Masquerade. Part 18

"Exactly. Well, now you have your house and your es tate and your wealth, but much happiness may you get from it."

"Thank you... for nothing!"

Barbara shrugged eloquently. "Poor empty-headed creature," she said sneeringly. "What have you really got?

Nothing."

Samantha wiped her eyes. "And what about you?"

"Me?" Barbara smiled smugly. "I have my work and my home in London amongst my friends. And even Patrick will return from California eventually. He'll for get. Men always do.

You may have a step-papa yet."

Samantha looked up. "And what if I decided to tell the press of my own accord?"

Barbara shook her head confidently. "You won't, darl ing.

You haven't got it in you to be cruel. That's why you'l never get anywhere, be anyone. Besides, think of the mem ory, of Mother, you wouldn't like all her efforts to have been in vain, now would you?"

Samantha was defeated. As Barbara had said, she would not denounce her. Not now.

Barbara walked lazily to the door. "I'm going to dress now,"

she said. "I think I will go back to town after all. I've... er...

done every thing I came to do, I think."

Samantha watched her close the door and then flung herself on the bed in a paroxysm of weeping. She had been unhappy before, but this was torment. All her hopes and dreams were shattered. Even the gentle love she had had for her grandmother seemed besmirched now by her mother's ugly words and accusations. Even this house held no joy any longer. It merely seemed another effort to keep her out of Barbara's life, and silence her for ever.

After a while she sat up and dried her face. Tears were for the weak and she would be weak no longer. There was nothing she could do tonight, but tomorrow ... tomorrow she would go away.

The decision made, she felt better. She had a little money that her grandmother had given her for her per sonal use and it would be sufficient to take her wherever she decided to go.

Once there, she would find work, get a job, forget she had ever known her mother or her grand mother ... or Patrick Mallory.

But where could she go? She knew very little about Eng land and had no friends here. In Italy there was Benito but that was no good either.

Then she remembered Matilde. She had said that should she ever need help she could be contacted at her sister's in Ravenna.

Surely if she went there she could find lodgings for a while until she could get a job and lodgings of her own. After all, she spoke Italian like a native. There was nothing to stop her from going there.

She twisted her handkerchief between her fingers. She had got to think. She would ring up the airport later and see if there was a flight tomorrow. Her pa.s.sport was in order. Soon she would be away from here and all the de ceit and hatred she had known would be in the past. What did it matter that no one knew of her departure? No one cared anyway, except perhaps Emily and she was gone now. Barbara would be glad to see the back of her and Patrick.. Well, he had made it plain what he thought of her.

Barbara left without seeing her daughter again and Samantha was glad. She could not have borne another argument. She felt too strung up and scared to think straight.

For once, she was acting impulsively. All her life she had thought before doing, now she was going and she did not intend to think about it until afterwards. She would have plenty of time for thought in years to come.

CHAPTER VIII.

It was almost a week later when Patrick turned his Aston Martin between the drive gates of Daven and drove smoothly up to the house. The house looked much the same as it had done the last time he was here and he was sur prised. He had thought that Samantha would have begun clearing out the rooms, drawing back the curtains and ban ishing the gloom.

Instead the house looked deserted and the only smoke curling from the chimneys seemed to be coming from the kitchen quarters.

He had had plenty of time for thought during the past few days and he knew now what he had to do. Whatever Samantha's feelings in the matter they had to have a talk, a serious talk, and he wanted to know once and for all where he stood.

He had told himself frequently that she was too young for him, not only in her age but in her awareness of life, but his emotions had never been aroused like this before and he had found he could not sleep nights worrying about her.

He had left in a temper the day of the funeral, partly due to his conversation with Samantha and her implied suggestion of what his invitation had meant, and partly because of the row he had had with Barbara. He had not meant to tell her he knew about Samantha's age, but when Barbara began talking about her frustration over the es tate his temper had got the better of him.

There had been some harsh words and he had left knowing he would not be allowed to see Samantha alone while her mother was there .

During this week he had wanted to drive here many times, but he thought it would be best to give her a little time to recover from the shock of her grandmother's death. Today he had decided he could wait no longer and directly after breakfast he had driven down.

Now, seeing the house in this desolate state, he felt a sixth sense warning him that all was not well. His stomach was churning and he felt his senses tingling with an un known awareness of disaster.

He slid out of the car and stood for a moment, hands in the pockets of his overcoat looking up at the house. Then he mounted the steps and rang the bell.

It tolled mournfully around the house, and he hunched his shoulders impatiently.

He did not have very long to wait before an elderly man servant opened the door.

"Oh, Mr. Mallory!" he exclaimed in surprise. "What can I do for you?"

Patrick frowned. "I'd like to see Miss Samantha, if I may."

"Miss Samantha?" The old man's eyes grew puzzled. "But she's not here... "

Patrick clenched his fists in the pockets of his coat. "What do you mean, she's not here?"

"What I say, sir. She left the day after the funeral. I thought you would have known that."

Patrick felt an acute sense of anxiety. "No. Why should I?"

The old man shrugged. "Well, sir, Miss Samantha said she was leaving for London, and I presumed she would be staying with her mother there. As you know Miss Harriet so well, I naturally thought..."

"I see." Patrick swung backwards and forwards on the heel and sole of his shoes. "And have you heard nothing since she left?"

"No, sir. Oh, forgive me, will you come in?"

Patrick hesitated. "No, I think not. There's nothing for me here." He felt disturbed. Barbara and Samantha would hardly be living together in the circ.u.mstances, but this old man was not to know that.

"All right," he said at last "Thank you."

The man smiled, and Patrick walked slowly down the stops and slid into the driving seat of his car. Setting the car in motion, he cruised slowly down the drive and out on to the road again. All the while, his mind was actively forking, puzzling on this turn of events. There was some thing about it that was not quite right. Why would Sam antha return to London? Where would she go?

He drove through the village. It was a small, country village with a general store-c.u.m-post office comprising its whole commercial trade. There was a small hotel, the Queen's Head, and a small church.

Patrick called in at the hotel for a drink, before driving back to London. It was full of locals and he did not stay long. He slid back behind the wheel of the car and drove back to town. He felt perturbed and there seemed little he could do about it.

Where was he to find Samantha? Could he ask Barbara if she knew where she was? It was not a palatable thought, but at present it was his only one.

He drove to his house, and going in he called Mrs. Ches- terton. She came hurrying out of the kitchen quarters, a surprised expression on her face.

"Why, you're back, sir!" she exclaimed. "I thought you would be late."

"So did I," remarked Patrick moodily. "Tell me, have there been any calls while I've been out?"

"No, sir. Were you expecting one?"

Patrick shook his head. "Not really." He sighed. "All right, Mrs. Chesterton, thank you."

"Have you had anything to eat, sir?"

"No. But don't worry, I'm not hungry."

"Nonsense." Mrs. Chesterton tutted angrily. "I'll fix you a snack and bring it to your study."

"No, I'll be in the lounge. I want to make a phone call."

"Very good, sir."

Patrick removed his sheepskin overcoat, and throwing it over a chair, he walked into the lounge. He lit a cigarette and drew on it deeply before lifting the receiver and diall ing Barbara's apartment number.

The purr on the other end of the line seemed to go on for ages, although it was actually only a few moments be fore Clyde's voice answered.

"Miss Harriet's apartment. Who is calling, please?"

Patrick stubbed out his cigarette abruptly. "Mallory," he said shortly. "Is Barbara there?"

Clyde's voice changed noticeably. "Oh, Mr. Mallory. Well, she's just getting up, I'm afraid, but I think she'll speak to you."

"Thank you." Patrick was impatient.

A few minutes later Barbara's voice came silkily down the line.

"Darling," she exclaimed warmly. "How wonderful of you to call. Have you forgotten our little argument? I hope so. I have...

it was all my fault...."

"I agree," replied Patrick grimly. "Barbara, is Saman tha staying with you ? "

"Samantha!" Patrick could tell from the tone of her voice she was floored by his abrupt question, "Don't bother," said Patrick. "I can tell from your tone that she's not."

"But, darling, why should she be? After all, she has Daven now; why should she want to stay in a stuffy old flat in town?"

"Yes. Okay, Barbara. Thanks."

"Is that the only reason you rang?" Barbara's voice had hardened.

"Yes, I think so. Thank you for your trouble."

"Oh, but Pat..."

But Patrick had hung up on her. It was obvious Barbara had no idea where Samantha might be. It was infuriating. And worrying. If she was not with Barbara, where could she be in this great city? She knew nothing of London, of Londoners. The prospect of Samantha trying to make her way in this huge and sometimes frightening metropolis was disturbing. She was so innocent; so untouched. How could she look after herself here, among people she did not even know?

But why, why was she here? Why was not she still at Daven?

Was it possible that something had happened that he knew nothing about? Something which might have caused her to leave her new home? But what?

He paced about the room restlessly, trying to find a solu tion.

Mrs. Chesterton brought him some cold chicken on a tray, but he barely touched it. He was too tense, too in volved with his own thoughts.

It was possible that Barbara did know more than she had said. For all her innocent tone she was not reliable and it was quite possible that she might have some reason for pretending that Samantha was still at Daven when in real ity she knew she was not.

That brought him back to the reason for Samantha's departure. Of course, Barbara had remained at Daven on the day of the funeral, after he had left with Mr. Bolam. Could she have said something to cause Samantha to think twice about her inheritance? She had been furious because Samantha had been willed Daven by Lady Daven port, and when Barbara was angry she did not care who she hurt.

He lit another cigarette and stared moodily out of the window. There seemed little he could do. There was no one apart from Barbara to whom he could turn.

And then he remembered Emily. He had always liked Emily.

She was a staunch sort of person and seemed to have taken a liking to Samantha, whereas she had always seemed rather antipathetic towards Barbara. She had, after all, known Barbara since she was quite young herself, and she was not blinded by the aura of success which ema nated from her employer's daughter these days. She might credibly know something of Samantha's movements. If he could get in touch with her....

But again, he was brought up short by the knowledge, that he knew no more how to find Emily than he did to find Samantha.

Unless ... Emily had lived most of her life at Daven. It was possible that someone in the village might know her intimately, and maybe even know her whereabouts. That was the answer.

Daven. And Emily.

He arrived back in the village of Daven at eight o'clock that evening. He drove straight to the Queen's Head: Of all places in a village of this size, the local public house was the most likely place to find the information he needed. Daven House, as the local manor, and Emily, coming from there, was bound to be an object of interest. People always wanted information about the gentry, and Emily would be a prime observer.

The bar was much fuller now, with plenty of evening visitors swelling the local population. He ordered a Scotch, and then, leaning on the bar, he asked the barman whether he was acquainted with Emily Lawson.

The barman eyed him strangely. "And what would you be wanting with Miss Lawson?" he asked. "You're a city chap, aren't you? Are you some relative or something?"

Patrick shook his head. "No, not a relative. I want to speak to Emily on a personal matter. Do you know where I can find her?"

"Miss Lawson sometimes visited Mrs. Peel at Stone Cottag,"' said the barman. "Likely she might know where you can find her."

"Thank you." Patrick swallowed his whisky, and con scious that he himself would become a subject for dis cussion as soon as he had left, he made for the door.