Her Own Rules/Dangerous to Know (28 page)

When Jack made no response, I gave him a penetrating look, asked, “Well, don't you?”

He brought his hand up to his face, rubbed his mouth and his chin, suddenly reflective. “I don't know,” he answered. “This afternoon I would have agreed with you, but now I'm vacillating. Not sure of anything.”

“Do you honestly think he was attacked? By an intruder?” I pressed.

“Maybe. He could have gone into the farmhouse and surprised a burglar.”

“Before the burglar had an opportunity to steal anything? Is that what you think? After all, you said there's nothing missing.”

“Well, the paintings and the major art objects are in place. On the other hand, Sebastian could have had something else there worth stealing, something to tempt a thief.”

“Such as what?” I frowned, shaking my head. “I don't get it, Jack.”

“Cash, Vivienne. You know Sebastian always carried a lot on him. I was often warning him about that. Or maybe there were some documents around.”

“Documents,”
I said sharply, staring at him. “But if someone stole documents that smacks of premeditation, doesn't it? Listen, a thief breaking in at random, looking for loot, is one thing. A thief breaking in and stealing documents is a different thing altogether. It suggests prior knowledge to me.”

Jack nodded. “You're right there.”

“What made you think of documents? Are there any missing? And what kind of documents did you have in mind?”

“I don't know, and to be honest, I don't know why I thought of them. Except that Sebastian said he was going to the farm to work. Whatever else he was, he wasn't a liar. If he said he had to go over papers, then he was telling the truth. But there weren't any, at least none that he'd been working on—”

“What about all those scattered around the library?” I cut in.

“The letters on the floor and spread over the desk were just the usual things. Correspondence, bills, personal notes from people. The way he spoke on Thursday he sounded as if he had real work to do on important documents. Come to think of it, he did actually say
documents.
I guess that's why I just thought of them now.” He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Look, I haven't been at Laurel Creek Farm in a coon's age, Viv, so how would I know if there's anything missing? Mrs. Crane's the best person to ascertain that, but then only as far as the art is concerned. Not even she would know if any papers have disappeared.”

“No, she wouldn't.” I let out a long sigh. “It looks as if we're back to square one.”

“Yep . . .” Jack shook his head, his puzzlement surfacing again. Then he said suddenly, in a torrent of words, “Look, Viv, I disagree with you. I don't think he died of natural causes, as you do. I think he was killed. Most probably by an intruder. Sebastian surprised him. The intruder ran out. Sebastian chased him. They struggled. And Sebastian got himself killed. Sort of inadvertently.”

“Or he was murdered by someone who was with him at the farm, for reasons we don't know,” I remarked.

Jack pondered for a moment. Then slowly, and more thoughtfully than usual, he said, “We're speculating. We'd better stop. It'll lead nowhere.” Pinning me with his eyes, he added, “Let's admit it, Vivienne, we won't know exactly how he died until the police get that autopsy report from the Chief Medical Officer in Farmington.”

I could only nod. I agreed with him, at least as far as his last comment was concerned.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

L
ong after Jack had left, I prowled around the house, stacking the dishwasher, clearing up, making the den and the dining room neat and tidy. At one moment I even had another stab at my story, hoping to do the final edit, but I was not very successful. I would try again tomorrow, and if my concentration still eluded me I would have to let it go out as it was. The piece had to be at the newspaper in London by Friday at the latest, and I would have to FedEx it on Wednesday, no matter what.

The hall clock was striking midnight by the time I climbed the stairs of Ridgehill and went to my room, feeling weary and worn down.

I, like all of my female forebears, occupied the master bedroom that stretched almost the entire length of the house. Situated at the back, rather than the front, it was a charming room with rafters, many windows, and an imposing stone fireplace. French doors on either side of the fireplace opened out onto a wide balcony suspended over the garden. This was the most marvelous spot in the world for breakfast on spring and summer mornings, especially when the lilacs were in bloom.

Ridgehill stood at the top of Tinker Hill Road. Set amidst a copse of centuries-old maples, it looked out over Lake Waramaug. When my illustrious ancestor Henrietta Bailey had built this house she had thought things out most prudently, had chosen well when situating the master bedroom within the overall architectural plan. The views were spectacular from the many windows, were panoramic in their vistas.

I went and stood at one of the windows, moving the curtain slightly, staring out across the tops of the trees toward the large body of water far below. The lake was as flat and as unmoving as black glass, and above it the sky was littered with tiny bright stars. There was a harvest moon tonight, silvery and perfectly spherical, riding the black clouds. It cast a sheen across the murky waters of the lake, touched the tops of the trees with brilliance.

What a beautiful night, I thought, as I let the curtain drop and turned away After undressing, I slipped into a nightgown and climbed into the grand old four-poster. Turning out the bedside lamp, I pulled the covers up over me and settled down for the night, hoping to fall asleep quickly. It had been such an exhausting day emotionally. A day of shock. A day of sorrow.

Moonlight filled the room. The silence was a balm. I lay there drifting with my thoughts; Sebastian was foremost in them. We had shared so much in this room. So much pleasure. So much heartbreak. I am convinced that I conceived my child in this room, his child, the child I lost in miscarriage. And, once again, I found myself wondering if Sebastian and I would have remained together if that child had been born. Perhaps.

Cradled in his arms, I had lain in this bed, weeping on his shoulder, and he had comforted me about the loss of our baby. How could Jack believe he was a monster? Nothing was further from the truth. Sebastian had always comforted and nurtured me. And everyone else, for that matter. Jack was so terribly wrong about him; his judgment about Sebastian was flawed, just as it was flawed about most things in his personal life. He had made a mess of it and he loved to blame others, especially his father. I loved Jack like a brother, but I saw him with clear eyes.

Sebastian had always been there for me, for as long as I could remember, since my childhood. I recall so well the afternoon he had come to me, after my mother had been found dead at the bottom of the cellar steps at his farm. I had just arrived from Manhattan; Jess, my mother's housekeeper, had phoned him the instant I had walked through the front door and he had rushed over to Ridgehill immediately, full of concern for me.

It had been such a warm June day, unnaturally hot for that time of year, and I had been sitting on the balcony of this room, distraught, sobbing, my heart breaking, when he had come looking for me.

Eighteen years ago.

I had been eighteen when my mother died. So long ago now. Half my life ago. Yet it might have been yesterday, so vividly did I recall it.

I found myself focusing on the past yet again, and I walked back into that June afternoon of 1976.

 

“Vivienne . . . darling . . . I'm here! I'm here for you,” Sebastian said, coming through the bedroom and out onto the balcony like a whirlwind.

I lifted my head and blinked, staring at him, my eyes blinded by my tears and the bright sunlight streaming out behind him.

He was by my side in an instant, sitting down next to me on the long bench. Worriedly he looked into my face and his own was bleak, strained. A muscle pulsed in his temple, and his startlingly blue eyes were dulled by sadness.

Wiping away the tears on my cheeks with his fingertips, he enveloped me in his arms, held me close, soothed me as though soothing a wounded child.

“It's such a terrible tragedy,” he murmured against my hair. “I cared for her too, Vivienne, so I know what you're suffering. I'm suffering myself.” As he spoke his arms tightened around me.

I clutched him. “It's not fair,” I sobbed. “She was so young. Only forty-two. I don't understand how it happened. How
did it happen?
How did my mother fall down the basement steps, Sebastian? Do you think she got dizzy and lost her balance? And why was she going into the basement, anyway?”

“I don't know. No one knows. It was an accident,” he replied, then drew slightly away and looked down into my face. “You're aware she'd come to stay with me, whilst some of the rooms at Ridgehill were being painted, but I wasn't in Connecticut last night. I was in the city for a Locke Foundation dinner. I got up at the crack of dawn and drove out to the farm, wanting to have breakfast with her. And also hoping to go riding with her later. When I arrived, the whole place was in an uproar. Aldred had found her body earlier and had called the police. Then he'd spoken to Jess, told her to get in touch with you. By the time I got hold of her, you were already on your way to New Preston.”

I nodded, and before I could say anything my grief overcame me once more, and fresh tears flowed. Sebastian continued to comfort me; he was so kind.

At last, I managed to say to him, “Jess believes my mother died instantly. Do you think she did? I couldn't bear it if I thought she'd suffered.”

“I'm sure Jess is right. When someone tumbles down a steep flight of stairs I think it must go very fast . . . in a terrible rush. There's no question in my mind that she did die immediately. She couldn't have suffered, rest assured of that.”

Conjuring up the image of my mother falling to meet her doom, I suddenly cried out in my anguish. He held me closer, calming me as best he could. “I know, I know,” he said softly against my hair.

“You're going to miss her, Sebastian,” I eventually muttered. “You loved her, too.”

“Yes.”

I buried my face against his chest and held onto him as if he were the only thing I had left in the world. In a way, he was; and he was my safe haven.

Sebastian stroked my hair, smoothed his hand down my arm, continuing to murmur gentle words. I pressed myself even closer, and I felt as though I were somehow drawing strength from him.

We sat together like this on the balcony for a long time, and eventually a kind of peacefulness drifted over me and my tears finally ceased altogether. But he made no move to get up, and neither did I; and so we continued to sit on the old bench.

At one moment I stiffened inside and held my breath, hardly daring to move. Something quite strange was happening to me. My heart was pumping rapidly; my throat had gone dry and was suddenly constricted.

The blood rushed up into my face; I understood exactly what was happening, understood myself only too well. I wanted him to stop kissing my hair and kiss me instead. I wanted his mouth on mine. I wanted his hand stroking my breast, not my arm. I wanted him to make love to me. Without knowing it, he was arousing me sexually, and I discovered I didn't want him to stop. When I realized how damp I was between my legs my face flamed. I was mortified.

I did not dare to stir in his arms. I did not dare to look at him. He could read my mind; he'd always known what I was thinking ever since I was a little girl.

And so I continued to sit there, waiting for these extraordinary feelings to subside, to go away. I was confused and embarrassed. How could I be experiencing such feelings, today of all days? My mother was lying dead in the morgue at Farmington, probably being autopsied by the Chief Medical Examiner at this very moment.

I shuddered inside. Sebastian had been her lover for more than six years. And now I wanted him for myself. I shuddered again, hating myself for my dreadful thoughts about him, hating my body, which was so betraying me at this moment.

Thankfully, at last, Sebastian's arms slackened and he let go of me. Tilting my face to his, he kissed me lightly on the forehead. He attempted a smile, looked as if he were about to speak, but remained silent.

Eventually, he said in a low, concerned voice, “I realize you must be feeling very much alone, but you do have me, Vivienne dear. And you mustn't worry about a thing. I will look after you. I know it's impossible for me to take your mother's place, but I am your friend, and I'm here for you whenever you need me.”

“Ever since that day you found me in the gazebo, that first day we met, I've felt protected by you,” I replied, and I meant every word.

Again he tried to smile, but without much success. After a brief moment, he said, “You must always come to me, whatever the problem. I won't let you down, I promise.” A small sigh escaped him, and he said, almost to himself, “You were such a lovely child. You touched my heart.”

 

And now he was dead, and no longer there to protect me, and my life would be that much poorer without him. I pushed my face into the pillow and it was a long time before I could stem the tears.

I must have eventually fallen asleep, for when I awakened with a start sunlight was streaming in through the many windows. Last night I had forgotten to draw the curtains and a new day had dawned. I could hear the chirping of the birds outside, and far away, in the distance, the
cawk cawk
of the Canada geese circling the lake.

I eyed the clock on the bedside table, saw that it was almost seven, and slid down into the bed, luxuriating for a few moments longer in the comfort and warmth. And then reality thrust itself into my consciousness, and with a rush of sudden intense pain I remembered the events of yesterday.

Sebastian was dead. I would never see him again.

I held myself still, breathing deeply, thinking about him, recalling so much about him, so many little things. We had been divorced for eight years, and I hadn't seen all that much of him in the last three. But before then he had been such an important and integral part of my life for over twenty-one years.
Twenty-one.
An auspicious number to me. I had been twenty-one years old when Sebastian had first made love to me.

His image was so very clear in my mind at this moment. I saw him exactly as he was that year,
1979
. I was twenty-one. He was forty-one. Twenty years older than I, but he never seemed it, not ever.

Closing my eyes, I pictured him walking into the library downstairs. It was the night of my twenty-first birthday. Sebastian had thrown a fantastic party for me at Laurel Creek Farm, held in two flower-decked marquees in the garden. The food had been delicious, the wine superb, the band the best, imported for the occasion from Manhattan. It had been a glorious evening. Until Luciana had ruined it. She had been so nasty to me toward the end of the evening I had been taken by surprise, thrown off balance, and horrified by the mean and hateful things she had said to me. Stunned and hurt, I had fled. I had come home to Ridgehill. . .

 

Tires screeched, slowed to a stop on the gravel. A car door banged ferociously.

A split-second later Sebastian stormed into the library, his body taut, his face white.

Forlornly, I stood by the French windows leading out to the garden. My handkerchief was screwed into a damp ball in my hand; tears were still close to the surface.

I had never seen him looking so furious before, and as I stared at him I realized he was terribly upset.

He stared back at me, and his eyes were chips of blue ice in his drawn face. “Why did you run away like that? Like a frightened colt?” he demanded in a stern voice. Then he crossed the room in a few long strides and drew to a standstill in front of me, stood looking down at me.

I was silent.

“Why?” he demanded again.

“I can't tell you.”

“You can tell me anything, and you know it! You've been confiding in me since you were a little girl,” he said, his anger still apparent but under tight control.

“I just can't. Not about this.”

“Why not?”

I continued to gape at him stupidly. Then I shook my head emphatically. “I can't.”

“Come along,” he exclaimed in a warmer, more cajoling tone. “We've always been such good friends, you and I. Real pals. Vivienne, please tell me what happened, what made you bolt.”

When I said nothing, he went on swiftly, “It was Luciana, wasn't it? She upset you.”

I nodded, but still I did not open my mouth.

“She hurt you . . . she said something . . .
contemptible.
Didn't she?”

“How do you know?”

“I know my daughter only too well,” he snapped. “Tell me what she said.”

“Sebastian, I can't. I'm not a snitch.”

He scrutinized me a little more intently, and nodded to himself. “Integrity's bred in the bone, especially in your bones. Do you know, Vivienne, you're the most honorable person I've ever met, and whilst I understand your reluctance to tell tales out of school, I do think you ought to confide in me. After all, the party was very special . . . to us both. Certainly giving it for you meant a great deal to me, and I was startled when you ran off the way you did, looking so upset. In all fairness, I think you should tell me exactly what happened.”