CHAPTER THREE

      OLIVER awakened with a thumping headache.

      For a while he lay quite still, trying to work out where he was and how he came to be there. He couldn’t understand why his room felt so cold. It didn’t get this cold in Malaysia. And if he wasn’t there why couldn’t he hear the steady hum of the Knightsbridge traffic? Despite double-glazing, he was always aware of the heart of the city, beating away just yards from Mostyn Square.

      Then he remembered. Remembered, too, why his head was pounding as if there were a pile driver in his skull. He was in Wales; at Penmadoc, not in London. And it was the fact that he’d consumed the best part of a bottle of Scotch before falling into bed in the early hours that accounted for his hangover.

      He groaned. He should have had more sense. But after seeing Laura again and learning why his mother had been so desperate to get in touch with him he’d needed something to fortify his strength.

      The will…

      Levering himself up on his elbows, he endeavoured to survey the room without feeling sick. But the bed swayed alarmingly, and although he swung his feet on to the floor he had to hold on to the mattress to keep his balance. Dammit, he was too old to be suffering this kind of nonsense. In future, he’d sustain himself with mineral water and nothing else.

      Cursing whatever fate had decreed he should return to England at this particular moment in time, he got to his feet. Then, steadying himself on the chest of drawers beside his wardrobe, he shuffled across the room like an old man.

      Despite a lengthy exploration, there were no painkillers in the bathroom cabinet. The light in there was blinding. He hadn’t thought to pull down the blind the night before and the brilliance of sun on snow was the equivalent of a knife being driven into his temple. It was the kind of light he usually only saw through a filter, but right now the idea of estimating aperture, shutter speeds and distance was quite beyond his capabilities.

      ‘For God’s sake,’ he muttered, jerking on the cord, only to have the blind rattle up again at lightning speed. He swore again, grabbing the cord and repeating the procedure. ‘This is just what I need.’

      At least the water was hot and he stepped into the shower cubicle and ran the spray at a crippling pressure. He hadn’t looked at his watch yet, but he guessed it must be after nine o’clock. He could have done with a cup of Thomas’s strong black coffee. Instead, he would probably have to make do with the instant variety which was all Laura’s aunt ever had.

      Fifteen minutes later, dressed in black trousers and a chunky Aran sweater, workmanlike boots over thick socks keeping his feet warm, he left the room. His hair was still damp and he hadn’t shaved, but he doubted anyone would notice. If his mother was still in the same state she’d been in the night before, his appearance was the least of his troubles. So long as she felt she could rely on his support in her conflict with Laura, she’d avoid doing anything to upset him.

      Despite the intensive-heating programme his mother had inaugurated over the years, the corridors and hall at Penmadoc remained persistently chilly. Why Stella should want to stay here when she could buy herself a cosy apartment in Carmarthen or Llanelli, he couldn’t imagine. He found it hard to believe that she was so attached to the old place. There had to be more to it than that.

      The stairs creaked as he descended them, but at least the fire had been lighted in the hall below. Flames crackled up the blackened chimney, and the logs split and splintered in the massive grate. Years ago, he supposed, the hall would have been the focal point of the whole house. According to Griff, parts of Penmadoc dated from the sixteenth century, but so much had been added on to the original structure that its origins were hard to define.

      He had paused to warm his hands at the fire when a dark-clad figure emerged from the direction of the kitchen. He saw it was Eleanor Tenby, Laura’s aunt. Although he knew she could only be in her fifties, she looked years older, her straight hair almost completely white these days.

      An angular woman, she had barely tolerated him as a teenager. But, because Laura had been fond of him, she’d treated him more kindly than she had his mother. Then, when the family had broken up, she’d blamed him for Laura’s exile, only softening again in recent years when she’d seen how much Griff looked forward to his visits.

      ‘So you’re up at last,’ she remarked without enthusiasm, proving that, as always, nothing went on at Penmadoc without her knowing about it. ‘I offered to bring you up some breakfast, but your mother said to let you sleep. If you’re hoping that I’ll cook you something now, you’re too late.’

      ‘All I want is some coffee,’ said Oliver flatly, the thought of grilled bacon and fried eggs turning his stomach. ‘Anyway, how are you? This—’ He spread his hands expressively. ‘It must have been a great shock.’

      ‘It was.’ The woman’s thin lips compressed into a fine line. ‘And you’ll not find any consolation in the bottom of a bottle. No one ever improved a situation with alcohol.’

      Oliver might have disputed that on another occasion, but this morning he was inclined to agree with her. ‘Believe me,’ he said, ‘I’m regretting it. And I am sorry you had no warning that Griff was ill.’

      ‘Yes, well…’ Laura’s aunt sniffed deprecatingly, somewhat mollified by Oliver’s words. ‘You always had more sensitivity than anyone gave you credit for.’ She paused. ‘I expect you know that Laura’s here.’

      Oliver nodded, and then regretted the action. His head thumped and he raised a hand to the back of his neck. ‘Do you have any aspirin?’ he asked, wincing. ‘I’ve got to do something before my skull splits in two.’

      ‘Come along into the kitchen,’ said Aunt Nell tolerantly, and without waiting to see if he was following her she started back the way she’d come. ‘What you need is something to eat,’ she added, despite the refusal she’d made earlier. ‘You’ll feel altogether better with a bowl of my oatmeal inside you. You don’t want to be poisoning your system by popping pills.’

      Aspirin? Oliver grimaced. He’d hate to think what she’d say if she found out he’d been offered cocaine. Thankfully, he’d never been interested in what some people called ‘social’ substances, but these days they were increasingly hard to avoid.

      The kitchen looked much different this morning than it had done the night before. As in the hall, a cheerful fire was burning in the grate and the scent of woodsmoke was not unappealing. There were other smells he was not so keen on, like the many species of herbs that grew in the pots on the windowsills and hung in dried bunches from the beamed ceiling. But there was the smell of freshly baked bread, too, and the crisp crackle of roasting meat from the oven.

      Aunt Nell watched him take a seat at the table, and then busied herself pouring milk into a pan. The same pan that Laura had burnt the night before, thought Oliver ruefully. But clean now and sparkling like new.

      The idea of drinking some of the thick creamy milk that was farmed locally made him shudder, and he wished he could just help himself to a cup of coffee instead. But there was no welcoming pot simmering on the hob, and he guessed he’d have to make some instant himself if he wanted it.

      To distract himself, he glanced out of the window. As he’d noticed when he’d drawn his curtains upstairs, it had