Dark inheritance (23 page)

re be and laying her things in the trunks she had brought.
A glance at her watch told her it was too late to leave that day. The last train to London left at two and it would be impossible for her to catch it now. But she
went steadily on with her packing, feeling that she must
have something to occupy her, must do something towards getting away.

The idea of having lunch in the dining-room with Dominic was more than she could bear, and when she had packed everything except her essentials for the
night she went down to the kitchen to ask Emily for a
sandwich.

"Will you not be having your lunch, miss?"

"No, thank you, Emily, Pm not hungry. Just a sandwich and something hot to drink."

Her face was so set, her manner so strained, that the
woman did not argue. "Very well, then. Will you be having it in the dining-room?"

"No, no—I'll wait here until it's ready and take it upstairs myself."

A few minutes later, carrying a glass of hot milk in one hand and a plate of sandwiches in the other, she mounted the stairs again and had just reached the top
when she saw Dominic come out of his room. The glass
shook precariously, but she made as if to walk past him.

"Where are you going with that, Barbara?"

'To my room. I shan't be lunching in the dining-room. Pm leaving tomorrow by the morning train." He raised his eyebrows but said nothing and she continued:
"If Emily helps her, Aunt Ellie can manage on her own
until you find someone else. If you like I'll interview some people for you in London but I must get back. I can't stay here any longer."

"Very well," he said quietly. "I'll have the car take you to the station tomorrow."

"D—on't bother, thank you. I'll order the village taxi."

He opened his lips to say something, but she moved
past him into her room and he went on his way down
stairs.

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

BARBARA still could not bring herself to tell Aunt
Ellie she was going, and made up her mind to leave next
morning without letting her know, deciding to write and explain that she had been called away unexpectedly and
was finding her a new companion.

The old woman went downstairs again that evening and insisted on initiating her into the mysteries of bezique, but her mind was only half on the game and she
was glad when Aunt Ellie decided to go to bed. Dominic
had not put in an appearance the whole evening, and deciding that to go down to the drawing-room again might seem as if she were looking for him, Barbara
went along to her bedroom, undressed and settled down
with a book.

But the printed page could not hold her attention and
she drifted off into an uneasy doze, startled into wakefulness without knowing why. A glance at her watch told her it was nearly a quarter to one, and she closed her book, turned off the light and tried to fall asleep. But for some unaccountable reason she was seized with a feeling of disquiet, as though an unusual noise had roused her, and putting on her slippers and dressing-gown she crept out of the room and along the corridor.

The house was quiet except for the creak and groan of timber, and she was chiding herself for her imagination when she noticed a thin wedge of light coming from Aunt Ellie's room. Quietly she knocked on the door, but there was no reply and she turned the handle and went in. The old woman was lying across the bed and Emily was bending over her, agitation in every line of her figure.

"What's happened?" Babara whispered urgently.

"I heard a noise, miss—my room's right over this one —so I thought I'd better come down and see if anything
was wrong. I found her lying by the dressing-table and had to drag her across the floor to get her back. Will you help me put her into bed, miss? I think she must have fainted or had a heart attack."

Together they laid Miss Berrcsford between the sheets, and Barbara took one of the thin wrists in her hand, alarmed to find the pulse faint and erratic.

"I think we'd better call Mr. Rockwood. Will you go?"

"Very good, miss."

While Emily was gone Barbara's eyes travelled round
the room. She wondered why Aunt Ellie had gone over
to the dressing-table when everything she needed was within reach, and she moved across the room and stared
down at it.

Everything seemed in perfect order—the tortoiseshcll
hair-brushes, the small crystal bottles, the silver-framed photographs, the jewel box . . . but the jewel box was kept in the cupboard. Why was it on the dressing-table at all unless Aunt Ellie had got up and taken it out? On an impulse Barbara lifted the lid and drew back with a gesture of dismay. Apart from the opal brooch and necklace the box was empty! Gone were the diamond bracelets, the ruby earrings, the emerald brooch—everything had gone except the unlucky opals.

She closed the lid and swung round as Rockwood came hurrying into the room, looking strangely un
familiar in a dark-green dressing-gown, his face flushed
from sleep and his hair tousled.

"What's the matter with her?" he demanded.

"I'm not sure," she replied quietly. "I think she's had a heart attack or some kind of stroke."

He bent intently over the bed and looked down at the still figure, then without a word left the room and hurried downstairs to the telephone.

He returned a few moments later, his breath coming fast. "The doctor will be here in about a quarter of an hour. Have you any idea what could have caused it?"

Barbara hesitated. "I think it may have something t do with this." She opened the jewel-box and as the lid fell back disclosing its emptiness the man drew a sharp
breath.
-

"You think she just discovered it?"

"Yes. She loved her jewellery, you know, and when
she couldn't sleep had a habit of getting up and pinning
pieces to the coverlet so that she could look at them.
I expect that's what she was doing when she discovered
they'd been stolen."

There was a short silence. Then:

"I think I know now why my cousin departed so early in the morning!" Rockwood said grimly. "He must have crept in while she was still asleep, damn him! I might have known he'd do something like this out of revenge."

As he spoke there flashed into Barbara's mind the memory of Mark's letter. "I think you may be right," she said slowly. "He wrote to me a few days ago and asked me to apologize to Aunt Elite for what he had done. At the time I didn't understand, but now I think I do."

"I'd be obliged if you'd give me the letter," he said Stiffly.

"I'd rather not. if you don't mind. It was personal."
Rockwood's hatred of his cousin was strong enough without her letting him read Mark's veiled threats.

The heavy eyebrows rose sardonically. "I wasn't aware your relationship with my cousin had progressed to the stage of a private correspondence."

At that moment Emily hurried into the room followed
by the doctor, and Rockwood and Barbara went out
into the corridor while he made his examination. The
remained silently standing at the head of the stairs an the man took a cigarette out of his pocket, flicked his lighter, and drew the smoke in deeply, exhaling with slow deliberation. Barbara began to walk up an down the corridor, her mules clacking on the parquet flooring, and Rockwood leant against the lintel of the
door and followed her with his eyes, his expression on
of dispassionate scrutiny.

At last the door opened again and the doctor emerged. He was a short, spare man of about fifty
and obviously knew the family well for he took Dominic
aside with a gesture of genial familiarity and began to talk to him in a low undertone.

Barbara went back into the bedroom to find that Aunt Ellie had regained consciousness.

"Oh, Barbara, dear!" The thin voice held a note of anguish. "There's something I want to tell you,"

"Now don't excite yourself. Aunt Ellie. if it's about the jewellery I know already."

"And Dominic—does he know too?" Barbara nodded. "Is—is he very angry with me?"

"Why should I be angry with you, Aunt?" Rock-wood's deep voice was so close to Barbara's ear that
she was afraid to move in case she touched him, and
remained looking at Aunt Ellie, intensely conscious of the man at her side. "Of course I'm not angry," he went on soothingly. "We must have had a sneak-thief in the house without knowing it. But the jewellery's insured, so there's no need to worry. Now try to get
some sleep and I'll come and sec how you are in the
morning."

The grey head turned restlessly on the pillow. "I don't want to go to sleep. I want Barbara to stay with me."

"Barbara can't be expected to stay with you all night, Aunt."

"But I want her to." Tears filled the faded eyes.
"You must stay with me, Barbara. You promised you
would. You can't leave me now when I'm ill."

"I won't leave you, Aunt Ellie," Barbara murmured. "I'll stay until I'm sure you're asleep."

"I don't only mean tonight. I mean about your going to London. You told me a couple of weeks ago you wanted to leave but I can't bear it if you go away when I need you."

Barbara laid a cool hand on the fevered brow. "I won't leave until you're quite better, I promise. Now try to get some sleep."

Although Aunt Ellie's heart attack proved to have been quite mild the doctor warned that any shock or distress might bring on another, and Barbara had to abandon any idea of leaving next day. It was a hard decision to make, but the old woman's pitiful appeal left her no option.
The next few days passed in the activities of the sick
room and the old woman proved such a querulous
patient that Barbara was too tired to go downstairs for
dinner at night, but would have it sent up out a tray.
Hour after hour she would sit by Aunt Ellie's side, her
emotions too dulled by fatigue to be aware of Gina de Courcey's arrival at Crags' Height with anything
but the most apathetic interest, and although the visitor
sent along magazines and enormous baskets of fruit she never came near the sick-room.

It was not until Barbara went down for dinner at the end of the week that she saw her at all, and her first thought at the sight of the beautiful, elegant creature sitting in the dining-room was that she had found time in the midst of her grief to order mourning in the height of fashion.

"Why, hullo—it's Miss Mansfield, isn't it?" the silvery voice greeted her coolly.

"How are you, Mrs. Gilderstein?" Barbara said civilly. "I was so sorry to hear of your husband's death."

"Thank you." Gina lost none of her poise. "Poor Charles worked too hand, I'm afraid. The doctors
warned him to take it easy, but he was so obsessed with
this new show of mine that he wouldn't listen."

"What's going to happen to the show now?" Rock-
wood asked from the sideboard where has was pouring
drinks.

The slim shoulders lifted. "Heaven knows. I suppose
it'll be put off for the time being. At least there's one good thing about it, darling—I shan't need your money to back me now!"

Barbara turned away, shocked at the woman's cold
blooded effrontery. But the man appeared not to notice and moved across with a cocktail for her.

"Will you have a drink, Barbara?" Without waiting for a reply he handed her a glass and their hands met briefly before he drew back.

Gina crossed her legs, displaying exquisite black-shod feet with arched insteps to full advantage. "It's a long time since I've been here, Dominic. Crags' Height
hasn't changed a bit. I must confess I find it as gloomy as ever."

A flicker crossed his face, but Barbara could not
decide whether it was annoyance or agreement and he
merely smiled noncommittally.

Throughout the meal Gina addressed herself ex
clusively to her host, discussing theatrical personalities
with malicious candour and wit, and Barabara saw a new side to Rockwood—saw him as a quick repartee,
an amusing and easy conversationalist able to hold his
own with his lovely guest, and flirting with her with
deliberate gallantry.

"Just imagine it, darling," Gina was saying, "this perfectly unknown playwright asking me to take the
lead in his ridiculous play! Of course I turned it down—
it was far too drab for me—but apparently someone wrote music to it and not long afterwards it was put on as a light opera for Janine Gardner. The poor thing made a terrific come-back in it, although I still think she sings like a corncrake."