Quest for Alexis (27 page)

Caterina put out her hand and touched my arm. It
was an eloquent gesture, begging me to forbear with
her husband.

I bit my lip, swallowing back my anger. “I came to
ask you to excuse me from joining you for lunch. It
was kind of you to suggest it, but something has
cropped up.”

Sir Ralph moved forward quickly, his hand groping
for me. He found my shoulder and gripped it hard.

“Gail, my dear girl, you must forgive me. I speak
my mind too plainly. Please don’t take offense. Cateri
na and I will be delighted to have you lunch with us.”

“But it’s not that, Sir Ralph. I have to go out—
really! I have to go to Seahaven.”

Caterina, serving as his eyes, said, “Yes, it is true,
Ralph. She’s dressed ready to go out. Gail, may I drive
you? You shouldn’t be on your own today.”

I shook my head. “Thanks, Caterina, but I’ll be
okay. Honestly.”

I was actually halfway to Seahaven when the reali
zation struck home with a sickening jolt that the car I
was driving, Alexis’s ten-year-old Rover, was the one
used by Belle and my uncle’s double to take them to
the airport. And in the car had they also taken Alexis —his body—to wherever it was they had disposed of
it?

My heart thudding, I pulled to the side of the road
and stopped. For a moment I just sat there, breathing
quickly. Perhaps by using the car today I might be destroying vital evidence—if not something obvious,
then traces that forensic experts could detect. But I
was not the first person to have driven the car since
that night. A garageman had brought it back to Deer’s Leap from London Airport.

Careful to touch nothing I didn’t need to touch, I started to examine the interior—the floor, under the
seats, the glove compartment. I found only the untidy
paraphernalia Alexis kept—dog-eared maps, a tire
pressure gauge, an odd leather glove—nothing with
any special significance. I had to force myself to get
out and look in the trunk, but it was empty. There were
no suspicious looking marks.

Fingerprints? Belle’s, of course, would be on the
car anyway, because she had been allowed to use it
when she wanted to. But her accomplice’s prints would
be a clue. To preserve any that might still be left, I
handled the controls gingerly for the rest of the journey.

The familiar road, almost empty of other traffic,
twisted its way to the crest of the downs, then dipped
again on the gentler southern slope toward the coast.

I turned left by the pierhead and parked the car out
side a boarded-up ice-cream parlor. Seahaven was
battened down for the winter, its forlorn air of neglect
emphasized by the bright sunshine.

I knew the post office was in a road at right angles
to the seafront, and I went there to check through the
classified directory. There were three photographers in
the town, I found. I scribbled down their addresses on
the back of a scrap of paper. The first was only two
blocks away, in an arcade off the main shopping street.
Arun Studio
—
Portraits. Weddings. Children a Special
ity.
I went in, a buzzer sounding as I trod on the door
mat.

“I won’t keep you a moment,” a man’s voice called
from the back.

There were specimen prints in several showcases,
and I ran my eye over them hoping I might find Belle’s face among the dozens on display. But no luck.

The man appeared through a pair of green chenille
curtains, slipping on his jacket as he came. He was
about fifty, short and fussy, with heavy-framed spec
tacles.

“I’ve got some photographs here,” I began, “and I wondered if by chance you had taken them. I’m pretty
sure it was someone in Seahaven.” I slipped the prints
from the envelope and held one out to him.

Looking faintly surprised, he gave Belle’s picture
one glance, then wrinkled his nose in distaste.

“Oh no, I can tell you straight away that it’s not one
of ours. We don’t do
...
well, poses quite like that—
it would damage our high-class reputation.” He turned
the photograph in my hand to show me the reverse
side. “Anyway, we always stamp our name and ad
dress on the back. We aren’t ashamed to acknowledge
our work. I suggest you try Claude Mason in Ash
Street—just along by the station.”

That was the third name on my list. Murmuring thanks, I left and headed in the direction of the rail
way station.

The entrance to Claude Mason’s studio was a door
way sandwiched between two shops, with stairs lead
ing up. On the second floor, I entered a bright and
cheerful waiting room. A woman was in there, ordering some enlargements, and Claude Mason—it had to
be him—gave me a smile and waved me to a chair.

“Be with you in a second.”

He was pushing forty, an ordinary-looking man who had tried to add a touch of artistic distinction with collar-length hair, a Vandyke beard, a floppy bow tie, and a velvet smoking jacket in dusty purple.

He jotted down the woman’s order and told her
with a radiant smile that it would be ready to collect
in three days’ time. As she went out he turned and
came toward me, his head tilted, his hands held up to
frame my face judicially.

“What had you in mind, love? It’s for your boyf
riend, I dare say? I can do you a nice six-by-eight
mounted in a gilt presentation frame so he can prop
you up in his bedroom.”

“No ... I’m sorry, but I just wanted some informa
tion.” Again I drew the photographs from the enve
lope. “I was wondering if by chance you took these?”

His look of disappointment swiftly changed when
he saw what I was holding out. He glanced at me
closely, slyly, sizing me up.

“You know who this is, don’t you? Well, of course
you must, or you wouldn’t be asking. I suppose you’re from the press, is that it?”

“Well...”

Fortunately, he liked the sound of his own voice too
much to wait for any more. “It shook me rigid, I can
tell you, when I saw that picture of her in the paper.
She’s got her head screwed on all right, that one. Mind you, though, nasty business about his wife. I was reading about it this morning.”

“Do you happen to know anything about her—Belle
Forsyth, I mean?”

“No, love. I never set eyes on her until she walked
in one morning and asked for a set of six. She said she
was hoping to get some modeling work, and of course
she’s got the figure for it. She had everything worked
out in her mind, exactly what she wanted. Not pinups,
but something to turn a man on a bit, if you know
what I mean.” He glanced again at the prints, admir
ing his own professionalism. “Looks as if she won’t be
needing these now, though, doesn’t it? Found herself a
sugar daddy—that’s what they used to call them. Oh
well, let’s hope her luck lasts through the summer.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about her? Anything at all?”

He shook his head. “I only wish there was. Be a
few quid in it for me, I bet, eh? She paid cash on the nail and asked me to send her the prints in a plain
envelope—very insistent about that, she was.”

“Er ... when was this, exactly?”

“Oh, it wasn’t long ago. Hang on, I can tell you for
sure.” He nicked through the pages of his order book. “Here we are. Just four weeks yesterday.”

That was all the information he could give me. I
came down the steep staircase and out into the street
with curiously mixed feelings. Though I’d got nothing
definite, it
was
a step forward, I told myself. It was
just one more indication that Brett and I were on the
right track.

* * * *

I arrived back at Deer’s Leap in the middle of the
afternoon and drove straight to the stable to garage
the Rover. As I walked around to the house, I saw
there was a bright orange sports car parked by the
Warrenders’ entrance. Not still the press, surely?

Rudi came to the front door to meet me. He was
frowning and sounded hurt.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going out, Gail?
Lady Caterina said something about Seahaven.”

“Yes, I did go there,” I said vaguely. “Rudi, who’s
that calling on the Warrenders?”

He glanced at the orange car. “Oh, that looks like Elspeth Vane’s.”

Surprised, I said, “Brett must have come in
her
car,
then!”

I couldn’t wait to tell Brett my news about the
photographs of Belle. Just as I was, I went straight
through to the staircase hall. Sir Ralph was standing
in the telephone lobby, with the door open. He broke
off his conversation and turned in my direction.

“Is that you, Gail? You’ll find them in the Ivory
Room.”

I tapped on the door, and Caterina called to come in. “Hello, Gail dear. Did you get what you wanted in
Seahaven?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Come in and sit down. Take your coat off. You do know Elspeth, don’t you? I’m sure you must have met.”

“Yes, we’ve met,” said Elspeth, giving me a cool
stare.

Completely at home, she was reclining gracefully on
one of the settees, her long legs crossed. I saw she was
fingering a small ivory carving she had taken from its
place on the mantel—a twelfth-century figure of Hercules, one of Sir Ralph’s most treasured pieces.

As always, Elspeth had the power to make me feel
gauche and insignificant. She looked stunning in a
scarlet pants suit, perfectly set off by the unobtrusive
dove-gray velvet of the upholstery. Her raven hair was
taken back smoothly from her forehead in a chignon.
On her wrist she wore a cluster of silver bangles.

“Where’s Brett?” I asked. “Did he come with you?”

Her laugh tinkled, unamused. “I thought you hadn’t
come bursting in just to say hello to me. No, Brett’s
not coming down until later. He said there was some
footage he wanted to check through first. He’s sudden
ly in a fever to start work on the Karel film again,
though heaven knows why.”

“It’s
his
decision,” I retorted sharply.

Behind me, Sir Ralph had come into the room. He
said, “Elspeth shares my opinion that completing the
film is a waste of time and money. If it ever gets a
television showing, which I doubt, it can only injure
the career of everyone connected with it.”

“I’m sure Brett knows what he’s doing,” I said
doggedly.

“I wonder.” Elspeth’s viridian green eyes held a
glint of mockery, added to the cool calculation that
was always there. “Brett does some very peculiar
things at times. He can be an impetuous man, with
sudden wild enthusiasms. Short-lived enthusiasms.”

Caterina glanced unhappily from one to the other of
us, sensing the electric tension but not fully under
standing the cause of it.

“We must leave it to Brett,” she said, in an attempt
at peacemaking.

* * * *

It was seven in the evening before Brett arrived.
Waiting for him, never far from a window that faced
the front, I heard the low snarl of his Lancia as it
stormed up the last rise before Deer’s Leap, then
clicked down a gear to swing in at the entrance gates.
His headlights sent a stream of light skittering across
the hall as he came racing up the drive and slid to a
stop on the sweep of gravel fronting the house. The
motor was cut, the headlights snapped off, the door
slammed shut, all in the space of a moment. Brett was
obviously in a tearing hurry.

I opened our front door to intercept him, but he was
coming to the west wing anyway, striding briskly to
ward me. In his hand he gripped a small tube of cardboard.

“Gail, I’ve got to talk to you. I’ve discovered some
thing.”

Behind me, the door of the Oak Room opened, and Rudi came out. He spent most of his time there now,
brooding. Uselessly heaping blame on himself.