Charade In Winter. Anne Mather
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reach the iron bell-rope, the door was opened, and a stream of light dispersed the gloom. An elderly man stood within its illumination, grey-haired and slightly stooped, yet with a not unkindly face.
‘Come in, come in, Mrs Thornton,’ he urged, when Alix hesitated, waiting for Giles to introduce them then added as she stepped over the threshold: ‘I heard the engine coming along the drive, and I guessed you’d be feeling the cold here after London.’
‘Thank you.’
Alix stood aside as Giles deposited her cases on the polished floor of the entrance hall, briefly savouring the warmth within, and then felt another wave of anxiety engulf her as, after a tacit farewell, the heavy door was closed, trapping her inside the house. Trapping! She quelled the sudden rush of panic. She must stop feeling as if every step she took brought her nearer to Nemesis.
She looked swiftly round the hall, professionally noting the comforting wealth of her surroundings. Panelled walls, gleaming with the patina of age, a fan-shaped staircase, carpeted in green and gold, that forked into two at the first landing and circled the floor above with a carved gallery, a crystal chandelier that cast its light in a thousand trembling prisms. Even the chest that supported a bowl of red and bronze chrysanthemums was inlaid with lacquered panels, and mocked the striking contemporism of the telephone, which seemed strangely out of place. Nevertheless, to Alix, it was a link with the outside world, and therefore more than welcome.
‘Did you have a good journey?’
The butler, if he could be termed as such, was speaking, and Alix looked at him with more assurance. ‘Yes, thank you. But it’s a terrible afternoon.’
The butler nodded. ‘The mist—yes, I know. We get a lot of it at this time of the year. It’s the dampness, you see, rising among the trees. There are so many trees…’
‘Not that many. Are you trying to frighten the lady, Seth?’
A film of perspiration broke out on Alix’s forehead. She had been so intent on behaving normally that she had been unaware of a door opening across the hall and of the man standing in the aperture, watching them with sardonic amusement. But his words echoed so closely her own imaginary fears that for a minute she was convinced he had called the butler Death. She turned so pale that the man shook his head and moved forward in reluctant apology, regarding her with evident impatience.
‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ he drawled, and even in her distraught state she noticed how attractive his voice was—deep and husky, almost as though he had a cold, but without the nasal overtones. He looked older than his pictures, as she had expected, and yet he still had the power to disturb her, and she had not expected that. ‘What’s the matter?’ he continued. ‘Has our weather convinced you we must have some nefarious purpose for living in such a God-forsaken spot?’
His perception was so acute that her unwilling admiration brought a little colour back into her cheeks, and his heavy lids shadowed eyes cooling to steel grey. ‘So,’ he commented dryly, ‘I was right. The lady has imagination, Seth. We must see we don’t stimulate it more than we can help.’
‘No, sir.’ The old man bent to lift Alix’s cases. ‘Shall I show Mrs Thornton to her room, sir?’
Oliver Morgan’s dark brows ascended. ‘Is that her name?’ He paused, and the cold appraisal he gave Alix would not have disgraced a dealer at a cattle auction. ‘We haven’t yet been introduced, have we?’
His behaviour brought Alix a measure of defensive composure, and holding up her head, she replied sharply: ‘Your staff don’t appear to consider introductions necessary, Mr Morgan. It is Mr Morgan, isn’t it? Not another of his employees!’
His lips twisted in wry acknowledgment of her audacity. ‘Yes, I’m Oliver Morgan, although I beg leave to doubt your uncertainty in the matter. However…’ he indicated the open door behind him, ‘I suggest we consider the proprieties satisfied, and continue our discussion in the library.’
Alix looked down at her sheepskin coat, and guessing her thoughts, Morgan added briefly: ‘Leave your jacket with Seth. He’ll see that your things are taken up to your room while I offer you a drink to dispel your fears, real or imagined.’
The buttons of her coat had never seemed more difficult to unfasten, but at last Seth helped her to shrug out of it and picking up her bag she followed Oliver Morgan into a room lined with books from floor to ceiling. It was a large room, with an iron-runged ladder leading to a narrow gallery which gave access to the books too high on their shelves to be reached by normal methods. The floor was carpeted, there were half a dozen easy chairs, a rather worn-looking table with drawers, and a tapestry-covered sofa faced the hearth, the papers strewn upon it indicating that this was where Oliver Morgan had been sitting. Flames leapt up the chimney from the pile of logs burning in the huge grate, giving the room a comfortable, lived-in air.
Oliver Morgan closed the door behind them, and Alix walked uncertainly towards the fireplace, not quite sure whether she ought to sit down as he did. Still, this was to be her area of activity, and she looked around at the shelves of books with feigned enthusiasm.
Her host had moved to a trolley beside the sofa, and was presently examining the contents of various bottles. Unobserved, Alix attempted to describe him for her own satisfaction, convinced that her initial reactions to him had been merely due to her overactive imagination. In a tweed jacket hardly any less shabby than that of his lodgekeeper, and dark brown cords, his streaked black hair hanging over his collar at the back, he was hardly a figure to quicken her pulse rate, and yet there was an unconscious sensuality about his movements that belied the ill-fitting carelessness of his clothes. She was a tall girl herself, but he was taller, and she guessed that the reason his clothes hung upon him was because he had lost weight. Then he lifted his head, and she felt the same sense of disruption she had experienced in the hall. His own reactions were completely different, however. His features betrayed a certain irritation when he looked at her, and his mouth, with its fuller lower lip, was uncompromisingly straight.
‘Whisky or sherry?’ he asked now, and guessing he expected her to choose sherry, she chose the opposite. ‘Straight?’ he queried, pouring a liberal amount of the spirit into a heavy-based glass, and Alix quickly asked for water.
Shrugging, he opened an ice-flask and dropped two cubes into her glass. ‘No water,’ he said as he handed it to her, and although she was tempted to say something more, she kept silent.
‘Sit down,’ he said, gesturing towards the easy chairs, and taking him at his word she subsided into the nearest one. He remained standing, which was rather disconcerting, and more disconcerting still was his first comment: ‘I have to tell you, Mrs Thornton, you’re not exactly what I expected.’
Alix was glad of the glass in her hand. Raised to her lips, it successfully provided a barrier between herself and an immediate reply. But eventually, of course, she had to answer him. ‘What—exactly—did you expect, Mr Morgan?’
He had poured himself whisky, too, and this he swallowed straight before speaking again. ‘You’re younger,’ he remarked at last. ‘How long have you been married? Doesn’t your husband object to you working so far away from London?’
‘My—my husband and I are separated,’ she responded, giving the reply she had rehearsed.
‘Really?’ His expression mirrored a certain contempt. ‘I wonder why.’
Alix stiffened. ‘I don’t think that need concern you, Mr Morgan. I’m here to do a job, and providing I do it satisfactorily—’
‘Yes, yes, I know.’ He cut her off abruptly. ‘That still doesn’t alter your age—’
‘I’m twenty-six, Mr Morgan.’
‘Are you?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You look younger.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He shrugged indifferently. ‘I suppose it’s of no matter. Presumably Grizelda thought you were suitable.’
‘Grizelda?’