Embrace Me (2 page)

‘Morning, Miss Chen. I’m sorry I’m late only there’s an obstruction in the road.’

‘An obstruction? That sounds ominous,’ she said with an amused smile.

‘That’s why we’re here,’ James explained. ‘Someone’s abandoned a car in the middle of the road. Arthur found it with its
doors open, headlamps still on, keys in the ignition. You haven’t anyone staying here who might be the owner?’

‘No, I haven’t. How intriguing.’

She placed the post just inside the front door and announced, ‘I’m coming with you.’

Marguerite and James sat in the front of the Range Rover while Arthur shared the back with Miss Plumm’s bicycle. They drove from the Dower House through the gates and out of the park. No one spoke. Each of them having private thoughts about the strange happening in their midst. They took some pride in the fact that nothing ever happened in Sefton Under Edge. Would they never again be able to boast that?

James had initially thought that the postman was overreacting to his discovery of the abandoned car but had been too much of a gentleman to tell him so. He changed his mind about that as soon as the car came into view. What Arthur had not imparted was the sinister aspect of the abandoned car. Something ominous emanated from it and hung like heady perfume in the sweet morning air. James was instantly sure that something dreadful had happened to its driver.

Marguerite broke into his thoughts. ‘It’s more than someone running out of petrol, James. I don’t like the look of this. It gives me the shivers. I’m picking up fear … someone in panic … running for his life.

‘No, two people, a driver and a victim. Why would both doors have been left open if it were only one person?’

They were within fifty feet of the abandoned car when James stopped the Range Rover and cut the motor. The three of them remained silent and made no attempt to leave their vehicle. Finally, James climbed down reluctantly to stand in the road, Arthur following. James looked across the driver’s seat at Marguerite. They gazed into each other’s eyes. There were tears in hers. He understood her sadness for he too was affected by the sight. He could think only of fear and flight. Something vile had happened to the driver of this car. Were they dead in the wood? Had they screamed to be saved and no one had heard? And why here? Why deliberately block the road?

He could understand the tears in Marguerite’s eyes, her fear
of what had happened. The whole scene was redolent of evil. Marguerite wiped her eyes, took a deep breath and jumped down on to the road. She and James walked to the front of the Rover. Holding hands, they walked together to the abandoned car, Arthur several steps behind them. Neither one of them recognised it. On looking inside there was the faint scent of expensive perfume and leather.

None of them touched anything. James wanted to start the car and park it somewhere else in order to clear the road but Marguerite stopped him. ‘The police will have to be called to conduct a search of the wood and I don’t think they’d appreciate any interference. The sooner they tow this away and find the owner, the better it will be for everyone.’

Marguerite, looking for clues as to why the car should have been abandoned in such a fashion, discovered perfectly clear fingerprints of a thumb and forefinger. They appeared to be sharp, unusually precise and were red, as if someone had dipped the pads of their finger and thumb in red ink, which was impossible. Or perhaps blood. She said nothing of her discovery to James or Arthur, believing the less said about it the better. This was clearly a police matter.

What she did say as James was calling them on his mobile telephone, was, ‘Why here? Why on your road? Did the driver know it? Was he seeking help from you or the girls … from me? Oh, damn it to hell! We’re for it now. Intrusion, intrusion, intrusion.’

‘Not necessarily. They’ll tow the car away, ask everyone in the village and us a few questions, search the wood, and if nothing’s found it will all be over,’ said James.

‘I wish I had your optimism. But something tells me you don’t believe that any more than I do.’ Marguerite had no sooner said it than she realised by the look on James’s face that she was right. He too had seen the bloodied fingerprints and preferred not to speak of them.

Standing in the background, Arthur hung his head guiltily, wondering if he was the only one so far to have noticed the bloody prints.

Chapter 2

It seemed to James, Marguerite and the postman, standing close to the abandoned car, that the police were taking an inordinate length of time to answer their call. Quite suddenly James handed the mobile to Arthur. ‘It just occurred to me that you’re the one who discovered this so you should be the one to report it to the authorities. It really has nothing to do with me or my family. It’s you they’ll want to question.’

He placed the phone in Arthur’s hand then moved it to the postman’s ear before he had a chance to say anything. Almost at once there was someone on the line and the postman reluctantly reported his find.

‘I have to finish my round. After that I can meet you at the station if you want, Jerry?’

Arthur listened to what the local policeman had to say and then told him, ‘I’ll get someone,’ and handed the phone back to James.

‘Well, that was lucky, it was my cousin Jerry. He’s only a constable but smart as a whip. He should be here in half an hour or less. He says no one should touch the car and he wants someone to stand guard till he gets here. It can’t be me, I still have a job to do. People depend on their postman.’

‘You carry on, Arthur, I’ll get the stable lad to come and stand guard,’ offered James.

While Arthur pedalled away to return the bicycle to Miss Plumm, James placed his arm round Marguerite’s shoulders and together they walked back to the Range Rover to wait for the stable boy he had called to arrive.

‘Do you think someone is lingering in the woods?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘And you don’t think we should speculate further?’

‘I think we should put it out of our minds. Come to the house for breakfast. I’m famished and I don’t imagine you’ve had anything to eat this morning?’

‘No, not yet.’

While he was calling the cook, Mrs Much, Marguerite studied James. She heard him order breakfast for six to be served at the round table in the oriel window of the great hall.

He usually ordered meals to be served there, when informality was called for, or in the library where a table was placed in front of the fireplace. The morning-room was another favourite place; the landing at the top of the grand staircase yet another. The dining-room, dominated by a cherrywood table that could seat twenty-eight people or when extended forty, was always resplendent with the family silver and reserved for the evening meal, whether it be James dining on his own, with Angelica and September or a group of friends. It was a family tradition that had not been broken in five hundred years.

Whenever she contemplated James, Marguerite could not understand why she could not be faithful to him, why she didn’t want him for a husband. She knew he was special: a brilliant mind, a man who wore his heritage quietly and with a style all his own – more casual and bohemian than stuffy and arrogant. His and his sisters’ ways seemed to make them more grand, infinitely more remarkable than their peers. James’s was a grand life lived casually. She marvelled that he, Angelica and September lived in or used every one of Sefton Park’s forty rooms. She adored their flair and panache.

Very nearly every time they were alone together Marguerite wanted James sexually. Her enchantment with their erotic life never wavered. They had come to accept that theirs was sexual love, rich in lust, governed by a genuine deep feeling for each other that would never happen again for them with other partners. A love that lived and flourished in their erotic souls and could go nowhere else. It was an unfettered emotion undisturbed by the outside world, not even the admiration they felt for each other’s lifestyle and work.

Jealousy over other lovers was not an issue. If anything, seeing each other with other lovers only excited their passion for each other, fed their lust and triggered their imaginations. The occasional lovers who came between them only made them burn with the heat of renewed desire for each other. They were both content with the erotic life they had together, though this had come sooner to Marguerite than it had to James.

As he put his phone on the seat of the Range Rover, she slipped her arms around his waist and rubbed herself against him, asking huskily, ‘We’re only four, why did you order for six?’

‘Your young lover of last night? The uninvited guest who might appear? You know what our house is like,’ he answered.

‘Rick’s fast asleep and he’ll be gone as soon as he wakes.’

James took her roughly in his arms. His passion for her aroused, he kissed her deeply, nibbled hungrily on her lips and then firmly put her from him and stepped away. Marguerite sensed an unease between them that had not existed the night before. She relived for a few minutes the delicious time she had had with her young lover and James.

Marguerite enjoyed young men and changed them often. She was teased about this incessantly by James who claimed she was addicted to young flesh. There was some truth in that but it was more complex than mere youth and sexual stamina – it was pure and delicious sex she craved, with no over or undertones of emotion or love. It was rootless, momentary sensation. Fucking on the wing gave her the most satisfaction. Marguerite enjoyed the hard firm bodies of young men, their lustiness, the careless bravado of their performance.

Last night lust had scented the air. They had wanted the taste and perfume of all things erotic, beautiful people kissing and fondling other beautiful people. Desire mounted in them and they embraced it. James had watched Marguerite and her young lover undress each other as they left the drawing-room for the library. She looked over her shoulder and blew him a kiss. He had smiled, imagining her wallowing in her orgasms, lusting after the young man’s throbbing member. He knew how she
adored the taste of a man and making love to his sex.

After she had gone James looked around the room. All that was missing was Olivia; his being made love to by her and Marguerite. That had become as much a part of their sex lives as the air they breathed. Passion for their sexuality, their lust, the erotic without boundaries, set them free from the constraints of society. James had wanted Marguerite then and so he joined her and her lover in the library. Once he’d divested himself of his clothes he tapped the young stud on the shoulder and replaced him with his own body, covering the reclining Marguerite. Lust had taken him over then and he took her time and time again until she was lost in a sea of orgasms: hers, her young lover’s and James’s.

She looked at him now as memories of the night before faded. ‘Is something wrong,’ she asked.

‘Not between us. It’s this place. Yesterday it was at peace with the world. Today it makes me uneasy. I want that car gone and to have nothing to do with it.’

Marguerite knew what he meant, but curiosity was drawing her to the abandoned car whereas James was eager to run away from this disruption to their routine lives. That was out of character for him and it surprised her. He was a man who usually wanted to know everything, naturally courageous, able to face anything with good humour and intelligence. He was an explorer who liked to reach into the dark unknown and revel in the bad as well as the good, the ugly as well as the beautiful.

The stable lad arrived and was left to stand guard.

In the car, driving to the house, they said not a word to one another. Gazing at him, Marguerite asked herself, Is it possible he knows more about the car than he’s letting on?

On entering Sefton Park Marguerite and James were greeted by the sight of September and Angelica descending the stairs, one behind the other, a large rolled canvas resting on their shoulders. James rushed forward.

‘You should have waited for me or called the stables for help,’ he chided.

‘There really was no need. It’s not all that heavy, more
awkward to handle,’ September told him as Angelica and James placed it carefully on the floor.

‘Morning, James, Marguerite. Where have you been at this ungodly hour?’ asked Angelica.

‘Something dramatic has happened. A car’s blocking the road between here and the village, obviously abandoned. You girls wouldn’t know anything about it, would you?’

‘No,’ they answered simultaneously, apparently unmoved by his announcement.

James walked to the hall table, picked up the post and headed for the great hall’s oriel window overlooking the gardens. The two-storey high polygonal recess was supported from the ground floor on stone corbels. This and five other such windows in the house still boasted original panes of Jacobean glass. The dining table there was set for six, just as he had requested of Mrs Much. James was followed by his women.

Among his friends and the residents of the village, when in the company of his sisters and Marguerite, he was always referred to as ‘James and his women’. It was always said in good humour and not one of them minded in the least. They all three loved James. For September and Angelica he was very much their world. They were loving siblings, possibly in love. As for Marguerite, she did not in the least mind being labelled one of his women. Because she was. Because she would always be.

September stood behind James’s chair and, reaching around him, kissed him on the back of the neck then the top of his head. She took over the sorting of the post, systematically destroying the neatly stacked letters. She grabbed two of them addressed to her and the folded morning paper. James could hardly be angry with her, he’d always indulged September’s artistic temperament. He was no different with Angelica. He was inordinately proud of September and respected her paintings, enjoyed her success. He had nothing but love and admiration for Angelica and her first-class brain which had enabled her to become a surgeon. They were girls who worked hard and played even harder, but most importantly they were young beauties who knew their priorities and adored their handsome brother; loved
who and what they all were. A family at ease with themselves and the world.

There were crystal goblets of freshly squeezed orange juice at each place setting; a silver salver proffered the brioches. The large round table blazed with colour from a centrepiece of full-blown garden roses. Fever arrived with one of the village girls who carried a heavy Queen Anne silver tray laden with scrambled eggs surrounded by ribbons of bacon and yet another circle of sausages. Then Mrs Much appeared with another tray containing small fillets of smoked haddock with poached eggs on top. Fever managed to carry a silver basket lined with a fine white linen napkin that covered a small mountain of toast.

The hot dishes were placed on marble-topped consoles mounted on plinths in the form of gilded swans flapping their wings; above them on the dark panelled walls Queen Anne mirrors reflected the light pouring through the window and the comings and goings of the four famished diners filling their plates. All thoughts of the abandoned car were left behind, replaced by laughter. James and his women, a group of beautiful people bursting with love for their privileged life and being together.

Conversation between them dwindled. James was looking through what remained of his post, Marguerite thinking about her lecture tour. Angelica was going for her third helping when September picked up the newspaper she had snatched from James. She unfolded the pages and shook them out. She perused the headlines and let out a fearful scream. Scrambling to her feet and upsetting her coffee cup, she started trembling from head to foot and wailing with despair. She pounded the table with one hand while she kept staring at the front page of the newspaper. The tears came streaming from her eyes.

Marguerite was the first to reach her. James sat as if frozen to his chair, horrified by September’s pain and hysteria which he could feel as if they were his own.

Marguerite spun September round to face her. She shook her as hard as she could but to no avail. Finally she slapped the girl hard across the face several times. September took a deep breath, and another, and another. She pressed her hands
over her eyes and a few minutes later had control of herself. Marguerite slid her arms around her and said, ‘Sorry to have been so harsh.’ Angelica stood at her sister’s side. She removed the newspaper from September’s hand and without looking at it made her sit down. Angelica automatically took her pulse, saying, ‘You’re hyperventilating. Take deep breaths. You’ve had a terrible shock but you’re going to be fine.’

September wanted to speak but her mouth was bone dry. She reached for her glass of orange juice but could not bring it to her lips, so severe was the trembling of her hand. She tried once more to drink the juice holding the glass with both hands. Angelica took the glass from her hands and placed it to September’s lips. September drank it to the last drop.

‘Better?’ asked Angelica.

‘Much better,’ she answered between the occasional sob.

‘Now let’s see what gave you such a surprise.’

All the colour drained away from her face as Angelica dropped the paper. Her knees buckled. It took all her strength of will to walk to her chair and sit down. James retrieved the newspaper from the floor and put the pages in their right order. He was prepared for the worst and the worst was what he received.

With a stifling sense of rage and despair he read:

Jet Set Murder
Lady Olivia Killer?

James stared at the half-page photograph of Olivia standing with the prince, he in polo clothes, she radiant under a wide-brimmed hat and sleeveless dress. They were looking lovingly at one another, appeared to be every inch the darlings of the mega-rich jet set with not a care in the world. And now this. He looked around the table at the three pale-faced women and then down at the photograph of the girl who had been labelled ‘the most beautiful in England’. Everyone was fascinated by Olivia, and why not? She had it all: beauty, a brilliant mind, a wild streak that only added to her allure, a libido she had never suppressed and which enabled her to captivate any man, woman or child she wanted. She was wealthy in her own right with a proud aristocratic pedigree. The Buchanans had taken her to their hearts. Theirs was more than friendship, more than love. Their feelings for Olivia ran deep. She had been in and out of their lives and Sefton Park for as long as any of them could remember.