BLINDFOLD (16 page)

`Oh, I wish you hadn't done that!' she said, looking deeply unhappy. `He won't forget. He never forgets.'

`Well, I won't forget either,' Gideon said with an attempt at lightness. `He flattened my snowdrops.'

Rachel wasn't in the mood to appreciate his humour - such as it was - so he gave her shoulders a shake and suggested they get themselves something to eat.

An hour and an impromptu lasagne later, a telephone call from the police did nothing to set Rachel's mind at rest. It appeared that Duke Shelley had been paroled ten days before but had almost immediately gone missing and his probation officer was keen to know of his whereabouts.

`I expect they'll soon catch up with him,' Gideon said encouragingly, as he put the phone down. `And if he gives you any more trouble, he'll end up back inside.'

`Is that what they said?' Rachel asked with hope in her eyes. `Well, not in so many words,' he admitted, `but he's not a completely free man. He'll have to watch his step.'

`How could they do that?' Rachel demanded. `Just let him out and not warn me. Surely I had a right to know. I wasn't expecting it. He was supposed to be locked away for ages yet.'

,I don't suppose they knew where you were,' Gideon pointed out reasonably.

`Duke found me.'

There was that, of course. Gideon shrugged. `I don't know, then. Perhaps they're not required to. You haven't given this address to anyone, have you? Your mother? Friends?'

Rachel shook her head. `I haven't spoken to my mother in years. She never liked Duncan and we fell out when I married him. I haven't told anyone where I am.'

Gideon led the way back into the sitting room, where he busied himself in stoking the woodburning stove up with more logs.

`Well, anyway. Now they know where he's likely to be, I'm sure they'll soon be on his tail. If he's got any sense he'll move on. We probably won't see him again.'

Rachel sat on the sofa, curling her feet under her, and offered no reply. She obviously wasn't convinced either.

It was about midnight and Gideon was just dropping off to sleep when a clatter from downstairs reawakened him. Silence followed and he settled down again, unwilling to leave his warm bed to investigate what was undoubtedly just the cat exploring the kitchen work surfaces. Moments later though, his bedroom door was pushed hesitantly open and somebody padded in.

' Gideon?' `Yeah?'

Rachel stood halfway between him and the door, a slim figure in flower-print pyjamas.

`Did you hear that?'

`It was probably Elsa,' Gideon murmured sleepily. `Yes, I suppose so.' Doubtfully. She didn't move.

Resigned, Gideon sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

In the kitchen, Elsa blinked in the sudden light and turned her head away, the end of her tail twitching in annoyance. On the floor a saucepan lid provided the expected answer to the mystery. Gideon replaced it on the wooden draining board, yawned, told the cat to be more careful in future, and retraced his steps.

`I'm sorry,' Rachel said when he told her. `It's just, well, I couldn't sleep and it sounded so loud, I thought . . .'

`It's all right, Rachel. I don't think he'll come back here, at least, not tonight. He's bound to realise we'd tell the police.'

`I suppose so . . .'

Gideon climbed back into his bed, which had cooled somewhat in the interval. Rachel showed no inclination to return to hers. She stood in the doorway, twisting a fold of her pyjama jacket between her hands in a characteristic gesture of worry.

`Oh, come here,' Gideon said eventually. `If you're not going back to your bed, you'd better come and get in this one. And shut the door, for goodness' sake. You'll catch your death if you stand there much longer. There's a force-nine gale blowing through that doorway.'

Rachel approached the bed but still hesitated.

`It's all right. You're quite safe,' he said with a smile. `I don't make a habit of seducing damsels in distress. Surely you know that by now?'

Gratefully, she slipped in beside him.

SEVEN

THERE WAS PLENTY OF room in Gideon's king-sized double bed for two, quite separate, sleepers and he allowed Rachel her own space. It was she, in fact, who as she was finally succumbing to the effects of emotional exhaustion, turned over and snuggled close to him, her head resting on his upper arm and her body curled foetus-like at his side. Gideon resigned himself to a long and uncomfortable night.

He awakened in the early morning after dozing fitfully. It was still quite dark but a glance at the illuminated dial of his alarm clock told him that it was past six.

Rachel was sleeping deeply, the dreams that had caused her to cry out several times during the night seemingly over for the time being. She still lay across his arm and it took much gentle manoeuvring to extricate it without waking her. Having done so, it was another five minutes or so before feeling returned with an uncomfortable attack of pins and needles. He dressed quickly and quietly in the cold of the morning, the fingers of that one hand still refusing to do their full share of the work, and trod softly downstairs.

He had revived the flagging Aga, and had porridge thickening in a pan on the top by the time Rachel put in an appearance. She padded in on slippered feet, wearing jeans and one of her hugest, hairiest jumpers, to be greeted with pleasure by Elsa, who rubbed, purring loudly, around her ankles.

`Oh, fickle feline,' Gideon said reproachfully. `Only five minutes ago you swore you wouldn't look at another if I let you have the top of the milk. Now look at you!'

Rachel laughed, bending to stroke the beautiful, flecked coat. Gideon tapped the saucepan sharply with the wooden spoon to get Rachel's attention. `Porridge is ready. Sit yourself down.'

She hesitated, looking half-shyly at him through a cloud of dark hair.

`I'm sorry about last night, Gideon. You must think me very silly.'

`I don't.'

`Well, the thing is, I just wanted to thank you, for not - well, you know...'

He raised an eyebrow quizzically, then said, `Do you want brown sugar or white?'

It was a lovely morning once again and Gideon was glad when Pippa called to invite Rachel out for a ride. Not only would it do her good to get out of the house, but also Gideon had a mind to visit Lyddon Grange again. He was prompted by a telephone call from Naomi who was tired and rather emotional after a sleepless night at the Sanctuary.

There had been, it appeared, one disturbance after another. It had started with the telephone ringing every couple of minutes and the caller hanging up the moment they had answered. Whoever it was had, unsurprisingly, withheld their number and Tim and Naomi had been forced to leave their receiver off the hook; something they disliked doing in case anyone tried to call about a sick or injured animal.

The disruptions had continued with a number of fires being set

in the farm's outlying fields. When Tim had cautiously investigated, he discovered that piles of old car tyres had been ignited, probably with petrol, and they continued to burn throughout much of the night.

Things were relatively quiet then until just after two in the morning when the helicopter began circling overhead. At this point, Tim had telephoned the police, who promised to send a car out to investigate as soon as they had one free.

The helicopter had departed about two minutes before the police car drew up. The officers who accompanied the vehicle were very sympathetic but gave it as their considered opinion that the fires were set by kids having a bit of fun, and as the helicopter was no longer in evidence, were afraid that there was little they could do.

Naomi begged them to stay around for a while, sure that something else would occur, and they did for thirty silent and uneventful minutes. At this point, however, they received a call about a drunken brawl outside a nightclub and apologetically took their leave, saying that it now looked as though things had quietened down for the night.

Barely five minutes later, the first of several fireworks exploded above the Sanctuary.

`And you still think it was your next-door neighbours?' Gideon asked.

`Who else?'

`If only we knew why they want the place so much,' he said thoughtfully. `I wonder if old Milne would give anything away.'

`Even supposing you could get to see him,' Naomi said, sounding tired and dispirited. `From what I've heard, he's pretty much of a hermit. Maybe that's why he wants Hermitage Farm,' she added with a feeble attempt at humour.

'Ah, but I have an invitation.'

`You have?' Naomi was disbelieving. `Why on earth would he invite you?'

`Because I am a fellow artist, my dear!' Gideon announced grandly.

`Yes, but hardly world-famous, you must admit,' she pointed out with sisterly frankness.

`Well, okay. I was surprised too. But apparently he's seen some of my work and he said there was "a lot to like about it". So there. Official recognition.'

`I'm impressed,' she said, sounding anything but. `But seriously, he's not likely to tell you anything, is he?'

`Not intentionally, maybe,' Gideon admitted. `But it's worth a try, isn't it?'

Naomi agreed, warning him to be careful, and Gideon had hung up wondering what to do about Rachel while he was out. He could hardly leave her on her own, under the circumstances. Now that problem was solved, he was free to go visiting.

Meredith Milne, when Gideon was finally ushered into his presence, was more than a little taken aback, and to be honest, Gideon couldn't blame him. He must have felt rather like someone who, having issued a vague invitation to people met on holiday, suddenly finds the whole family on his doorstep less than a week later, suitcases in hand.

To Gideon's relief it had once more been Renson who answered the door. He'd a strong suspicion that from what he'd heard of the man, he wouldn't have found it so easy to bluff his way past Slade. As it was, he'd stepped in on Renson almost before the door was fully opened, saying that Milne was expecting him and that he'd be obliged if Renson would show him in.

At this point, finding his visitor already in the hall, Renson made his first mistake, that of shutting the front door behind him. He protested that Milne hadn't mentioned Gideon's visit, at which Gideon laughed and said he'd never met anyone as absentminded as Meredith. He'd then turned towards the nearest door and asked, `Is he in here?'

Thrown off balance again by Gideon's obvious intention to make himself free of the house, whatever his objections, Renson made his second mistake when he said, `No, not in there. He's in his studio,' and waved a hand towards the stairs.

Gideon immediately set off in that direction, allowing himself a small, secret smile as Renson hurried to follow him, protesting all the while.

Thus Milne found himself the recipient of a completely unexpected - and just as completely unwanted - guest, and being a man of solitary habit, he took no trouble to hide his annoyance.

`What in thunder are you doing here?' he demanded, his snowy brows lowering like stormclouds. He was wearing, as before, a much-stained painter's smock with a red and white kerchief knotted around his neck.

`I'm sorry, Mr Milne, I tried to stop him,' the hapless Renson began in his own defence, but Gideon cut in, ignoring him. `You invited me,' he informed Milne in tones of mild astonishnient. `Have you forgotten?'

`That's what he told me,' Renson asserted eagerly.

Milne also ignored him. `I did?' he asked Gideon, no longer totally sure of his ground.

`Of course you did. Just the other day. You told me - oh, I say,' he interrupted himself providentially, `isn't that the watercolour you exhibited at the Southampton Exhibition?' He transferred his whole attention to the massive harbour scene on the wall behind Milne.

The artist followed his gaze helplessly. `Er ... one of them, yes. In 'ninety-eight. You were there?'

'Not exhibiting,' Gideon replied with perfect truth. He had never been to the Southampton Exhibition in his life. Nautical art, while all right in small, select doses, was not really his cup of tea. Mentioning the exhibition had been a calculated gamble that had paid off. His foot was, metaphorically, in the door.

`Shall I call Slade?' Renson offered, vainly trying to win back a little favour.

`What? Are you still here?' Milne said testily, as if noticing him

for the first time. `Go on. Go away! Haven't you got anything else to do?'

Renson left.

Gideon looked around him at Milne's studio. It was impressive, to say the least. Everything that an artist's studio should be. It was a corner room that Gideon guessed had originally been a bedroom and light came into it by way of four large windows, two in each of the outside walls. Now it contained none of its original fittings beyond a huge vanity sink and mirror in one corner, and adjustable blinds had replaced the curtains. A range of work surfaces had been built in down one side, into which a stainless-steel sink and drainer unit had been plumbed. Under the work surfaces, wide shallow shelves held rolls of canvas, sheets of paper and mounting card of every conceivable hue, and on top, trays contained hundreds of tubes, pots and cakes of paint, brushes, pencils and pens. Palettes and mixing trays lay on the draining board, and several liquidholding receptacles were dotted about, along with bottles of turpentine, white spirit and linseed oil, and pots of varnish.

Paintings, sketches and photographs lined the upper parts of the walls, presumably to avoid the fading effects of direct sunlight, and countless dozens more lay in stacks against the inner walls. The man was prolific, if nothing else, one had to give him that.

Gideon wondered if he would feel more inspired to work if he had a studio like this one. With something that was akin to regret, he decided that it would probably make little difference. Art, whether good, bad or indifferent, had to be a calling and he just wasn't getting the shout. He had a feeling that with him it would always remain more of a whim than a compulsion.

Two or three works in progress stood about the room on easels and Gideon gestured towards the closest. `May I?'