House of Shadows (20 page)

Justin stood back a little and regarded me from head to toe in an embarrassingly detached way. ‘Yes, I can see a field. Poppies, perhaps, to compliment that lovely red hair.' He rubbed his fingers through my hair until it was wild and curling on my shoulders. ‘And a peasant dress,' he said.

‘I'll leave the details with you, Justin.' Mr Readings spoke as if I wasn't there.

‘Where on earth am I going to get a peasant dress?' I asked, a little piqued.

‘Oh, a detail, my dear Riana. Ask that woman, that Mrs Ward, she seems able to pick up just about anything.' Mr Reading smiled. ‘I would like to make it a commission. One painting to hang in my gallery permanently.'

‘All right,' I said dubiously. ‘I'll try, but I'm not promising anything.' Inwardly I groaned. It seemed I would have my portrait painted whether I liked it or not.

The door flew open just then. Some men came into the gallery, and one of them flashed a badge at Mr Readings. ‘We have to ask you to come with us, miss,' he said to me. He spoke with such authority that I stepped back, stunned.

‘Hang on. I want you to prove you are really policemen before I go anywhere,' I said, remembering the ‘policemen' who had taken Tom away.

Mr Readings telephoned the station on my behalf, and then nodded at me. ‘They confirmed that these are real policemen.'

‘What have I done?' I asked as my arm was caught and I was hustled to the door.

Mr Readings tried to intervene but he was pushed away. ‘I shall get you the best lawyer in town, Riana,' Mr Readings said. ‘Don't worry! I'll have you free by the morning, and all this nonsense can be explained.'

The pavement was hard and cold beneath my feet; I hadn't had time to find my shoes. I was taken to a big black car and helped – or rather pushed – inside, and five minutes after we'd driven away from the bright lights of the gallery I sat stunned and silent in the back of the car, knowing in my heart that these were not real policemen and wondering if Tom had betrayed me.

TWENTY-FOUR

I
was taken to a small house, and although it was dark and I couldn't see much, I could smell the sea, feel the breeze and so I knew I was probably near the coast.

‘Just keep quiet.' One of the so-called policemen grinned down at me, and I felt stupid in my evening dress and bare feet, and shivery in the coldness of the bare, utilitarian house.

‘What's the charge?' I asked in reply. There was no response, but eventually one of the men asked if I wanted a cup of tea. I nodded helplessly. At least some hot tea would warm me and perhaps comfort me a little.

I was led into a small cell with a single bed and a rickety table as the only furniture. There was a high window – too high to see out of – but at least the sea wasn't coming in, so these men, whoever they were, did not intend to drown me.

The man came back a few minutes later with tea that had been kept in a flask. It tasted metallic, but it was hot and refreshing, and I sat on the bed and drank it gratefully.

He left me then, and I heard the key turning in the lock and guessed there was nothing I could do right now; it was dark and cold and I had no shoes. Better try to sleep and then find a way to escape tomorrow.

I finished my tea and clambered under the bedclothes. They felt a little damp – or maybe it was just the cold – but slowly I began to feel warm and drowsy, and as my eyelids began to droop I realized the lethargy I was feeling was due to some sleeping draught or drug dropped into my tea. I didn't care though. All I wanted to do was let blessed darkness claim me.

I woke to a sharp, chilly but sunny morning, and I had no hangover from the drugged tea. Instead I felt refreshed and calm and ready for some breakfast. Eventually, the policeman who had given me the tea, now in civvies, brought me some: a tray with tea and toast and scrambled eggs that looked as though they were meant to be poached eggs and had gone wrong. All the same, I ate the breakfast with enthusiasm, feeling inexplicably better than I'd done for some time.

It was, I supposed, the sense of having no responsibility for myself or my action, and of having some time to be alone when I could refresh my mind and face my feelings. I had no sense of danger. If the men had meant to hurt me they would have done so by now . . . or so I hoped and reasoned. Was it some ransom plan? I decided it must be – otherwise what would anyone want with me?

Later in the morning, however, things took a sinister turn. My hands were tied behind my back and I was blindfolded; that meant I knew the person who wanted to question me. ‘Why are you keeping me here?' I was led to a chair and sat down gingerly, afraid of falling. ‘If it's money, I haven't got any.'

‘It's for your own safety, ma'am, and
I'll
ask the questions.' The voice was American, deep Southern American with warm, deep overtones. Like Tom's, but not like Tom's. And I wondered again if Tom had set me up.

I waited silently, trying to absorb the sounds and smells around me. I could smell salt and fish and the wash of the waves, and I thought again that we were very near the sea. In the background I could hear feminine tones; obviously, there was a woman in the next room. Her voice was subdued, but again faintly familiar.

‘I want information about Tom Maybury. Where is he?'

That surprised me. ‘Last I heard he'd got engaged and was being lavished with gifts from his new, rich lady love.' I could hear a touch of bitterness and not a little anger in my voice.

‘We all know that's a cover, so what's the truth?'

‘I wish I knew,' I said on a sigh. ‘How dare you!' My voice was clear and firm. ‘I don't know anything about Tom Maybury, and I don't wish to. He was stationed at Aberglasney during the war and we became friends for a while, but then he went away. I have no idea where, and why should I?'

‘We don't believe all that rubbish! We know he fell in love with you and the big house you live in.'

‘You know more than I do then,' I said doggedly. ‘I only wish that was true – the bit about him loving me I mean.' I was babbling now. ‘He's engaged to some other woman, remember? Anyway, what's he done?'

I felt the brush of a skirt as someone knelt beside me. So there
was
a woman present!

‘We might as well leave you here to die.' The words were whispered more to disguise the voice than anything else, I suspected. The whispering continued eerily in my ear: ‘You will be trapped here to starve to death . . .'

After the whispering woman had finished talking, my captors had gagged me – and left me. For a while I made a keening noise, hoping to call Tom to me, until I realized it was impossible to talk coherently, so even if Tom
did
come to save me there was no way I could warn him of the danger. I tried to struggle, but the cords had became twisted and I was only making things worse, so I kept still and rested my head against the thick stone wall. Above me I could hear the beating of rain on the roof, and I had a sense of being here before – and, of course, I had been . . . in a way . . . with Tom. We'd been shut into that derelict church building to drown. But this time I was alone. No one would ever know where I was, and even if by some miracle Tom found out where I'd been taken, he would be caught and captured – perhaps even killed. I struggled again, but it was useless, and so I rested my head once more and tried to think.

I was beginning to despair – for I could hardly breathe with the tightness of the tape over my mouth – when my captors came back for me. I watched in amazement and relief as one of the men silently untied me, and then I was out of the building, gasping in the fresh salty air. I was thrust into a van and lay on the metal floor in the pitch dark, bouncing around for what seemed hours. Anything was better than starving to death alone, I told myself as my elbows hurt more and more and my head felt as if it had been constantly hit with a rock. I must have blacked out, because when I was let out of the van I fell to the ground on my own arched driveway, too numb to stand.

A light fell on me, and Mrs Ward came rushing out of the house. She wrapped a blanket around me and helped me indoors and through to the kitchen, where the welcome sound of the kettle boiling filled my heart with cheer.

‘Some men came here, miss,' Mrs Ward said huskily. ‘Searched the whole house, they did. Didn't ask permission – just went through, room by room.'

‘What were they looking for?' My hands closed around the cup Mrs Ward put in front of me.

‘Don't know, Miss Riana, and when I asked they pushed me into the kitchen and shut me in. I kept my mouth shut after that, didn't like the look of those villains at all. Rough men, they were, with glinting evil eyes.'

‘Could you give the police a description of them, Mrs Ward?' I asked.

She shook her head, and her mouth twisted in a grimace of regret. ‘They had scarves covering their faces, but they had foreign voices and glittering eyes – oh, and dark thick hair, I can tell the police that much.'

‘Were they tall men? Fat? Thin? What colour clothes did they wear? What sort of voices did they have . . . were they Americans?'

‘American- or Canadian-like, I'd say. Gruff and rough they were. Both big men – broad with big, calloused hands. You know, working men's hands.'

‘That's very observant of you, Mrs Ward. Have you called the police?'

‘Can't,' she said baldly. ‘They cut the wires . . . and,' she added, ‘I was too frightened.'

‘All right.' I looked round, but everything in the kitchen was as neat and tidy as it had always been.

‘They didn't mess things up, I'll say that for them. I did hear a bit of noise from the blue room, mind, as if they were moving furniture, that sort of thing.'

‘Good thing Beatrice isn't there, though goodness knows where she is now.'

Mrs Ward shook her head. ‘Who can say? Heaven or hell, one of the two.'

‘What a funny thing to say, Mrs Ward.'

She frowned back, but before she could make any comment there was the sound of hammering on the front door. ‘Oh my Lord, they've come back.' Mrs Ward looked as if she might dive under the table.

I stood up shakily.

‘Police!' The voice rang out, and I tensed and put my hand to my lips, beckoning Mrs Ward to be quiet. I wasn't going to be caught like that again.

I crept across the dark hall and peered through the little window. There was a real police car outside and a plain-clothes officer and a uniformed constable standing on the drive.

‘I want to see some identification please,' I shouted and obligingly the constable held up a card near the window. I knew anything could be a forgery, but I decided I might as well trust them. Reluctantly, I opened the door, expecting any minute to be thrown back against the wall. But the men walked calmly into the house and stood politely as I examined the card more thoroughly.

‘We're from Carmarthen Police Station, miss,' the constable explained. ‘We had a call stating there was some sort of disturbance at Aberglasney House.'

‘Well –' I was a bit on edge – ‘come in, but the “disturbance” is well and truly over. You're too late to apprehend the perpetrators.' I was speaking like a policeman's notebook, but I was still in shock – my clothes still wet from the rain and my skirt sticking to my legs. ‘In any case, who reported the matter?'

‘Didn't leave a name, miss. They usually don't. But it was a woman; someone with a sore throat, by the sound of it,' he added helpfully.

‘We'll search the house, miss.' The detective spoke at last. ‘And I suggest you change your clothes before you catch your death.'

I could see he was longing to ask what had happened to me, but didn't quite dare to in case I reported something unpleasant that he didn't wish to deal with right now. He glanced at his watch, confirming my suspicions that he was reluctant to do this job. Had he heard about the ghosts? I wondered.

‘Please carry out your search,' I said. ‘The criminals have been through the whole house, though they didn't do any damage. Please look carefully for clues. A few more people searching my house won't do any harm.'

‘I hear you have parties here, miss?' The constable's face was eager – almost as though he'd heard there were orgies taking place under the elegant roof of my house.

‘Not parties,' I said, ‘but ghost-haunting evenings, when witches fly and men turn to wolves in the full moon.' I was teasing him, but his eyes widened. ‘I have visitors come to see if they can take a picture of the ghosts, the five maids who died here some years ago,' I explained. ‘I'm sure you've heard the stories, officer?'

After a swift look at his superior officer, he didn't comment, but his eyes were large.

At last the men began their search of the rooms; of course, they didn't find anything, but in the meantime I was able to change into dry clothing.

We met again, after a remarkably short time, in the hall.

‘Nothing out of the ordinary, miss.' The constable was usually the one to speak, as though his superior thought the whole thing beneath him. The constable's next words confirmed the doubts of both men. ‘Sure this isn't all a publicity trick, miss, just to get your name in the papers and these parties some free advertising?'

‘I'm sure,' I said. ‘I was dragged away from a big opening night and I—' I stopped talking, realizing it sounded exactly like a publicity stunt. ‘Mr Reading phoned the police station, and someone there confirmed the men who took me away were real police officers.'

‘Easy enough to fake,' one of the men said dryly. ‘Well, as you don't seem to be in imminent danger, we'll have to leave, but be sure to lock up tonight just in case.'

‘Aren't you going to guard the house or anything?'

The well-dressed plain-clothes officer took charge at last. ‘This is really not our case, Miss Evans. You were taken from a
London
gallery. We've only come out as a courtesy to our London colleagues, you know.'