The Desert Castle (2 page)

T
he disapproving look was back with a vengeance.

‘
Won
’
t it leave rather a gap in your history of world art if you exclude it
?
’

It would, but she certainly wasn
’
t going to admit it to him.
‘
Most of my students are more interested in European art,
’
she defended herself.

‘
Then you should call it that,
’
he retorted.
‘
European art, not the history of art, which implies a more universal conception than you have so far offered them.
’

‘
One has to be selective—
’

‘
From ignorance
?
’

‘
No,
’
she sighed. Unlikeable? The man was a menace
!
’
Still, European art has more to offer—
’

‘
May God forgive you, Miss Shirley. I hadn
’
t thought you so insular. What about China? North America? The Indian sub-
c
ontinent
?
’

M
arion knew herself to be in the wrong, but nothing
was going to induce her to admit it.
‘
I was going to say, if you had allowed me to finish, that European art has more to offer those of us who share the European culture by living here.
’
She looked up in triumph. He could hardly fault that argument
!
’
Naturally we want to know more about what is more familiar to us.
’

‘
Then why isn
’
t Turner or Constable your “particular interest”
?
’
he demanded.
‘
Why Byzantine art, Miss Shirley? Were you brought up with ikons hanging on the walls of your nursery? Or were you more familiar with Mickey Mouse
?
’

‘
With ikons,
’
she said in a small voice.

H
e put up a hand and smote his forehead.
‘
Henry Shirley!
’
he exclaimed.
‘
Your father, I suppose? Very well, I give you best this time, though I
’
m pretty sure you hadn
’
t given a thought to such an argument when you planned your lectures.
’
He turned on his heel, and then turned back again, the navy-blue eyes flickering over her.
‘
You must miss your father. I
’
m sorry if I
’
ve aroused painful memories for you.
’

S
he was startled and she looked it.
‘
Did you know my father
?
’
she asked him.

‘
No, but I knew of him.
L
ike you, he didn
’
t know much about Islamic art and we exchanged some letters on the subject
.
’

H
er smile kicked up the
corner
s of her mouth as the dimple came and went in her cheek.
‘
Did you lea
rn
anything from him?
’
she asked, veiling her eyes.

‘
It was he
who was seeking information from me,
’
he answered drily.
‘
Good night, Miss Shirley.
’

‘
Good night,
’
she murmured. She watched him go, recalling herself to a sense of urgency with an effort when she remembered that her mother would be waiting for her. She was glad that it wasn
’
t every day that she was called upon to meet a Gregory Randall, and she hoped it would never be her misfortune to meet him again, yet he was quite different from anyone she had ever met before. And a very handsome difference too, she thought with a smile. Now that he had gone, she wondered what it had been about
him
that had set her nerves on edge. Her mother, she knew, would have pronounced him dishy and would have been disappointed that she hadn
’
t asked
him
home. It would be a mistake to mention Gregory Randall to her mother, Marion told herself. She would dismiss the whole incident from her mind—and spend the holidays revising the syllabus of her lectures, not because he was right in thinking she dismissed the rest of the world as unimportant, but because it was impossible to understand the movements of European art
in
a vacuum, and she knew it
.
Hadn
’
t her father said again and again that the only unforgivable approach to art was the parochial one? And there was this beastly man saying exactly the same thing exposing the major weakness in her series of lectures in one blinding sentence.
May God forgive you, Miss Shirley
.
All right, so she shouldn
’
t have loaded the syllabus so heavily with her own particular interests, but it would be a long, long time before she would forgive him for pointing it out to her.

Her mother had be
e
n attending a dressmaking class and was not appreciating having to wait for her daughter.

‘
Marion, what have you been doing? I couldn
’
t even get a cup of tea!
’

‘
Did Father ever speak to you about a Gregory Randall
?
’
Marion burst out, climbing into her coat.

Her mother
’
s eyes opened wide.
‘
Of course he did! He writes books.
’

M
arion
’
s blood
r
an cold.
‘
What about?
’
she breathed.

‘
I haven
’
t the faintest idea,
’
Mrs.
Shirley said comfortably. She set off down the corridor with a frowning look that told Marion she had better hurry after her
if
they were to walk home together. Her mother gave her that sudden, slanting smile that her daughter had inherited from her.
‘
Did you like him, darling? He was at your lecture, I presume.
’

Too late, Marion remembered that she had decided not to mention him to her mother.
‘
When he wasn
’
t asleep, he tapped messages to himself on his desk. I hope he doesn
’
t come back next term!
’

Mrs.
Shirley gave her daughter
’
s arm a comforting pat.
‘
No danger of that, my dear. I remember now quite distinc
tl
y that he doesn
’
t live in England, though I can
’
t remember where he does live. You could look him up if you
’
re interested in your father
’
s address book. They wrote to each other quite often. Henry liked him.
’

‘
He didn
’
t like me—
’

Mrs.
Shirley did her best to keep the laughter out of her voice.
‘
Did you want him to
?
’
she asked.

‘
Of course not
!
’
The protest was too fiercely uttered to be believable
.
‘
I didn
’
t like him either
!
’

M
arion didn
’
t have to look through her father
’
s papers to find about Gregory Randall. Once she had heard his name she kept on hearing it. It seemed that everyone read his books, and when she went to get herself one out of the library she found she had to put her name down on a waiting list even for one that had been written some four years before.

He wrote historical thrillers. There had been one about the elusive Richard
II
I, which came down rather heavily on the side of the Plantagenet king; another about the gold and diamond mines of Africa in which Cecil Rhodes was not the hero he has often been made out to be; and yet another about the Red Indians of North America in which heroes abounded on both sides. Marion read all three and combed the shelves for more. She found she liked having her history mixed up with a story that was both exciting and believable. She liked his books far better than she had liked the man.

‘
I wonder what he
’
s writing now
?
’
she had said
suddenly to her mother across the breakfast table.

M
rs.
Shirley had given her daughter an exasperated glance.
‘
I don
’
t have to ask whom you
’
re talking about,
’
she had sighed.
‘
The
Gregory Randall. Darling,
I like his books too, but I don
’
t have to brood over them as if he were the only readable writer left in the world. What on earth did he say to you that you can
’
t think of anybody or anything else but Gregory Randall
?
’

‘
I just wondered,
’
Marion had murmured
.

‘
Then wonder about something else,
’
her mother had advised.
‘
He
’
s writing a book about the Crusades, I believe. He
’
s had it in mind for some time,
’
she had added as an afterthought.

I
t was only later that Marion had thought that her mother seemed to know a great deal more about Gregory Randall than she was saying, and
that
was more than mysterious, it was downright uncanny, for her mother was constitutionally incapable of keeping quiet about anything.

S
he was
thinking
about this, rather than the
rising
noise of the girls in her class, when she became aware of one of them
s
tanding in front of her.

‘
You don
’
t mind, do you, Miss Shirley
?
’
the girl was saying.

‘
Don
’
t mind what
?
’
Marion demanded.

T
he girl sighed.
‘
I knew you weren
’
t listening! I
’
m talking about the holidays—
’

M
arion
’
s interest was immediately caught. She had been concerned about Lucasta Hartley for some time. Her parents never seemed to be at home and the girl was left to her own devices far too much. When she was eighteen, Marion had no doubt that
Mrs.
Hartley would swoop down on her and launch her in the jet-set life she and her husband shared so happily, but at only seventeen Lucasta was of no interest to either of them.

‘
Yes, what are you doing for the holidays?
’

‘
I
’
m going to stay with my uncle,
’
Lucasta replied, looking sulky.
‘
Nobody else will have me and
he
won
’
t have me either unless I have a responsible adult with me to keep me out of his way. The parents told me to ask you.
’

‘
Me
!’

‘
Well,
’
Lucasta admitted,
‘
it was my choice to begin with. I thought it wouldn
’
t be too bad with you, but my mother
s
aid you weren
’
t old enough—she protects my uncle from anybody who might fall in love with him, at least that
’
s what she calls it. She
’
s jealous of him really. But my uncle said you
’
d do very nicely and that you could fly out to Amman with me and that he
’
d pay your fare himself. So will you come
?
’