The Evil at Monteine. Brian Ball
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I couldn’t believe, deep down, that it would all come good for the two of us, not that easily.
“We’d have to get married,” he said.
I began to believe it all.
CHAPTER TWO
Someone with discrimination and great wealth had once owned Monteine Castle. The walls were smooth, probably not the original facing stone; but it was the local white-grey limestone of the cliffs, and beautifully finished. Two huge, brilliant tapestries showing eighteenth-century pastoral scenes hung on the long wall to the left of the porch. There were rows of prints and a couple of excellent oils that might have been Flemish—both were portraits of men in the style of Rubens.
The main staircase was a gorgeous early nineteenth-century ironwork masterpiece recently painted in a stark white, which set it off admirably against the exquisite tapestries. It wasn’t a particularly large hall, but the proportions were excellent. Stone pillars flanked the interior of the doorway. There were several doorways at the back of the hall, and an open door to the right.
Richard let me look around. He was smiling smugly as I tried not to show how impressed I was by the lavish International setup. For everything spoke of the lavish use of money. I know about furnishings, and these looked like genuine Tudor pieces, heavy chests, high-back chairs, carved sideboards and cupboards; there was some nineteenth-century brass too. The best pieces were two huge, highly ornate pitchers, one on each side of the fireplace.
There was even a fire, and I was glad of it since the day had begun to be chill. My respect for Richard’s prospective employers grew as he dumped my overnight case and led me across the hall to the open door at the right of the splendid staircase.
“In here, my love,” he said.
I wanted to start asking Richard how he’d heard about the job. Then there were things like when would the offer be formal, how long would it take to complete his initial training, if any, what was expected of oil-company executives’ wives, and how Tony was going to be explained away.
But when I saw the small but well-stocked bar and the elegant little lounge, all I could think of saying was, “If I’m staying over, I’ll have to cancel my morning appointments, Richard.”
“Good evening, Madam—Sir,” a deferential and deep voice said behind me.
I started, for I hadn’t noticed anyone. I saw a dark-haired, heavily-built, middle-aged man in the uniform of the posher kind of cocktail lounge.
“Max,” said Richard. “Max is the steward,” he told me. “This is Miss Blackwell. We’ll have Campari sodas, easy on the ice, a twist of lemon in each, and some black olives. We’ll be having dinner. Anything special on the menu tonight?”
“The pheasant would be your best choice, Sir,” said Max.
He wasn’t English-born. There was no recognizable accent. Slav, I thought, with that heavy face and square build. His eyes were brilliant—black and shiny as chunks of pitch.
“The pheasant, then,” said Richard. “And, by the way, I’d like to make a call or two. What time was the appointment for, Anne?”
He was arranging things for me, and I was glad of it. I’d been driving for quite a time, and I was tired.
“Perhaps I could make any necessary arrangements?” suggested Max.
I began to realize how important Richard must be to International. The whole establishment seemed to revolve around the man in my life.
“I can make the call,” I said. “If you’ll pass me the phone?”
“Of course, Madam.”
With a little gesture of his hands and a small bow, Max indicated that he approved of my show of independence. He was so deferential it annoyed me.
I delayed my appointment with some brusqueness, and finished two more drinks in rapid order. I began to feel uneasy. There had been too many surprises in too short a time. Richard saw that I was thoroughly upset.
“Dinner’s in about half-an-hour,” he said. “Monica, what room have you put Anne in?”
I hadn’t noticed the big blonde woman entering.
“Do let me show you, dear,” she said at once. “Or would you take Anne to her room, Richard? It’s on the same floor as yours. The Yellow Room,” To me she said: “The Chairman likes to keep to the old traditions, and that’s what the room has always been called, the Yellow Room. Absolutely no ghosts or nastiness, I assure you, dear. And every comfort. We’re modelled on Hilton standards here at Monteine. International are absolutely filthy with money, and why not, the prices they charge for petrol! But don’t let me keep you—Richard will show you how everything works.”
“Then that’s all settled,” he said. “Thanks, Monica. The Yellow Room it is. No, I’ll take the case, Max,” he said to the bar-steward.
Max bowed. The Camparis went to my head about then, and I felt the delicious lightness that comes when someone else is taking charge and you have no more need to make decisions.
The Castle was a strange old place. Rooms led to more corridors, sometimes up a flight of stairs, sometimes down a couple of flights. I thought it was marvellous. We passed up the splendid staircase, through a sort of smallish lounge littered with papers and magazines; then up a narrow, winding passage to another room, with a blazing log fire in a brick fireplace.
I liked the room immediately. It looked incredibly old; the brick was toned by age to a mellow red-gold almost the colour of the flames from the hawthorn logs. I asked Richard to stop whilst I looked around it, then I pulled him over to a wide, mullioned window from which I could see clear across the sweep of the cliffs and, beyond, to the sea six hundred feet below.
The room was a sort of workplace with a couple of writing desks and rows of leather-bound books along one wall, and lots of pictures, pictures on all the other walls. There were rows of prints all of one family. I glanced at one Italian face. The man was a Venetian called Enrico Capelli. He had died in 1462. I reflected that he looked like the younger Nixon, stubbly-dark and amiable, but with a hint of the cunning to come.
“Up here,” said Richard, pointing out another opening through gorgeous red velvet curtains.
Again we were in a corridor, much narrower, which led upwards to one wing of the castle. There was a rounded roof that looked as if it might be the original stonework.
Eventually we reached a fairly short corridor. There were two doors.
“Yours,” said Richard, stopping at a smallish, heavy oak door. “Mind your head.”
They must have been shorter in the Middle Ages, for I had to stoop to get into the room.
“And the step,” said Richard.
I stepped down onto thick carpet and saw one of the most attractive rooms I’ve ever been in. It was small, with stone walls and a fairly low ceiling; yet though it should have seemed cold and even damp, that wasn’t the feeling I had. The carpet was thick Wilton, a dusky sort of gold, and the furniture mid-Victorian, all delicate mahogany with gold-patterned inlays. A small window gave enough light; I looked out and again I could see the long, slow, grey waves of the North Sea.
Richard put the case down and pointed out the television set, the tiny bathroom, and the telephone for room service.
“It’s so pretty!” I said. “I hate antiquey rooms stuffed with bits of junk, but this seems so right.”
Richard murmured agreement and ran his hand along my back.
“Whoever fitted this place out was an artist,” I said. “And stop that, or I can’t talk. You haven’t started to tell me anything about International. How did you hear about the job?”
Richard sighed. “It was all so easy, really. It was a couple of weeks back. I met a fellow I know vaguely and we said how are things, then the talk got around