Lady of Hay (80 page)

She was sobbing hysterically, clinging to Nick’s sweater.

Quietly Carl Bennet turned to the case he had brought with him. He swung it onto the coffee table and, opening the lid, produced a hypodermic syringe. “Hold her still,” he commanded in an undertone. “I’m going to give her a shot to make her sleep.”

Nick caught Jo’s wrists gently. “Come on, love,” he said. His voice was shaking violently. “I will spare you. I will…”

She did not seem to notice as Bennet pushed up her sleeve, swabbing quickly and efficiently before he inserted the needle in her arm. Within seconds her fingers loosened on Nick’s sweater and she slumped at his feet.

For a moment he could not move. His throat ached with anguish. Carl patted his shoulder gently. “I’ll help you carry her to bed. I’ve given her thirty-five cc’s of Valium. That will knock her out for several hours. When she wakes she will be all right.”

Nick pulled himself together with difficulty. “You’re sure?”

“Quite sure.” Carl’s smile was brisk and reassuring. “I’ll come back about”—he glanced at his watch—“about ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I would like your permission then to rehypnotize her and very strongly implant the suggestion that she never take part in any regressions again, induced by others or by herself. I think it will work this time. She is sufficiently afraid of the consequences to cooperate.” He stooped and lifted Jo’s shoulders from the floor. “Come, help me put her to bed.”

Carefully they laid Jo on the bed. Nick removed her sandals and covered her with a blanket, then, smoothing her hair back from her face, he kissed her gently on the forehead. Five minutes later he had shown Carl Bennet out. After pouring himself a gin, he went to the French windows and pushed them open. The sky was still completely black above the glare of the streetlights around the square. The air was cold and fresh, cutting through his thin sweater, making him shiver. It was clean though. Clean and good and it bore the hint of rain.

He turned his back on the window and threw himself down on the sofa. Tomorrow—no, today—it would all be over. Jo would be made to forget any of this had ever happened. But he would remember. He and Sam, and Tim.

Poor Tim. With a groan he stood up, glancing at his watch, then he dialed the hospital.

“May I ask who is inquiring?” the impersonal voice on the other end of the wire said in response to his question after a series of clicks and silences.

Nick spelled out his name patiently. “I was at the hospital earlier,” he said. “Tim is a very old friend.”

“I’m sorry, then, Mr. Franklyn.” The voice suddenly became compassionate. “But I have bad news, I’m afraid. Mr. Heacham never regained consciousness after the operation. He died at a quarter to three.”

39

Sam braced himself against the aircraft seat and closed his eyes. He hated the moment of take-off—the pressure against his body as the plane accelerated, the speeding tarmac beneath the wheels, turning into a blur outside the window that defied eyesight, the knowledge that he was trapped, strapped into the fuselage as it hurtled forward out of his control, bearing him helplessly to whatever destination it chose. He focused his eyes desperately on the No Smoking sign, waiting for the slight bump that would indicate they had left the ground.

His head was whirling. A monumental hangover, no doubt, though he couldn’t remember drinking anything at all. He remembered walking up Park Lane as dawn was breaking. It had started to rain and he had thrown back his head to feel the cool droplets on his face. Exhausted, he had reached the apartment at last. Nick was still out, presumably at his office party.

Sam meticulously packed all his things, checking for anything left behind. Then he turned out the lights and drew back the curtains on the gray early morning. Outside it was raining hard.

Before he left the apartment he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the crucifix. He stared at it for a long time, then he kissed it gently and stood it on Nick’s writing desk, propped against the lamp. He stood looking at it for several seconds, then, crossing himself, he turned for the door. After slamming it, he slipped the keys through the letter box, then he made his way toward the stairs. He still needed to walk, exhausted though he was. He would walk now, through the rain, to Green Park Station and take the Piccadilly line to Heathrow. Only at the last minute had he turned his back on the Edinburgh flight and asked instead for a standby ticket to Paris. He had no reason to think that Judy would tell the police about the fracas in her studio, but if she did, perhaps it would be better if he made himself scarce for the time being. He smiled grimly as he reached for his American Express card and then slowly made his way toward the departure lounge.

He leaned toward the window and stared out at the landscape of miniature houses and roads, so meticulous, so square, laid out beneath the steadily climbing plane. Then there were meadows and the silver curve of the river. For a second he caught sight of the majestic towers of Windsor Castle, then the plane sliced up into the soft, enveloping down of cloud. Sam sat back and unfastened his seat belt and for the first time thought of Jo.

He closed his eyes again, feeling icy sweat drench his shoulders. He had abandoned her. He had sent her to Corfe and abandoned her. He had failed. Once more he had fled. Fled to France. And so history was to repeat itself after all.

He could feel the ironical laughter welling up inside him. For a moment he tried to stop it, fighting the explosion building up inside his chest, then he pressed his head back against the seat and opened his mouth to let the sound escape. It came out as a huge heart-rending sob. Within seconds his face was coursing with tears.

***

It was eight o’clock when Nick looked in on Jo. He stood watching her tenderly, tucking the blanket more tightly around her deeply sleeping form, then he stooped and kissed her gently and lingeringly on the lips. “Jo, my love,” he whispered. “I’m going to the office to pick up the contracts, then I’m coming straight back. Can you hear me, Jo?”

She did not move. He could see the blue veins on her eyelids, the almost transparent quality of her skin against the vivid dark hair with its hints of chestnut on the white pillowcase.

“I’ll be back in forty minutes, Jo, I promise,” he whispered again. “Then I won’t leave you again.”

Outside the front door he hesitated for a moment. Should he run upstairs and ask the Chandler woman to come and sit with Jo until he got back? He glanced up at the dim stairwell, barely lit by the rain-splashed skylight three floors above, then he began to run downstairs. Jo was still deeply asleep. Dr. Bennet had said she would be out for at least eight hours. He would fly to the office in a cab, grab the contracts and outline presentations, and be back before nine.

***

As the door closed behind him, Jo opened her eyes. Her head was spinning and she felt violently sick. Fighting to make her heavy limbs move, she climbed out of bed and made her way to the bathroom.

Forty minutes, Nick had said. Just forty minutes to get away.

She stood under the cold shower until she was shaking but wide awake. After toweling herself dry, she dragged on her jeans and a thick sweater, then she drank a mug of scalding black coffee. The caffeine hit her like a hammer and she felt it jolt her system, making her heart palpitate uncomfortably as she groped on the shelf for a road map.

She took a denim jacket, a scarf, and her bag with the map, then looked for the keys of the Porsche. They were still there where she had dropped them on the desk. With a faint smile she slipped the key ring over her finger and let herself out of the apartment. It was eight twenty-seven.

Nick returned at eight forty-five, paying off the cab and running up the stairs to the apartment two at a time. He knew she must be awake as soon as he opened the door. He could smell coffee, and the lamp on her desk was switched on.

“Jo?” With a little stab of unease he slammed the front door and put his pile of folders down on a chair. “Where are you?”

He knew instinctively that the apartment was empty, but even so he searched it, throwing open the bedroom door and staring at the bed, where the blankets on the floor showed the speed with which she had gotten up. Her dress was lying on the bathroom floor, the shower in the bath still dripping where she had failed to turn it off properly.

He leaned over and tightened the tap, then he turned back to the living room. The notebooks on her desk were haywire as if she had been searching for something. He pulled one toward him, running his eyes down the page of close writing. One line caught his eye.

Matilda and her son were sent to a dungeon at Windsor
. Jo had crossed out Windsor so hard that her pen had torn through the paper. Over it she had written
Corfe
.

He went cold. He ran to the French doors, tore at the handle, and flung the door open so he could step out onto the balcony. The rain was pouring down now, splashing up from the flowerpots, drenching the passion flower till it hung in heavy garlands away from the wall. Leaning over the balustrade, Nick squinted down into the street to look for his car. He had noticed it earlier as he ran for a taxi and debated swiftly whether to go back for his keys. Then a taxi had cruised past and slowed as he flagged it down, and he had forgotten the car. God, how he wished now he had taken it! The parking space was empty.

His hands shook as he dialed Bennet’s home number. “I know I was a fool to leave her, but she was asleep and I had to fetch these damn contracts. She’s taken my car.”

There was a brief silence. “She will be in no condition to drive. Do you know where she might have gone?”

“Corfe.” Nick’s fingers drummed on the phone. “That’s down in Dorset on the coast somewhere, I think. I’ve never been there. But it must be three or four hours’ drive at least.”

“I’ll bring my car and come and collect you,” Bennet said briefly. “How much start has she got?”

“It can’t be more than half an hour.”

“Another half hour before I pick you up. That makes her an hour ahead of us. Be ready!” Bennet slammed down the phone.

***

In her hotel room just outside Frome Ann Clements stared out at the rain and groaned. She hated driving in bad weather. It took all the joy out of it. She looked at the boxes of pamphlets on the bed. She had been a fool to unload them from the van the night before. She had been so afraid they might be stolen from the parking lot, but now she was going to have to carry them back through the rain. She had collected them the day before from the printer, now she had to get them to London. She made a face. London in wet weather was worse, if possible, than London in the sun, and she didn’t even know anyone to go to the theater with.

She stopped in her tracks. Jo.

The phone was answered after just one ring. She grinned, sitting down on the bed as she inserted her diary, with Jo’s number, back into its place in the huge straw tote bag. “Well, hi, Nick. How are you both?”

His reaction was less than reassuring. “Ann. It’s not good. Jo’s in a bad way.”

“I’m sorry.” Ann could hear the depression in his voice as she slumped back onto the bed. “I was calling to say I’d be in London this afternoon. I wondered if I could come over and see you both. I’ll still come if I can help. I came down to Frome last night and now I’m—”

“Did you say Frome?” Nick’s voice cut through hers. “Frome in Somerset?”

“Well, I’m just outside the town actually—”

“Ann. Please, you’ve got to help. Jo is on her way to Corfe. You know what that means. She mustn’t be there on her own, Ann. I’m leaving now to follow her but she’s got my car and it’s fast. Can you get there? Please?”

“Why, sure.” Ann stood up anxiously. “But where is Corfe?”

“It’s in Dorset. Nearly on the coast. It can’t be more than an hour from where you are. Have you got a good map?”

“Yes, but the old van doesn’t go very fast.”

“Ann, I don’t care how fast it goes. You can be there before us. Please.”

Ann took a deep breath. “Okay, Nick, I’m on my way.”

She slammed down the phone and turned to look at the boxes. Damn the things! They would take at least ten minutes to load.

***

Jo peered through the windshield, fighting the heaviness in her eyelids as the long wipers drew great arcs on the rainswept glass. Back and forth. Back and forth. The road stretched out endlessly, the verges beyond the windows blurred gold and mauve with wet ragwort and rosebay, the visibility ahead cut to nothing by the heavy spray thrown up by trucks as they thundered westward.

Once she pulled in at a service station and filled the car with gas. In the bright garish cafe next door she ordered a cup of black coffee and sat at the plastic-covered table, staring at a jam jar full of ox-eye daisies. She ached with fatigue. The long drive through the heavy Saturday morning traffic, the strange muzzy feeling in her head, above all the knowledge, unquestioning and certain, that she had to make the journey, overwhelmed her. She did not think of the future, or of the past. Her mind was drained and empty. She drank the coffee quickly, barely tasting it, and stood up. There was still a long way to go. Wearily she climbed back into the car and headed once more toward the southwest.

The traffic slowed, crawling past some roadworks, then on again, plunging into the New Forest, speeding up as it swept on, then abruptly the highway ended and she found herself impatiently driving down narrowed roads, her speed held in check by the double white line. The rain was still heavy, the windshield wipers endlessly working. On and on. Back and forth. With a sudden shot of adrenaline in her stomach she realized the Porsche had drifted toward the opposite side of the road. She dragged it back as an oncoming car, its lights blazing, blasted her with its horn.

Keep awake. She must keep awake.

She peered at a signpost as it flashed toward her out of the silver streaks of rain and vanished before her eyes had time to focus.

Through Wareham, where she was forced to stop three times at traffic lights, chewing her nails, as the car stood waiting its turn to move, then at last on up the last miles of narrow road.

Corfe Castle loomed on a hill in a gap among the Purbeck Hills, the high fingers of its broken towers reaching up toward the sky, stark sentinels, visible a mile away above the trees, on the narrow, winding road. Jo slowed the car with a jolt of fear. The rain had stopped at last and streaks of vivid blue were showing in the sky to the south. In the rays of sunlight the colors were vivid. Dazzling white convolvulus trailing through the hedges, heather on the sandy verges a brilliant purple, and everywhere the trees washed to deep emerald by the glitter of the sun. Within minutes steam was rising from the tarmac and strings of mist were spiraling up from the trees.

She drove, slowly now, around the foot of the castle hill, staring up with a dry throat at the towering white ruins above her, then she drew up in the center of the old stone village south of the castle and, pushing open the car door, climbed out in a daze.

Slowly she walked toward the ruins, her eyes fixed on the walls ahead of her, and over the bridge and beneath the shadow of the entrance gatehouse. There she was brought up short by the ticket kiosk and a turnstile. A man was staring at her and dimly she realized he wanted some money. She had to pay to get in! A wave of hysterical laughter swept through her and was gone as soon as it had come, as, still in a daze, she groped in the pocket of her jeans and found a pound coin. Then at last she was inside the walls, walking up the steep, narrow tarmac path toward the grotesquely broken towers of the Martyr’s Gate.

The castle was still comparatively deserted after the rain, but she noticed little. She did not see the ancient stones, reduced by Cromwell’s sappers to their present state of ruin, nor see the wildflowers, the thistles, the yarrow, the ragwort, the wild marjoram, or the festoons of clinging ivy. She did not see the blue sky, or the white Purbeck stone with its gray shadow of lichen. Her eyes were growing dark.