Читать книгу Lady of Hay: An enduring classic – gripping, atmospheric and utterly compelling - Barbara Erskine - Страница 19

The candle on the table beside his bed was guttering as Reginald de St Valerie lay back against his pillow and began to cough again. His eyes, sunk in the pallid hollows of his face, were fixed anxiously on the door as he pulled another rug round his thin shoulders. But it made no difference. He knew it was only a matter of time now before the creeping chill in his bones reached his heart, and then he would shiver no more.

His face lightened a little as the door was pushed open and a girl peered round it.

‘Are you asleep, Father?’

‘No, my darling. Come in.’ Cursing the weakness which seemed to have spread even to his voice, Reginald watched her close the heavy door carefully and come towards him. Involuntarily he smiled. She was so lovely, this daughter of his; his only child. She was tall, taller than average. She had grown this last year, until she was a span at least higher even than he, with her dark auburn hair spread thickly on her shoulders and down her back and the strange green eyes flecked with gold which she had from her dead mother. She was all he had left, this tall graceful girl. And he was all she had, and soon … He shrugged. He had made provision long ago for the future when he had betrothed her to William de Braose. And now the time had come.

‘Sit here, Matilda. I must talk to you.’ Feebly he patted the rugs which covered him and the lines of his face softened as she took his hand, curling up beside him, tucking her long legs under her.

‘Will you eat something today, Father? If I prepare it myself and help you with the spoon?’ she coaxed, nestling close. ‘Please?’ She could feel the new inexorable cold in his hand and it frightened her. Gently she pressed it to her cheek.

‘I’ll try, Matilda, I’ll try.’ He pushed himself a little further up on the pillows with an effort. ‘But listen, sweetheart, there is something I must tell you first.’ He swallowed, trying to collect his thoughts as he gazed sadly into her anxious face. So often he had hoped this moment would never come. That somehow, something would happen to prevent it.

‘I have written to Bramber, Matilda. Sir William de Braose has agreed that it is time the marriage took place. His son could have married long since, but he has waited until you were of age. You must go to him now.’ He tried not to see the sudden anguish on her face.

‘But Father, I can’t leave you, I won’t.’ She sat up straight, her eyes bright with tears. ‘Nothing will make me leave you. Ever.’

He groped for her hand again, and held it gently. ‘Sweetheart. It is I who must leave you, don’t you see? And I couldn’t die happy without knowing that you were wed. Please. To please me, go to him. Make him an obedient wife.’

He was seized by another fit of coughing and Matilda slipped from the end of the bed and ran to the pillow, cradling his head on her breast. Her eyes were full of tears as she clutched him, desperately clinging to him. ‘You can’t die, Father, you can’t. You’ll get well. You will. You always have before.’

The tears spilled over and dropped onto her father’s grey head. He looked up, trying to smile, and raised a shaky hand to brush her cheek. ‘Don’t cry, darling. Think. When you marry William you will be a great lady. And his mother will take care of you. Come, please don’t be so unhappy.’

‘But I want to stay with you.’ She still clung to him stubbornly. ‘I hate William, you know that. He’s ugly and he’s old and he smells.’

Reginald sighed. So often he had given her her way, this girl of his, and he longed to do so again. But this time he had to stand firm. For her own sake. He closed his eyes, smelling the lavender of her gown, remembering. She was so like her mother had been: wilful; beautiful; wild …

Sleep came so suddenly these days. He could feel his lids drooping. There was no way of fighting it. He supposed death would come like that and he welcomed the thought. He was too old now, too racked with pain to regret the young man’s dream of death on the field of battle. Smiling a little he relaxed against her, feeling the soft warmth of her body, the gentle brush of her lips on his hair. Yes. She was very like her mother …

Instinctively Matilda ran first to the chapel for comfort. She pushed open a heavy door and peered in. It was empty. She could see the statue of Our Lady, lit by the single flickering candle which stood on the altar. Running to it she crossed herself and knelt. ‘Please, Holy Mother, don’t let him die. You mustn’t let my father die. I won’t marry William de Braose, so there’s no point in trying to make me.’ She gazed up at the serene stone face of the statue. It was cold in the chapel. A stray draught coming from the slit window high in the stone vault above the altar sent a shiver of cold down her spine and she wondered suddenly with a tremor of fear if anyone was listening to her at all; if there was anyone there to care. She pushed away the thought and, ashamed, she crossed herself again. ‘You must help me, Holy Mother, you must.’ Her tears were blinding her again and the candlelight hazed and flickered. ‘There is no one else. If you don’t help me, I’ll never pray to you again. Never.’ She bit her lip, scared by what she had said. She shouldn’t have done it, but the chapel held such echoing emptiness …

Scrambling to her feet, she crept out, closing the door softly behind her. If she could find no comfort there, there was only one other thing to do. Ride. When you galloped fast into the wind you could forget everything but the speed and the cold and the power of the horse between your legs. She ran to the chamber she shared with her nurse and the two maidens who were supposed to be her friends, and rummaged through the rail, looking for her heaviest mantle.

‘Matilda, come to your embroidery now, ma p’tite.’ She could hear her nurse Jeanne’s voice from the garderobe where she was sorting clothes. ‘Tilda?’ The tone sharpened.

Grabbing a fur-lined cloak, Matilda threw it round her shoulders and tiptoed to the door. Then, deaf to Jeanne’s indignant shouts she pelted down the spiral stairs.

‘Shall I come with you, young mistress?’ The groom who held her excited horse knew as well as she that her father had forbidden her to ride alone.

She flung herself into the saddle. ‘Not this time, John. Blame me if anyone’s angry.’ She raised her whip and set the horse across the high slippery cobbles of the courtyard at a canter. Once beyond the crowded muddy village she pushed the animal into a gallop, feeling her hair stream behind her in the cold wind. Galloping like this, fast, she didn’t have time to think. Not about her poor, sick father, or about the squat, red-haired man at Bramber who was destined to become her husband. Nothing mattered out here. Here she was free and happy and alone.

At the top of the hill she reined in breathlessly, pushing her tangled hair back as the wind tugged it across her eyes. She turned to look back at the village far away in the valley, and her father’s castle behind it. I need never go back, she thought suddenly. If I don’t want to, I need never go back. I could ride and ride and ride and they would never find me. Then she thought of Reginald lying so pale in his chamber, and imperceptibly she straightened her shoulders. For his sake she would go back. For his sake she would marry William de Braose. For his sake she would go to the end of the world if he asked it of her.

Sadly she turned the horse and began to pick her way back down the steep track.

For two days before the wedding the attendants of the de Braose household crowded them out, overspilling from the small castle and its walls into tents and marquees on the edge of the village. Old Sir William, a wiry hawklike man with piercing grey eyes, spent much of his time closeted with Matilda’s father, while his son hunted across the hills, sparing no time for his betrothed. Matilda was extremely glad. She had been horrified by her glimpse of the younger William, whom she had barely remembered from their introduction at their betrothal years before. She had forgotten, or perhaps then he had been different. His reddish hair and beard now framed a coarse heavily veined face with an uncompromisingly cruel mouth. He had kissed her hand once, running his eye expertly up her body, judging her, Matilda thought furiously, as if she had been a filly he was contemplating buying for his stable, then he turned away, more interested in his host’s hunting dogs than in his bride.

Reginald was too ill even to be carried in a litter to the wedding ceremony, so he summoned his daughter and new son-in-law to his room as soon as they returned from the parish church. Matilda had spent the first part of the day in a frozen daze. She allowed herself to be dressed in her finest gown and mantle without interest. She followed Jeanne down to the hall and gave her arm to old Sir William without a flicker of emotion on her face. Then she walked with him to the church without any sign that she heard or even saw the gay procession of men and women who followed them. But her fists were bunched so tightly into her skirt that her nails had bitten into her palms. ‘Please, Holy Mother, don’t let it happen. Please, Holy Mother, don’t let it happen.’ She was murmuring the phrase over and over again under her breath like a magic charm. If she kept on saying it, without stopping, it would work. It must work.

She scarcely saw when Sir William left her side in the church porch and his son took his place. She didn’t hear a word of the service as the old half-blind priest gabbled the form, shivering in his surplice as the autumn leaves tossed round them and a few drops of icy rain splattered in under the porch roof. Even later, as she knelt to kiss her father’s hand, she was dazed. It was not until he put gentle fingers beneath her chin and tilted it a little to look into her face, murmuring, ‘Be happy, sweetheart, and pray for your old father,’ that her control broke. She flung herself at him, clinging to him, her fingers wound into the wool of the blankets. ‘Please, please don’t die. Darling, darling Papa, don’t make me go with him, please –’

Hastily William stepped forward, his hands on her arms, and he dragged her off the bed. ‘Control yourself, madam,’ he hissed at her sharply. ‘Come away. Can’t you see your father’s upset? Don’t make it worse. Come quickly.’ His voice was rough.

Tearing herself free of his grip, Matilda rounded on him. ‘Don’t touch me!’ she almost spat at him, her eyes blazing. ‘I’ll stay with my father as long as I please, sir!’

William was taken aback. He stepped forward awkwardly, frowning. ‘You must do as I say, Matilda. You’re my wife now.’

‘Yes, I’m your wife, God pity me,’ she whispered in anguish, ‘but I’m his daughter first.’ She was shaking with fear and anger.

‘Matilda, please.’ Reginald stretched out painfully to lay his fingers on her arm. ‘Obey your husband, sweetheart. Leave me to sleep now.’ He tried to smile, but his lids were falling. The familiar blackness was closing round him. ‘Go, sweetheart,’ he mumbled. ‘Please go.’

With one longing agonised look at him Matilda turned away. She glanced at William as he reached forward to take her arm and then dodged past him, gathering her skirts in her hands and, blind with tears, she ran towards the door.

The wedding feast was interminable. She only nibbled at the food on the platter in front of her which she shared with her husband. He was drinking vast quantities of wine, roaring with laughter at the bawdy jokes of the men near him, rocking towards her every so often, trying to plant a kiss on her cheek or her shoulder.

She gritted her teeth and reached for her own goblet, and, trying not to let the tiny seed of panic inside her grow, she kept thinking of the peaceful warm glow of the candle in her father’s room, and of the gentle, lined face on the pillow and the loving reassuring touch of his hands.

The bed was strewn with flowers. Matilda stood, clutching her embroidered bedgown tightly round her, not daring to look at her husband as he chased the last of the giggling women out of the room. His face was blurred with wine and lust as he turned triumphantly to her at last.

‘So. My wife.’ He leered a little, his own fur-trimmed gown held round his waist by a gilded leather girdle. She stood transfixed, her back to the high shuttered window, her hands once more tight fists at her sides. She was much taller than he, but so slight he could have snapped her in half with one blow from his enormous fist.

Her heart was beating very fast as he raised his hands to her shoulders. She wanted to push him away, to run, to scream, but somehow she forced herself to stand still as he loosed her girdle and thrust the gown back from her shoulders. She made no attempt to hold it as it fell, sliding from her unresponsive arms to the floor, billowing out in blues and silvers around her knees, leaving her standing before him, naked. Almost wonderingly he raised a hand and touched her shoulder, drawing his calloused fingers down across her breast. Then he seized her, crushing her to him, running his hand down her back, over her buttocks, fondling, caressing. Her hair fell in a dark auburn curtain across her face as he lifted her onto the bed and she made no attempt to push it away. She lay limp after a first involuntary struggle of protest at what he did, biting her lips in pain, trying not to cry out as the agony of his thrusting tore through her and the first dark drops of blood stained the bridal sheets. Then at last with a grunt he rolled off her and lay still.

She remained dry-eyed in the dark and tried to ease her aching body on the hot mattress, not seeing the embroidered tester which hung over the bed. Some of the flowers had been caught beneath them and crushed, and their sweet scent mingled with the reek of sweat and drying blood.

Reginald de St Valerie died at dawn. Lying sleepless in her chamber watching the pale light in the stuffy room, Matilda had ceased to hear the regular snores of her husband. It was as if some part of her had slipped away to hover over the deathbed, watching her father, seeing his face relax without struggle at last into peace. ‘He waited to see me married,’ she whispered into the dark. ‘He only waited for that.’ And then she turned at last to her pillow and began despairingly to cry.

The day after the funeral the long procession of horses and waggons set off across a bleak autumnal southern England towards Sussex. Matilda rode, upright and proud, beside her husband, her face set. She was determined not to weep now, not to show any emotion to her husband or his followers. Somewhere behind her in the train of riders was Jeanne, her nurse. Jeanne had understood, had cradled her head and rocked her as she watched beside her father’s body. Jeanne had mixed her wine and herbs to drink, ‘pour le courage, ma p’tite,’ and muttered magic words over the bed in which Matilda and William had slept, to help ease the girl’s troubles. Each night had been the same. He had not spared her for her father’s sake, nor had she expected it. The pain, after the first time, had not been so bad.

The elder William rode in front of them, the chestnut rump of his horse glistening beneath its gay caparison in the pale autumn sunlight. They were nearing a wayside chapel when Matilda, keeping her eyes fixed resolutely on her father-in-law’s broad back, was surprised to see him raise his hand, bringing the long procession to a halt. Then he turned in the high saddle. ‘I’ll wait, my son,’ he announced curtly. Matilda glanced at her husband, who was dismounting. He ducked under his horse’s head, and came to her side. ‘I always pray at Holy Places,’ he announced self-righteously. ‘I should like you to accompany me.’ He helped her down from the horse and taking her arm ushered her into the chapel. Puzzled, she glanced over her shoulder. No one else had made a move to join them. The entire cortège stood in the settling dust, uninterested, bored, as their lord’s eldest son and his bride ducked into the dark chapel. For some reason Matilda felt suddenly afraid.

She knelt reluctantly beside her husband as he prayed. No words came to her own lips; her throat was dry. The Virgin had not heeded her supplications when her help had been needed so much. Now it was too late. What was the point of praying?

She glanced sideways at William. His eyes were closed, the short sandy lashes veiling the pale irises, the coarse folded flesh of his chin resting on the thick wool of his blue mantle. On his shoulder there was a large circular brooch, at its centre a purple amethyst. The stone caught a little spark of light from the candle at the shrine.

They stopped a dozen times like this on the long journey and each time Matilda, too afraid to refuse, alone dismounted with her husband. But not once did she try to pray.

Bramber Castle was built high on a hill overlooking the seamarshes which flanked the River Adur. From far away they could see the tall keep rising against the burnished blue sky while gulls circled the towers, their laughing cries echoing across the salty reed beds.

Bertha, daughter of Milo of Gloucester, heiress of Brecknock and Upper Gwent, the wife of Sir William de Braose and Matilda’s mother-in-law, was waiting for her husband and son in the lofty great hall. She was a stout woman of middle height, some years older than her husband, with white hair falling in long plaits to her waist. Her eyes were brown as hazelnuts and very shrewd. She kissed Matilda coolly and then held her at arms’ length, scrutinising her closely until the girl felt herself blushing uncomfortably beneath the uncompromising gaze.

‘So, my son’s bride,’ Bertha announced at last. ‘Welcome to Bramber, child.’ The words were not softened by a smile.

Then Bertha turned aside, drawing her son with her, and Matilda was left standing alone. After a moment, William’s father joined her. He smiled. ‘I hope it won’t seem too strange, my dear,’ he murmured. ‘My son is a good man. Harsh sometimes, but good.’ Matilda lifted her green eyes to his and forced herself to return his smile, which was friendly enough. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she whispered. ‘I am sure I shall do very well with William.’ Happiness, they both knew, was not part of the marriage contract.

She became conscious slowly that Sir William’s eyes had strayed beyond her. Someone was standing behind her near the hearth.

‘Lord de Clare! My wife told me you were here. Greetings.’ The old man stretched out his hands with sudden warmth. Turning, Matilda saw he was addressing a slim young man, dressed in a scarlet mantle caught at the shoulder with gold. He had laughing hazel eyes and a shock of corn-coloured hair.

‘Sir William, I was persuaded by Lady Bertha to wait for you.’ Lord de Clare stepped forward to clasp his host’s hands. Then he turned to Matilda. He bowed smiling. ‘Madam?’

‘This is my daughter-in-law,’ Sir William put in hastily. ‘Matilda, Lord de Clare has threatened this long time to ride over from his castle at Tonbridge to see my mews, haven’t you, my boy?’ The old man was plainly delighted to see his visitor.

‘Lord de Clare.’ Matilda curtseyed and her heart inexplicably began to beat a little faster as she surveyed the young man’s handsome face.

He grinned. ‘Do you enjoy hawking, madam? It should be an exciting day. I’m told there is good sport on these marshes.’

‘Indeed there is!’ Sir William put in good-naturedly. ‘You must join us, Matilda. Watch my birds trounce this young fellow’s, eh?’ He chuckled broadly.

Matilda didn’t hear him. She was drowning in the young man’s gaze.

‘So, it was too late when they first met,’ Sarah whispered softly. ‘She was already married to that bore! See if she and Richard ever managed to meet alone. Please, Carl. Ask her.’

Bennet frowned. Nevertheless he leaned forward a little as he put the question. ‘Did you go hawking with Lord de Clare, Matilda? Did you manage to speak to him again?’

Jo smiled. Her eyes, open and dancing, were the eyes of a carefree girl.

‘We rode away from the others, south towards Sompting. The forest over the Downs is thick with oak trees there and their leaves were gold and brown with autumn. Richard flew his peregrine when we got to the chalk fields and I pretended to fall from my horse. I knew he would dismount and come to help me. I wanted him to hold me in his arms so much …’

‘My lady! My lady, are you hurt?’ Richard’s face was near hers as she lay still on the ground. He glanced behind him for help, then gently he cradled her head on his knees. ‘My lady?’ His voice was sharper now. ‘For the love of Christ, speak to me!’

She moved slightly, letting out a small moan. His face was close to hers. She could see, through scarcely opened eyes, the fine hairs growing again on his chin where he had been shaved that morning, and feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. He smelled of leather and horse-sweat, quite unlike the musty reek her husband habitually exuded. She nestled a little closer in his lap and felt suddenly his hands inside her mantle. Was he feeling for her heart, or for her breast beneath the pale linen? She stiffened imperceptibly and at once he straightened, moving his hand.

‘My lady?’ he said again. ‘Speak to me. Tell me if you are hurt.’

She opened her eyes and smiled at him, her breath catching in her throat as she found his face so very close to her own. ‘I must have fallen,’ she whispered.

‘Can you rise?’ He was trying to push her up as, behind them, the sound of horses’ hooves thundering on the hollow chalk announced the rest of the party.

‘I can manage! Thank you.’ Crossly she jumped to her feet, brushing leaves from her mantle, then she turned from him in a flurry of skirts and ran to scramble back onto her horse alone.

‘Why didn’t you let me go on longer?’ Jo asked when Bennet woke her from her trance. She glanced down at the spool on her tape recorder, which was barely a quarter used. ‘I want to know what happened. I wanted to see Richard again.’

Bennet frowned. ‘It was going well, Jo, and we have learned a lot from this session. I don’t want you to grow tired.’

She intercepted the worried look he cast in her direction. ‘Did you find out if someone tried to strangle me?’ she asked. She was watching his face closely.

He shook his head. ‘At the period you described today you were scarcely more than a child – you didn’t seem to know quite how old you were yourself. But if anyone tried to strangle Matilda it was at some time far in her future, Jo. Not when she was riding on the Downs with Richard de Clare.’

‘But something did go wrong. Something worried you?’

‘Nothing at all. Nothing.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘In fact I would like to pursue our experiment further with you, if you agree.’

‘Of course I agree. I want to know more about Matilda and Richard. And what happened after the massacre … just a bit more.’ Jo grinned as she picked up her recorder and stuffed it into her bag. ‘But I warn you now, I’m not going to chase her story endlessly. There’s no point in that and I have no intention of getting obsessive about all this. But just one or two more sessions as soon as you can fit me in.’

Sarah rose and went to fetch the diary. As she did so Bennet came round the desk. He was frowning again. ‘Joanna. I must tell you that I had a phone call yesterday from a colleague who says he is treating you, a Dr Franklyn.’

Jo straightened abruptly, swinging her bag onto her shoulder. She tightened her lips. ‘Oh?’ she said suspiciously.

‘He has asked me for a meeting to discuss your case.’

‘No!’ Jo threw the bag down on the sofa. ‘No, Dr Bennet. Sam Franklyn is not “treating” me as you put it. He is interested in this business because he worked for Michael Cohen years ago. He wants me to stop the regressions because he doesn’t want me to write about them. Believe me, he is not treating me for anything.’

Bennet took a step backwards. ‘I see.’ He glanced at her beneath his eyebrows. ‘Well, I told him I had to ask your permission, of course.’

‘And I will not give it. I have already told him to leave me alone. I am sorry he rang you, I really am. He should not have bothered you.’

‘That is all right, Jo.’ Bennet took the diary from Sarah and frowned at it through his spectacles. ‘Friday afternoon at three o’clock. Would that suit you? I shall make it my last appointment and then we need not be hurried. And I shall tell Dr Franklyn if he rings again that you would rather I did not speak to him.’

After she had gone Sarah turned to Bennet. ‘She is hiding something, isn’t she?’

He shrugged. ‘I suspect so.’

Sarah raised an eyebrow. ‘So. Will you talk to this Dr Franklyn?’

Carl Bennet smiled. He tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘I’m sure that in the course of events he and I will meet. It is unthinkable that I should not run into him, because a colleague of Cohen’s would be an invaluable person with whom to discuss my work.’ He closed the diary and handed it back to Sarah. ‘I would not discuss Joanna with him, of course, unless I thought it to be in her best interests.’

Sarah smiled thinly. ‘Which it would be, of course. Tell me. What do you really think about the bruises she told us about? Do you think they were real? No one else saw them.’

‘Oh, I’m sure they were real.’ He walked to the window and glanced down into the street.

‘But you think they were of hysterical origin?’ Sarah’s voice was hushed. ‘She’s not the type, surely?’

‘Who can tell who is the type?’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘Who can ever tell? And if she isn’t the type, and the bruises were there …’ He paused.

‘If she isn’t,’ Sarah echoed quietly, ‘then the man she was with really did try to strangle her.’

As arranged, Jo met Sam on Wednesday evening at Luigi’s. He took one look at her and grinned across the table. ‘Let’s order before you hit me with your handbag, Jo.’

‘I’ll hit you with more than a handbag if you try a trick like that again,’ Jo said. Her voice was cool as she glanced at him over the menu. ‘I absolutely forbid you to talk to Carl Bennet about me. What I do is none of your business. I am not your patient. I have never been your patient, and I don’t intend to be. What I do and what I write is my own affair. And the people I consult in the course of my research have a right to privacy. I do not expect you to harass them, or me. Is that quite clear?’

‘OK. I surrender. I’ve said, I apologise.’ He raised his hands. ‘What more can I do?’

‘Don’t ever go behind my back again.’

‘You must trust me, Jo. I’ve said I’m sorry. But I am interested. And I do have a right to worry about you. I have more right than you’ll ever know.’ He paused for a moment. ‘So, you decided to defy me and see him again. You’d better tell me what happened. Did you learn anything more about your alter ego?’

‘A bit.’ Jo relented. ‘About her marriage to William …’ She was watching his face in the candlelight. The restaurant was dark, crowded now at the peak evening hour, and very hot. Sam was sweating slightly as he looked at her, his eyes fixed on her face. The pupils were very small. Without knowing why, she felt herself shiver slightly. ‘Nothing dramatic happened. It was all rather low key after the first session.’ Her voice tailed away suddenly. Low key? The violence! The rape! The agony of that man thrusting his way into her child’s resisting body, silencing her desperate screams with a coarse, unclean hand across her mouth, laughing at her terror. She realised that Sam was still watching her and looked away hastily.

‘Jo?’ He reached across and lightly ran his thumb across her wrist. ‘Are you all right?’

She nodded. ‘Of course. It’s just a bit hot in here.’ She withdrew her hand a little too quickly. ‘Let’s eat. I’m starving.’

They waited in silence as the waiter brought their antipasto. As they were starting to eat, Sam said thoughtfully, ‘William was very close to King John, did you know that?’

Jo stared up at him. ‘You’ve been looking it up?’

‘A bit. I have a feeling William was much maligned. Historians seem to doubt if the massacre was his idea at all. He was a useful pawn, the man at the sharp end, the one to carry it out and take the blame. But not quite as bad as you seemed to think.’

‘He enjoyed it.’ Jo’s voice was full of icy condemnation. ‘He enjoyed every moment of that slaughter!’ She shuddered violently and then she leaned forward. ‘Sam. I want you to do something for me. I want you to do whatever you have to do to lift that post-hypnotic suggestion that I forget that first session in Edinburgh. I have to remember what happened!’

‘No.’ Sam shook his head slowly. ‘No. I’m sorry. I can’t do that.’

‘You can’t, or you won’t?’ Jo put down her fork with a clatter.

‘I won’t. But I probably couldn’t anyway. It would involve rehypnosis, and I’m not prepared to try and meddle with something Michael Cohen did.’

‘If you won’t, I’ll get Carl Bennet to do it.’ Jo’s eyes were fixed on his. She saw his jaw muscles tighten.

‘That wouldn’t work, Jo.’

‘It would. I’ve been reading up about hypnosis. Believe me, I haven’t been sitting around the last few days wondering what is happening to me. There are hundreds of books on the subject and –’

‘I said no, Jo.’ Sam sat back slowly, moving sideways slightly to ease his long legs under the small table. ‘Remember what I told you. You are too suggestible a subject. And don’t pretend that you are not reacting deeply again because you have proved you are. Not only under hypnosis either. It is possible that you are susceptible to delayed reaction. For instance, Nick has told me what happened at your grandmother’s house.’

Jo looked up, stunned. ‘Nick doesn’t know what happened,’ she said tightly. ‘At least –’ She stopped abruptly.

‘Supposing you tell me what you think happened.’ Sam did not look at her. He was staring at the candle flame as it flared sideways in the draught as someone stood at the next table and reached for their coat.

Jo hesitated. ‘Nothing,’ she said at last. ‘I fainted, that’s all. It had nothing to do with anything. So, are you going to help me?’

For a moment he did not answer, lost in contemplation of the candle, the shadows playing across his face. Then once more he shook his head. ‘Leave it alone, Jo,’ he said softly. ‘Otherwise you may start something you can’t finish.’