Stormspell (20 page)

'No,' she responded regretfully. 'He wouldn't say. Just to ask you to go up and see him, the minute you came in.'

Dominic nodded. 'Okay, you can tell him I'll be right there. Oh. and get me Tim Connor on the phone, would you? Tell him I'll meet him in the Alexander for a drink at one o'clock.'

'Yes, Mr Crown.'

Andrea made a note on the pad in her hand, and with a wry smile Dominic stepped back into the lift and pressed the button for the penthouse floor, two floors above.

James Crown's suite of offices incorporated the boardroom of the Crown Chemical organisation, in addition to the penthouse apartment which he used for himself, as well as for entertaining, and the huge digital computer that stored every detail of both the corporation and its employees. Dominic sometimes thought his father was a little like the computer. He, too. analysed every action, before putting it into motion.

His father was waiting for him in the large panelled office belonging to the chairman of the board. It was an austere room, with its dark panelling and mahogany furniture, an intimidating room, to those who came here under duress, and yet a beautiful room for all that, in its elegant simplicity. When the Crown Chemical Corporation had moved from its smaller offices in Deansgate to these more spacious premises in Malta Square, James had had his apartments furnished to his own design, and entering the office now in response to his father's summons, Dominic briefly acknowledged that his parent had good taste.

'Good morning,' James acknowledged, in answer to his son's greeting, glancing significantly at his pocket watch. The hands hovered a centimetre from their midday position, and the silent bid for sarcasm was not lost on Dominic.

'I overslept.' he said, before a word of admonishment could be spoken. 'I'm sorry I'm late, but you owe me the time.'

'Do I?' James Crown's lips thinned. 'Because you choose to spend your nights at Daly Tanners, I'm to overlook a matter of some two and a half hours' absence, is that it?'

Dominic sighed, if it's two and a half hours you're worried about, deduct it from the five hours' extra time I worked last evening,' he suggested laconically, tucking his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets.

His father, who had been conducting the interview from the high-backed leather chair behind the desk, rose to his feet. 'I consider the extra hours you've been working lately some small recompense for the six weeks when you didn't put in an appearance at all.' he remarked tersely. 'And before you tell me that it wasn't your fault. I'll remind you that had it not been for your recklessness, you wouldn't have half killed yourself in the first place.'

Dominic conceded the truth of his father's words, but he was in no mood to say so. 'Maybe if you'd allow me a little more responsibility around here, there wouldn't be this conflict between us,' he averred instead. 'You don't want a son, Jake, you want a robot, a toy. some mechanical device you can move around to your own choosing.' He paused, realising what he had to say next could blow the argument sky-high. 'Perhaps it would be better for both of us if I left Crowns. You don't need me. Any accountant could do my job, and I guess I—'

'You're not just an accountant!' snapped his father now, with angry emphasis. 'And what's the point of leaving Crowns, when it will all be yours when I retire?'

'When you retire,' remarked Dominic dryly. 'You mean when they carry you out of here in a wooden box!'

'Not necessarily.' James subsided into his chair again, and Dominic, receptive to every nuance in his father's voice, knew a sudden chill. Was it his imagination, or did the old man's face have a slightly greyish tinge? He was so used to looking at those features, so like his own in shape and colouring, that he seldom examined them objectively. At sixty-two, James Crown was as active as he had ever been, but now Dominic noticed the slight stoop to the broad shoulders, the whiteness in hair that had previously been only grey. Was he imagining it. or was his father ill? Somehow that possibility had never entered his head.

Moving to the desk, he rested his palms on its polished surface and appraised the older man thoroughly. 'Tell me,' he said, and all trace of indifference had gone from his voice and his manner, 'exactly what was the essence of that remark?'

An hour later Dominic entered the crowded bar of the Alexander Hotel in Tavistock Gate. The hotel was near Tim Connor's office, and was full of eager young executives and their secretaries, all crowded round the bar, eating crisps and drinking beer. It was an 'in' place, and Dominic knew Tim came here most lunchtimes. to enjoy a sandwich and a couple of gin and tonics. It was one of the few occasions when he could pry himself free of Marcia's clinging tentacles, and Dominic could rely on his being alone.

He was seated in the corner as usual, studying the
Times
crossword, and munching on a wedge of ham and cheese. He looked up half irritably when Dominie came to stand over him. but when he realised who it was, he quickly folded his paper and made room for him on the padded bench. Dominic deposited the two gin and tonics he had collected from the bar on his way over on the table, then shook the frosted droplets of condensation from his fingers. 'How are you. Tim?' he enquired mildly, and the other man relaxed and emptied the dregs in the glass in front of him.

'Can't grumble, Dominic,' he asserted comfortably, reaching for the drink Dominic had provided. 'As a matter of fact, I was going to ring you today, but you beat me to it.'

Dominic studied his companion's florid face without enthusiasm. Although he was only about ten years older than Dominic, Connor had the puffy eyes and broken veins of a much older man, and too much good food and too many hard drinks had left their mark upon him. Perhaps he ate to compensate. Dominic reflected now, then raised his own drink in dismissal of that particular train of thought.

'How's Jake?' Connor was asking now, observing the formalities. 'Marcia was talking to your mother at that charity auction yesterday evening. She said Isobel thinks he works too hard.'

'He does.' said Dominic flatly, without elaborating. 'So—you had something to tell me?'

Connor looked slightly disconcerted now, but he managed to maintain a fagade of good humour. 'I thought you wanted to speak to me, Dominic, old boy,' he protested, taking another sip of his drink. 'Age before beauty, as they say.' He chuckled.

Dominic's mouth was a thin line. 'No, you first, Tim.' he insisted without expression, and with a discomfited sigh Connor complied.

'That matter you asked me to look into,' he began slowly. 'About Miss Jason?' Dominic nodded impatiently and he went on: 'You were right. She does have relatives—well, one relative, at least. An aunt, a woman called Davina Pascal. Have you heard of her?'

Dominic frowned. 'Should I have?'

Connor hesitated. 'That depends. She's wealthy enough, goodness knows. Her father was Henry Pascal. He was a famous art collector in his day.'

Dominic shook his head. 'The name doesn't mean anything.'

'No. well, it's some years since old Henry died. His wife preceded him.'

'And this woman—Davina—is his daughter?'

'That's right.' Connor was beginning to enjoy himself. 'It's quite an interesting story really. Henry Pascal was an art collector, as I said, but he didn't really have the money to indulge his hobby. So he found himself a wealthy heiress, the daughter of some mill owner from Yorkshire, and she financed his business.'

'I see.' Dominic nodded. 'And I assume Ruth— that is—Miss Jason's mother, was his daughter too.'

'That's right.' Connor fumbled for his cigar case. 'There only were two daughters, no sons. Davina inherited everything.'

Dominic looked thoughtful. 'Do you know why? I mean, why should Miss Jason's mother be ignored? Was she the younger daughter?'

'No."As a matter of fact, Helen was the eldest.' Connor offered his cigars to Dominic and when he refused, extracted one from the case. 'I suppose it's the classic situation Helen married a man her father didn't like, so he cut her out of his will.'

Dominic was sceptical. 'And you learned all this from documentation.'

'No.' Connor sniffed defensively. 'As a matter of fact, it was common knowledge in 1944. Your Miss Jason's father was a conscientious objector, and you know how well liked they were.' He put the cigar between his teeth and lit it with some effort. 'Old Henry nearly had a fit when his little girl left home to marry a conchy.'

Dominic put up a hand to massage the back of his neck, trying to assimilate what he had heard. No wonder Jason had chosen to keep Ruth apart from the other members of her family! He had had no intention of allowing any of them to influence his daughter, even if he was not averse to living on the allowance his wife's mother had left her.

'I guess that clarifies the situation, doesn't it?' Connor was saying now, puffing away at his cigar and creating a blue haze about them. 'Poor little rich girl, hmm? Are you going to tell Miss Pascal she has a niece?'

'I imagine she knows,' retorted Dominic absently, remembering that Ruth had been born in England. Then, tersely; 'It's really nothing to do with me.'

Connor nodded. 'I see.' He paused. 'I was just going to add that that adopted son of Davina's might have something to say about it.'

'Adopted son?' Dominic stared blankly at him. 'But you said—
Miss
Pascal.'

'That's right.' Connor was enjoying his importance. 'But there is an adopted son. I've seen the papers. Some boy, whose parents were killed when he was little more than a baby. Davina adopted him. I imagine she decided that even if she wasn't about toget married, there was no reason why she shouldn't enjoy the delights of motherhood.'

Dominic shook his head. He had never expected anything like this. His enquiry had been instigated by a desire to reassure himself that if—
when
—Professor Jason died. Ruth would not be destitute. He had never imagined there might be more reasons than her father had given her for living on the island, and instead of this information reassuring him, it did quite the opposite.

'Is there anything else I can do for you?' Connor asked now, triumphant in his success; and remembering why he had contacted the man in the first place. Dominic nodded.

'Yes.' he said flatly, and ignoring Connor's expectant expression, he went on: 'You can refrain from discussing my affairs with your wife.'

'I didn't!' Connor's face turned crimson, as he struggled to defend himself, if Marcia has said anything—'

'Marcia has said plenty,' returned Dominic, finishing his drink and getting to his feet. 'And it won't do your reputation any good, Tim, if it's commonly known that you can't respect a client's confidence.' His lips twisted half in sympathy then, as the older man collapsed, deflated. 'I'd advise you to forget I ever asked about Ruth Jason.' He grimaced. 'After you've sent me your account, of course.'

Dominic left the office early that afternoon, and took a cab to his apartment in Tressilian Square. He occupied the penthouse suite of a tower block, whose position in part made up for the phenomenal rent he paid. He would have preferred a town house, like that belonging to his parents, but it seemed an unnecessary encumbrance, commuting as he invariably did between his home and the house in Curzon Terrace. Besides, in summer he enjoyed driving down to Marlin Spike, a sprawling country residence his father had bought about thirty years ago, and where Dominic had spent much of his childhood. His old nurse. Miss Bainbridge, still lived there, now ostensibly acting as housekeeper, but as there had been no other children since his younger brother's death in infancy, his mother preferred the more active life in town.

The apartment was cool, and quieter than Curzon Terrace. The spacious living room, with its split-level elevation and silk-screened walls, was a delightful change from his mother's home, despite its elegance. This room was aggressively modern, with plate glass windows, wall-to-wall carpeting, and the kind of squashy leather sofas that Dominic could stretch his length upon. There was a stereo and hi-fi system, television and video equipment, and plenty of space for entertaining, or simply being untidy.

A man came into the living room from the direction of the bedrooms while Dominic was standing at the long windows, enjoying the view. He was a neat man, short and dapper, with a balding pate and a small moustache. Dominic, sensing his presence, glanced round without surprise, nodding at the man and giving him a wry smile.

'I didn't think you'd be here. Shannon,' he remarked, turning away from the windows and unfastening his tie. 'Did you collect my belongings already? I thought you might run into some difficulties with my mama!'

'Mrs Crown did say she had tried to persuade you to stay a little longer, sir,' Shannon responded politely, picking up the tie Dominic had discarded, and viewing his employer with evident satisfaction. 'Still, it's nice to have you back, sir. It's not the same, cooking for myself.'

Dominic's smile was rueful. 'Thanks, Shannon. It's nice to be back. But I'm afraid I shan't be eating at home this evening. My mother insisted that I make up her numbers for dinner, and in the circumstances I didn't like to refuse.'

'I understand, sir.' Shannon helped him off with his jacket. 'Shall I run your bath, or will you be taking a shower?'

'Neither one, right now,' replied Dominic tersely. 'I want to speak to Hector Greenslade on the telephone. and then I have some work to do. I'll take a shower later. Shannon. Just get me a drink, there's a good chap. I badly need it.'

Shannon hesitated. 'Mr Greenslade, sir? Isn't he the specialist your father saw last year?'

Dominic nodded, flinging himself on to one of the low couches and looking up at the manservant resignedly. 'Right.'

'There's nothing wrong with you, is there, sir? I mean—' Shannon hastily qualified the question, his accent pronounced in his agitation. 'Sure and there are no complications to your recover/, are there?'

'My recovery? Hell, no.' Dominic watched while the little man dropped ice into a glass, before covering it with a measure of Scotch, then took the glass from him gratefully. 'I learned today that my father was warned last year that he had a heart condition. Unfortunately he chose not to tell anyone else.'