Hungry as the Sea (30 page)

Peter’s eyes grew enormous as he listened, never leaving her face except to demand of Nicholas, “Is that true, Dad?” And when the story was told, he was silent for a long moment before announcing, “I’m going to be a tug captain when I’m big.” Then he showed Samantha how to spread strawberry jam on her muffins in the correct way, and chewing together heartily with cream on their lips the two of them became fast friends, and Nicholas joined their chatter more easily, smiling his thanks to Samantha and reaching under the table to squeeze her hand.

He had to end it at last. “Listen, Peter, if we are to make Lynwood by five –” and the boy sobered instantly.

“Dad, couldn’t you telephone Mother? She might just let me spend the weekend in London with you.”

“I already tried that.” Nick shook his head. “It didn’t work,” and Peter stood up, his feeling choked by an expression of stoic resignation.

From the back of Nick’s Mercedes 450 Coupe the boy leaned forward into the space between the two bucket seats, and the three of them were very close in the snug interior of the speeding car, their laughter that of old friends.

It was almost dark when Nicholas turned in through Lynwood’s stone gateway, and he glanced at the luminous dial of his Rolex. We’ll just make it. The drive climbed the hill in a series of broad even curves through the carefully tended woods, and the three-storied Georgian country house on the crest was ablaze with light in every window.

Nick never came here without that strange hollow feeling in the bottom of his stomach. Once this had been his home, every room, every acre of the grounds had its memories, and now, as he parked under the white colummed portico, they came crowding back.

“I have finished the model Spitfire you sent me for Christmas, Dad.” Peter was playing desperately for time now. “Won’t you come up and see it?”

“I don’t think so –” Nicholas began, and Peter blurted out before he could finish. “It’s all right, Uncle Duncan won’t be here. He always comes down late from London on Friday nights, and his Rolls isn’t in the garage yet.”

Then, in a tone that tore at Nick like thorns, “Please… won’t see you again until Easter.”

“Go,” said Samantha. “I’ll wait here.” And Peter turned on her, “You come too, Sam, please.”

Samantha felt herself infected by that fatal curiosity, the desire to see, to know more of Nick’s past life; she knew he was going to demur further, but she forestalled him, slipping quickly out of the Mercedes. “Okay, Pete, let’s go.” Nick must follow them up the broad steps to the double oaken doors, and he felt himself carried along on a tide of events over which he had no control. It was a sensation that he never relished.

In the entrance hall Samantha looked around her quickly, feeling herself overcome by awe. It was so grand, there was no other word to describe the house. The stair way reached up the full height of the three storeys, and the broad staircase was in white marble with a marble balustrade, while on each side of the hall, glass doors opened on to long reception rooms. But she did not have a chance to look further, for Peter seized her hand and raced her up the staircase, while Nick followed them up to Peter’s room at a more sedate pace.

The Spitfire had place of honour on the shelf above Peter’s bed. He brought it down proudly, and they examined it with suitable expressions of admiration. Peter responded to their praise like a flower to the sun.

When at last they descended the staircase, the sadness and restraint of parting was on them all, but they were stopped in the centre of the hall by the voice from the drawing-room door on the left. “Peter, darling.” A woman stood in the open doorway, and she was even more beautiful than the photograph that Samantha had seen of her.

Dutifully Peter crossed to her. “Good evening, Mother.” She stooped over him, cupping his face in her hands, and she kissed him tenderly, then she straightened, holding his hand so he was ranged at her side, a subtle drawing of boundaries.

“Nicholas,” she tilted her head, “you look marvelous so brown and fit.” Chantelle Alexander was only a few inches taller than her son, but she seemed to fill and light the huge house with a shimmering presence, the way a single beautiful bird can light a dim forest.

Her hair was dark and soft and glowing, and the huge dark sloe eyes were a legacy from the beautiful Persian noblewoman that old Arthur Christy had married for her fortune, and come to love with an obsessive passion. She was dainty. Her tiny, narrow feet peeped from below the long, dark green silk skirt, and the exquisite little hand that held Peter’s was emphasized by a single deep throbbing green emerald the size of a ripe acorn.

Now she turned her head on the long graceful neck, and her eyes took the slightly oriental slant of a modern-day Nefertiti as she looked at Samantha. For seconds only, the two women studied each other, and Samantha’s chin came up firmly as she looked into those deep dark gazelle eyes, touched with all the mystery and intrigue of the East. They understood each other instantly. It was an intuitive flash, like a discharge of static electricity, then Chantelle smiled, and when she smiled the impossible happened – she became more beautiful than before.

“May I present Dr. Silver?” Nick began, but Peter tugged at his mother’s hand.

“I asked Sam to see my model. She’s a marine biologist, and she’s a professor at Miami University –”

“Not yet, Pete,” Samantha corrected him, “but give me time.”

“Good evening, Dr. Silver. It seems you have made a conquest.” Chantelle let the statement hang ambiguously as she turned back to Nick.

“I was waiting for you, Nicholas, and I’m so glad to have a chance to speak to you.” She glanced again at Samantha. I do hope you will excuse us for a few minutes, Dr. Silver. It is a matter of some urgency. Peter will be delighted to entertain you. As a biologist, you will find his guinea pigs of interest, I’m sure. The commands were given so graciously, by a lady in such control of her situation, that Peter went to take Samantha’s hand and lead her away.

It was one of the customs of Lynwood that all serious discussion took place in the study. Chantelle led the way, and went immediately to the false-fronted bookcase that concealed the liquor cabinet, and commenced the ritual of preparing a drink for Nicholas. He wanted to stop her. It was something from long ago, recalling too much that was painful, but instead, he watched the delicate but precise movements of her hands pouring exactly the correct measure of Chivas Royal Salute into the crystal glass, adding the soda and the single cube of ice.

“What a pretty young girl, Nicholas.” He said nothing. On the ornate Louis Quatorze desk was a silver-framed photograph of Duncan Alexander and Chantelle together, and he looked away and moved to the fireplace, standing with his back to the blaze as he had done on a thousand other evenings.

Chantelle brought the glass to him, and stood close, looking up at him – and her fragrance touched a deep nostalgic chord. He had first bought Calkhe for her on a spring morning in Paris; with an effort he forced the memory aside.

“What did you want to speak to me about, is it Peter?”

“No. Peter is doing as well as we can hope for, in the circumstances, He still resents Duncan –” but she shrugged, and moved away. He had almost forgotten how narrow was her waist, he would still be able to span it with both hands.

“It’s hard to explain, but it’s Christy Marine, Nicholas. I desperately need the advise of someone I can trust.”

“You can trust me?” he asked.

“Isn’t it strange? I would still trust you with my life.” She came back to him, standing disconcertingly close, enveloping him with her scent and heady beauty. He sipped at the whisky to distract himself. “Even though I have no right to ask you, Nicholas, still I know you won’t refuse me, will you?” She wove spells, he could feel the mesh falling like gossamer around him.

“I always was a sucker, wasn’t I?” Now she touched his arm. “No, Nicholas, please don’t be bitter.” She held his gaze directly.

“How can I help you?”

Her touch on his arm disturbed him, and, sensing this, she increased the pressure of her fingers for a moment, then lifted her hand and glanced at the slim white gold Piaget on her wrist. “Duncan will be home soon - and what I have to tell you is long and complicated. Can we meet in London early next week?”

“Chantelle,” he began.

“Nicky, please.”
Nicky
, she was the only one who ever called him that. it was too familiar, too intimate.

“When?”

“You are meeting Duncan on Tuesday morning to discuss the arbitration of
Golden Adventurer
.”

“Yes.”

“Will you call me at Eaton square when you finish? I’ll wait by the telephone.”

“Chantelle –”

“Nicky, I have nobody else to turn to.” He had never been able to refuse her – which was part of the reason he had lost her, he thought wryly.

There was no engine noise, just the low rush of air past the body of the Mercedes.

“Damn these seats, they weren’t made for lovers,” Samantha said.

“We’ll be home in an hour.”

“I don’t know if I can wait that long,” Samantha whispered huskily.” I want to be closer to you.” And they were silent again, until they slowed for the weekend traffic through Hammersmith. “Peter is a knockout. if only I were ten years old, I’d cash in my dolls.”

“My guess is he would swop his Spitfire.”

“How much longer?”

“Another half hour.”

“Nicholas, I feel threatened,” her voice had a sudden panicky edge to it. “I have this terrible foreboding –”

“That’s nonsense.”

“It’s been too good – for too long.”

Chapter 18

James Teacher was the head of Salmon Peters and Teacher, the lawyers that Nick had retained for Ocean Salvage. He was a man with a formidable reputation in the city, a leading expert on maritime law and a tough bargainer. He was florid and bald, and so short that his feet did not touch the floorboards of the Bentley when he sat on the back seat.

He and Nick had discussed in detail where this preliminary meeting with Christy Marine should be held, and at last they had agreed to go to the mountain, but James Teacher had insisted on arriving in his chocolate-coloured Bentley, rather than a cab.

“Smoked salmon, Mr. Berg, not fish and chips – that’s what we are after.”

Christy House was one of those conservative smoke stained stone buildings fronted on to Leadenhall Street, the centre of Britain’s shipping industry. Almost directly opposite was Trafalgar House, and a hundred yard’s further was Lloyd’s of London.

The doorman crossed the pavement to open Nicholas’ door. “Good to see you again, Mr. Berg sir!”

“Hello, Alfred. You taking good care of the shop?”

“Indeed, sir.”

The following cab, containing James Teacher’s two juniors and their bulky briefcases, pulled up behind the Bentley and they assembled on the pavement like a party of raiding Vikings before the gates of a medieval city. The three lawyers settled their bowler hats firmly and then moved forward determinedly in spearhead formation.

In the lobby, the doorman passed them on to a senior clerk who was waiting by the desk.

“Good morning, Mr. Berg. You are looking very well, sir.” They rode up at a sedate pace in the elevator with its antique steel concertina doors. Nicholas had never brought himself to exchange them for those swift modern boxes.

And the clerk ushered them out on to the top-floor landings “Will you follow me, please, gentlemen?” There was an antechamber that opened on to the board room, a large room, panelled and hung with a single portrait of old Arthur Christy on the entrance wall – fit jaw and sharp black eyes under beetling white eyebrows.

A log fire burned in the open grate, and there was sherry and Madeira in crystal decanters on the central table another one of the old min’s little traditions – that both James Teacher and Nick refused curtly.

They waited quietly, standing facing the door into the Chairman’s suite.

They waited for exactly four minutes before the door was thrown open and Duncan Alexander stepped through it. His eyes flicked across the room and settled instantly on Nick, locking with his, like the horns of two great bull buffalo, and the room was very still.

The lawyers around Nick seemed to shrink back and the men behind Duncan Alexander waited, not yet following him into the antechamber, but all of them watched and waited avidly; this meeting would be the gossip of the city for weeks to come.  It was a classic confrontation, and they wanted to miss not a moment of it.

Duncan Alexander was a strikingly good-looking man, very tall, two inches taller than Nick, but slim as a dancer, and he carried his body with a dancer’s control. His face also was narrow, with the long lantern jaw of a young Lincoln, already chiselled by life around the eyes and at the corners of the mouth. His hair dense and a metallic blond; though he wore it fashionably long over the ears, yet it was so carefully groomed that each gleaming wave seemed to have been sculptured.

His skin was smooth and tanned darker than his hair, sun lamp or skiing at Chantelle’s lodge at Gstaad perhaps, and now when he smiled his teeth were dazzlingly white, perfect large teeth in the wide friendly mouth – but the eyes did not smile though they crinkled at the corners.

Duncan Alexander watched from behind the handsome face like a sniper in ambush.

“Nicholas,” he said, without moving forward or offering a hand.

“Duncan,” said Nick quietly, not answering the smile, and Duncan Alexander adjusted the hang of his lapel. His clothes were beautifully cut, and the cloth was the finest, softest wool, but there were foppish little touches: the hacking slits in the tails of the jacket, the double-flapped pockets, and the waistcoat in plum-coloured velvet, Now he touched the buttons with his fingertips, another little distracting gesture, the only evidence of any discomfort.

Nicholas stared at him steadily, trying to measure him dispassionately, and now for the first time he began to see how it might have happened. There was a sense of excitement about the man, a wicked air of danger, the fascination of the leopard – or some other powerful predator. Nick could understand the almost irresistible attraction he had for women, especially for a spoiled and bored lady, a matron of thirteen years who believed there was still excitement and adventure in life that she was missing.