Wherever Lynn Goes (15 page)

Taking my arm in his, he led me across the square. As we approached the pub, the doors opened and a young girl came out, none too steady on her feet. She wore black high heels and a remarkable crimson dress, much too tight, the neckline cut extremely low to emphasize a bosom that clearly needed no emphasis. She tottered in the doorway for a moment, blinking. Her brassy blonde hair was worn in short, bouncy curls, and there were deep shadows about her dark blue eyes. She couldn't have been much more than nineteen, I thought. She would have been rather pretty had it not been for the bizarre outfit and somewhat amateurish make-up job. There was something strangely vulnerable about the girl, despite the scent of dime-store perfume and cheap golden earrings. As we drew near, she gave a start and hurried on down the street, high heels tapping noisily on the pavement. It was almost as though the sight of us had frightened her in some way.

“Cassandra Porter,” Bart said, staring after her. “I wonder what's wrong with her this afternoon. Took off like she'd seen a ghost.”

“You know her?”

“Everybody knows Cassie. Poor girl's had a rough go of it lately. Her mother died four or five years ago, just when a girl needs a mother most, and her father gave her little or no supervision. The boys came around in packs, whistling, serenading under her window. Her father was usually too drunk to notice. He drank himself to death, finally, and Cassie was left with the cottage and very little else. She went to secretarial school for a couple of months, but that didn't pan out. I'm afraid poor Cassie took the easiest way. The boys still hang around. Cassie has lots of new stockings but no visible means of support.”

“How sad,” I said, curiously moved.

“Every village has its Cassie,” Bart replied, pushing open the pub doors. “She's a good girl at heart, but, alas, the flesh is weak. How well I know …”

The pub smelled of old wood, leather, and beer, a not unpleasant mixture. The interior was cozy, with a low-beamed ceiling and oak-paneled walls. A much-punctured dart board hung in the back, with several darts sticking to it. I was relieved to see that we were the only customers. Bart led me past the leather-covered bar to a table in the corner. Checked cloths were spread over each table, and there was an ancient jukebox dating back to the thirties, glowing with color but blessedly silent. Helping me into my chair, Bart called his order to the stocky, pugnacious-looking man behind the bar and sat down across from me.

“You held up pretty well back there,” he said quietly. “I was afraid you might break down.”

“Were you?”

“It was rough on you, I know.”

“It was rough,” I agreed, “but I don't break down easily. I wouldn't give them that satisfaction.”

He smiled wryly. “They were expecting a show, all right. I'm afraid you disappointed them in that respect. Peckinpah did himself proud. I didn't even recognize the kind, saintly woman he kept referring to.”

“My aunt was many things, but she was hardly saintly.”

“No, Daphne would have laughed raucously and called him a bloody hypocrite. You two weren't close, were you?”

“Not at all. I—I was fond of her in my fashion, but Aunt Daphne and I never got along well. I was merely a bother to her when I was a child, an irritant to her when I was older.”

“The old girl was proud of you, you know. Oh, she'd never have let
you
think that, but she was constantly thrusting dog-eared articles into my hands and talking about her brilliant niece, the successful newspaper woman.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Oh, she raved about your short skirts and lipstick. She was firmly convinced you were heading for damnation with the wild company you kept, but she believed the love of a good man would have a steadying influence. I suspect she had matchmaking plans in mind.”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed. She kept insisting I should look you up the next time I went to London.” He grinned, eyes dancing with amusement. “When I told her I was a confirmed bachelor, she said I was as bad as you were and we could both go hurtling straight to hell for all she cared. Then she poured another drink and launched into a vicious tirade about youth in general.”

“You seem to have been on quite intimate terms with my aunt.”

“I frequently popped over to chat,” he said. “I found Daphne amusing, and I think she rather enjoyed having me around the place. She was always irritable when I told her I had to leave for a few days, always pleased to see me when I got back.”

“I—I can't understand why you'd want to stay out there. It seems so unconventional—”

“I'm a very unconventional chap. Haven't you noticed? Ah, here's Bob with our drinks.”

The bartender approached our table, wielding a tray with two drinks and a dish of salted nuts. He placed the drinks in front of us and set the dish in the middle of the table, looking extremely bad-tempered. He was an ugly fellow with broad features, a broken nose, and dark, glowering eyes. Thickset, muscular, he was definitely someone you wouldn't care to meet in a dark alley.

“Don't mind Bob,” Bart said, observing my reactions. “He's always been a dour fellow, downright menacing to look at, but as gentle as a lamb underneath that gruff exterior. Angelic disposition. Right, Bob?”

“None of your lip, Mr. Bart,” he growled, “and might I remind you you owe me four pounds ten.”

“Four pounds ten?” Bart looked incredulous. “Well, be a good chap and put these on the bill. I'll settle with you later.”

“Later meanin' before you step foot outside this pub,” Bob warned in a threatening voice.

“Certainly, my good fellow, certainly. He fairly dotes on me, Bob does. Been serving me drinks ever since I was old enough to lift a mug. I fancy his affection for me is darn near paternal.”

Bob looked as menacing as ever, but I thought I saw a half smile curl those wide lips.

“By the way, Robert, what was the matter with Cassie? She seemed unusually nervous when she came out. You make a grab at her?”

“That ain't funny. I'm a married man, I am, and well you know it. I wouldn't mess with a piece of goods like her, not on your life. She came in early, lookin' terribly upset. Sat at the bar, downin' one drink right after th' other, her face all pale and drawn-like. Something was worryin' her, worryin' her bad, but me, I don't ask questions. I just tend to my own business. When I saw she was about to fall off the stool, I made 'er pay up and get out. She didn't argue, just slapped her money down on the bar and took off.”

“Most peculiar,” Bart said thoughtfully. “I suppose the poor girl has a bad time of it—”

Bob made a disapproving noise, picked up the tray, and went back behind the bar. Taking up a dry cloth, he began to polish glasses, totally disinterested in us. Bart ate a few nuts and lifted his glass to me.

“Cheers,” he said.

The drink was very strong, but it seemed to have no effect whatsoever. I tried to relax, tried to forget the funeral, those eager stares and the sight of the casket being lowered into the ground. Some of the tension was still inside, and Bart seemed to sense this.

“Why don't you tell me about the book?” he suggested.

“The book?”

“The one you're writing for Ashton-Croft. I've always been interested in the court of Louis the Fourteenth.”

“You're just being polite.”

“I'm not, I assure you. I find the period fascinating, really. All that grandeur, all those tumultuous passions concealed behind flawless etiquette. When did you first decide to write a book about it?”

“I didn't actually decide. I did a series of articles in my spare time and Mr. Ashton-Croft happened to see them. He said—”

And so I talked about the book, telling him about my research, describing some of the fascinating characters and unusual anecdotes I'd uncovered in the process. I spoke with some vivacity, unable to contain my enthusiasm for the subject, and he seemed deeply interested, listening intently, frequently asking surprisingly well-informed questions. I discovered with amazement that Bartholomew Cooper shared my love of history, was, in fact, something of an authority on the affair of the poisons. Crime, he claimed, had always intrigued him.

“Perhaps because I'm such a mild-mannered chap myself,” he added with a grin.

“You weren't very mild last night.”

“I wasn't, was I? Well, we all have lapses.”

“I suppose we do.”

He grinned again, looking particularly appealing with his curling mouth and one dark, silky brow absurdly crooked. He
could
be charming, I thought, extremely conscious of his magnetism, enchanted by that errant lock of hair that fell over his forehead like a large comma. I felt much, much better, all tension vanished, and I realized that he had deliberately had me talk about the book so that I would forget the funeral. It was transparent, but it was thoughtful nevertheless.

“Another drink?” he inquired.

“I've had two already. I'd better not. I … Thank you, Bart. You've been very considerate.”

“That surprise you?”

“Frankly, yes.”

“Oh? I may have been a rough, nasty little boy, chasing you through the woods, tying you up against a tree, but that doesn't necessarily mean I'm a rough, nasty man. I have my good points.”

“I'm beginning to realize that.”

“Ah—things bode well for the future …”

There was a husky catch in his voice, and he looked at me with a lazy gaze that was most disconcerting. For some reason I thought of the dream I had had, and I felt a vague uneasiness begin to stir inside. I had an insane impulse to reach up and rest my palm against that lean cheek. I was appalled. It was the liquor, of course. I should never have had that second drink. Bart watched me closely. I had the uncomfortable feeling he could read my mind.

“Something bothering you?” he asked.

“Don't overdo it,” I said. “You may have seductive eyes, but I've no intention of becoming another of your conquests.”

“You think I have seduction in mind?”

“I know darn well you do.”

“Being seduced by me could be quite an experience.”

“I'll bet.”

“I could provide references if you're really interested.”

“You're beginning to irritate me again.”

“A little harmless flirting throws you?”

“I—I don't flirt. I'm engaged to be married.”

“Not officially.”

“How do you know?”

“Amanda told me all about your Lloyd.”

“Amanda should be shot.”

“He sounds like a stuffy fellow, not at all your cup of tea. You want someone with more spirit.”

“Like you, you mean?”

“Yeah, come to think of it.”

“I think we'd better go now,” I said frostily.

“There, you see, we're fighting again. It seems every time we're together we end up fighting. I enjoy a good scrap, I won't deny it, but I'd much rather be friends.”

“I really don't think there's much likelihood of that, Mr. Cooper!”

“It was Bart a minute ago.”

“I must have been mad, thinking you could be halfway—I've only myself to blame. I should never have come with you!”

“You find me devastatingly attractive. Why don't you admit it? Think of all the time we're wasting with this eternal squabbling. We could be having a rich, rewarding—”

“I'd hate to slap your face in public.”

“I'd probably slap you back,” he said chattily.

I stood up abruptly and with such energy that the chair almost toppled over behind me. I had to grab hold of it to keep it from falling. His eyes twinkled merrily.

“You're ready to leave, I take it?”

“
Quite
ready.”

Bart stood up lazily. “Oh well, you'll come 'round in time. I'll just have to be patient.”

I bit back the scathing retort on the tip of my tongue, as he moved over to the bar to settle his bill. Grabbing my purse, I went outside, my cheeks a bit flushed, the anger still seething inside, but when he joined me a few minutes later I was completely composed, my manner icily polite. Bart thrust his hands into his pockets, not the least bit perturbed.

“I want to run over to the hardware store and buy those latches before we go back to the house. Want to come with me, or would you prefer to wait in the car?”

“I'll wait in the car, thank you.”

“Right. Shouldn't take me a minute.”

He sauntered off, hands still in his pockets, head cocked to one side. He wasn't whistling, but he might as well have been. Furious with myself, I was half tempted to phone for a taxi to take me back to the house, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. No, I would be very cool and utterly dignified on the drive back, and after that I intended to avoid him like the plague.

Lost in thought, I started toward the car parked across the square. Passing the large clump of shrubbery near the old cannon, I heard a hoarse whisper. It sounded like someone beckoning to me. I stopped, and then I saw the girl standing in the curve of greenery, almost concealed by the leaves and shadows. I recognized her at once. One couldn't mistake the bright crimson dress, the brassy blonde curls. She signaled for me to come nearer and, puzzled, I obeyed, wondering what on earth she could want.

“I've been waitin' ever so long,” she said in a low, whiskey-soused voice. “I waited, just on the chance you might be alone, just on the chance I might be able to speak to you.” Taking my arm, she drew me into the dim recess afforded by the shrubs. We were almost totally hidden from view. “God, I hope no one saw me. I waited until the square was empty and no one was around before dashin' into these shrubs—”

“You—you wanted to speak to me?”

She nodded, her deep violet-blue eyes filled with anguish. The girl was frightened, so frightened she could hardly speak. There was a sense of urgency about her every gesture, and I noticed again that strange vulnerability. Cassie was a pathetic creature. Misguided she might be, and weak, yet she was little more than a child. There was a peculiar innocence about her, a quality only stressed by the cheap perfume and crudely applied make-up. She lowered a leafy branch and peered anxiously around the square before speaking again.