When Shadows Fall (42 page)

And then he froze.

The front door had opened. There were footsteps on the floor below.

Swearing, he thrust the papers back inside the cabinet and slid the drawer closed. He pushed Duncan’s chair back in place and made his way out to the stairs.

“Hello?” he called.

There was no answer. He peered below and saw a pool of shadow move across the floor.

“Who’s there?” he demanded.

Someone took a sharp intake of breath. A female sound.

He cursed and marched downstairs. “Who’s there? Is that—? Oh, dear. It’s you. I’m sorry.”

Lydia was standing by the door, white-faced. She took a faltering step back. “Mr. Bowen! Thank goodness, I thought there was an intruder.”

“Lydia,” he sighed. “Didn’t you go home?”

“Yes, sir. But I forgot my scarf, and it’s begun to rain again outside, so I just thought to fetch it.” She hesitated. “You’re, um, you’re late in the office, Mr. Bowen. Can I help with anything?”

Adam didn’t answer.

He was staring towards her desk. Lydia hadn’t noticed it yet, but he’d left her drawer pulled wide open, the one he’d forced with the paper clip. “Er,” he stuttered, “no, I’m fine, Lydia. You run along home now. It’s getting late.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” She put her hat back on and then moved towards the desk.

“Where are you going?” He moved quickly to place his body in her way. “Don’t worry, I’ll lock up the building.”

“Oh, yes, sir. Just going to tidy up my things before I leave, a force of habit.”

“But you’ve tidied them already, haven’t you?” Adam forced his mouth into a smile. “All work and no play . . . you should be away having fun for the night.” At any instant she would look beyond his shoulder, see the drawer open, the keys removed.

“Sir?” She gazed at him nervously. “Are you all right, sir?”

“Yes!” He guffawed. “Perfectly so.”

“Er, that’s good, sir. Now, if I could just get by you to my things, and then I’ll be on my way.”

“Lydia.” He leaned across and rested one hand on the desk to block her view. With his other hand he rubbed his chin in a poise of thought. “Lydia. Oh, Lydia.”

Her eyes widened. “Sir?”

“Lydia, has anybody ever told you how beautiful you are?”

It was a crude stroke, but the fastest one he could think of.

She spluttered in mortification. “Sir! No, I mean—I mean, I should be leaving now.”

“So soon?” He grinned in relief and to encourage her on her way, he reached across and lifted a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “Oh well, it was worth a try.”

She shivered under his touch. Then she whispered, “Once, somebody did tell me that, sir. But it wasn’t you.”

“Hmm?”

Subtly she moved a little closer. The embarrassment in her cheeks had gone, replaced by a brave twinkle in her eye. “It means more that you have said it, sir.”

This is backfiring.

He shifted his feet to keep space between them. But with Lydia’s attention now solely on him, he was able to slip one hand behind his back, deposit the keys, and nudge the drawer closed. He relaxed.

“Lydia,” he gathered himself, “it was rude of me to speak like that. You must excuse my impulsive actions. Please, don’t let me detain you any longer.”

“I’m not offended, sir,” she said, lifting her head to his. “I’ve often thought about you.”

The front door opened.

Allister squinted in the faint lamplight. “What on earth—”

Adam was still leaning with one arm on the desk, Lydia’s face just inches from his. Allister breathed slowly.

“My good God. I had thought the place empty.”

Adam groaned inwardly. “Can’t anyone go home? I mean, Allister,” he coughed, “what are you doing here?”

“I should rather ask you the same question,” Allister replied. “I didn’t even know you were back. Might I enquire what was happening just before I entered?”

Lydia’s face burned blazing red, as though she’d been scalded. She pulled away. “Mr. Bowen. Nothing, Mr. Bowen. I-I just came back to get my scarf. I’m late already, my parents will start to worry.” With shaking hands she scooped up her handbag, bustled past the glaring Allister, and left the office.

Allister looked in her wake for several seconds before his gaze slid back to Adam. “What was going on?”

“Really, Allister,” Adam sighed. “What is it you think you saw?”

“I saw
you
,” he hissed. “And I didn’t think you could stoop so low. You were—you were
touching
her.”

Adam was in no mood for more pretence. “Well, you’re the expert on moral behaviour, brother. I’m going now.”

“What? You stay where you are. What do you mean by that?”

“Never mind.”

“I don’t,” Allister took a deep breath to gather his dignity, “I don’t know what you
think
you saw that time, at my apartment. But whatever it is, you’re wrong. And I won’t suffer your lies being spread about me. I won’t! Do you hear me?”

Adam fetched his coat and hat from the stand. “Your own business is your own business. Nothing to do with me.”

“How dare you! Adam, if you even try to—well, I’ll, I’ll . . . ”

“Good night, Allister,” Adam said. “See you in the morning.” He shut the door behind him.

Allister’s apartment on Merrion Street was a well-appointed, two-storey unit with a living area that overlooked the park lake in St. Stephen’s Green. He had furnished it himself to his own tastes: rosewood chairs, mahogany sideboards, a cream Chesterfield sofa with brass castors, and an elaborately decorated mirror over the mantle. The coffee-coloured carpet was as soft and deep as it had been the day it was laid, as Allister never wore shoes inside and didn’t encourage visitors to either. He abhorred the idea of their grubby shoes tramping all over his floor or draping their dusty coats across his sofa.

It being a Thursday evening, he would normally have taken a hackney to the Wellington Arms to meet friends for dinner and a drink. It was an established practice. A small group of them had been chums ever since Trinity, being similar to each other in their taste and refinement, well-educated and well-off, aficionados of theatre and academia, though shy of sports and anything with a loud engine. They were all unmarried too, and so the customary Thursday night get-together had become a vital social outlet. And the routine never altered. Seafood or steak and a few glasses of wine. Always home by eleven. At work the next morning by eight. Allister liked routine, and routine was good. A bedrock on which one builds success.

Tonight, however, he was in no mood. He had walked the streets awhile before going home, thinking furious thoughts, driving his own head wild with imagination. Once home he poured a whiskey. It sat there still, barely sipped. He didn’t even drink whiskey often, for the smell made him nauseous, but he was in a dark mood and he wanted a dark-tempered drink to match it.

He’d been like this for weeks, ever since he saw Adam encounter that wicked brat Clarence on the street outside. He’d even seen Clarence pass a card into Adam’s pocket. Adam would know everything, he must do. It had been a sickening weight on Allister ever since. What on earth was he going to do? Adam would crush him.

With a burst of anger he hit the table. The whiskey glass jumped.

Throughout their childhood Adam had always humiliated him, merely by being himself. Always stronger, always faster, always more loved and popular. Adam had gone off to join the war against his family’s wishes, gleefully abandoning his exams, and now he’d sauntered back into their lives, heedless of the old wounds he had caused, eager to open new ones.

Damn him. He’ll beat me all over again.

He swallowed a gulp of whiskey and felt the fire brace his resolve. Enough was enough. He would lie down no more. He would fight back. Adam had to be stopped, whatever was required. Allister’s reputation and livelihood, his very being, was at stake now. By God, he owed it to himself to take a stand.

The cocky swine
, he thought.
I’ll destroy him. I’ll find his weakness. He has to have a weakness.

And like that, he had an idea. There was a turning in this business, he realised with relief.
Yes. Yes.
It gave him a shiver of anticipation, the ironic genius of it, and he smiled.

And he even felt his appetite return.

Turning his back on the sombre flat, he took a ride over to meet the fellows at the Wellington, ate a meal, drank, and had one of the most enjoyable nights of his life.

Tara knew she had incurred the wrath of a powerful enemy.

It was Saturday morning. She was sweeping dead leaves from her garden path when a pair of judgemental eyes appeared over the boundary hedge. Mrs. Agnes Clohessy, her next-door neighbour, fixed her a cold look and sniffed.

“Miss Reilly, if you have a minute?”

“Good morning, Mrs. Clohessy,” Tara said. The woman was in her seventies, sharp of eye and tongue, and a minister of the Holy Communion in the local Catholic church of St. Michael’s. She enjoyed a prominent profile in the area through her various charitable endeavours. She organised cake sales in aid of the homeless, collected people’s unwanted clothes to donate to the destitute, and took her regular gaggle of like-minded, piously intentioned ladies on door-to-door visits to elicit donations for the hardworking missionaries in Africa. The hardworking Catholic ones, that is.

She now had one of her lily-white hands resting on the top of the hedgerow as she scrutinised Tara. The look was something that a frustrated gardener might give to a mole that constantly burrowed up through his otherwise pristine lawn.

“Miss Reilly, I shan’t detain you. But if I might have a word.”

“Of course, Mrs. Clohessy. Is anything the matter?”

“Hmm,” she murmured. “Now I don’t want to meddle, my dear, for it’s not in my nature. But I’ve noticed certain, how shall I put it, unsavoury habits occurring hereabouts with an increasing frequency. I’ll trust that you know what I speak of.”

Tara gazed at her. “I’m not sure that I do, Mrs. Clohessy.”

“I don’t wish to be indelicate, my dear. But my husband mentioned something about a visitor to your house in recent times. None of my business, to be sure, but I would be failing in my Christian duty if I didn’t at least express my concern.” Her husband, whose name was Joseph, spent almost the entirety of every day sitting in his garden shed, even in winter. Tara had never even heard him speak. He seemed a rather pathetic excuse to be using for Mrs. Clohessy’s nosiness. “That’s right, my dear. A gentleman caller, if I may be so bold.”

“Ah. That would be Mr. Bowen, who is a good friend of mine.”

“I see. Well, my dear, I’m sure you know that this is a very respectable neighbourhood. It has been for generations, and it’s always nice to welcome visiting friends. However, and I hope I’m mistaken, but has this Mr. Bowen ever visited and not left until the following morning?”

Curtain twitchers. They dwelt in every city suburb. The godly, self-appointed guardians of propriety. Tara wasn’t sure what to say. “Mr. Bowen might be alarmed to know that he is being watched.”

“Watched?” Mrs. Clohessy’s face flushed with indignation. “Goodness me, certainly not. What do you think, that I would put my nose into other people’s business?”

“I don’t think that for a second, Mrs. Clohessy. But I thank you for your concern. I will relay it to Mr. Bowen, who will no doubt be mortified at being the subject of your disapproval.”

But Mrs. Clohessy wasn’t appeased just yet. “You hardly think such a casual dalliance to be appropriate, though, do you, Miss Reilly? You’re an unmarried woman. Why, the Lord himself taught us that—”

“Mrs. Clohessy, I am a good Christian. My parents were good Christians. I can assure you of that.”

The older woman watched her closely for several seconds. “Oh, I know you attend the Mass, Tara. I’ve seen you there. But Father Barclay is a good steward of his flock. And a good judge too, I might add. I wonder what his advice might be in this regard?”

With that, and a smug crinkle of her mouth, she turned and marched inside. Tara stood as she was on the garden pathway, feeling herself wilt with embarrassment. She swept away the rest of the leaves and went back into the house.