She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. My stepfather is going to be away for a few weeks and Mummy rang last night. She doesn’t dare ask us home when he’s there. He hates James and me.’ She gave a dry laugh. ‘He must hate us even more now James owns the house he lives in. Anyway, with her there on her own I can talk to her and think. Get things straight in my mind about the future.’
‘Any chance I could be part of it?’ He pulled a face, trying to keep the question light.
She shook her head apologetically, knowing she was hurting him. ‘You stick to Diane. She’s perfect for you. I’m much too bitter and twisted.’ She smiled, but he noticed that the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
‘Are you going to visit Duncairn while you’re in Scotland?’ He changed the subject abruptly.
‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘Maybe. Maybe I’ll go up there and chase Neil Forbes off my land.’
‘Neil Forbes?’ Henry looked puzzled.
‘An objectionable man who tried to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do with Duncairn.’ She gave up trying to eat and pushed her plate aside. Neil Forbes’s image had returned to plague her again and again since his visit to Bucksters. Even the thought of him made her angry.
Henry noted the sudden colour in her pale face and the sparkle in her eyes. Thoughtfully he leaned back in his chair.
‘I’d like to be there when you catch him.’
She laughed. ‘I might even sell tickets. Come on, let’s order some ice cream.’
He watched her as she ate it. Her black mood had passed as soon as it had come; she was happy again now, laughing, and in control. He prayed he wasn’t going to spoil her mood.
‘I think Paul is hoping you’ll give him one more chance to exonerate himself,’ he said quietly. He sat back, watching her face as the waiter brought their coffee.
‘Another chance?’ She picked up her cup at once, enjoying it black and scalding.
‘Another surprise.’ He gave a weak smile. ‘He asked me to take you back to the office after we’d finished here. He’s got yet another present for you, apparently.’
‘At the office?’ Clare stared at him. ‘Why not at home?’
Henry shrugged. ‘Something to do with your Mrs C always poking her nose into things, he said.’
‘But she’s out this evening.’
‘Perhaps he meant he couldn’t find anywhere to hide it. Does she peek and pry?’ He laughed. ‘Anyway, I’ve orders to deliver you back to BCWP at eleven o’clock on the dot. And he will be waiting with champagne ready in his office.’
She frowned, suddenly apprehensive. ‘You’re coming too?’
He glanced at her sharply. ‘Of course. If you want me to.’
Sarah Collins already had her coat on when the doorbell rang. Frowning she pulled the door open, telling Casta to be quiet as the dog jumped, barking, at their visitor.
‘Hi, Mrs C. Remember me?’ James Gordon was leaning against the side of the porch. He bent to fondle Casta’s ears as the dog jumped up at him, tail wagging excitedly. A heavy rainshower blew sideways down the street behind him, splashing off the pavement, rattling against the parked cars, sending the plane leaves cartwheeling down the gutter. ‘Is Clare here?’
Sarah shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, your sister has gone out, Mr Gordon. She won’t be back until late.’
‘Shit!’ James was already in the hall. ‘I hoped I could scrounge some shelter and a drink.’
Sarah glared at him distastefully. ‘I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you having a drink, Mr Gordon.’
‘Good. Were you going out too?’ He suddenly noticed her coat.
She hesitated. ‘I was going off to spend the night with my sister. Mr and Mrs Royland know about it –’
‘Then go, Mrs C. Please. Casta and I shall keep each other company. Won’t we, Casta?’ He rumpled the dog’s ears.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure. I shall be very good and I promise not to steal the silver.’ He smiled at her, his head on one side.
As soon as the door had closed behind her he walked back into the drawing room and helped himself to half a tumbler of Paul’s best malt whisky. He stood looking round the room as he drank it. At his feet Casta sat watching his face expectantly.
‘Just you and me, old girl.’ He raised his glass to the dog in a toast. Casta’s tail swept the carpet with enthusiasm. ‘So, how are your master and mistress getting on together?’ James sat down on the sofa. ‘Still fighting? I bet you’re on your mum’s side, aren’t you?’
Standing up again restlessly, he walked over to the bureau and pulled open a drawer. Idly shuffling through the contents he closed it and pulled open another. He read through a couple of letters and threw them down. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for; anything about Paul’s finances, or Duncairn, he supposed, while he had the chance.
He had been thinking about Paul’s offer to sell Duncairn to him, and the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. His initial reaction had been stupid and sentimental; his second and third thoughts had been far more complicated. After all, it was possible that Clare would agree to sell to him, and she might agree to do so for far less than Paul was asking. She might even agree to swop the land for one of the farms, or even for Airdlie. Once Duncairn was his then he could sell it to Sigma himself. Putting down his glass he began systematically to search the house.
It was upstairs in the master bedroom, in the bottom drawer of a regency walnut chest of drawers hidden behind a pile of silk nightdresses, that he found the candles. Half a dozen tall, silver candles, wrapped in a black silk scarf. He unwrapped them and lined them up neatly on the pale green carpet, staring at them thoughtfully. With them in the drawer was a stubby candle holder, some incense sticks and a small bottle of oil. He opened the bottle and sniffed its contents cautiously. It was scented: spicy and sweet and rather exotic.
Casta was sitting in the doorway watching him intently. James glanced at her. ‘Are these the candles your mum uses to summon the spirits?’ The dog put her head on one side. ‘Of course they are.’ He picked one up and weighed it in his hand. ‘These are special, magic candles.’ The dinner-party candles were in the dresser with the napkins and table mats. He had seen them downstairs.
As the doorbell rang Casta leapt up and hurtled downstairs, barking. Guiltily James bundled the candles into their silk wrapping and stuffed them back into the drawer. He put the candlestick and oil back with them and pushed the drawer closed, then he ran downstairs, two at a time.
Emma stared at him in astonishment as he opened the door. ‘I thought there was no one in except the dog. Where’s Clare?’
‘Out for dinner, apparently.’ James stood back to let her in. ‘I came in to wait, but now I don’t know. She might be hours. Can I give you some of Paul’s Scotch?’
‘Please.’ Emma took off her raincoat and hung it in the hall. ‘I wanted to talk to Clare.’
‘About your new boyfriend?’ James smiled.
Emma stared at him. ‘What the hell do you mean? What new boyfriend?’
‘The gorgeous American. It’s OK. I won’t tell Pete. Privileged information, and all that.’
‘If Clare told you, she had no business to!’ Emma was furious. ‘Anyway there is nothing to tell. There is no boyfriend. It turns out he was just a passing acquaintance.’ She had seen Rex twice more, both times for lunch, both times for only an hour, and on both occasions he had talked more about Paul than about anything else. Then she had heard no more. She had waited a long time for him to ring again, then at last she had called him. His office had said he was away in the States, and there was certainly no reply from his flat. He seemed to have disappeared without a word, and she was more upset than she cared to admit.
‘I didn’t come to talk about him anyway,’ she said stiffly. ‘Apparently Clare had lunch with Chloe last week and she scared the pants off her. I wanted to know exactly what she said.’ She giggled suddenly.
&nb
sp; ‘I thought the sainted Chloe was unscarable.’ James did not like his brother-in-law’s relations.
‘Clare was going on about witches and spirits and Satan.’
He laughed uncomfortably. ‘And Chloe believed her, did she?’
‘I think so. You can never quite tell with Chloe, but Geoffrey’s taken it very seriously. I gather he’s now talking about consulting his bishop.’ She sobered. ‘James, what do you think about all this stuff Clare’s involved in? Does she really believe in it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you think it’s true?’
James shrugged. ‘Probably.’
‘You don’t think it could hurt her in any way, do you? One hears such frightening stories about people being possessed by evil spirits.’
‘I don’t think Isobel was evil.’ James sat down thoughtfully. ‘She was just a very unhappy woman, that’s all. Clare’s been obsessed by her for years.’
‘Obsession is a psychological condition, James –’
‘Clare is not mad, Emma.’ James spoke unusually forcefully. ‘And if Paul is telling people she is, he’s a liar!’
16
The security men at BCWP were expecting them. As the taxi drew up outside the building they unlocked the doors and let them in.
‘Mr Royland is in his room, Mr Firbank.’
‘Come on.’ Henry took Clare’s hand.
Together they walked up the broad flight of stairs which led from the huge hall, lit now not by the vast chandelier, but only the low-watt courtesy light on the reception desk. The landing was in darkness.
Outside Paul’s door, Henry paused. ‘OK?’ he whispered.
Clare nodded. It was idiotic to feel nervous.
Henry didn’t knock. Throwing open the door he ushered Clare in. ‘Here we are, right on time!’
Paul was sitting in one of the leather armchairs near the fireplace. Beside him on a low table stood an ice bucket with a bottle of Bollinger and three glasses. On the desk by the window lay a sheaf of red roses.
He rose slowly. ‘Clare, darling.’ He kissed her gently on the mouth. It was a slow lingering kiss and Clare felt a strange clutch of excitement in her stomach. ‘Come on, Henry. Do the honours.’ He waved at the champagne.
He helped her off with her coat, the luxurious wild mink he had given her for her twenty-eighth birthday, and threw it on a chair. Then he turned to the desk. ‘These are for you, my darling. To make up.’ He picked up the flowers and thrust them into Clare’s arms.
She stared at them. ‘Paul, they’re lovely –’
‘I’ve been a bastard these last few weeks, I know.’ Paul put his arm around her. ‘Say you forgive me?’
‘Of course I forgive you.’ She stared up at him. Relief was making her feel weak at the knees.
‘Here you are.’ Henry had poured the champagne. He glanced at Clare, trying to keep his face cheerful. ‘I’m beginning to feel that I’m the proverbial gooseberry here. I’ll drink your health quickly then I think I’ll leave. You don’t mind?’
Clare looked up at Paul’s face. He was smiling, but there was a slight sheen of perspiration on his forehead. For a second she hesitated, then she shook her head. ‘Of course I don’t mind. Thank you, Henry, for a lovely evening.’
‘My pleasure.’ Henry drank his half glass of champagne rather too quickly, then he put the glass down and turned to the door. ‘Be good! Remember the security boys! I’ll see you in the morning, Paul.’
As the door closed behind him Paul picked the bottle out of the ice and refilled Clare’s glass. ‘Nice chap, Henry. Useful sort of man to have around. He’s in love with you, you know.’ He sounded amused.
Clare swallowed. ‘I don’t think so. Not really. He’s very fond of Diane.’
‘Diane?’ Paul raised an eyebrow. ‘Then he’s a fool. The woman is a whore.’ He thrust the bottle back into the bucket with a noise like splintering glass. ‘Anyway, she’s his problem, not ours.’ He smiled. ‘Drink up, then we’ll go home. We don’t want to shock those guards, do we!’ He ran his finger slowly up her arm.
Clare sipped her champagne. She was feeling slightly light-headed. The office was full of the scent of roses.
Slowly Paul walked round the room, turning off the lights one by one, until only the table lamp by the chair was left on. The room was very silent. ‘I told the guards it was our anniversary,’ he murmured. ‘You’d forgotten, hadn’t you? We met on the fourth of November.’
Clare put down her glass carefully. ‘So we did. I was sixteen. You’d come to school to see Emma and you agreed to stay for the firework party.’
‘Remember, remember the fifth of November,’ he said slowly. ‘The day I fell in love.’ He put his arms around her and kissed her again. His mouth tasted antiseptic, as if he had just gargled. ‘Before we go I want to show you something.’
Clare smiled uneasily. ‘Paul darling, let’s just go home –’
‘It won’t take long. Come on. Bring the flowers.’ He reached on to his desk and picked up an envelope, tucking it into his inside pocket then gathering her coat over his arm, he turned off the light. In the sudden darkness a dim shadowy twilight from the street lamps outside lit the room, filtering around the edges of the heavy blinds. By its light he guided her to a door on the far side of the room and opened it. The corridor outside led through into the new offices. Off it led a passage which took them to a private lift. Paul pressed the button on the wall. ‘I want you to come up and see the view. It’s a beautiful night now. The rain has gone and the whole city is glowing in the starlight.’
‘No, Paul, please. Let’s go home.’ Clare hung back, every sense warning her to run.
The lift doors slid back without a sound and stayed open as Paul stood, his finger on the button.
‘You’re not afraid. Not with me here?’ He ran his fingers over her shoulders. ‘There’s more champagne upstairs, Clare, and candlelight. We can make love on the roof of the world. Come.’ Taking her hand gently he stepped into the lift and she had no alternative but reluctantly to follow him. As they both turned to face the door he fitted a security card into a slot and pressed the top button.
Clutching the roses she buried her face in the blooms as the steel doors slid shut and she held her breath as with a slight bump the lift began its upward journey.
Paul stopped it between the twelfth and thirteenth floors and removed the card. Slipping it into his breast pocket he leaned against the wall, folding his arms over her mink. He was smiling.
‘This, I think, is as good a place as any to have our little conversation, don’t you?’ he said.
Clare stared at him in disbelief, clutching convulsively at the roses.
‘All I want, my darling, is your signature on this document.’ He reached into his pocket for the envelope. ‘Oh yes, I kept a copy. Henry and Sarah can “witness” it tomorrow. The important thing is for you to sign it. Now.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It is almost exactly midnight. The witching hour. And on the thirteenth floor. Most appropriate, don’t you think? We have the rest of the night, if necessary. I told the security men we didn’t want to be disturbed, and they won’t check this lift.’
Clare closed her eyes, trying desperately to fight back the rising waves of panic. ‘Paul, please –’
He was taking a gold-plated ballpoint pen out of his pocket. Dropping her coat on the thickly carpeted lift floor he slowly extricated the papers from the envelope.
It was growing hot and Clare’s arms tightened convulsively on the roses. She could feel the thorns tearing her skin through the cellophane. ‘I won’t sign!’ Defiantly she backed into the corner, feeling the walls of the lift cold through the thin silk of her dress. ‘Please, Paul, this is ridiculous!’ She had begun to tremble. Her mouth had gone dry and her breathing was coming in short, shallow gasps. Desperately she tried to remember the techniques Zak had taught her.
Breathe slowly. Count. Think of the ashram. Think of Duncairn in the sun. Think of the sea whisper
ing gently at the foot of the cliffs. Think of the wind whispering in the spicy, fragrant branches of the old pines. Count. Count slowly. You have nothing to fear, but fear itself. Paul can’t keep you here forever. He is a big man. He will need oxygen before you do. He doesn’t want to die. Soon he will begin to gasp and feel the need for oxygen … Soon he will want to open the doors …
She raised her eyes desperately to his. He was smiling. Beads of perspiration stood out on his brow and his face was slightly flushed, but otherwise he was calm. Slowly he held out the paper and pen to her.
‘Sign, Clare.’
‘No.’ Blood was running down her wrist from the rose thorns, but she didn’t notice. ‘I’m not going to sign it.’ She clenched her teeth. ‘You will run out of air long before I do, Paul.’
The walls were beginning to spin.
‘I don’t think so.’ He smiled. ‘After all, I’m not panicking, am I? Sign, Clare. Then it will all be over. Here –’ He tore the roses out of her arms and threw them to the floor with the coat, staring in distaste at the bloody scratches on her arms. Seizing her hand he folded her fingers around his pen. ‘Sign, you stupid bitch!’ His voice was thick. ‘Sign!’ Suddenly he was beside himself with anger and fear.
‘No.’ He barely heard her whisper.
‘Sign!’ He laughed desperately. ‘Look at you. Terrified of shadows; a mad woman, living in the past! What kind of wife do you think you are, Clare? Useless! Certifiable! And, by God, I’ll have you certified! There won’t be a doctor in the country who would let you walk free after what I tell them about you, not with Geoffrey as my witness. You thought it a joke, did you, telling Geoffrey all about your little games? Raising the devil! Summoning the spirits! Black masses on the lawn! No joke, Clare. No joke at all. Not when the evidence is corroborated by Sir David Royland, MP.’
She barely heard him. She could see the eyes, the bars; the lift walls came and went; voices echoed in her head; jeers. She could feel the wings flapping desperately around her head, and she didn’t even know if they were her own … Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. The light in the lift grew dim; there was a roaring, rushing sound in her ears then all went black. With a strangled cry she crumpled at Paul’s feet.