The Silver Falcon (26 page)

‘I ran him in the Lupin rather than the Two Thousand Guineas to avoid any attempt at interference on the course,' Nigel Foster said. ‘I'm sorry if you're annoyed, Isabel, but as Tim says, we did it for the best.'

‘I'm sure you did,' Isabel stood up. ‘But please – don't do anything like it again. We'd better hurry now. I'll meet you downstairs.'

Outside the suite Nigel looked at Tim.

‘Christ,' he muttered. ‘I've always said women shouldn't be allowed in this game! If you tell them anything they throw a fit and if you don't they yell bloody murder. For a moment I thought we were going to get our marching orders.'

He was surprised to see Tim Ryan grin. ‘So did I,' he said. ‘And I like her all the better for it. You'd better smile sweetly on the way home, or you could lose that Monkstown colt!'

‘Oh Christ,' Nigel said again. He sat in the car on the way to the airport with an air of deep gloom. He had no talent for soothing angry women and he hated atmospheres. He couldn't think what the Irishman found so admirable about Isabel Schriber wanting to read the small print. It was just going to make training for her more difficult.

Tim took the seat beside her on the plane.

‘Are you still mad with me?'

‘No,' Isabel said. ‘But I wasn't joking.'

‘I didn't think you were,' he said. ‘I'm really sorry. It was a great evening last night. I didn't get a chance to tell you this morning, but the Falcon's in grand shape. He ate his manger clean and looked as if he'd been out for a hack yesterday. That race was just what he needs. Next time we'll be at Epsom with him.'

‘Yes,' Isabel said. ‘Whatever happens now, we're going to run and I believe we're going to win.'

‘Richard, why didn't you tell me yourself?'

He was propped up in the bed beside her, smoking. He hadn't turned round to look at her while she talked. He had been at the airport to meet her, and driven her straight back to Coolbridge. He had made love to her with furious urgency; the wine and the cold food laid out for lunch was untouched. He took her to bed and kept her there. Lying in his arms Isabel gave herself up to him with pity and tenderness as well as passion. She felt that behind the intense sexuality there was a need for reassurance. And this was only natural; insecurity was the cornerstone on which his life had been built. She kept seeing him as Andrew Graham had described, and far from turning her against him, it added a deeper significance to her love for him.

‘Why didn't I tell you –' he repeated the question. There was no expression on his face. ‘Tell you what, Isabel? The true version of what happened, or Graham's pack of bloody lies? Which would you believe?'

‘Darling –' she said. ‘If you were ill after your mother died, there wasn't any need to hide it. There's nothing to be ashamed of –'

To her surprise he laughed out loud.

‘Ashamed? Of being locked up as a nut for nine months – what was that diagnosis he gave you – schizoid tendencies, paranoia? For Christ's sake, Isabel! I wonder you're not scared being alone with me – aren't you just a little worried I might turn peculiar?'

‘Please, Richard, don't take this attitude. It doesn't make the slightest difference to me. If anything,' she said it slowly, ‘I think it's made me love you more.'

‘Pity is akin,' he quoted. ‘No thanks, darling. I can do without that.' He threw the covers aside and got up.

He began to dress without looking at her. Isabel watched him, helpless and unhappy; he turned at the bedroom door.

‘If you loved me,' he said harshly, ‘you wouldn't have bloody well listened to him!' Then he went out and the door crashed behind him. Isabel dressed slowly. The change from passionate tenderness to anger and reproach had been dramatic. She had been very gentle in her approach; it hadn't diminished his reaction. He hadn't defended himself, he hadn't explained anything or even really denied it. The door had slammed so hard that it shook the pictures on the walls. Isabel went downstairs; Mrs Jennings went home in the afternoon and they were alone in the house. She called him.

‘Richard! Richard, where are you?'

He came into the hall as she ran down the stairs. He had a whisky in his hand. It reminded her painfully of the first time she had seen him at Beaumont, drinking before breakfast.

‘Oh, darling, don't be angry – don't be upset –' She came and put her arms around him. ‘I love you so much –'

‘In spite of my mental history?' It was said with such bitterness that she stepped away from him.

‘Are you sure you're not just sorry for me? Poor Richard, he went into a nut house after his mother killed herself. No thanks, darling. You want to believe Andrew, go ahead. You might try a little loyalty next time.'

She saw him drain the glass. ‘You know something –' he was moving to the front door as he spoke. ‘I haven't been properly drunk in weeks. I'll call you, Isabel.'

‘I wish you wouldn't go like this,' she said. ‘Please, Richard –'

He stopped and faced her. They were standing apart like strangers. He looked white and tense.

‘I've been trying to rush you, and you were the one who wanted time. Now I want you to have it. I want you to think very carefully before you commit yourself to me. You've touched a very sore spot, Isabel; maybe I'm over-reacting, but I can't help it. I'll be in touch.'

He didn't come near to kiss her; he put his empty glass down on the table and walked out. She went to the window and saw him get into the car; there was violence in the way he wrenched the door shut, and the car shot forward, skidding on the gravel and sending a shower of little stones to either side. The house was very silent then. A grandfather clock in the hall struck four. She turned and went back upstairs. She was angry with herself because in some way she had behaved with less tact than honesty, but honesty was what was needed, if they were going to make a life together. There could be no question marks, no grey areas which couldn't be discussed. And his reaction had been out of all proportion. She had never seen him so close to losing control. It was a disturbing sensation. She went upstairs slowly, borne down in spirit; the loving reunion, the aftermath to her triumph at Longchamp had gone awry. She felt nervous and depression was creeping over her.

She had a bath and changed her clothes. When she came down again Mrs Jennings came hurrying to meet her.

‘I read about the race, Madam,' she said. ‘Terrible that jockey getting killed like that – congratulations on your win, though. Lots of us had a little bet on your Falcon …' She followed Isabel into the drawing room still talking. She had liked Mr Schriber. He'd been so interested in the house. Went round the grounds and into all the rooms … the kitchen and the pantries. And there was a bit of a bloodstain on the drawing room carpet where he'd cut himself, but she'd get it out in time.… Isabel wasn't listening. She longed for the woman to go away. She had a headache and a sense of desolate anticlimax as the result of their quarrel. Alone at last, she tried again to rationalize his anger.

Male pride was an obvious reason; she had made the stupid mistake of showing that she pitied him. She blamed herself for insensitivity. The aftermath of his long, eager love-making was the worst moment in which to remind him of an episode in his life which he had hidden from her out of shame. She had been thoughtless and crude. Fool, she called herself, fool to have hurt him, driven him to defend himself.

She picked up the telephone and dialled his number.

There was a car driving slowly up the leafy lanes leading to Coolbridge House; although it was now quite dark, the car showed only sidelights. There was nothing else on the road at that hour of the evening. The lodge and the white gates showed up on the right-hand side, dimly in the darkness, picked out for a second as the headlights flashed on and then cut out. The car slowed abruptly; it drew into the side of the lane and turned up a cart track where it stopped. Engine and lights were switched off. The driver was alone; he sat very still in the parked car, with the darkness and silence of the sleeping countryside around him. He looked at the luminous dial on his watch. It showed a few minutes to ten. He took off the watch, laid it in the glove pocket, and began to struggle out of his jacket. His shirt and tie followed; it was difficult to strip within the confined space but after some minutes he was completely naked. He opened the car door and slipped outside. Rain had begun to spatter down. He waited, listening, watching for some beam of light along the road. There was no noise, and no penetration of the darkness by a distant headlight. He went round, stepping carefully on the rutted ground, and opened the boot of the car. A dim light showed as he lifted the lid. He took out a parcel wrapped in newspaper, and unrolled it. There was a pair of cotton gloves, and an industrial spanner, about a foot long and made of steel. The end had been bound round with adhesive tape, forming a handle. He put on the gloves and took up the spanner. The car boot snapped shut and the little blur of light was extinguished. The naked figure came to the end of the cart track and onto the road. It crossed over to the gates of Coolbridge House and lifting the latch, opened them wide enough to slip inside. There was light showing in the lodge, behind transparent curtains, and a faint murmur from a television set was the only sound. The man shifted the spanner in his right hand for a moment; it was very heavy. Then he bent low and crept past the lodge and began to move up the drive in the shelter of the trees.

It had begun to rain heavily.

10

There had been no reply from Richard's flat. The delay till the morning wouldn't make her apology more convincing. It would look as if she had thought it out and planned what to say. The advantage of true spontaneity was lost. Where had he gone – to friends, to gamble – to a woman? She felt an ugly pang of jealousy. Pride had made him leave, and pride had made her let him go instead of resolving the misunderstanding.

And she knew without any doubt that she loved him enough to face anything; even if Graham's warning were the truth, then what he most needed was her love and help. She went into the drawing room, and after dinner Mrs Jennings brought her coffee.

‘I've put a little brandy on the tray,' she said. ‘There's nothing like it if you're feeling a bit tired. You can see that bloodstain there, Madam, just by the armchair. It was lucky Mr Schriber didn't cut himself badly; broken glass is such a nasty thing –'

There was a small mark on the yellow carpet; it was difficult to see how he could have cut himself if he had knocked over the glass.

‘How did he do it? Was he picking up the pieces?'

‘I don't think so,' Mrs Jennings said. ‘He told me the glass just shattered in his hand. Funny thing really; I suppose there must have been a crack in it.'

Isabel didn't answer. The incident was unimportant, yet it worried her. He must have put considerable pressure on the heavy whisky glass to break it, even if there was a flaw in the glass. She had noticed the dressing on his palm when they were together that afternoon. He had laughed, saying he'd nicked himself. The glass had burst in his hand.… There was a suggestion of unnatural force that was disturbing. What had been in his mind to make him grip and grip, without realizing?

‘I'll unpack your things,' the housekeeper said. ‘Don't you bother tonight. I'm not in any hurry.'

Isabel sipped the brandy and lit a cigarette. There was an odd atmosphere in the house, which she felt sure was being created by her own disquiet of mind. Richard seemed very close to her; she couldn't get the picture of him into focus because it kept blurring.

There was something about him which didn't equate; an inner rage – she stubbed out the cigarette quickly, alarmed by the accuracy of the description. There had always been a quality of enigma about him; even in their most intimate relationship there was a sense that part of him was hidden. And that was what she had felt, without being clear enough to isolate it. Rage; a force concealed and controlled within him. And if Andrew Graham called him dangerous, it was because of this. Isabel shivered; the fire had burnt low and the room was unnaturally still.

Mrs Jennings had forgotten to draw the curtains. She had a feeling of being watched; silly and irrational, but strong enough to make her get up and cover the windows. She looked at her watch; it was getting late, and sitting alone, letting her imagination run away with her was quite atypical. If she didn't take hold of herself she would begin to be frightened of staying in the house when Mrs Jennings had gone. Which she must have done by now. Isabel opened the drawing room door. The hall was dimly lit by picture lights; her voice echoed as she called out.

‘Mrs Jennings? Are you upstairs?'

There was a pause; then the housekeeper appeared at the top of the staircase.

‘Yes, Madam. I've just turned down your bed. I'll turn the lights off for you.'

She came down, and Isabel walked towards her. ‘Good night,' she said. ‘It's raining hard – listen to it! Have you got a coat?'

‘Yes, thank you. Breakfast upstairs tomorrow? Nine o'clock. Good night then.'

Isabel went up the stairs to her bedroom. Here the curtains were drawn, the cover taken off the four-poster bed and a nightdress laid out. The two bedside lights were on; she closed the door and felt suddenly secure. Only then did she admit that she had been cold with fear as she sat in the room downstairs. It was entirely her own fault. The darkness and the hiss of rain outside had exaggerated the feeling of loneliness. And the ridiculous sensation that there was someone outside watching her.… She was tired and overwrought, the victim of her own nerves. If she went on imagining such things she couldn't live alone at Coolbridge. She undressed, slipped the silk nightdress over her head, and sat on the edge of the bed. She found herself looking at the door. There was no key. She could have asked the housekeeper to stay; she could ring down to the lodge at that moment and say she felt nervous and would Mr Jennings mind if his wife came back and stayed the night – but it was inconsiderate and hysterical. She got into bed, chiding herself.