Dark Seduction (8 page)

She pressed the doorbell, heard it ring somewhere in the hollow rooms of the large, Edwardian house. After a few moments, she pressed it again, eventually hearing the pitter-patter of scurrying feet. The door opened wide and John appeared, unshaven. His eyes were dark smudges but his lips formed a smile that seemed incongruous to his shabby appearance.

“Melantha, I knew ...” When he saw Verity, the smile dropped from his face. “Oh, it's you.”

“John, are you all right?” She could smell brandy on his breath.

“Of course I am. What do you want?”

“Well, you could invite me in. It is raining out here.” She lifted her arms as if to indicate the obvious and wiped her face.

John begrudgingly shuffled back into the house, allowing her to enter.

“Make it quick, I'm waiting for someone to call.”

Verity gratefully slipped her coat off, creating a watery dot-to-dot picture on the tiled floor of the hallway. “Can we go into the living room so I can dry off?”

John looked pensive, chewing his lip. “What's this about?”

“You know damn well what it's about.”

“I haven't got time for this.”

“Well, make time. I'm not going anywhere until I've spoken to you.”

As if resigned to his sister's determination, John nodded his head and walked away into the bowels of the house. Verity shut the front door and followed.

She noticed that apart from a tatty settee and bottles of spirits, John's living room was empty; the curtains closed so that only a wan light filtered through.

“Where is everything?” She opened the curtains.

John collapsed onto the settee and picked up a brandy bottle, swallowing a good mouthful before he answered. “What business is it of yours?”

“What's happened here?” Verity sat down next to him. “Where are Margaret and the kids?”

He shook his head and took another drink. “What do you care? When was the last time you saw them? What do you want?”

Ignoring John's sarcastic attitude, she pressed on. “So where's Margaret?”

John forced a sound halfway between a laugh and a snort. “She's gone.”

“Gone!” Verity frowned. “Gone where?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“John, this isn't like you.”

“And how would you know what I'm like? You left years ago.”

“You know I didn't have a choice. Father was trying to run my life for me.”

“Well, he seemed to make a better job of it than you have. Look at you. What's this?” He grabbed the sleeve of her blue and yellow hemp top. “Don't you realise how stupid you look? When are you going to grow up?”

“I haven't come here for an argument.”

“Then what are you here for?”

“My father's dead. Didn't you think I deserved to be told?”

“Why are you so bothered? I thought you'd be glad.”

Verity pursed her lips. “Of course I didn't want him to die.”

“Whatever, now if you don't mind.” He made to stand and Verity grabbed his arm.

“John, please. Tell me what's happened to the money.”

“It’s gone. All gone.”

“Gone! Gone where?”

“What does it matter?”

“I just need to know what's going on. How did father meet this Melantha woman? Where's she from? Where is she now?”

“None of this is her fault.”

“I never said it was.”

“I love her, and I'll not listen to you accuse her of anything.”

Verity frowned. “Love her. How can you love her?”

“Because I do. This is none of your business.”

“Are you seeing her?” She waited for an answer, but John took another swig from the bottle. “Well, are you seeing her
? Is that
what this is all about? Is that why Margaret left?”

“Margaret didn't leave. I threw the bitch out.”

“For God’s sake, what's happened to you? Why would you throw her out?” She’d never heard her brother speak like this before. It scared her.

“What is this, twenty questions?”

“I'm worried about you.”

For a moment, she thought she had got through to him and he visibly relaxed his hostile stance. Then the barriers came back up.

“Just go, and shut the door on your way out.” He stood and walked out of the room. She heard him traipse up the stairs and a door slammed like a gunshot.

She took that as her cue to leave. It was futile trying to press her brother for answers when he was like this, so she grabbed her coat and walked out of the house and back into the rain. At the foot of the drive, she turned to look back, and saw her brother watching her from the upstairs window before he pulled the curtains across, making the house appear to be in mourning.

Verity walked away without looking back.

Peter lived on the outskirts of town, his dwelling smaller than John's, but no less impressive.

A crow regarded her with beady eyes from its chimney pot perch. The wind ruffled the bird’s feathers and it cawed before it took flight, rising on the wind to circle the house.

Verity walked up the path, braced herself, and then knocked on the wooden door.

After a moment, she heard her brother say, “Who is it?”

“Peter, it's me, Verity.”

Silence.

“Peter, open the door please.”

“Go away. There's nothing for you here.”

Verity couldn't understand what was going on. Why was everyone treating her this way? What had she done that was so bad? Her life had been ruined, not theirs. She wandered around to the kitchen window and peered in. Everything seemed normal. Walking further around, she peered through the dining room window. Like John's house, it looked bare of furniture, a house without possessions, like a body without organs, devoid of life and character.

She wasn’t going to get any answers here when he wouldn’t even answer the door.

Her only lead was the name of a village on a crumpled piece of burnt paper. Although not much, it was better than nothing.

CHAPTER 11

Verity stepped out of the taxi and looked up and down Trinity’s
windswept high street. If ever there was a one-horse town, this was it, she thought.

Rocky outcrops in the distance looked like gravestones and she shivered and tried to shake off the morbid thought, but she couldn't because it made her realise she didn't know if anyone had arranged a headstone for her father. She felt a twinge of guilt that she tried hard to dampen.

Made out of huge granite blocks, the houses looked like giant Lego pieces. Grey, slate tiles adorned the roofs. Lichen covered walls on some of the buildings making it appear nature was trying to assert herself. None of the buildings looked newer than two hundred years old; each of them appeared nondescript with nothing to differentiate from the one next to it. From where she stood, Verity spotted a public house, a bakery, a convenience store and an undertaker’s. It wasn't exactly Oxford Street.

She took her bag out of the car and paid the taxi driver. She watched as the vehicle sped away along the street, and felt very foolish. What was she doing here? Good God, she must be going senile.

She shook her head and walked to the Salvation public house, opened the door and stepped inside.

A fire blazed in the hearth, the heat from which hit her like that from an open oven door. After only a few steps, sweat prickled on her forehead and she wiped her brow.

She approached the bar, above which hung brass plaques and a black-barrelled blunderbuss. The few patrons in the bar sat at round wooden tables. Mostly tourists, she thought, identifiable by their hiking boots, thick jumpers, and the cagoules and wet weather clothing hanging on the backs of the chairs to dry in the heat from the fire.

The barman rose from his seat, smiled warmly and rolled his sleeves up.

“Rum weather out there. What can I get you?” he asked.

Verity dropped her bag on the ground. “I was wondering if you had a room available.”

The man nodded his head and pointed to a sign on the wall that read: Rooms available. His ruddy cheeks glowed in the firelight, almost the same shade as his curly ginger hair. “How long do you want to stay for?”

“I'm not really sure. Can I say a couple of nights and then see how it goes?”

“No problem.”

He told her the price, then took a few details and a deposit before she signed the register. Then he showed her to a small room on the first floor with a single bed (a double bed would have nearly filled the room), small dressing table, a cupboard and an on-suite bathroom. It wasn't the Ritz, but it would suffice as somewhere to begin her search.

Despite the slight mould on the bathroom tiles, she took a quick shower and then dressed in a pair of black Lycra leggings beneath a red tie-dyed dress. Finally, she pulled on a baggy purple cardigan and then wandered down to the bar.

A few of the people in residence scrutinised her before returning their attention to their drinks.

Verity sat on a barstool and ordered half a pint of cider.

“Is the room okay?” the barman asked as he poured the drink.

“It's fine thank you.” After a moment, she said, “I don't suppose you could help me?”

“That depends on what you want.”

“Well, I'm looking for someone that might be in this village.”

The barman cocked his head.

“It's a woman called Melantha.”

“We’re only a small village, and I don’t know anyone of that name. Sorry love.” He put the drink in front of her and took the money, returning a moment later with her change.

Drink in hand, Verity walked to a table by the window where she sat, watching the world outside. Was Melantha here? Perhaps the letter was nothing. Perhaps she was clutching at straws.

“You a friend of hers?”

“Pardon?” Verity turned to face the bald-headed man who’d spoken. Dressed in a sombre grey suit too big for his frame, he sat at the next table, nursing a pint of bitter in his hands. Dark skinned, his wrinkled face showed signs of age, and his dark eyes held a lively twinkle. Apart from a few hairs sticking out of his ears, the only hair on his head was a straggly grey moustache.

“This gypsy woman, you a friend of hers?” he asked.

“I never said she was a gypsy, so you must know her. Is she here?” Verity's heart skipped a beat.

The man chomped his lips as though chewing something, and when he spoke, his false teeth almost fell out. “She's bad blood.”

“Bad blood?”

The man supped his drink and nodded his head. “You'll rue the day you met her.” He sucked air between his teeth, as though trying to stop them falling out again.

“No, she’ll rue the day she met me when I find her. So where is she?”