Nemesis (28 page)

“I expect your dear ma blackmailed him.
Hard as they come, that one.”

“My mother was in love with him!”

“Did you ever see them kiss? Or show any sign of affection whatsoever?”

“Well, no but
- ”

“They never married, or moved in together?”

“My father was in a care home. It would have looked heartless
- ”

“She married that Richard guy quickly enough!”

“Only because Sir Henry had died.
A gun misfired while he was storing it, or cleaning it - I don’t know the details. I always assumed that, because he couldn’t be with the woman he loved, he shot himself. Clare wouldn’t let him go and
- ”

“Listen to yourself! Stop twisting the truth to fit with the story you want. If Henry really loved Magda, he would have done anything to be with her. Unfortunately all he wanted was unlimited sex with pretty young girls - the younger the better. A meek, empty-headed girl, who would do anything she was told, without question, without even
thinking
. That’s what Henry Vyne wanted.”

The description didn’t match either Sarah or herself, but did allowing oneself to be seduced for money make it any better?

“OK,” she said, “Sir Henry was a dirty old man - but they were only photographs, like the kind you see in the men’s magazines. He would never have taken it further. He wouldn’t have slept with her.”

Bryn was shaking his head. “It’s classic paedophile behaviour. Befriend the parent, be nice to the kid, build up the level of trust
- ”

“I don’t believe you
- ”
Her voice cracked and she was forced to break off. She caught a glimpse of the sympathy in his expression. He didn’t understand. How could he?

All those hours she’d spent in Sir Henry’s library; posing naked as he’d taken photographs of her; against the bookshelves, leant forwards over the desk, sat in his chair with one leg draped over the arm. She didn’t care if his wrinkly, liver-spotted hands ‘accidentally’ brushed against her breasts as he arranged her into the position he wanted. She’d felt sorry for him - because he was a pathetic old man who couldn’t get it up.

Except apparently he could.

Her stomach turned over and suddenly she wanted to be really, really sick.

All those photos Sir Henry had taken of her? What had happened to them? Were they still in that safe in the castle, or in someone else’s personal collection? She’d only wanted to make a bit of money, enough to be able to leave Calahurst and never come back.

Like Sarah.

Oh God, what had she done?

Bryn, unaware of her turmoil, continued to work through his theory. “I’m thinking Henry had to pay Sarah to make sure she kept her mouth shut, that’s how she knew the combination of the safe. She would have seen him take the money out and seen where he kept the photographs. I expect they weren’t the kind of snaps you would want to leave lying around. Were they the kind you’d kill for though?”

Natalie had a memory of a shoebox overflowing with cash. Her mother had known it was there, so had her father. It was the first thing they’d looked for when they found out she was gone. If Sarah had run away, she’d never have left the money behind. Had they realised the truth about where the money had come from? Sarah had told everyone she’d earned money from selling her stories to women’s magazines, she even had the published stories to prove it. Of course, no one ever queried the amount she said she’d earned.

“Sarah was seventeen when she died,” Bryn said. “I expect Henry would have lost interest in her as she grew older. Maybe he had another girl already lined up?”

After Sarah died, Sir Henry had offered her a Saturday job cataloguing his library, offering far more money than the local hairdresser. When Natalie had found out
exactly
what the work had entailed, she’d dared not tell her mother where she was spending her Saturdays.

She
had been the next girl in line.

“Stop it,” Natalie couldn’t stand to hear any more. “I only wanted to know who killed my sister. I don’t need to hear all this sordid stuff, OK?”

He regarded her pityingly. Did he know the truth, about what she’d done? He apparently knew everything else about her.

“I appreciate it’s painful for you to keep going over the past,” he said, “But how else are we going to get a handle on this?”

“Why don’t we talk about you?” she retorted. “What happened when you broke into the castle? What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” he shrugged. “I was the look out. My cousin and your sister climbed through the library window. She knew the catch was broken and that no alarms were ever set. For a while everything was fine. Then it all went to hell. The lights went on - there was shouting and screaming. My cousin stuck his head through the window and yelled at me to run - so I did. It was the biggest mistake I ever made,” he added bitterly. “Geraint went back for Sarah. I ran back to the fairground and told Da we had to pack up before the police turned up - but they never did. We thought my cousin would join us on the road, but instead … instead
… ”

Bryn’s voice, which had gradually deteriorated into a hoarse whisper, finally gave out. He shook his head helplessly.

Natalie finished the sentence for him, although it was hardly necessary.

45

Was it better to know for certain your loved one had died, no matter how appalling the circumstances, or to never know - and to live in hope that one day they would return?

For Natalie, finding Sarah’s body had been worse than the reality that she was dead. Worse, because it had been the last time she had seen her, and was therefore the last memory she had.

Unable to find the words to comfort Bryn, she reached out to him, but he had already turned away, moving on up the tunnel and into the darkness.

She hurried after him, fearful of being left alone, but after only a matter of seconds he came to an abrupt halt and she walked straight into the back of him.

“We’ve come to a dead end,” he said, talking over her apology.

“Are you sure?”

He leant back against the wall, shining the torch in front of him so she could see for herself. Instead of bricks or stone there was a solid wooden panel blocking their
way.

“Do you think it slides?” she suggested, thinking of the panelled walls of the castle’s entrance.

He handed her the torch over his shoulder, and then felt around the edge of the wood with his fingers. “It’s been deliberately blocked off.” He placed the palms of his hands against the wood and pushed. As nothing happened he pushed harder, and then used his shoulder. “It may have been bolted into place. Fuck - we’re never going to get out.”

“Geraint managed to get through.”
Why
had she said that?

“Fifteen sodding years ago.”
He heaved again at the panel and a gap of about an inch unexpectedly appeared on one side. “You’ll have to help me. I think this is some kind of furniture - a bookcase or a dresser. It’s been put here to deliberately hide the entrance.”

Or to keep someone imprisoned.

Sweat was beading his forehead. “Are you claustrophobic?” she asked.

“No, just extremely pissed off.” He squashed himself into the corner, indicating a very small space beside him for her to stand. “Shut up and push.”

She stuck her shoulder against the wood. This was so not going to work - but what alternative was there? Back through the crypt and into the well shaft? Where the police were waiting? Would that be such a bad thing? OK, so they’d trampled all over a crime scene but they weren’t criminals. They had nothing to hide.

Well, she hadn’t.

Bryn had his shoulder to the wooden panel and was ready to heave against it. He stood directly behind her. His chest was almost, but not quite, touching her back. She could feel his breath, warm on the back of her neck. It gave her a very strange sensation. Almost like -

“What are you waiting for?” he grumbled.

Resentfully, she slammed her shoulder against the wooden panel, digging her heels into the stone floor and trying to get a grip, which was damn near impossible in her smooth-soled ballet flats. Bryn was cursing again, this time in English. Maybe the Welsh didn’t have enough swear words?

Incredibly, the bookcase, or whatever it was, moved a few inches.

Natalie suddenly remembered which room in the castle had heavy bookcases.
“Um … Bryn?”

He didn’t hear. His eyes were closed and every muscle was straining with effort.

“Bryn?” she said again, turning around, her fingers lightly touching his chest to get his attention.

Startled, his eyes flew open.
Beautiful green eyes, inches from her own.
Whatever she had been about to say, it went straight out of her head on a tidal wave of lust. There was a thick streak of dirt across his cheekbone. Without thinking, she licked her thumb and wiped the dirt away. He caught hold of her hand, but then didn’t let go, as though uncertain as to what he should do next.

“Natalie, I
… ”
She saw his lips move to form the next word but the sound was drowned out by a massive explosion.

For a second she thought the roof had collapsed. As his arms moved protectively around her, holding her tight and dragging her back against the wall of the tunnel, she braced herself for the impact and the pain that was to come, assuming each second was her last, and hoping it was. For she had no wish to die in prolonged agony, as poor Geraint must have done, waiting for a rescue that would never come.

But time moved on and silence settled around them. Natalie opened her eyes. It was still dark. The only light came from the torch which lay on the ground where she’d dropped it. The wooden panel had gone, revealing yet another dark chasm beyond, partly obscured with a thick haze of dust, which was taking time to disperse.

Bryn lifted her bodily out of the way and scooped up the torch, pointing it through the gap. His hair was almost white with dust, along with much of the rest of him, apart from a large chunk of his chest where he’d held her to protect her from the sharp, splinters of glass, which now littered the floor around them and had become embedded in the thick wool of his sweater.

He was already shaking them off. “We did it!” he said, turning to give her the biggest grin. “We’ve found the way out!”

Was he blind? “It’s only another bloody vault.”

He wasn’t listening. Instead he was clambering over the wrecked remains of a heavy wooden cabinet and into the darkness beyond.

It was the cabinet which had been blocking the entrance to the tunnel. No wonder they hadn’t been able to shift it. The torch, dimmer now, revealed broken wood amongst the glass and dark-brown liquid pooling on the stone floor. There were same stone walls as the crypt, the same low, arched ceiling; the only difference was a horrible smell, sweet and cloying, like a rotted Christmas pudding.

“
Not
the library,” he said.

Natalie, following him through, recognised the nauseating smell. “It’s a wine cellar
… ”

“What’s left of
it.
”

She looked back at the tunnel entrance. Like the crypt, it was surrounded by a decorative stone arch - hence the cabinet to hide it. But the brickwork was paler here, as though the cabinet had not been moved for centuries.

The glass crunched beneath her feet. She hoped the thin soles of her pumps were up to the job.

“We’re certainly going to have some explaining to do,” she said. It was amazing no one had turned up to investigate the noise.

“You can, if you want to.”

“What do you mean?”

“We need to get out now. Any explanations can be done later.
Preferably through a third party.”

“Are you serious?”

“I know you think these people are your friends, but trust me, they are not. Now, help me find the way out. You know the castle, you’ve been inside before,
we’re
in the old part, right?
Directly beneath the library?”

He was going too fast. The horrors of the last few days were catching up, taking on a surreal, dream-like quality. She forced herself to concentrate. Perhaps the vault did stretch along the same dimensions as the library. Like the crypt, it had been used for storage. There were wine racks around the walls, still crammed with bottles, but they were blurred grey with dust and cobwebs. No one had been here in a long time.

We’re missing something, she thought, but Bryn had lost interest and was moving towards a small archway in one corner, where a series of stone steps curled upwards.

“Where do you think this goes?” he asked her.

Natalie tried to get her brain into gear.
A medieval stone staircase?
There was only one she knew of.

“I think it’s the watch tower
… ”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s between the library and the great hall. It doesn’t go anywhere above the first floor. It was kept as a curio. The top was demolished when the castle was remodelled in the 18
^th
- ”

“It goes up,” he said curtly. “That’s good enough for me.”

As he slipped sideways, through the arch and up the curving stone steps, the vault became dark once again. And once again Natalie was chasing a light, stumbling over the uneven floor as it threatened to disappear completely.

The steps circled once, twice, and then the way was blocked by flat strips of wood above their heads, through which daylight gleamed tantalisingly.

“Floorboards,” he muttered, and thrust the torch at her with a terse, “Hold that.”

Too tired to argue, she did as he asked, watching silently as he rummaged in his satchel, retrieving his jemmy to lever up the floorboards. But it transpired the floorboards were not nailed down, they were only slotted together to form a small trapdoor that could be conveniently lifted up and out of the way. As he did this, the daylight streamed upon them and she had to turn her head away from its brightness, vaguely aware of him continuing up the steps unhindered.

“All clear,” he called, and he reached down to lift her up through the gap with no discernible effort.

Then they were in the great hall, blinking in the sunshine, standing directly beside the heavy studded door that led to the library. But the door was closed and the hall was empty. The castle was completely silent.

This is too easy, thought Natalie. She lifted her gaze to the shadows of the gallery above, to where the portraits of Alicia’s ancestors coldly watched them. A sudden movement caught her eye and she saw a fat grey pigeon settle on an outside window sill, and then stalk imperiously along its length, before taking flight once more. Had something on the landing startled it?

Bryn was carefully slotting the trap door back into place. The emptiness of the hall magnified every tiny sound. Her attention was drawn once more to the library door. Was Clare was on the other side, tapping away at her laptop? How about her assistant, Kenzie? Was he in the kitchen, making fresh coffee? Or making love to Clare on that huge old desk that had once belonged to Sir Henry?

She would have closed her eyes against the bitter memories but Bryn had already caught hold of her arm and was steering her across the hall. Again, she had that sensation of being watched and glanced over her shoulder. They had left a trail of wet, sticky footprints clearly imprinted on the York sandstone. Coated with a dusting of ground glass, the footprints glittered eerily in the sunlight.

She pointed them out to Bryn.

“Damn,” he muttered. “But what can we do about it?”

“Blame it on the ghost of Daniel-the-Pirate?”

He gave a low chuckle. “I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts?”

The castle vanished and she was standing in a fairground, beside a ghost train.