The Golden Maze (9 page)

Who was this Miss Todd? Cindy wondered as they ate their lunch almost in silence. He didn't seem to want to talk, so she sat quietly.

They were drinking coffee when they heard the sound of a car. Peter frowned and looked at Cindy.

"Women !" he said scathingly. "Why were they ever invented? They're nothing but a nuisance !"

THEY sat in silence, listening to the impatient hammering on the front door, then the squeak as it was opened.

Cindy had no idea what sort of person she expected `Miss Todd' to be, but it seemed obvious that she was someone Peter didn't like particularly, for he had sent Paul to meet her, and also told Mrs. Stone they wouldn't wait for lunch ! So, as Cindy heard the sound of heels pattering on the polished floor, an impatient voice and Mrs. Stone's shrill answer before the dining-room door was flung open and 'Miss Todd' stood there, she hadn't expected what she saw !

Cindy caught her breath; for a moment she could not believe her eyes or that this slim, tall, beautiful girl could possibly be 'Miss Todd'.

But she obviously was, for Peter was on his feet. "Hullo, Yvonne."

She practically charged into the room, glaring at him, her black and white fur coat swinging, her small white fur hat perched on top of short curly dark hair.

"I just can't understand you, Peter Baxter !" she almost shouted, her cheeks flushed with rage. "A fine way to treat me ! I had to wait on that beastly cold platform—I'm starving, and then, to add to it, you haven't the decency to come and meet me yourself !" She looked round the room and as she saw Cindy, she

seemed to freeze with shock, then swung round to look at Peter.

"What's she doing here? I'd have thought she'd have the decency to go after the way she's behaved !" Yvonne Todd demanded.

Peter's face was sud
denly hard. "Miss Preston was
good friend of my father's and I hope she will be my friend, too, so kindly stop behaving like a fishwife and being so rude !"

Peter and the lovely girl just stood and stared at one another—almost as if it was the start of a duel, Cindy thought, as she stood up. Or perhaps two angry cats about to fight.

Yvonne gave a little grunt, then smiled politely. "How do you do, Miss Preston. Delighted to meet you," she said sarcastically before turning back to Peter. "What some people can get away with amazes me. You're just like your father—soft to the wrong people. Is that boy bringing in my luggage?"

Peter raised an eyebrow. "You've come to stay?"

"Of course. You'll need a woman's hand here." She looked round the lofty cold room and at the big oil paintings on the wall. "It has gone to seed, hasn't it? I can't wait to explore it." She turned swiftly to Cindy, her eyes bright with suspicion. "I suppose you've been over it from top to toe with a magnifying glass," Yvonne Todd added bitterly.

"Naturally Cindy was interested in what she believed might be her castle," Peter said quietly.

Cindy wondered what she should do. Her inclination was to rush out of the room, for why should she stand there to be insulted? Yet Peter was defending her ... it was puzzling. Yvonne Todd was everything

Cindy wished she could be—tall, slim, those huge " dark eyes, the high cheekbones, the husky voice ...

"Mrs. Stone will show you to a room," Peter said, turning to the tall thin silent woman who was still standing just outside the door, her eyes bright with curiosity. "I'm sorry at such short notice, Mrs. Stone, but I wasn't expecting Miss Todd."

Cindy saw the colour flame in Yvonne's cheeks and the quick intake of breath she gave. So Yvonne Todd had come up uninvited?

"Yvonne," Peter swung round, "if you're hungry, I'm sure Mrs. Stone would make you an omelette. I understood you were on a diet." He looked at his watch. "I must go. I have an appointment with Mr. Fairhead." He glanced at Cindy. "I'm sure you can find plenty to do and I imagine Yvonne will be busy unpacking her incredible amount of luggage, so I suggest we all meet for tea."

He walked past Yvonne, who took a step back, showing her surprise. Cindy hurried after him, trying to get to the stairs. She was going to start packing immediately, and while Peter was with Mr. Fairhead, she could quietly slip away.

But at the foot of the stairs, Peter caught her by the arm. "I'm sorry, Cindy, for her rudeness. Yvonne believes in calling a spade a spade."

Cindy looked at him. "She doesn't just call a spade a spade, she ..." she stopped herself in time. What was the good of losing her temper? It wouldn't help. She looked up at him"Look, Peter, I think it would be better for us all if I go back to London. I can always sleep on the way if it gets foggy, as I did coming up."

He looked at her, his thick eyebrows moving together.

"You promised," he said gently. "I had an idea you always kept your word."

"But . . . but you don't need me now. You have her."

"Suppose I don't want her?"

Cindy managed to laugh. "Please ! Look, I'm sure I'll only be in the way .. ."

His hand tightened on her arm. "Please," he echoed.

She sighed, "All right . . ."

"Good girl ! See you later," Peter smiled, and hurried out of the front door while Cindy, giving a quick glance at the five enormous suitcases piled up in the hall, fled up the stairs. How long did Yvonne Todd propose to stay? she wondered. How close were Yvonne and Peter? He had been almost rude and she had been angry in a possessive way. It seemed to be a strange sort of . . . well, relationship.

Alone in her bedroom, Cindy locked the door, got out Uncle Robert's diary, curled up on the windowsill, the electric fire switched on and a blanket round her shoulders, for the rooms were too big to heat quickley.

She read slowly the tiny beautifully written words, because it was difficult. It seemed odd that a successful business man who was, apparently, rather a tyrant could have written with such care, obviously thinking about each word before he wrote it.

It was sad reading. He admitted frankly that he regretted so much of his past. He wrote of his wife, `so gentle that it irritated me immensely',—of his son,

`too much like me. Maybe that is why we constantly clashed.'

Cindy was searching for the mention of his illness, of the day his son had come to see him and he had rejected him, telling Mrs. Stone to tell his son that he never wanted to see him again.

Somehow it didn't make sense—unless this diary was supposed to be a satire? Could it be that he had written it as a joke? Pretending to be the opposite of everything he was. Or was this his real self ?

Hehad written down the dates he wrote, so perhaps if she could find out when Peter had come to see his father, she could trace the entry Uncle Robert would have surely made? Mrs. Stone might know, but she was the last person Cindy wanted to ask. Peter? Definitely no. That left her Luke Fairhead. He had said he had seen Peter—even if it wasn't the actual date, he might remember the year and the season which would help.

Quickly Cindy locked away Uncle. Robert's diary, brushed her hair, put on a warm yellow jersey over blue trousers. If she was quick, she might catch Mr. Fairhead after his talk with Peter. She would wait in the car . . . from there she could see Mr. Fairhead's office. He was sure to be there before going home.

The castle was very still as Cindy went down the

' curving staircase as quietly as she could, for she had no desire to meet Yvonne Todd. The drawing-room was empty, so she let herself out through one of the french windows on to the paved terrace that ran down the sides of the castle. Even as she did, a man came out from the shadow of a clump of trees and came

- to meet her.

A short man, not much taller than herself, Cindy noticed. He had a pointed black beard, sideboards and even thicker black eyebrows than Peter.

"Miss Preston ?" he said politely.

"Yes." She was startled. There was no sign of a car, so how had he got up there ? Unless he had parked the car further down the road and came up quietly, not wanting to be seen. But if so . . .

"I understand you are inheriting this castle," he went on.

Cindy stared at him and frowned. "I am not. Mr. Baxter's son is."

"I understand he can't be traced." -

"He's been found. He's here now," Cindy told him. "Look, I'm afraid I can't stop now . . ."

The man moved forward, blocking her way. "Please, Miss Preston. You say Peter Baxter has been found? This is news. So the castle and its treasures are no longer yours. Is Mr. Baxter here?"

"Yes. Look, I can't . .."

"Mr. Baxter is staying here and so are you ?" The short man grinned, his big white teeth flashing. "Oh, maybe you and he will marry and share the castle ?" He gave a funny little laugh.

"It's most unlikely," Cindy said angrily. "We don't know one another. Besides, he has a friend also staying . . ." She stopped abruptly. She shouldn't be answering questions. It would only mean more news in the papers and more trouble.

"I see . . . the eternal triangle !" he chuckled, and Cindy's cheeks burned.

"Look, please get out of my way. I don't wish to be interviewed."

"I understand. You've found yourself in a very embarrassing position, Miss Preston. I understand you arranged to sell the castle to an American. Will Mr. Baxter do the same ?"

"What the . . ." Peter had come round the side of the castle and towered above them. "Just who are you ?" he asked angrily. "You know Miss Preston ?"

The little man swung round, "She spoke to me on the phone in London."

"I did not !" Cindy cried.

Both the men looked at her.

"Excuse me, Miss Preston, but you did. You rang my newspaper and told me about, the castle you were about to inherit and that you'd been made an offer by an American which you were going to accept if the deceased's son did not turn up . ..
" the little man said quietly.

Cindy stared at him, bewildered, Suddenly she thought of something. "I gave you my name ?"

He shook his head. "I asked, but you said you'd prefer not to .. ."

"Why should I have said that? What did it matter if you had my name?" Cindy asked quickly. "You could easily have found out from the solicitor ..."

"Ah, the solicitor," Peter said.

Cindy looked up at him. "Peter,' I didn't phone the newspaper. Why should I ? It just doesn't make sense . ."

It certainly didn't. Peter soon got rid of the polite little reporter who told them his name was Neil Gifford and he was sorry if he had embarrassed them but . . . news was news and it was his job. He finally

went and Cindy looked at Peter who looked back at her, an odd expression on his face.

"You don't believe me, do you ?" Cindy said. "This is the end. I'm going . .."

He caught her by both arms. "Oh, no, you're not," he said quietly. "Not until I say so . . ."

She tried to free herself, but his grip was tight. "There's something funny, here," he told her. "And you're not going until I find out . . ."

"Peter . . ." A demanding voice broke the stillness as they looked at one another. "Peter . . . where are you ..."

Yvonne came round the corner, elegant in her white trouser suit. "Oh, there you are," she said, her voice disapproving. "What's going on ?"

"I've just persuaded Cindy to stay on. She's eager to get back to London, but I said we would prefer her to stay." Peter gave an odd smile. "We need a chaperone."

He let go of Cindy and they walked back to the front of the castle. Mrs. Stone must have seen the french window open, for now it was closed and locked and they heard the tinkle of a gong through the open front door.

"Tea," said Peter. "I don't know about you two, but I could do with a cup." He looked at Cindy. "Things are worse than I expected them to be, according to Luke Fairhead. I imagine you saw that, too."

Yvonne, leading the way, spoke over her shoulder.

"Surely your father was a rich man? I understood... ." She stopped abruptly. "Who was that little man I saw walking down the drive?"

"Only a reporter," Cindy said.

"A reporter?" There was a sharp note in Yvonne's voice. "What was he doing here ?"

"Asking questions, of course. That's what reporters always do," Peter told bier, his voice amused.

"I know that," Yvonne snapped. "But what about ?"

"The American. who wants to buy the castle and take it, stone by stone, to rebuild in his own country," Peter said slowly, sounding bored.

"Well, that's off now, isn't it ?" said Yvonne. "So it isn't news."

"Isn't it ?" said Peter, as they reached the open front door where Mrs. Stone stood, tall, dignified and disapproving, the gong in her hands. "I wonder . . ." he added as he led the way indoors.

TEA was not a very pleasant meal for Cindy, as Yvonne completely ignored her, talking to Peter all the time while Peter kept including Cindy in the conversation. Afterwards, Peter looked at Yvonne.