‘I’ve news for you, pet . . . or did you already have suspicions? If you know Simon then you’ll know also that he’s a Grade A womanizer. And you can do simple addition as well as the next, Stella. Am I right?’

  ‘Just tell me, Lena.’

  ‘Well, there’s this whisper on the grapevine. It says that Simon’s standing with his father isn’t good. And it goes on to mention changes in a certain valuable document.’

  ‘You mean a will?’

  ‘So they say. On account of one actress too many. Have you met her, by the way?’

  ‘Oh yes. I’ve met her.’

  ‘Better watch your step, my poppet. There may be some angles you haven’t spotted.’

  Stella pushed closer to the comfortless framework of the box. ‘This rumour,’ she said. ‘How much . . . how reliable is it?’

  ‘Quote it at seventy-five per cent, which is high as they go. Another five per cent and I’d risk it in the column.’

  ‘Does it say any more . . . about who is going to inherit?’

  ‘It sure does. There’s a grandson. You wouldn’t be vamping him, would you?’

  ‘Thanks, Lena.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Just invite me to the wedding is all.’

  She rang off and without pausing dialled the number of Jenny’s office. Again there was a wait, with typewriter-clicking in the background. She kept her eyes on the framed instructions screwed to the back of the box, striving to make her mind a blank. Only a seventy-five per cent rumour . . .

  ‘This is Miss Williams.’

  ‘Jenny. Stella.’

  Followed another period of irrelevant exchanges. Jenny’s solicitude was switched on like one of Simon’s frank smiles, and Stella could do nothing about it but wait till it wore itself out.

  ‘Jenny, I want to know something. Something about Simon and his father.’

  ‘Oh dear, now! You are getting on with Simon, aren’t you?’

  ‘It’s something else, Jenny, and it’s terribly important.’

  ‘You know, you sound upset. You shouldn’t be upsetting yourself.’

  ‘Jenny, what do you know about them?’

  At the other end there was a pause. She could imagine too well the obstinate expression that was slowly growing on Jenny’s face.

  ‘I don’t think I ought to say, Stella. It is confidential, you understand. I may hear a thing or two now and then, but I never breathe a word outside the office.’

  ‘But this isn’t idle curiosity!’

  ‘No, I can hear it isn’t. And that is why I am being careful – I don’t want anything foolish to happen. Now just what did you want to know?’

  ‘He had a row – a row with his father.’

  ‘Well, one does have rows now and then. There is nothing peculiar in having rows.’

  ‘Jenny, this one was much more serious. It happened at Easter and concerned a woman Simon lives with. Her name is Davis, Glynda Davis. She had a part in one of his plays.’

  ‘Oh. I might have heard about that.’

  ‘Did he speak to you about it?’

  ‘I won’t say he didn’t.’

  ‘Jenny, for heaven’s sake tell me what he said! I can’t explain why, but it’s too important to split hairs over.’

  ‘Just a moment, if you please.’

  Jenny’s phone was laid down, and against the echoing background noise Stella thought she could hear a door close. Then the phone was picked up again.

  ‘Now, Stella, listen to me. I am going to tell you what you are asking, though it is against my better judgement. But first I am going to warn you. You are a foolish woman, Stella. You can’t help it, but you are, so I warn you to be on your guard. Don’t go judging people hastily – do you understand what I am saying?’

  ‘I understand, but it’s too late, Jenny.’

  ‘No, it isn’t too late at all! And if it is Simon who is the trouble, let me tell you this about him. He is a liar, and a whoremonger, and he has no strength of character. I know these things because he was sweet on me, too. But a person can be like that and still be decent underneath it, and you will make a grave mistake if you think otherwise of Simon. You have failings yourself, Stella, but you are still a decent person.’

  ‘But Jenny—’

  ‘Very well, then. I have given you my warning. Now I will tell you what happened on the Wednesday after Easter. Simon was in here with some proofs – his flat is close to the office – and he sat down on the chair here, looking sick as a parrot. “What is the matter?” I asked him. “You are not yourself, Simon.” “Nor would you be either,” he said, “if you had just lost several million quid.” I knew then what it was about, because he had had these rows before – there was one of them last summer that took a bit of living down. “Get along with you, Simon,” I said. “The old man will soon come round.” But he just shook his head. “No,” he said, “not this time, my dear.” Then he told me all about it. His father had got a promise out of him. It was after last summer, and he had promised to stay away from the women. And of course, he hadn’t done it, and his father had put a spy on him – imagine that, will you! He had a private detective watching his son. So there it was, a complete bust-up, and all over a tart like Glynda Davis. The money was going to a brother’s son and Simon would scarcely touch a penny.’

  Stella had to press even harder against the wall of the box to prevent herself from sliding down it. She had it now in so many words, no longer a suspicion or a rumour. The police had only to hear this – as eventually they must – and there would be little use in telling them that Simon was ‘decent underneath’!

  ‘Stella, are you there?’

  She choked. ‘Yes . . . I’m here, Jenny.’

  ‘Is that what you wanted to know?’

  ‘Yes.’ God forgive her that lie!

  ‘Now remember what I told you – and also that this is in confidence. If he didn’t tell me not to spread it around, that was because he trusted me not to. So keep it to yourself, Stella.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’ll do that.’

  ‘And if you won’t tell me what the trouble is, well never mind, but hold your chin up. It was going to kill you the last time but you are still here to tell the tale.’

  She let the door slam behind her and walked shakily back to the car. She couldn’t have been looking where she was going because on the way she bumped into several people. She started the car and began to drive, having no idea what the next step would be. She was a pawn. It was no use resisting the current of play which she couldn’t control.

  TWENTY-NINE

  STELLA COULDN’T BRING herself to face Simon. She drove the Metro as far as the marsh track, just out of sight of the house, slipped the keys into the locker and very quietly closed the car door. It was teatime; a drowsy peace seemed to have settled over Iriston. She met nobody in the village or on her walk back to the cottage. So calm was the afternoon that it gave her a feeling of unreality, as though even its peace and assurance must hide an undiscovered threat. Pigeons were murmuring in the plantation, the grasses stood tall and unstirred by breeze, and her cottage, as she approached it, had the timeless appearance of a picture. Yet the threat existed: her intuition was sound. As she neared her gate, Fulcher rose from a seat in the hedge-bank.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you, my girl . . .’

  From the depths of her loathing she summoned the look she gave him. It didn’t touch him. He merely grinned, his dark eyes switching about her hungrily. Then he put his foot against the gate to prevent her from opening it.

  ‘Take your foot away from there!’

  Her efforts to force it open seemed to amuse him. He kept grinning and parrying her attempts with a prodding toe.

  ‘I’m going to complain about you. I’m going to complain to the police.’

  ‘Oh are you, my girl? But I don’t think you are, though.’

  ‘And what’s going to stop me?’

  He edged a bit closer. ‘I’ll tell you if you don’t know . . . and I reckon as how you’d better listen. I was out on the Broad babbing when your fancy man was done in. And I saw what I saw, and I don’t know that I shan’t talk about it.’

  ‘You saw . . . what?’

  ‘Never you mind. But the police’d like to know it. And where he went to and who was waiting for him – and who was watching for him when he came back. They’d like to know that, wouldn’t they? Course nobody else haven’t told them. And they aren’t likely to find out while I keep my mouth shut.’

  She pulled back from him involuntarily, her hand falling from the gate. So the brute knew it all – he had been there, an eye-witness! And now he was come to blackmail her for withholding information, and that after treacherously attempting to ensure that she did withhold it . . . She shrank back yet further. Was there no end to this nightmare?

  ‘How much do you want?’

  For answer he thrust his hand into his pocket. It came out with an untidy bundle of five-pound notes. He waved it under her nose, his grin fixed and malignant, then carelessly stowed it away again and leaned back against the gate.

  ‘I don’t want no money – not with Mr Simon around. I’m a valuable man to him right now, and he knows it. But there’s other things besides money – that’s right now, isn’t it? What money won’t buy, or that’s what they say.’

  ‘And you think that I—!’

  ‘I don’t have to think nothing.’ He stuck his head out belligerently, his black eyes glittering. ‘You might have kidded me before with your fancy parts and going-on, but you soon had a bloke hanging his hat here, didn’t you? And what you can do for one you can do for another. You like it all right. I’ve seen, and I know.’

  ‘You filthy beast.’

  ‘Ah yes, you’ve got a tongue.’

  ‘You can tell the police what you like.’

  ‘That’s likely, isn’t it? But you’re all right, my girl, that won’t cost you a penny. I’ve taken a great fancy to you, and I’m a man what likes his fancy.’

  He made a movement towards her, his hands reaching out, and suddenly she struck him a blow with all the force at her command. It was a swinging slap to the face which rang out like a shot: it caught him off-balance and tumbled him on to the road. She fled. She had the key out of her bag in a flash, darted in through the door of the cottage and slammed it shut behind her. She shot the bolts and leaned against it. She didn’t know if he had followed her. She was shaking like a reed and laughing hysterically.

  And it was then that she snatched at the idea that the cottage was a fortress, and that from now until the end she must remain in its protection. It represented her only defence from the evil about her: outside it she was vulnerable both to that beast and his master. She was dangerous, she knew too much. And she had put herself outside the law. Until Simon was taken into custody her safety lay in those four walls, and if she left them it must be in flight, to hide herself a long way from him.

  She remained leaning against the door for some time, listening to the sounds from without, but at last she convinced herself that Fulcher had gone. She went cautiously to the window. Yes, he wasn’t in the garden; and the gate which she had dragged shut was still closed, and the road deserted. Would he go to the police? Perhaps that was best, it would get it over. But she realized that this was unlikely unless he did it in a fit of anger. He had Simon on a string also and he wouldn’t want to spoil that – in the long run, fivers were more acceptable to him than being revenged on Stella.

  She began to calm down again as she moved about her small sanctuary. She filled the kettle and made some tea and drank cup after cup of it. Things were not so completely desperate. She had only to prevent herself from panicking. Simon could scarcely guess at the information that she had obtained that afternoon. For one thing, he was unaware that she had heard of the critical quarrel. It was Keith who had mentioned it to her, with a hint of what it had been about. She had been foolish, perhaps, to borrow the car and not to return it to the garage, but he could deduce nothing positive or damning from that. No, she wasn’t in any danger as long as events moved quickly. If they were delayed . . . but she didn’t want to think about that. The police would surely find Simon’s father, they would learn what she had learned, and then it would be all over. It couldn’t be long delayed.

  She scraped a meal together and ate it sitting where she could keep an eye on the gate. If Simon came she was going to hide, to pretend that she wasn’t at home. Tomorrow there would be a little respite because he had to attend the inquest . . . they might even arrest him there, producing and confronting him with his father. They were far from fools, those two detectives, they wouldn’t have been wasting their time; they had no doubt contacted the French authorities and perhaps had already been in touch with their man. And what was the first thing they would ask him? ‘Are your relations with your son cordial, Mr Lea-Stephens?’ Then the cat would be out of the bag and they would pull in Simon to ‘assist them’ . . .

  It grew dusk. Still she sat, revolving the thoughts through her brain. The doors were locked, the windows bolted and no light betrayed her presence. All the time she had been watching the gate but now she could scarcely make it out, and she could count on the fingers of one hand the vehicles that had passed by. Once a dog had come sniffing up to it but there had been no sign of the dog’s owner; and now, for an hour at least, nothing had gone by at all. Did she dare go to bed? It was a quarter past eleven. The only sound she could hear was the ticking of a carriage clock. She rose and went into the kitchen to prepare some malted milk; but then, as she stirred the beaker, the phone exploded in a bomb of noise. Her heart thumped as she picked it up.

  ‘Is that you, Stella? Simon here . . .’

  She held the receiver away from her as though it might bite her, then dropped it back into its cradle.

  She stood waiting; she knew he would ring again, and he did: three times. The last time he kept it going for at least two minutes. She thought it would drive her mad but she didn’t dare lift it again. She stood rigid, her eyes closed, letting the sound jangle through her. Why was he so bloody, bloody insistent – what had he to say to her that was so imperative?

  It ended, and she went back into the kitchen with her ears still ringing. The malted milk had got tepid and had a thick skin over it. She took it back into the lounge, sat mechanically and began to drink it. She knew now that she wasn’t going to bed, not yet, not for a little while. He would come. She was certain of that. He wouldn’t let the matter rest. He knew now that she was at home, though she had refused to answer his call. And there was the car she had left on the marsh track . . . now he would add that circumstance to the other. He would come. He would want to know what all this was about . . .

  Through her whirlpool of racing ideas she heard a sound that drew a gasp from her: gently, and with great caution, the latch of the kitchen door was being lifted. Very slowly it rose, grinding faintly against the hasp, then, when it arrived at the top, came the creak of weight placed against the door. The creak was repeated once or twice before the latch was lowered again and, after a short but dreadful interval, the front door was given the same treatment. Stella was petrified. She sat motion-less, even her lungs refusing to work. Her heart alone kept pumping away and driving the blood through her ears. No footstep accompanied the noises, there were no other sounds at all, and when they ceased nothing remained except the ticking of the clock.

  Her lungs rebelled; she sucked in air in sobbing, hysterical gulps, broken occasionally by desperate pauses as she still strained her ears to listen. She put down the beaker. She felt about in the dark for a weapon. Her hand encountered the poker and she seized hold of it convulsively. It couldn’t have been Simon, she had heard no sound of a car, and there hadn’t been time enough for him to get down there on foot. Was it Fulcher? Had he returned to break in on her in the night? Or was it somebody else – some enemy unknown?

  She had small time to think about it before a different sound reached her, and this time it was a car, its headlights glaring on the curtained windows. It stopped, its door slammed and steps hurried towards the cottage. Then the front door knocker rattled with half a dozen impatient strokes.

  ‘Stella – are you there?’

  It was Simon all right. Getting no reply he hammered again; he also rattled the latch.

  ‘Stella, what’s going on? I want to talk to you, Stella! You’ve been up to some fool game, and I’m damned well going to talk to you!’

  She drew steadily back from the door, her teeth chattering, the poker raised. This was it, he had guessed what she knew. That damned car had given her away.

  ‘Stella, I know you’re in there!’ The door groaned as he shouldered against it. ‘Jenny Williams rang up. She admitted what she’d told you. Let me in, you blazing idiot – if you don’t, I’ll have this door down!’

  A wave of panic swept over her: her actions became purely involuntary. She glided into the kitchen, unbolted the door, and slipped out. Then she ran, not caring if he heard her or not; she ran like an automaton in the direction of the summerhouse. But he did hear her, he came after her. He was shouting for her to stop. Only a score of yards behind her his feet were pounding down the path. She threw the poker into the trees and ran till she thought her ribs would burst, and she beat him, she got there first: she threw herself into the waiting dinghy.

  ‘Stella, listen to me, for Christ’s sake—!’

  She dragged at the knot and shoved herself off. A dark shape raced on to the staithe, dropped to its knees and made a grab for her. But she was away, rowing furiously. She was pulling away into the Broad. And he was left calling after her, a pleading, angry, impotent voice. She kept rowing. She didn’t know, didn’t care where she was going. She had escaped him this time and that was everything for the moment. The Broad was large and it was dark; she was safe from any attempt to find her. It had been deadly for Keith but it was a haven for Stella.

  And then, with a terrific shock, she discovered that it wasn’t safe at all: out of the darkness a second voice hailed her, the sneering, ugly tones of Fulcher. He was sitting perfectly still in his boat, letting her row up towards him, and now that she was only yards away he made his odious presence known.