Read The Turtle Run Online

Authors: Marie Evelyn

The Turtle Run (2 page)

Now Becky was certain she shouldn't be here. She fumbled in her bag and unfolded two typed sheets. One was the memo about the invitation from Mr Darnley, the other a sheet of notes – presumably from Mr McBride – with a list of potential questions to put to him. The questions were surprisingly accusing for an editor who preferred articles on Brown Owl to reports of crime and ‘unpleasantness' as he put it. Becky had already thought of some more anodyne substitutes. Even if Mr Darnley's inherited wealth owed its origin to highly unsavoury activities, there was no point barging in with questions like: ‘Do you feel personally culpable for your ancestors' involvement in the African slave trade?' Not when Mr Darnley himself had raised the topic as something the paper should do an article on.

Mrs Collie held out her hand for the papers and Becky passed over the memo, hoping Mrs Collie wouldn't also demand to see Mr McBride's list of aggressive questions. Judging by the prolonged silence Mrs Collie was not so much reading the memo as studying it. She looked up and gave Becky a long appraising stare before shaking her head and handing back the piece of paper. Something was definitely not right.

‘And you look too young to have made any enemies.'

‘What do you mean?' said Becky.

Before Mrs Collie could answer, the kitchen door swung open and a six foot three man in his early thirties walked in, doing a comic double take when he saw Becky sitting on the barstool. He was dressed formally in a dinner jacket, white shirt and well-pressed black trousers.

‘Good grief, Mrs Collie,' he laughed. ‘Is it Waifs' and Strays' week? You must tell me about these charity exploits.' He grinned at Becky. ‘I can claim back tax on them.'

His dark hair and eyes suggested he might be French but his voice seemed a hotchpotch of accents: a jumble of Irish, maybe Welsh, maybe American.

‘Just you stop being so unkind,' Mrs Collie scolded. ‘This is Becky, a friend of my daughter. The poor girl got caught in that downpour and dropped in here to shelter.' She gave Becky a glance loaded with warning.

He held out his hand. ‘I'm Matthew Darnley.'

What? Becky had anticipated an elderly man – someone who was nearing the end of his life and seeking redemption – not a tanned, strapping man who looked like he had no regrets about anything he'd done.

‘Hello, Mr Darnley.' She shook his hand and winced as a small shower of rain was shaken from her right coat sleeve onto the flagstones.

‘What on earth were you doing out in this?' he asked.

‘It's an embarrassing story,' she said. ‘And too long to tell.' She hoped he wouldn't pursue the subject as it was now obvious that he hadn't been expecting a reporter and knew nothing of an interview. It occurred to her that the brusque memo hadn't come from Mr McBride at all. There was only one joker on the newspaper payroll who would have the temerity to set her up like this. As soon as she got back to the office, she would show the memo to Mr McBride. Even though his pet favourite had written it, surely he would be furious to see the missive that had been sent in his name.

Matthew was watching her with curiosity and she realised she was frowning.

‘Well, then,' he said. ‘Can I get you a towel?'

‘Oh, no thanks,' said Becky; she just wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible until she found an opportunity to leave.

‘At least take your coat off; it looks soaked through. You're not on an illegal hunt, are you?'

Becky shook her head. ‘It's not a hunting jacket – it's just my father's old coat.' Having it around was usually a sign he was back on shore leave – except the last time the coat had come home her father was no longer in it.

Matthew grinned. ‘Shame. You'd fit in round here. When I started coming to this country it took me a while to work out that the richest people wear their oldest gear when they're fishing or hunting.' And, the grin still on his face, he moved over to a selection of wines standing on the kitchen's granite worktop.

Becky tried not to stare as he examined some of the bottles. If he thought she was of the
Horse and Hound
set he was way off track. She wondered which country he was from. Fortunately he'd lost interest in her now. He turned towards Mrs Collie, who was busy transferring the pastry nibbles to a trolley.

‘Did Fielding go to pick up Miss Carette?'

‘Left on the dot, Mr Darnley.'

Sitting on the stool, quiet as a mouse, Becky eavesdropped shamelessly. She watched as Matthew Darnley made light work of uncorking the vintage wines and left them to breathe. And she listened to the last-minute reminders of what he wanted served and when, which Mrs Collie was to pass on to ‘the girls' – whoever they were. ‘And I must remind them the
petillant
is the one Miss Carette prefers.'

‘But I thought you said she only drank pink champagne!'

‘No, Mrs Collie. You're thinking of the wife of that obnoxious man from Luxembourg.'

‘It's the ladies and their fancies that complicate things,' Mrs Collie grumbled. ‘You should just give them Babycham and be done with it.'

‘You think so?' He grinned and turned to Becky. Apparently he hadn't forgotten her after all. ‘Do you drink Babycham?'

‘I'm afraid not,' she said. ‘Even though I come from Essex.'

‘You see, Mrs Collie, your theory is quite flawed.'

‘Yes,' said Mrs Collie. ‘But I dare say this young lady is more sensible than some of your guests.'

Becky wasn't sure how to respond to what could have been faint praise or a subtle way of saying she wasn't ‘guest material'.

‘Oh you can see how sensible I am,' she said. ‘Choosing a day like this to be out.'

‘If I had more time I would love to hear your embarrassing long story,' said Matthew, locking eyes with her. It was a relief when the sound of merry voices approaching the kitchen broke the spell and he finally looked away. A door on the far side of the room opened and three young women, chattering like starlings, appeared. They were dressed in waitresses' uniforms and stood bunched in the doorway for a second, their uninhibited banter dying on their lips when they discovered Mrs Collie wasn't alone. Then they came in, murmuring diffident ‘good evenings' to Mr Darnley.

He grinned to acknowledge them and listened as Mrs Collie passed on his instructions. Satisfied everything was in hand he turned to Becky once more. ‘Maybe you'll come back and tell me that story when the weather is better,' he told her.

‘Maybe, I will,' she responded politely, knowing as well as he surely did that they were unlikely to meet again.

He nodded and walked out; moments later mellow background music floated through to the kitchen. She could hear a tenor sax embroidering the melody with laid-back ease. He was obviously in a room nearby, creating ambience for his lucky guests, having erased Becky from his mind the instant he left the kitchen.

Mrs Collie, a bit pink in the face, pushed the trolley towards the door the girls had come through, summoning one of them to hold it open for her. Before the door shut again, Becky caught a glimpse of a room with a dark gleaming table set with sparkling silver, crystal glasses and a central display of what looked like white orchids. All very elegant, very inviting.

Mrs Collie bustled back into the kitchen. ‘Aren't those napkins ready?'

The young woman whose deft fingers had been pleating the napkins so that they fanned out into a perfect crescent assured her that they were.

‘Well take them in, love, take them in!'

There was an edge to Mrs Collie's voice now – a sure sign that zero hour was fast approaching.

Becky slid off the stool and thanked Mrs Collie for her intervention. ‘I think I was set up.'

‘Sounds like it. A nasty trick. Do you know who it was?'

‘Yes, a colleague from work. It was someone I turned down. I'm guessing this was his little joke.'

‘Just as well you turned him down, then.'

Becky looked around the kitchen, wondering which of the doors was the best to use; presumably as an uninvited guest she should go out the tradesmen's entrance. Mrs Collie noticed her confusion and quickly gestured for Becky to follow her. They retraced their steps to the front door and Mrs Collie opened it. Outside it was still damp and grey.

‘Have you got a car?'

‘Yes, thanks,' said Becky, stepping into the courtyard. ‘A taxi is waiting for me.' Thank God for her socialist cabbie and his insistence on hanging around. ‘Sorry to have been a bother.'

‘Not your fault.' Mrs Collie shut the door and Becky hurried across the courtyard and down the steps. The first guest was already arriving: a Bentley had stopped at the head of the lollipop. Becky hesitated on the bottom step, wondering whether to run like a panicked Cinderella or adopt a sedate pace. But the young woman in the back of the Bentley was clearly oblivious to Becky's presence: she held a compact mirror in her hand and was making a rapid last-minute appraisal of her face and hair. She needn't have bothered: she looked exquisite.

Becky headed towards the side of the house in the direction her taxi driver had indicated. Halfway there she turned back to see Matthew Darnley running swiftly down the front steps. Although the rain had reduced to barely a bitter drizzle, he unfurled an umbrella before opening the car door and helping the James Bond beauty out. She was almost as tall as he was and her only concession to the weather was a long feather boa worn with a model's casual panache about her shoulders. Becky heard Matthew greet the lady (Miss Carette, presumably) and her reply and realised they were speaking in French. Neither noticed her as Miss Carette, in her shimmering beaded shift, flung her white arms about Matthew Darnley's neck and he, in turn, encircled her slender waist. There was no way that lady was going to be served with Babycham tonight. Becky turned her back on Matthew Darnley and his companion, pulled up her coat collar and walked on to the side of the house, where her carriage awaited – and within it – a very curious driver.

Half an hour later the taxi driver, outraged on Becky's behalf, dropped her outside the
Essex Gleaner
's offices. She headed straight for Mr McBride's room, with ‘his' memo in her hand, and knocked on his transparent door. But the plump editor was on the phone and he gestured with an impatient swipe that he was not to be disturbed.

Returning to her desk Becky was relieved the few other people in the office paid her no attention; presumably they thought her earlier absence was due to a genuine assignment. She checked her emails and ate her meagre salad from a Tupperware box, feeling a twinge of deprivation as she imagined the multi-course luncheon being served at Noak Hall. She googled Matthew Darnley and the first few items on the results list concerned his ownership of the Monmouth Hotel (five star) in north Essex; there was no mention of Noak Hall.

Patsy came in with a shop-purchased sandwich and made a beeline for Becky the moment she saw her. ‘Where were you?' she asked. ‘McBride called a meeting first thing. Fortunately he didn't notice you weren't there.'

‘That's good,' said Becky, though Patsy's unintended slight cruelly confirmed her earlier lack of judgement. How had she believed that Mr McBride would send a junior reporter to interview someone on a topic as challenging as slavery? She had let her enthusiasm trample over good sense.

‘Don't look so down,' said Patsy. ‘You didn't really miss anything. He gave us a talk on ethics. He's got it into his head that we're all hacking phones and going through people's rubbish bins. Something I can't imagine you –'

‘Becky's always going through people's rubbish bins,' a voice said behind them. Ian. For an obese bloke he moved with a surprising stealthiness; usually the first indication of his presence was a shadow across the computer screen closely followed by his hand on her shoulder and a cheery ‘I know a much better way of doing that'. Patsy mouthed ‘prat' and went to her desk.

Becky wondered briefly if she could just ignore Ian. She had refused his ‘help the new girl' overtures on many occasions, knowing any favour would be called in with an insistence she join him for a drink or a meal and there were more competent colleagues who would help her without starting a tab. Also his unsolicited advice usually involved him balancing one buttock on her desk and cupping a hand over hers to guide the mouse but Patsy had warned her not to upset him until her twelve-month probation was up. After that – with more legal protection behind her – she could tell him where to stick his buttock.

For now though he wasn't going to take the hint to leave her alone and anyway she wanted to confront him about the trick he'd played on her. Becky turned around.

‘So how was your morning?' he asked, evidently expecting a temper tantrum because he grinned and dodged an imaginary punch. ‘I suppose you met the lord of the manor.'

‘I did,' said Becky.

‘And?'

‘And what? He seemed nice enough.'

Ian's face lost some of its anticipated glee. ‘But what about the questions? What did Darnley say when you asked him about the slave trade?'

‘I didn't bother asking him,' said Becky. ‘It was obvious someone had tried to set me up. By the way, was this to get at me or do you have something against him?'

‘He's an arrogant git. Swanning round his manor and not letting people fish in his lake.'

‘Ah, so that's what it was about,' said Becky. ‘Unbelievable. How did you know he would be at Noak Hall today? I'm told he's hardly ever there.'

Ian tapped his nose. ‘Inside information. So go on, tell me what he said.'

Becky ignored the question, reached into her bag and laid the two taxi receipts on her desk. ‘How am I going to claim for these?'

Ian casually pulled loose notes from a pocket and threw them on to her desk. He put the taxi receipts in his pocket.

Other books

Souvenir by James R. Benn
Morgan's Child by Pamela Browning
Dying in the Dark by Valerie Wilson Wesley
In the Bad Boy's Bed by Sophia Ryan
Six Scifi Stories by Robert T. Jeschonek
The Blind Side by Patricia Wentworth
Kim Philby by Tim Milne
Maverick Marshall by Nelson Nye


readsbookonline.com Copyright 2016 - 2024