Call of Glengarron (6 page)

“That’s what I was ... er ... If you could ... it would help so enormously....”

Her drift was pretty plain. “You mean you’d like me to
stay on a while longer?”

She jumped eagerly upon my words. “Would you, my dear? We should be so very ... Just for the time being ...”

I was uncertain. Though I’d have done a lot to make things easier for Jamie, I wasn’t exactly a free agent. I had my job in London to consider.

Mrs. Lennox couldn’t see that as any obstacle. “You could telephone your office, couldn’t you? Explain to them ... ?”

My boss had been so darned kind and understanding already. To ask for still more time off would look like I was taking advantage.

But I needn’t have worried about that aspect. His voice on the phone was reassuring. “You stay as long as you think necessary, Lucy. Just keep me informed, that’s all.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Bentley. I hope it won’t need to be for long.”

I knew I was doing the right thing for Jamie, but for myself I couldn’t decide whether I was pleased or sorry to be staying on. Was it a reprieve, or a sentence? I’d been dreading the idea of saying goodbye to the little boy. Now I had a few more days with him, but it would only postpone the final, inevitable parting.

My presence here at Glengarron Castle was treated as an inescapable nuisance. There had been mighty little attempt to make me feel welcome. Yet even so there was something that attracted me about this isolated part of the world. Quite aside from Jamie, I knew I would have certain regrets at leaving.

Craig hadn’t appeared at the breakfast table that morning. Neither did he come in for lunch. Expert by now at decoding Isabel Lennox’s unfinished sentences, I had soon pieced together the information that he was spending the day out on the estate.

“He’s got a packed ...” she explained almost lucidly. “It was hardly worth ... It would have taken so long to ... er...”

It seemed a bit thick to me. Craig made out he wanted to get better acquainted with his son. To go off for the entire day was certainly an odd way of setting about it. Maybe there was a lot of business to attend to on the estate, but up to now he’d been perfectly happy to leave everything to his uncle.

Nobody else in the family was taking much interest in Jamie either. They were all far too preoccupied with preparations for the dinner party. But how was Jamie ever to get accustomed to his new life if he were left completely in my hands?

Fiona disappeared immediately after lunch. I gathered that a hair stylist had been specially brought over from Inverness—a regular thing for these big parties. Isabel Lennox’s hair was also coming in for a bit of attention, but the service was not being extended to me.

Tea seemed to be forgotten today. At five-thirty I sent for milk and biscuits for Jamie. Nobody was around for him to say goodnight to, so I took him up for his bath, put him to bed, and stayed talking to him for nearly half an hour before going to my own room to get ready.

At the last minute when packing my case, I’d flung in a shift dress of nylon jersey because it was uncrushable and didn’t take up much room. I was mighty glad now. It was the only thing I’d got with me remotely suitable for such a formal, top-drawer affair. I’d bought the vivid cerise dress in a rush of enthusiasm and, as always, got cold feet when it came to actually wearing it. But Mike had fully approved when he’d seen me in it. Actively approved.

I clipped on a pearl-studded bracelet and flicked a glance at my image in the long cheval glass. I decided I didn’t look too bad at all.

The guests had been asked for seven-thirty. It was a little after seven when I looked in on Jamie and saw he was already asleep. As I went downstairs I met Craig coming up. He was still in corduroy work clothes. He looked muddy, tired—and none too pleased with life. His greeting was as brusque as ever.

“Where’s Jamie?”

“He’s fast asleep,” I said quietly. “I put him to bed some time ago.”

“Already? Surely you realized that I’d want to see him tonight.”

I wasn’t going to stand for this. “Then you should have been home at the proper time,” I said with cool control, and continued on down the stairs.

“Miss Calvert, I …” His voice had lost some of its arrogance.

I deliberately walked down until I reached the foot of the staircase. There I stopped and turned to look up at him.

He hadn’t moved. He was staring at me with an odd, baffled expression. “I ... I beg your pardon,” he muttered. “Forgive me.”

I nodded, and walked straight to the sitting room without looking around again.

There were drinks on a side table, and I went across and poured myself a stiff martini. I needed it. And I reckoned I deserved it for holding onto my temper under extreme provocation.

All the same I was glad I’d finished and put the glass down when Mr. Lennox came bouncing in. I didn’t fancy being classed as a secret tippler.

“You look very nice, my dear,” he said in a voice that conveyed a whole lot more than that. He was immaculate in a dinner suit.

Mrs. Lennox drifted into the room a moment later. She was dressed in a floor length gown of burgundy-colored lace that shouted money without so much as a whisper of real elegance. Her new hairdo was perched like a plastic wig, its rigid perfection taking no account of her hazy personality.

 “Shall we go?” said Alistair Lennox. He linked one arm with his wife’s, and offered me the other. Together, we all three walked through to inspect the great hall, which was now arranged for dinner. The long refectory table was elaborately laid for thirty or perhaps forty guests—I couldn’t count the places.

Almost everyone had arrived before Fiona put in an appearance. I guess it was routine with her to delay things until she could make a striking entrance. And I had to admit it was that, all right. She stood in the doorway of the formal drawing room, while conversation fell away and all eyes were turned to her. She wore a fabulous dress of white crepe, cut in a flowing Grecian style and edged with gold.

Craig had changed swiftly, arriving downstairs long before Fiona. When she showed up he went over to her at once and began to escort her around the room, exchanging greetings. It was like a royal procession. A stranger would certainly have imagined that Fiona was the hostess. Her mother, officially in charge, was standing with a small group in one corner, looking harassed and unhappy. I felt a wave of sympathy for her. To someone so shy and retiring, this grand-scale entertaining must be a terrible strain.

Alistair Lennox, on the other hand, was circulating among his guests with jovial charm. He looked utterly in his element, proudly aware of his position and his popularity. I knew he was loving every minute.

I’d been introduced to the guests as they arrived. After that I was left pretty much to my own devices. Everybody was civil enough, but the evening didn’t promise much fun for me. These weren’t my sort of people at all—I just didn’t belong here.

I began to think how much more comfortable I’d have been in my own shabby little flat, with Mike dropping around later for some coffee. Or maybe he’d take me dancing, or to a film. It was a pleasant, happy way of going on, the life I knew. Not like this class-conscious artificiality. I couldn’t believe there was a single ounce of real sincerity in the entire gathering.

Except for the open dislike Craig felt for me—that was sincere, all right. Once when by chance I caught his eye, he glowered at me, his brows drawn together angrily. To show just how little I cared for his opinion, I began to laugh gaily. My companion, an earnest and rather pompous young cattle breeder, was astonished that I should suddenly find him so witty.

Fiona was whispering to Craig, apparently urging him on. He seemed at first unwilling to do what she wanted, but at length he nodded and immediately left the room.

Five minutes later he reappeared, and to my horror he was carrying Jamie in his arms. The little boy, wrapped in a dressing gown, was rubbing his eyes, blinking sleepily.

Craig loudly addressed the room at large. “I’d like you to meet my son. This is Jamie.”

Fiona immediately crossed to the door and took her stand beside the father and child.

The women guests began to crowd around and gush. The men hovered, smiling sheepishly as men always do in such circumstances.

“Isn’t he adorable?” Fiona cooed. She seemed to be adopting a proprietary attitude toward Jamie—almost as though she could take some of the credit for him.

More awake now, Jamie looked solemnly around, not quite knowing what to make of things. Then suddenly he spotted me. His face broke open into a huge, tooth-gapped grin, and he wriggled in an attempt to get down.

Fiona hadn’t missed Jamie’s eagerness. She laid a hand on Craig’s arm.

“He really must go back to bed now.” Her voice beautifully conveyed her feminine censure of a man who could thoughtlessly disturb a sleeping child. Yet I knew it had been Fiona’s idea to bring Jamie downstairs.

There was something else I knew, too—something I should have seen from the beginning. Fiona wanted Craig, she wanted him badly. Her first cousin! And I could guess that what Fiona wanted, Fiona usually got.

When Craig left the room with Jamie, she went with them. The chirrupings of delight took some time to die down. The consensus of opinion was that they made a lovely picture— the three of them.

Angrily, I swung away and began a flippant conversation with a startled young man who seemed to have no chin.

The dinner went on for ages, with course after delicate course. The large salmon had been caught by Alistair Lennox himself, so he jauntily acclaimed, making sure everybody down the length of the table heard him.

“It’s been awaiting your pleasure in the deep freeze,” he told them. “I had one of my little fishing trips a couple of weeks ago. Very good sport too, but it took me two or three days to find anything good enough to grace our table tonight.”

I noticed a man sitting opposite raise an ironical eyebrow at my neighbor. So Alistair Lennox was not quite the expert fisherman he would have everyone believe. I’d heard before of men who bought the salmon they proudly carried home as caught with their own two hands.

The evening followed a strictly formal pattern. The women withdrew after dinner, leaving the men to their port and port-inspired stories. On the surface everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves, but I still couldn’t avoid the impression of an underlying tension. Something about Glengarron Castle threw a somber shadow.

I don’t know what time it was when I finally got to bed. I felt I’d hardly been asleep at all when Jamie, wide awake and ready for fun, came tapping on my door in the morning. I let him get into bed with me, and answered his chitchat with my eyes still closed.

“What lots of people,” he babbled. “Why did they come, Lucy?”

“It was a party,” I told him. “A grown-up party.”

To Jamie, parties meant having a few small friends around for ice cream and wild romping games. I’d arranged several for him in the past, because somehow Margo had never been any good at children’s parties—she’d admitted it herself.

“Did you play musical chairs?” Jamie asked.

“No, we just had dinner and talked.”

“Is that all?” Obviously he thought it sounded very dull. He was busy for a minute with the cuddly toys he’d brought into my room with him. Then, in a rather preoccupied voice, he asked suddenly, “Why wouldn’t Uncle Lambert look at me?”

“What do you mean, darling?” I asked idly.

“When my daddy took me downstairs, Uncle Lambert was by the door and everybody was looking at me except him. Why wouldn’t he?”

A tiny pulse of apprehension flickered through me. I was instantly wide awake. Surely Jamie couldn’t be remembering someone he’d met when his parents were still together? Not when he didn’t even remember his father?

“Who is Uncle Lambert?” I asked cautiously.

“Mummy’s friend.” Already Jamie had lost interest He began talking sternly to his panda, scolding it off for some pretended offense.

But I couldn’t leave it at that. Trying to sound utterly casual, I went on, “Is it somebody I know about, Jamie?

“Who?”

“This Uncle Lambert. I was just wondering who he is?”

A serious little face pondered over my question. “Why, he’s Uncle Lambert, of course.” Then Jamie laughed. “He’s ever so tall. He lifts me right up to the ceiling nearly.”

Already his mind had branched away again. I thought about what he had told me, trying to visualize the drawing room when Craig had brought Jamie in last night. A tall man, near the door. But there had been too many people around. My mental picture was hazy and no single person stood out.

Quite spontaneously, out of the blue, Jamie volunteered one more remark. “Uncle Lambert gave me my cowboy hat.”

That really shook me. The very last evening, only hours before Margo had died, Jamie had arrived at my flat with the cowboy hat planted on his head.

“He won’t be parted from the thing,” my cousin had laughed. “He’s only just been given it.”

It was surely incredible that one of last night’s guests here at the castle had been in London with Margo the day she died. Yet Jamie had been so emphatic.

What did it all add up to?

I dared not press Jamie any further. It simply wasn’t fair to talk about his mother, it was too cruel to remind him of the past. Besides, I had a sudden frightening feeling that I must tread very carefully indeed.

Wild theories buzzed around in my mind. Craig wanted me to believe that Margo had been aware of his readiness to have her back. Maybe it was true, after all. Had this unknown man—this “Uncle Lambert”—been Craig’s go-between? Had he been sent as an emissary to deliver an ultimatum to Margo?

Come back—or else!

Or else what? Was it fear of Craig’s intentions that had driven Margo to suicide?

I packed Jamie off to his own room while I had my bath. I wasn’t long about it, barely a quarter of an hour, but when I went to get him ready, Jamie was gone. Someone had been in to dress him. His pajamas were tossed on the bed, and the little suit he’d worn yesterday was missing from the drawer.