Thorn (14 page)

‘Imogen's health was always precarious,' said Thalia.

‘Mentally?' They might as well drag the word out and see what happened.

‘Well, physically as well. But Royston knew I would look after her. He knew I would look after everything. Royston and I were – once close.'

She's doing extremely well, thought Dan. She's projecting an image of someone suddenly landed with a huge burden, and shouldering it manfully. Womanfully. She's hinting at some long-ago love affair between herself and poor old cousin Royston – that might be perfectly true, of course – and she's hinting that he named her for auld lang syne. It's all believable, except that I don't think I do believe it.

But the interview turned out to be a good one:
Women in Business
was going to greatly enjoy the account of Thalia's first boardroom skirmish, and
Integra
would lap up the details of the frantic day spent plundering Bond Street for a suitable outfit to wear. Dan led her from there to talk about her plans for Ingram's future, which included developing a line in folklore for older children. He made copious notes to back up the tape recorder.

There was a potentially awkward moment halfway through. Thalia was pouring a second cup of coffee when she said, apparently apropos of nothing, ‘I'm so glad they gave you the commission to do this. It was you, wasn't it? At my boy's funeral that afternoon?'

‘I was under false colours that day. But yes, it was me.'

‘I thought so. You saw that terrible, terrible business with Imogen?'

It was the ‘terrible, terrible' that did it. Over the top, thought Dan, and felt his mind wince with the kind of sudden and sickening pain you get if you turn your ankle while running fast. She's entitled to be bitter and bereaved and emotional, of course, but she's struck a false note.

He said, ‘I did see it.'

‘But you left almost at once. I noticed that,' said the villainess smiling with open friendliness and calculating eyes. ‘I thought it was so sensitive of you.'

Dan said, ‘I'm a freelance writer, Mrs Caudle. A journalist for a good part of my working week. And journalists don't normally possess sensitivity.'

‘No? But you didn't publish anything. Or if you did, no one in the family has seen it. I don't think you should call yourself insensitive, Dan. I think you're very sensitive indeed.'

Here we go again, said Dan's inner voice. Mental hand on mental thigh. He waited, and after a moment she said, ‘D'you know, after that morning, after Edmund's funeral and Imogen's dreadful action, I wanted to contact you. To thank you for being so discreet. Only I wasn't sure . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘If you would – care to hear from me.' Her voice had slid several octaves lower. Be careful, said one half of Dan's mind. Be very, very careful of this one. She'll eat you for breakfast and spit out the bones. To hell with that, said the other half. Let's go along with it and see what she'll do. Purely for research for chapter six, of course. Oh sure, said his mind sarcastically. All right then, purely to get a line on the girl, Imogen. Yes, there's Imogen. You might never know it, Imogen, thought Dan, and I might never meet you to tell you, but you're inspiring me to write a book that I didn't think I was capable of writing.

Thalia said, ‘I didn't want to intrude. If I had phoned you it might have been misread. You might have seen it as an intrusion of your privacy. Perhaps your wife, or girlfriend . . .'

Dan heard himself say, ‘I don't think I would have regarded it as an intrusion. Mrs Caudle,' and gave it a count of ten.

At five, she said, ‘Do call me Thalia.'

With a feeling of stepping on to a dark, slithery path that might end in catastrophe, but that was by now a path that Margot was certainly going to tread in chapter six, Dan said, ‘You know, there's a great deal I still want to ask you. About your charity work – you're quite well known for that, I think – and about how you'll fit it in with this new commitment. Certainly about your ideas for expanding Ingram's Books. This scheme for getting into the folklore areas for older children, for instance. That would make quite an interesting angle.' He paused. Five seconds. Six. ‘Are you free for lunch by any chance?'

‘I'm afraid not,' she said, and Dan thought, blast! I've misread the signs. Serve me right. But I was so sure—

‘But,' said Thalia, and there was no doubt about the sensuous purr this time, ‘I am free for dinner.'

Thalia had rather enjoyed the interview with Dan Tudor and she had enjoyed re-living for him that first encounter with Ingram's executive board. She had been wary about what she said, but she thought he had not suspected anything.

It amused her to remember that first meeting in Ingram's small but well-furnished conference room, seated round the oval table, herself pretending to be bewildered by the balance sheets and budgets and extrapolated figures but really laughing secretly at everyone's eagerness to explain things. She had not been bewildered at all; she had not endured all those years of dull charity committee work without learning a little about financial administration, if not in detail, at least in general. And it had been plain from the finance director's report that Ingram's was doing pretty well for itself.

Resolve had hardened then, because Imogen should never have all this. This should all have been Edmund's, and Thalia would burn the building down before she would let Imogen have it. She would fling the other shareholders out of the window one by one.

With Royston and Eloise both out of the reckoning, and with Imogen shut away in Briar House, there should be nothing to stand in her way. No one was going to question anything she did, because no one suspected her of doing anything wrong. The feeling of power was like a one thousand volt electrical current through the brain and the heart and the loins. Probate had not yet been granted, but there was absolutely nothing wrong with Royston's will or with the Articles of Association, both of which gave her stewardship for Imogen's minority, and no one in the family was likely to challenge that. Most of them had known of the provision, and none of them wanted the task of actually running Ingram's. All of them wanted the assurance of continuing dividends, and none of them minded who sat in the chief executive's seat. Thalia was caretaker of the whole shooting match until Imogen reached eighteen. Or in the event of her being judged unfit or incapable.

Thalia thought she had covered every eventuality. She thought she had covered all her tracks and tied up all the loose ends. Except for Dan Tudor. A tiny frown creased her brow. Dan might be a remaining loose end. He had been at Edmund's funeral and he had seen what had happened, and he could not be trusted not to spread it abroad. Thalia had managed to get the family on her side over shutting the bitch-creature away, but Dan was not family. He was no fool, and he was already asking questions. This tale of articles for women's journals might be true, but it might equally be a cover. He would have to be dealt with.

Thalia found herself looking forward to the evening's meeting with a shiver of sexual anticipation.

Freda Porter hoped she was not one of those pitiable, faintly comic females who simpered the minute a man came into their orbit, but it could not be denied that to entertain Dr Sterne to supper was extremely gratifying.

He had phoned in his customary abrupt way to say he would like to call in and spend some time with that odd little creature Quincy; Matron would not be put out if he arrived during the evening?

Matron would not be put out in the least. Dr Sterne was always welcome at Briar House, she said, and perhaps on this occasion they might give him supper after he had seen Quincy. There had been a pause, and then Leo had said, ‘Yes, all right. Thank you.'

Probably he would be expecting to sit with the staff and the patients in the dining room. He was in for a surprise, if so; Freda was not going to pass up an opportunity of serving him a nice little supper in the privacy of her own sitting room, or of letting him see her for once in something other than her working uniform. She would wear the navy and maroon silk two-piece which was so slimming, and have her hair done. She might even work the conversation round to the question of the vacant post for a matron at Thornacre. Could she? Well, why not? She thought she could do it tactfully so that Dr Sterne would not realise it was deliberate.

The food was not, naturally, the same food that the patients would be eating, particularly since it was Thursday and therefore corned beef hash with rice pudding to follow. You could not give a man like Dr Sterne corned beef hash, and Freda had bought two pre-packed gourmet dinners – fish in a cream sauce. If it was served in the blue and white Devonport dish, nobody would be any the wiser. There must, of course, be wine, but by a lucky chance there was a special offer this week in the local supermarket. Wine was wine, and there was no sense in paying eight or nine pounds a bottle when you could get it for a fraction of that.

The fish was really very good indeed, and the Devonport dish set it off a treat. You would never tell that it had not been freshly prepared. The kitchen had sent in a dish of mashed potatoes and Freda had herself bought cheese and biscuits.

It was unfortunate that after the first half-glass of wine Dr Sterne remembered he would be driving later on; Freda was sorry about that, but of course it was sensible of him not to drink. She drank rather a lot of the wine herself as a consequence; it brought quite a flush to her cheeks, but a good many men liked a healthy colour in females. Better than these stick-like, porridge-faced girls people went so silly over.

She listened to Dr Sterne talking about Quincy and how he thought he was starting to uncover some of the child's really appalling early years. People set a lot of store by that kind of thing, although Freda had her private doubts. Bad was bad and sly was sly, and Quincy was plain bad and downright sly. But she listened to Dr Sterne talking, because you could listen to him talk for ever. He told her a little about some of the methods he was trying with his stubbornly unresponsive patients. Most interesting, that was, all to do with stimulation of hidden or buried parts of the mind.

They discussed the situation at Thornacre, of course; Freda was sorrowful over the terrible things that had been discovered there but she was pleased to hear that, as she had thought, the post of matron was available. ‘Up for grabs,' said Leo carelessly.

This was very hopeful and Freda made bold to ask a few questions – what qualifications were the commission looking for, and what kind of experience would they be requiring? – when Leo suddenly looked towards the door and said, ‘There's someone creeping across the hall.'

The timing, as far as Freda was concerned, could not have been worse. There was nothing in the least wrong about entertaining a distinguished colleague to supper, although Freda was vaguely aware that it would not be an especially good thing for any of the patients, never mind the staff, to see her flushed with wine and dressed in the navy and maroon silk, which had turned out to be a bit tighter across the hips than she remembered. And it was not really so very late, either.

The really annoying thing was that they had been interrupted just as the question of Thornacre's new matron had finally been broached. Freda was quite sure that Dr Sterne had been about to say, ‘If you apply, be sure to give my name as reference.' Or, ‘I'll have a word with Professor Rackham on your behalf.' He might even have added, ‘and if you are interested, I don't think he need bother with interviewing anyone else,' although this was admittedly a bit far-fetched. As it was, the cosy atmosphere was interrupted and Freda had to hide her annoyance and be concerned.

Dr Sterne had opened the door of the sitting room just a chink and was looking out into the shadowy hall beyond. The chequered red and blue glass of the fanlight over the door was casting its subtle harlequin pattern over him. The fanlight had been put in by some long-ago Victorian owner of Briar House and everyone said how ugly it was and how tasteless, but with the light of the moon above it, it showered Leo Sterne with soft, exotic radiance, and it was so like Freda's private fantasy picture that she blinked. This was the trouble with Dr Sterne; every time you saw him he looked different. No wonder his patients said he was a magician. He was a chameleon and the most charismatic man you would ever meet.

Leo was not thinking about being charismatic or chameleon-like; he was more aware of a slight mental irritation induced by the archness of the company, and of a vague physical irritation due to the naivety of the wine. He focused his whole attention forward into the shadowy hall. He caught the faint drift of some strong emotion – fear? – and then of an aching loneliness.

He had been just in time to see the slight figure detach itself from the darkness of the stairwell and slip through the door, and he had been in time to see the pale triangle of face surrounded by hair that seemed to float and melt into the shadows of its own accord. It did not need Freda Porter's slightly bibulous whisper, ‘Imogen Ingram,' to identify the fugitive.

He said, very softly, ‘Stay here, Matron. I'll follow her and see what she does.'

I
mogen had discovered that the more you tried to banish a thought, the more obtrusive it became.

She had gone to her room after supper that evening intending to go to bed early, and to let the cotton-wool feeling take over so that she did not have to think. If that did not work, then she was going to concentrate on ordinary things: the book she had started to read; the supper she was going to cook tomorrow night for herself and Quincy. This had been more or less arranged earlier on. Imogen had gone down to the big square kitchen and found it astonishingly easy to talk to the lady who did the cooking. There was, it appeared, some leftover chicken, and also some mushrooms whose absence from the bottom of the fridge would not grieve the heart of those who paid the food bills. And a half-pint of milk and scraping of Cheddar was neither here nor there either. Imogen negotiated for these modest comestibles with as much care as if they had been the ingredients for a Buckingham Palace banquet. She was going to slice up the chicken and make a cheese and mushroom sauce to serve over it, and invite Quincy to eat it with her. There was discussion about tarragon, of which there turned out to be a small screwtop jar in the back of a cupboard. It had not gone very far past the expiry date.