Читать книгу Dangerous to Know - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 8

The first time I met Sebastian Locke I fell in love with him. He was thirty-two years old. I was twelve. I had no idea at the time that he was my mother’s lover. Nor did I know then that ten years later I would marry him.

Now he was dead.

He had died in somewhat mysterious, even suspicious, circumstances. It was not yet known whether he had died of natural causes, committed suicide, or been murdered.

We were divorced. I had not seen him for almost a year, until last Monday, when we had lunched together at his request. Obviously the police hoped I might be able to throw some light on the matter of his death, but I could not. I was as perplexed as everyone else. However, they had just arrived to see me. I was appalled. That Sebastian was dead was only just registering with me. I glanced around my library. The familiar room looked exactly the same as it always had. The two walls of books were balanced by an eclectic mixture of antiques, my grandmother’s horse paintings, and her Victorian lamps. But somehow it was out of kilter. So was I. Pulling myself together, I buzzed the intercom and told my secretary Belinda she could show them into the library.

A split second later I was shaking hands with Detectives Joe Kennelly and Aaron Miles from the Major Crime Division of the Connecticut State Police.

“We’re baffled, Mrs. Trent,” Detective Kennelly said as we all sat down. “Until we get the autopsy report we’re working in the dark. As you already know, the circumstances are suspicious, so we can’t rule out foul play. But who would want to kill Sebastian Locke? Surely such a good man didn’t have enemies, did he?”

They both focused their eyes on me, and intently so.

Silently I stared back at them. I did not say a word. I could think of several enemies, and any one of them might easily have murdered him. However, I was not about to mention this to the police. That was a family matter, and, oddly enough, even though we had been divorced for eight years, I still thought of myself as being a member of the Locke clan, and was treated as such by the family—what was left of it.

Clearing my throat, I said finally, “Naturally, a man like Sebastian met a lot of people on his travels around the world, and from all walks of life. I suppose he might have made an enemy or two, unintentionally, of course. Powerful men often do inspire hatred in some, for no reason other than the power they possess.”

Without shifting my steady gaze I pursed my lips, shrugged helplessly, and finished, “But I’m afraid I can’t point a finger at anyone in particular, Detective Kennelly.”

His partner said, “Was Mr. Locke in the habit of coming up to Connecticut alone?”

Genuinely puzzled, I frowned. “He was no longer married to Betsy Bethune, his last wife,” I responded. “But I suppose he might have come to the farm alone. Unless he brought a friend or colleague along, or invited special guests to join him for the weekend.”

“I meant was he in the habit of coming up to the farm when the servants were off?” Detective Miles clarified.

“No, he wouldn’t do that…well, I shouldn’t say that. Actually, I don’t really know what he was in the habit of doing anymore. We had been divorced for a number of years, and I saw him infrequently of late.”

“However, you did see him a week ago, Mrs. Trent, and only a few days before his death,” Detective Miles reminded me.

“That’s true. We had lunch together, as you most obviously know. From his appointment book, I’ve no doubt.”

Detective Miles nodded. “Yes, we did see your name in his book, along with the other appointments he had that day.”

“We spent a couple of hours lunching at Le Refuge on Eighty-Second Street on the East Side, just a few blocks away from my apartment,” I volunteered. I had nothing to hide.

Detective Kennelly’s tone was brisk when he asked, “How was Mr. Locke? What kind of mood was he in that day? Did he seem despondent? Troubled in any way? Worried perhaps?” The detective raised a brow quizzically.

I shook my head. “None of those things. In fact, just the opposite. He was very Sebastian Locke, very much himself…calm, cool, collected. That’s the way I always think of him—” I broke off. I felt the tears filling my throat. Sebastian was dead. It didn’t seem possible. I still hadn’t taken it in; I found it hard to conceive that he was no longer alive.

Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I cleared my throat, and went on slowly, “That’s the way he always was. Very much in control of himself and the situation. And his demeanor was perfectly normal at lunch.”

As the words came tumbling out of my mouth, I realized this wasn’t the truth. Not quite. Last Monday Sebastian had not been himself at all. He had been ebullient, excited, and certainly not as low key as he usually was. That somber streak of his had not been even remotely in evidence. In fact, he had actually seemed happy, a most unnatural state of affairs for him. But I did not confide this to the two detectives. What was the point? I was absolutely certain Sebastian had dropped dead of a sudden heart attack. He was no more the kind of person to commit suicide than I was. Nor was he a candidate for murder, for that matter. He did have a few enemies, such as political factions, at least so I believed, but looking at it rationally, I seriously doubted that anyone would go so far as to kill him.

“Yes, Sebastian was absolutely normal, Detective Kennelly,” I reiterated, and with a degree of firmness. “There was nothing at all untoward in his behavior, and he spoke very positively about his plans for the rest of the year.”

“And what were those plans?” Kennelly asked.

“He was going back to Africa again, to oversee a particular distribution of aid to the poor and the sick, and then he was going on to India. To Calcutta, to be exact. He said he wanted to pay a visit to Mother Teresa. He’d always been a big supporter of her clinic, had given her significant financial contributions in the past. He told me he would be coming back to the States in December, because he intended to spend Christmas here in Connecticut.”

“And you didn’t see him again that week?” Detective Miles leaned forward, zeroing in on me as he asked the question.

“No, I didn’t, Detective Miles.”

“What about up here in Connecticut this weekend?” he asked.

“I had a deadline to meet, and I was locked up finishing my story, first in the city and then here. In this very room, in fact, and I hardly left it for the entire weekend.”

“I see.” Detective Miles inclined his head in a small show of courtesy, and slowly stood up. His partner Kennelly also rose.

I said, “When actually did Sebastian die?”

“Time of death hasn’t been determined yet, but probably some time on Saturday evening,” Miles answered me.

It was Kennelly who said, “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Trent.”

“I haven’t been much help, I’m afraid,” I answered.

“At least you’ve established Mr. Locke’s mood for us, his frame of mind, and corroborated what everyone else has said so far, mainly that he was acting like himself right up to the time of his death,” Kennelly said.

“I’m sure he died of natural causes. Jack and Luciana agree with me.”

“We know that, Mrs. Trent. We’ve talked to them at length,” Detective Miles volunteered.

I was fully aware of this, but I made no further comment as I walked the two policemen to the door of the library. “When will you have the results of the autopsy?” I inquired quietly.

“Not for a while,” Detective Kennelly replied, pausing on the threshold, turning to look at me. “Mr. Locke’s body hasn’t been moved from the farm yet. But later, probably tomorrow, it will go to the Chief Medical Examiner’s Office in Farmington. The autopsy will be performed immediately, however, the final results are not necessarily quick to come in.” He gave me a faint smile that seemed somehow apologetic.

“We’ll be in touch, Mrs. Trent,” Detective Miles added.

Sitting down at my antique French country desk, I picked up my fountain pen but merely stared blankly at the pages spread out in front of me. Earlier, I had attempted to edit the piece I had finished on Sunday night, but without much success. The news of Sebastian’s death this morning and the arrival of the police ten minutes ago had broken my concentration. I was finding it virtually impossible to get back to work. Not surprising, I suppose, under these terrible circumstances.

My thoughts were entirely focused on Sebastian; I had thought of little else but him since Jack phoned me with the shocking news of his death.

Gazing blindly into the empty room, a myriad of thoughts jostling for prominence in my mind, I put the pen down and leaned back in my chair.

Sebastian had been a part of my life for as long as I could remember, and perhaps more than anyone he had been the greatest influence on me. Even though we had had our noisy quarrels, heated differences of opinion, and stormy, emotional episodes that left both of us very shaken and upset, we had always managed to patch things up, to stick together, to remain close, no matter what. Knowing him all my life though I had, it was after our divorce that we had come to understand each other; and it was only then that our relationship acquired a certain degree of peace and serenity.

Our marriage had been tempestuous at times and short-lived; through the passing of time I had come to realize why it had been so volatile, and brief. Put simply, the forty-two-year-old experienced man of the world had not known how to cope with the twenty-two-year-old child who was his new bride. Me.

An image of Sebastian on our wedding day flashed before me, and once again my throat closed with a sudden rush of emotion. Tears were incipient, pricked behind my lids; I blinked them away. On and off, for the last few hours, I had been shedding tears…tears for Sebastian, dead at fifty-six, and with so much more of life to live…tears for myself…tears for Jack and Luciana…tears for the world.

Difficult, haunted, and troubled man though he had been, he had nevertheless been a great man. A good man. No matter what he was in his personal life, his shoulders had been strong enough to carry so many of the world’s burdens, and his heart had been filled with compassion for those who were suffering and in need.

A French journalist had once written about him that he was a beacon light in these darkly turbulent and troubled times we lived in. Certainly I deemed this to be the truth. The world would be a lesser place now that he was no longer in it.

Oh Sebastian, you were too young to die, I thought, and I put my head down and closed my eyes, reliving Jack’s phone call of this morning. I had been checking the facts in my story when Belinda had told me that Jack Locke was on the line…

“Jack! Hello!” I exclaimed. “How are you? And more importantly, where are you?”

“Here. In Connecticut. At the farm, Vivienne.”

“That’s great. When did you get in from France?”

“Two days ago, but Vivienne, I—”

“Come on over for supper tonight! I’ve just finished this long piece for the London Sunday Times Magazine, and it’ll do me good to cook, to relax with y—”

Cutting me off in a peremptory way, he said swiftly, “Vivienne, there’s something I must tell you.”

I detected an odd note in his voice, and it made the hackles rise on the back of my neck. Stiffening, I clutched the phone tighter in my hand. “What is it? What’s wrong, Jack?”

“It’s Sebastian…Vivienne…I’m not sure how to tell you this, how to break it gently, so I’m gonna come right out with it. He’s dead. Sebastian’s dead.”

“Oh my God! No! It can’t be! What happened? When did he die?” I demanded shrilly, and then I heard myself wailing, “It can’t be true. He can’t be dead. No, not Sebastian.” My stomach lurched, and then as agitation fully took hold of me, my heart began to pound against my rib cage.

“It is true,” Jack insisted. “I got a call this morning. Around nine-thirty. From Harry Blakely. The tree man. The aborist who looks after the trees at the farm. You know him, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Harry called me to tell me he’d found Sebastian’s body out back. Near the lake. Harry had gone to the farm as he usually does Mondays. He was heading down to cut off the tops of some dead willows. He stumbled over the body. Sebastian was sprawled face down, near those rocks at the far end of the lake. He had a gash on his forehead. Harry said he looked as if he’d been outside all night. Maybe longer. Once he’d established that Sebastian was dead, Harry went up to the house to call the State Police in North Canaan. He told them about finding the body. They instructed him not to move it. Not to touch a single thing. Then he called me at the house in Manhattan. I grabbed Luciana, who’s in from London. We took Sebastian’s helicopter out here. Harry was also disturbed about the mess in Sebastian’s library. The room was in total disarray. A lamp was overturned. A chair was on its side. Papers were strewn everywhere. And the French doors were ajar. The glass was broken in one of the panes. Harry thought it looked as if it could have been smashed on purpose. By an intruder.”

“Are you saying that Sebastian may have been killed?”

“It’s possible. Very possible,” Jack said. “The circumstances are somewhat suspicious, wouldn’t you say?”

“From what you’re telling me, it does look strange, yes. On the other hand, Sebastian might have had some sort of attack, a stroke perhaps. He could have staggered around the room, then gone outside to get air…” My voice petered out. It was foolish to speculate. But a second later I did just that again.

“Do you think he fell and hit his head, Jack? Or are you suggesting he was chased out of the house, and then struck by someone? The intruder? If there was one.”

“I don’t know, Vivienne. I wonder if we’ll ever know.”

“Oh, Jack, this is just horrendous! I can’t believe he’s dead. I just can’t.” I found myself weeping once more.

“Don’t cry. Please don’t. It won’t bring him back.”

“I know it won’t but I can’t help it. I’ve loved him for as long as I can remember, since I was a child. And I still cared deeply for him, despite the divorce.”

“I know,” he muttered.

There was a silence between us.

“How’s Luciana?” I asked at last, endeavoring to ignore Jack’s coldness, this seeming lack of feeling I was detecting.

“She’s fine. Holding up. She’ll be okay.”

“Would you like me to drive over to Cornwall? I can be there in half an hour, in three-quarters of an hour at the most.”

“No, you don’t have to come. But thanks for offering. Anyway, this place is crawling with police. That’s another reason I called. To alert you. They’ll be over to see you. Some time today. You’re in Sebastian’s appointment book. They asked me who you were. I told them you were his ex-wife. One of his ex-wives. You were with him very recently. I guess that’s why they want to talk to you.”

“I understand, Jack, but I really can’t tell them anything. Sebastian was in the best of spirits. And health, as far as I could tell last Monday. Oh God, it’s a week ago exactly that we lunched. I can’t believe this, I just can’t,” I sobbed.

Fumbling for my handkerchief, I blew my nose and tried to get a grip on myself and my emotions.

“It’s the shock,” I mumbled into the phone after a second or two, “the unexpectedness of it. How can Sebastian be dead? He was larger than life, and he seemed so invulnerable. Invincible. To me, anyway. I thought nothing would ever happen to him, that he would live forever. Well, at least that he’d live to be an old man. Actually, I always thought of him as being immortal, if the truth be known.”

“He was only too mortal,” Jack said in a low, tense voice. “Listen, I gotta go. I can see two detectives heading this way. Walking up the back lawn. Looking as grim as hell,” he snapped.

“Jack, please call me later!”

“Sure.”

“Please.”

“Okay! Okay!”

He sounded more impatient than usual.

“And please tell Luciana how sorry I am. Perhaps I ought to speak with her now.”

“She’s out. Taking a walk. We’ll all meet up later.”

He was gone without another word, without even saying good-bye. I sat there holding the phone in my hand, as if turned to stone, listening to the interminable dial tone. Finally, I replaced the receiver.

Ever since that call this morning, I have been numb from shock, full of grief, disbelieving. Now, suddenly, I felt drained. A vast emptiness settled within me. It was as if I were quite hollow, just a fragile shell.

I have never experienced such feelings before. No, that’s not true. I have. When my mother died with this same kind of suddenness, this awful abruptness that always leaves others reeling and lost. And when my second husband Michael Trent suffered an unexpected heart attack, a fatal heart attack, I was devastated, floundering, cast adrift then just as I am today.

Life is hell; no, death is hell, I muttered to myself, and then wondered why it was those I loved had always been taken from me with such breathtaking unexpectedness.

Pushing myself up out of my chair, I left the library. In the corridor, I poked my head around the door of Belinda’s cubbyhole of an office, told her I was going for a walk, and pulled an old wool cape out of the coat closet.

I stood on the back step and took several deep breaths. On this Monday afternoon at the beginning of October the weather was positively glorious, and mild, like spring. I glanced up. The arc of the sky was vivid blue and clear, and everything appeared to shimmer in the bright, golden sunlight. The trees had already started to turn, the leaves changing color from verdant green to yellow, russet, and scarlet; some were a deep, plummy purple, others a mellow gold tinged at the edges with the palest of pinks. It was fall, that special time of year when tourists from all over the world came to Connecticut to see the magnificent foliage, which was so breathtaking.

Moving quickly along the stone-flagged path, I headed across the lawn toward a small gazebo that stood at the edge of a copse of trees. I loved this remote corner of the garden where everything was bosky, still and silent.

My grandmother had built this gazebo many, many years ago, long before I was born. It had been created for my mother when she was a child. She had grown up in this old colonial stone house which stood in the hills above New Preston, a picturesque little town in the northwestern highlands of Connecticut.

Climbing the three wooden steps, I went inside and sat down on the bench, pulling the cape around me, shivering slightly. Yet it wasn’t cold today. The sun was a huge bright orb, and in this part of the world we were enjoying an extraordinary Indian Summer, the likes of which had not been seen around these parts for a long while. I had shivered a moment before only because I felt the presence of ghosts here in this rustic little structure, saw them all…all of them. I found myself falling backward in time to be with them.

Gran Rosalie, with her pretty pink complexion and snow-white hair piled high on top of her head, was sitting there so proudly, with such dignity, on the bench in front of the round table.

She was pouring tea from her old brown china pot with the chip on the lid, which she would not throw away because she said it made the best tea. Gran was telling me stories about this lovely old house, Ridgehill, which had been in her family for generations. Built in 1799, it had been passed down from mother to daughter and had always been owned by a woman, never a man. That was the stipulation in the will of Henrietta Bailey, my great-great-great-great-grandmother. It was she who had built the house with her own money and who had been one of the most powerful matriarchs of the Baileys. My gran was a Bailey, descending directly from her; Bailey was even part of my name.

My grandmother had the most beautiful of voices, cultured, lilting, full of musicality. She was reminding me that one day the house would be mine. Carefully, she explained about Henrietta and her will, told me how my amazing ancestor had wanted the women of the Bailey family always to be protected. So the house must pass from mother to daughter, even if there were sons. If there were no daughters then the house passed to the wife of the eldest son. I loved to hear the history of my family. I cherished Gran’s marvelous tales…

My mother was here now…all golden-light and brightness, a shimmering kind of woman with her abundance of red-gold hair, perfect, milky skin, and startling green eyes. His emerald eyes, my father called them.

Now he was with us too…the Irishman. Black Irish, Liam Delaney was, my gran told me that. Black Irish and something of a charmer, a twinkling rogue of a man, a man whom women fell for at the drop of a hat, at least so my gran said to me time and again when I was growing up.

He was tall and dark, with rosy cheeks, sparkling brown eyes, and a brogue as rich as thick clotted cream. The Black Irishman, the twinkling rogue, had been a writer. I suppose I have inherited his penchant for words, his flair for stringing them together so that they make some sort of sense. His had been a powerful gift; I’m not so sure that mine is of quite the same magnitude. Gran always said that if it wasn’t, then it was only because I hadn’t kissed the Blarney Stone in County Cork, as my father had claimed to have done. Gran used to say it was surely the truth, for no one else she knew had such wondrous powers of persuasion as he.

He left us, though, my father did, one day many summers ago, telling us he would be back within three months. But he never did return, and I have no idea to this day whether he is dead or alive. I was ten years old when he went off on that journalistic forage for new material, traveling into the far, far blue horizons of the world. Twenty-six years ago. Perhaps he was dead by now.

My mother had been sad at first; she had cheered up only when his letters began to arrive at regular intervals. She read parts of them to me as they came in one by one; but only small portions, skipping the intimate bits, I suspect. I’ve been brought up to believe that my father was quite a man with the fancy words, especially when it came to wooing women.

First he was in Australia, then he went to New Zealand, and finally he left the Antipodes and traveled to Tahiti. Fiji was another port of call as he wandered around the Pacific, God knows in search of what. Other women? More exotic women? Not long after my mother received a letter from him postmarked Tonga communications had abruptly ceased. We never heard from him again.

When I was small I used to think that my mother was suffering from a broken heart, that she was endlessly yearning for my father. I had not known then that eighteen months after Liam Delaney had set sail for those exotic isles of Micronesia, she was already falling in love with Sebastian Locke.

Now, leaning forward on the bench, I squinted slightly, narrowing my eyes, peering out into the sunlit garden…

In my mind’s eye I saw him quite clearly, walking across the lawn toward me, just the way he had done all those years ago.

Sebastian Locke, heading in my direction, long-limbed, slender, the embodiment of nonchalant grace, walking toward me.

That summer’s afternoon, the first time I ever set eyes on him, I thought he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. He was far more handsome than my father, which was saying a lot indeed. Sebastian was tall and dark-haired like my father, but whereas Liam’s eyes were velvet-brown and depthful, Sebastian’s were a clear, vivid blue, the brightest of blues. Like bits of sky, I recall thinking that day, and they had a piercing quality to them. It was as if they could see right through you, as if they could see into your mind and heart. I really believed he knew exactly what I was thinking; even last Monday I had thought the same thing over lunch.

Sebastian was wearing white gabardine pants and a pale blue shirt on that stifling July day in 1970. The shirt was made of voile, almost flimsy in weight. I’ve liked voile shirts on men ever since. The shirt was open at the neck, with the sleeves rolled up, and his face and arms were tan. His body was tanned as well. I could see it through the voile. He was a lithe man, very fit, athletic.

He had leaned against the posts of the gazebo and smiled at me. His teeth were very white and even in his sun-bronzed face, his mouth sensitive, and the vivid eyes were set wide apart in that arresting face.

Those eyes regarded me unblinkingly, and with great interest for a few seconds. It was when he said, “Hello, young lady, you must be the famous Vivienne,” that I had felt myself becoming hot around my face and neck. Then he had stretched out his hand toward me. As I had taken it he had nodded slightly, as though acknowledging me yet again. He held onto my hand much longer than I expected, and as I looked up into that open, clean-cut face, my own very serious in its expression, my heart had skipped several beats.

And of course I had fallen hopelessly in love with him. I was all of twelve years old at the time, but I felt much older on that particular day. Very grown up. After all, it was the first time a man had actually made me blush.

Sebastian was thirty-two but looked much younger, extremely boyish and carefree. Vaguely, I somehow knew that he was the kind of man women automatically gravitate to; somehow I understood that he had charisma, sex appeal, that je ne sais quoi the French forever talk about.

In any case I was all agog over him. I never did get him to admit it to me, but I was certain he felt something special for me that day.

On the other hand, he might have liked me simply because I was the daughter of my mother, the beauteous Antoinette Delaney, with whom he was having a grand love affair at the time.

That afternoon, when he had sauntered up the steps of the gazebo and seated himself next to me, I had known he was going to play a huge part in my life, in my future. Don’t ask me how the young girl that I was then sensed this. She just did.

We had talked about horses, which he knew scared me to death. He had asked me if I would like to come to Laurel Creek Farm in Cornwall to learn to ride.

“I have a son, Jack, who’s six, and a daughter, Luciana, who’s four. They’re already astride their ponies and doing well. Say you’ll come and ride with us, Vivienne, say you’ll come and stay at the horse farm. Your mother’s a fine equestrienne, as you well know. She wants you to ride as proficiently as she does. You mustn’t be afraid of horses. I will teach you how to ride myself. You’ll be safe with me.” He was correct in that, I did feel safe with him, and he did teach me to ride well, showing much more patience and understanding than my mother. And I loved him all the more for that.

A long time later, many years later, I realized he had been trying to make us into a family, that he had wanted my mother for himself. For always. But how could she have been his forever? She was married to Liam Delaney, and he had gone missing far across the ocean. Until she got a divorce she could never remarry. Not Sebastian. Not anyone. Still, Sebastian had tried to blend us into a tight-knit little circle, and in certain ways he succeeded.

That afternoon, staring up at him, I had only been able to nod mutely as he talked about horses, tried to reassure me about learning to ride. I was rendered speechless by this man, totally mesmerized by him.

I was under his spell.

And I was forever after, for that matter.

It was Belinda who broke into my memories and my golden dreams, who scattered my beloved ghosts to the far corners of Gran Rosalie’s garden.

“Vivienne, Vivienne!” she called as she hurried down the path, waving frantically. “It’s the New York Times. They’re on the phone.”

I leaped to my feet on hearing this and raced toward her. We met in the middle of the lawn. “The New York Times?” I repeated, searching her face, my heart sinking.

“Yes, they’ve gotten wind of it…wind of Sebastian’s death. They seem to know that the police were called in, that the circumstances are suspicious. Etcetera, etcetera. Anyway, the reporter wants to have a word with you.”

The mere thought of tomorrow’s headlines around the world sent a chill surging through me. And of course there would be headlines. A famous man had died, a man of conscience and compassion…the world’s greatest philanthropist. And he might have been murdered. I shrivelled inside at the mere thought of those headlines. The press would turn his life upside down and inside out. No one, nothing, would be sacrosanct.

“The reporter wants to talk to you, Vivienne,” Belinda said more urgently, taking hold of my arm. “He’s waiting.”

“Oh God,” I groaned. “Why me?”