to go back. Amongst other things I want to find out how she met Richard de Clare. Is it possible to be that specific in your questions?’ Had he guessed, she wondered, just how much, secretly, she longed to see Richard again?

Bennet shrugged. ‘We’ll see. Why don’t we start and find out?’

He watched as she took out her tape recorder and set it on the ground beside her as she had done before, the microphone in her lap. She switched on the recorder then at last she lay back on the long leather sofa and closed her eyes. Every muscle was tense.

She was hiding something from him. He knew that much. And more than that understandable desire to see Richard again. But what? He thought once again about the phone call he had had from Samuel Franklyn and he frowned. The call had come on Monday morning before Sarah had arrived and Sarah knew nothing about it. He had not allowed Franklyn to say much, but there had been enough to know that there was some kind of problem.

He looked at his secretary, who had seated herself quietly once more in her corner, then he turned back to Jo. He licked his lips in concentration and taking a deep breath he began to talk.

Jo listened intently. He was talking about the sun again. Today it was shining and the sky was clear and uncomplicated after the weekend of storms. But there was no light behind her eyelids now. Nothing.

Her eyes flew open in a panic. ‘Nothing is happening,’ she said. ‘It isn’t going to work again. You’re not going to be able to do it!’

She pushed herself up against the slippery leather back of the sofa. The palms of her hands were damp.

Bennet smiled calmly. ‘You’re trying too hard, Jo. You mustn’t try at all, my dear. Come, why not sit over here by the window?’ He pulled a chair forward from the wall and twisted it so that it had its back to the light. ‘Fine, now, we’ll do some little experiments on you to see how quick your eyes are. There’s no hurry. We have plenty of time. We might even decide to leave the regression until another day.’ He smiled as he felt under his desk for a switch which turned on a spotlight in the corner of the room. Automatically Jo’s eyes went towards it, but he had seen already that her knuckles on the arm of the chair were less white.

‘Is she as deeply under as before?’ Sarah’s cautious question some ten minutes later broke into a long silence.

Bennet nodded. ‘She was afraid this time. She was subconsciously fighting me, every inch of the way. I wish I knew why.’ He looked at the list of questions in his hand, then he put it down on his desk. ‘Perhaps we’ll discover eventually. But now it just remains to find out if we can re-establish contact with the same personality at all! So often one can’t, the second time around.’ He chewed his lip for a second, eyeing Jo’s face. Then he took a deep breath.

‘Matilda,’ he said softly. ‘Matilda, my child. There are some things I want you to tell me about yourself.’