Moth to the Flame (22 page)

‘Oh, I know it'll be all right,' Rupert assured him brightly. He rattled off his first line, to show the director he had nothing to fear. Rupert Greyling-Simms would not let them down.

*          *          *

Alicia took her seat next to her brother, three places down from Davina Granger and Dr Lacey. Neville said nothing as she took her place, but Alicia vowed to have a very stiff word with him later. They had bank accounts and non-existent bribes to talk about. The lights began to dim.

Alicia felt her heart began to race. The heavy green curtains moved smoothly apart, and instantly the audience was in the small kitchen of a house on a run-down estate. Emily, in the character of Susan Smart was cooking dinner for her husband, and her glowering, unhappy son.

The annual St Bede's Hilary Term Play was under way.

*          *          *

When the final curtain came down there was instant and immediate applause. Davina Granger was the first to get to her feet, and several people instantly followed suit. The play had been well written, acted, managed and directed. The social comment had been just astringent enough to be make some members of the audience feel uncomfortable. The puzzle of the murder-mystery itself just clever enough to be satisfying without being too gimmicky. The emotional scenes had been
fraught,
and cleverly acted.

Alicia, who'd watched her work unfold with a growing sense of relief and disbelief, felt herself too weak to stand, now that it was finally over.

As the cast began to take their individual bows, Rupert received the loudest cheers and applause of them all. And Alicia knew he deserved it. His portrayal of Sam Blake, jilted lover, driven by desperation, through rejection and jealousy, to an explosive act of violence, had been worthy of any professional actor. There were cries of ‘Director', and suddenly there was Jared, bounding on to the stage, taking a brief bow, and then calls for ‘Author'. Dazed, Alicia found herself pushed on to the stage. The lights were bright and hot, and she glanced out nervously at the sea of clapping and cheering people before giving a brief and awkward bow.

Rupert watched it all. He felt calm now. He knew what he had to do. He'd begun to understand it, in the second Act. When he was trying to persuade his lover to leave her husband, and she wouldn't. Now, watching Alicia and Jared taking their bows, he could see it all absolutely clearly.

He knew why they'd been holding hands. They were lovers. But he couldn't allow her to marry him, and then keep Jared as a lover. He knew now what he must do. It was all so clear. So obvious. Alicia had written a part for him,
that
was him. A man in love with a woman who didn't love him enough to sacrifice her selfish needs and desires to be with him. A woman who must die because of that. Oh yes. Rupert knew what he had to do now.

He smiled, a sudden dazzling flash of perfect teeth, and along with the rest of the cast, took his final bow.

*          *          *

‘Well, what do you think?' Alicia asked her brother as they stood in the middle of the SCR, accepting a canapé from the passing butler. ‘Did you like the play or not?'

‘It was a good play,' he said shortly. ‘And Rupert's performance was uncannily accurate.'

Alicia's chin lifted. ‘I'm mad at you,' she said just as shortly. ‘That stunt you pulled, putting money into Jared's bank account without his knowledge . . . you should be ashamed of yourself.'

Neville was, and muttered an apology.

‘So you'll support me, when I tell Dad that I'm not going to work for the magazine. That I'm going to write crime novels instead?' she challenged . . .

Neville looked appalled. He muttered and wriggled some more, but eventually agreed that, perhaps, she should be free to choose her own path. Then he excused himself with the plea that he needed to type up his review
notes.

The rest of the party hardly noticed Neville's absence. Davina Granger was holding court in one corner whilst Gareth watched, smiling, apparently not at all offended that she was getting more attention than he was. Everyone was happy.

Even Rupert was content. He'd just spotted a small, sharp, silver knife on the fruit platter. It bore the St Bede's crest of arms on the handle and had obviously been made by a craftsman. He lifted the knife casually and studied it. It was old. It was made of the finest silver. He smiled, and nodded. Fate, again, was with him. Showing him the way. Casually, he slipped it into his jacket pocket.

It was indeed the perfect knife with which to kill his beloved.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Jack Carter yawned over his sixth cup of coffee. He'd been up since six marking a pile of essays, and needed a break. But his job as English Teacher at King Canute College was his first appointment, and he was totally dedicated to his work.

He pulled the next essay to him, reading the name on the top sheet with a little sigh of disappointment. Gavin Brock was not one of
King
Canute's brighter students.

He ploughed through an uninspired essay on Hardy's
Tess of the D'Urbervilles
, sighing over a passage which he recognised as being plagiarised from a critical piece by Bolton, translated almost word for word. But then he turned the next page and found himself going cold with shock.

Instead of looking down on yet more of Mr Brock's rather untidy scrawl, he found himself face to face with a very neat, computer-formatted photocopied page of exam questions.

Slowly, he lowered his coffee cup. It was from this year's syllabus. And the little line of figures at the bottom of the page bore the code numbers of this year's finals. Jack felt the colour drain from his face. He stood up, then abruptly sat down again. He knew what this meant. He knew the dreadful ramifications . . .

He read the questions through again, frantic, sure he'd made a mistake. Hoping that he'd made a mistake. But he hadn't.

Finally, Jack gathered all the essays together and put them in his briefcase. After a brief hesitation, he slipped the photocopied exam paper inside too and snapped the locks shut.

Then he saw the time, gave a muffled yelp, and dashed for his bus. He'd be late for college if he wasn't careful.

*          *          *

Davina awoke and lay gazing up at the familiar, age-dappled ceiling. She sighed, feeling deeply depressed. Soon she would leave this pleasant set of rooms for good. Even the anthology was complete, as she'd chosen the last of the poems last week. Nothing was holding her back.

It was only Gareth who kept her here now. She got up, and pulled on faded jeans and her elderly cashmere baby-pink sweater. She combed her hair, and, slowly, reluctantly, met the reflection of her green eyes in the glass. The woman looking back at her was almost a stranger.

I look . . . desperate, Davina thought, with a jolt of nasty surprise. I look . . . haunted. She turned away, pacing the room. She had things to do. Except, that she didn't. All she had to occupy her time now was the waiting for disaster to strike. And watch it overtake him. Gareth.

She strode angrily to the kitchen, and made herself a bitter cup of strong black coffee. Forgot the sugar. Cursed, and put some in. Drank it down as if it was poison, then paced some more. She glanced at her watch. It was eight fifteen.

David. Think about David. Davina passed the mirror again. Stopped. Looked at herself. No good. She still looked like a woman going
to
the gallows. She rubbed her hand wearily across her eyes. They felt hot and gritty.

Just because she loved him didn't mean she had to spare him. For centuries, women had been classed as the weaker sex. The sex that couldn't see a job through when the going got tough. The sex who didn't have enough brains in their heads to vote. The sex who should get paid less for doing the same jobs as a man, just because a woman was intrinsically worth less.

Except . . . ‘Damn!' she yelled. She snatched up her bag and raced to the door and out into Wolsey's Hall, heading straight to the public phone booth. She had Gavin Brock's number in her purse and she ferreted it out grimly.

‘Yeah?' the voice was wary.

‘Gavin? It's me. I want you to hold off putting the exam paper into the essay.' There. She'd said it. Done it. Betrayed her brother. Betrayed her own sense of self-worth. Sold her concept of justice down the river. All because she was a woman in love, and acting like all other women in love had done, down through the ages. She should be feeling terrible. Not wilting as a massive load seemed to slip off her shoulders.

‘I can't, I gave it to Mr Carter yesterday.'

Davina took a deep breath. She closed her eyes for a moment, then nodded. She leaned her head slowly against the wall and swallowed hard. The plaster felt grave-cold against her forehead. ‘Oh. In that case . . . forget it,' she
said
flatly. She hung up quickly, cutting off his protests. She slowly turned, letting her back thump against the wall. She felt physically as well as mentally exhausted.

She managed a grim, weak laugh. So. It was done after all. Fate had taken the decision out of her hands. Just as well, perhaps. She walked slowly back to her room.

Met her eyes in the mirror again. Began to pace again . . .

*          *          *

Jack Carter jogged along the corridor. ‘Oh, Mr Thorpe!'

He sprinted to catch up with Head of English. ‘Sorry,' he gasped. ‘Just wanted to catch you . . . before . . . you went . . . in. I wondered if you knew who was setting this year's papers in the Modern Poetry Finals?' Jack decided the best approach was to simply ask outright.

Mr Thorpe glanced impatiently at his watch. ‘Moderns? Oh, that'll be Dr Gareth Lacey. One of your Oxford lot, I understand. Now, I must get on . . .'

Jack was barely aware of the older man, leaving him with a muttered apology, to push his way into the packed Lecture Hall.

Slowly, numbly, Jack turned back, moving much more slowly down the corridor than he'd come up it. He himself was free until eleven.
He
made his way to the Common Room, not surprised to see it deserted in mid-morning. He slumped down in a chair, the briefcase in his hand.

Jack Carter had indeed gone to Oxford, but not to St Bede's. Nevertheless, he knew Gareth Lacey well. Had attended every lecture the man ever gave, with Jack often staying behind afterwards to chat to the great man. He'd liked him.

Jack scowled, knowing he should go straight to Mr Morgan, King Canute's Principal, with what he had in his briefcase.

But he didn't. Instead he walked to the telephone and called St Bede's.

*          *          *

Davina went to the bank and drew out a large amount of cash. The teller was nervous on her behalf, but she simply stuffed the money into her bag and left. Back in her room she waited until the lunch hour, then called King Canute, getting herself put through to the Refectory. There a very helpful dinner lady agreed to page Gavin Brock. A minute or two later, and he was on the phone.

‘Yeah?'

‘It's me again. I want you to get the exam paper back.'

Gavin swore. Davina waited patiently until he'd finished. Now that she'd made up her
mind
as to what she must do, she felt calm, once more. ‘I've got another two thousand pounds in cash in my purse. Just waiting for you to come and collect it,' she said simply. ‘All you have to do is bring me the exam paper back.'

There was a considerable silence on the other end. Then, ‘What if I can't get it back? Suppose he's already found the paper . . .'

Davina bit her lip. ‘All right. If he's found the paper, I want you to call me straight away.' She rattled off the number of Wolsey Hall. ‘If that's the case, I don't want you to even mention Dr Lacey. Tell him you don't know how the paper came to be there. You didn't even notice it.'

‘Oh yeah. Right! Like he's going to believe that!'

Davina sighed. ‘Gavin, you get your extra money, whether he believes it or not. All you've got to do is keep your mouth shut. OK?'

‘OK,' Gavin said cheerfully and rang off.

In the cool Hall of Wolsey Davina slowly hung up. Then she went back to her room. And cried. Bitterly.

*          *          *

Gareth parked his car in the King Canute's car park, and within moments, was being met by Jack Carter and escorted inside. ‘Jack! Good
to
see you again. How are things going?' he asked pleasantly.

He was still a little puzzled as to what he was doing here. Jack had rung him up only an hour ago, saying he needed to see him urgently. Gareth, who remembered him from past lectures, had been surprised. Now he frowned slightly. ‘Jack, you look terrible. Has something happened?'

Jack sighed and steered Gareth into a small alcove under the main stairs, where a group of chairs was set around a low coffee table. There he reached into his briefcase. ‘Dr Lacey, I found this paper this morning, in one of my students' essays.'

Gareth glanced down at the document in question, and the colour drained dramatically from his face as he recognised it.

‘What the hell . . . ?' Gareth said inelegantly. He quickly ran his eyes down the list of multiple-choice questions. ‘I don't understand this,' Gareth said, clearly bewildered. ‘I sent the papers to your Principal last week. By courier. They should have been safely locked in his safe, straight away.'

Jack nodded. ‘That's what I thought. Mr Morgan's very punctilious about exam papers. I just don't know what to do!'

Gareth stood up decisively. ‘We have to go and see him, right away. If the papers have been compromised . . .'

‘Oh, Mr Carter! There you are.' Gavin
Brock,
bounding down the stairs, beamed in pleasure at having tracked down his prey. He gave the man beside his teacher a brief, uninterested look. ‘I wanted to ask you if I could have my essay back,' he began guilelessly.