Sup With The Devil

She had to walk past him to reach the gate, for a moment she held her breath as if he might put out a hand and take hold of her. If he did, then all the smiles and polite nothings would shatter like glass, and she would fight him like a tigress. He would have other scars to add to his collection, but of course, he didn’t try and touch her, and she felt herself give an infinitesimal sigh of relief as she reached the gate.

She half-turned, lifting a hand in acknowledgment and farewell, and Blair said softly, ‘Remember me to your family.’

Just for a moment he let the mask drop, and she was appalled at the expression she saw in his eyes. Whatever he’d come there for, it wasn’t to build any bridges, and she was scared. Geoffrey Devereux was dead, and her father was an invalid, and she’d thought that the worst that could happen was over, but now she wasn’t so sure.

She walked back to the car, trying not to run because he might be watching, and her heart was thudding, and her palms felt clammy. The routine of starting the car helped steady her a little, and when she finally emerged on to the road she turned in the opposite direction away from the village, and drove for about a mile before pulling off into a parking space.

She switched off the ignition and wound down the window, breathing slowly and deeply, relishing the scent of the crisp clean air. Any notion she might have had that Blair was making overtures because he wanted to forgive and forget had been laid to rest for ever.

It was a ludicrous situation, because by any reckoning, her family were the injured parties in the whole tragic, sordid business. But Blair had never seemed to take that into account. She clasped her hands on the steering wheel and leaned her forehead on them.

Blair had come to Hunters Court that night to demand that Geoffrey Devereux be given bail. Looking back, she could understand his motive. He must have known that his uncle had a weak heart, and that the upset of being in custody could endanger him, but what she could not forgive was that he seemed to blame her father for not wishing to intervene. Blair clearly felt that if James Lincoln offered to put up the bail for his erstwhile partner, then the police might drop their opposition, and when her father was unwilling, he had exploded into near-violence.

Courtney shivered as she remembered that terrible evening. She had been drawn to the study by the sound of raised voices, and when she had gone in, had found herself in the middle of a confrontation.

There had been all kinds of raw and savage emotion in the air, and although she hadn’t completely understood it all, she’d been frightened nevertheless, and quick to spring to her father’s defence. Because he wasn’t making a very good job out of defending himself, just sitting in his chair while Blair stood over him, his whole attitude one of naked aggression.

Courtney had interposed herself between them, glaring at Blair. ‘Who let you in here? What do you want?’

‘I want my uncle out of that stinking jail,’ he muttered between his teeth. ‘And I’ve come to—persuade his closest friend to help.’

James Lincoln said in a faint voice, ‘How can I? the police …’

‘To hell with that,’ Blair had said in the same soft chilling tone he’d used when he said ‘Remember me to your family’ ‘You can make them listen to you, and by God, you will, if you know what’s good for you.’

‘How dare you threaten my father!’ Courtney was disgusted to hear how young and breathless she sounded.

‘Because the real threat’s to my uncle.’ He hardly looked at her. All his attention was concentrated on the pale-faced man in the chair in front of him. ‘For God’s sake, man, you can’t let this happen to him. He’s your friend!’

‘Friend?’ Courtney intervened fiercely when James Lincoln remained silent. ‘A fine friend he’s been! He’s lied to us, and cheated and stolen. He deserves to be in jail!’

Blair gave her a contemptuous look. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said shortly. ‘So you’d better keep quiet. This is between your father and myself.’ He turned back to James Lincoln. ‘Now are you coming with me to put up bail for him willingly, or do I have to make you?’

He seemed to loom towards them, and Courtney saw her father shrink. She snatched at a heavy crystal ashtray on the desk in front of her and threw it at Blair. He moved sharply to avoid it, but one corner caught him a glancing glow on the cheekbone, and he swore violently.

She said, ‘He’s not going anywhere with you, Blair Devereux, and if you don’t leave the house, I’m going to call the police, and you’ll find that you’re in jail as well as your uncle!’

He looked past her at James Lincoln. He said harshly, ‘You could be condemning him to death. You realise that—and yet you’re still not prepared to do anything. My God!’

James Lincoln said again, ‘I can’t …’ and his voice faded as if he was exhausted.

The talk of death scared Courtney, and her voice rose hysterically. ‘Get out of here—get out! Leave us alone! Haven’t you done enough harm? Can’t you see he’s ill?’

And his final damning reply, ‘He deserves to be ill—and more.’

She raised her head, shuddering inwardly. In her secret heart, she’d always blamed Blair for bringing that stroke on her father. He’d been shattered by the realisation that his partner had become a criminal, but he would have come round. He would have made good the losses and survived and carried on. But that scene with Blair had destroyed him, and he was never the same again. And the news that Geoffrey Devereux had succumbed to a heart attack in his cell had proved the final intolerable straw.

Courtney wondered if Blair knew about her father’s stroke. She could imagine him receiving the news with a kind of grim satisfaction, and he would have reacted to the information that the Lincolns had lost their home and everything they possessed in the aftermath in exactly the same way. He blamed them for his uncle’s death, as if in some way it conferred a posthumous innocence. He seemed to forget that nothing could justify the kind of injury Geoffrey Devereux had done them all. His death had been tragic, but he was in jail because he deserved to be, and Blair Devereux had had no right—no right at all, to try and bully her father into mitigating the course of justice. It was cruel of him, she thought passionately.

But then he was cruel. She had never doubted it even for that brief time when he had shown her some tenderness. Because that had been calculated from the beginning, although she was unable to understand his motives. Probably it was simply because she had always been impervious to his undoubted charm, and this had piqued him. He was a predator, pure and simple, although she would never have described Blair Devereux as either pure or simple.

She heard the sound of a horn, and jerking upright, she saw the Porsche drive past, and Blair lift a mocking hand in imitation of her own attempted casual goodbye.

Damn him, she thought. She had driven this way in order to avoid him, because she thought he would be going back to the White Hart, and now he’d seen her skulking in this layby, and God only knew what conclusions he would draw from that, but they would probably be quite correct.

And now she had to drive back to the village and speak to Robin, when all she really wanted to do was find somewhere to hide. Which was ridiculous, because she had nothing to fear from Blair. He was the one who should be avoiding them, which made his unexpected return even more troubling. For the past three years she had tried to convince herself that he was part of a bad dream. Well, she was wide awake now and all her senses were jumping. The bird of ill omen had returned, and there could be storm clouds gathering on the horizon even now.

Robin was talking on the phone when she arrived back, and when he replaced the receiver he looked almost jaunty, and she was sorry she had to dispel his optimistic mood.

She said without preamble, ‘Blair Devereux was at the house just now. I thought you should know.’

‘Blair?’ His voice rose incredulously, and he stared at her. ‘What the hell did he want? What did he say?’

She shrugged. ‘Not a great deal, but he made me—uneasy.’ And that was putting it mildly, she thought wryly.

Robin looked rigid with dismay. ‘And he was at the house. Did—did he seem interested in it? Does he know it’s for sale?’

‘Of course. He’d have hardly been wandering around if the Hallorans had been in residence.’

Robin gestured impatiently. ‘I mean—does he know the auction’s tomorrow?’

‘I’ve no idea. I certainly didn’t tell him.’ Courtney eyed him measuringly, wishing that she had said nothing. He looked as if he was going to be sick.

Robin chewed at his lip. ‘Is he still at Hunters Court?’

Courtney shook her head. ‘No, he left just after me. He’s staying at the White Hart,’ she added.

Robin groaned. ‘God, that’s all I need! Then he does know about the auction.’

‘It’s hardly a State secret.’ She was trying to make him smile. ‘There’ll be other people there beside you. It’s a public auction.’

Rob said miserably, ‘I know that—but he’s one member of the public I could do without.’

‘But you can’t stop him going,’ she pointed out. ‘And he can’t be that interested or he’d have got the key from Paxton’s.’

‘What would he need to see?’ Robin demanded. ‘He knows that house almost as well as we do.’

‘That’s true.’ Courtney drew a deep breath. ‘Rob, I just can’t believe it. Why should he want Hunters Court? It makes no sense.’

He said heavily, ‘Envy. Bitterness. I can think of a list of reasons. You didn’t know him as well as I did in the old days.’

‘I didn’t want to know him,’ she said drily. ‘But I find envy hard to swallow. Why should he envy us?’

‘I don’t know much about his background,’ said Robin. ‘But I do know there wasn’t much money. That was probably why he attached himself to dear Uncle Geoffrey, and through him to us. And he certainly made himself at home each time he came. He used to spend hours in the library reading up on the history of the place. If we’d ever decided to do conducted tours, we could have hired Blair as a guide. He knew more about it than Dad, and he probably convinced himself that he cared more than any of us. Of course he wants it.’

Courtney said slowly, ‘You said there wasn’t much money. But I think there is now.’ She described the car, his clothes, the handmade Italian shoes, and Robin’s eyes grew hard and angry.

‘Well, we don’t need to ask where he got it from.’ Courtney looked at him blankly, and he went on, ‘The police never found out what Geoffrey Devereux did with the money he stole. If they had, we might still be living at Hunters Court ourselves.’

She gasped. ‘You’re not serious! You’re saying that Blair has the money?’

‘It makes sense. Someone has to have it, and he seems to have changed into a have from a have-not in the last three years. What was he officially? A mining surveyor? Hardly enough to put him in the millionaire bracket.’

‘Unless he found his own private goldmine.’

Robin looked at her grimly. ‘With our gold in it.’

Courtney sank down on a chair, feeling numb. ‘It’s not possible—is it?’

‘Anything’s possible,’ Robin said bitterly. ‘He’s been out of the picture ever since Geoffrey Devereux died, and if anyone had a clue as to where the money was, it would be him. And money makes money. He’s probably put his absence to good use.’

She shook her head. ‘He’d need to if he wants to buy Hunters Court, but I still can’t believe that he does.’

She didn’t want to believe it. She’d resented Blair, for all kinds of reasons, some of which she hadn’t been able to define too clearly, when he was only a visitor. But the thought of him as owner—possessor, moving among those well-loved rooms, filled her with a sick distaste. She thought she would rather see the place burned to the ground, or wrecked by Monty Pallister, than watch it fall into Blair’s hands.

She said, half to herself, ‘There’s nothing we can do.’

‘Yes, there is,’ Robin said forcefully. ‘We can find out exactly what he’s up to. You say he’s at the White Hart—well, we’ll have dinner there this evening.’

Courtney looked at him, then quickly shook her head. ‘No—I can’t. I don’t want to.’

‘It’s not a question of what you want.’ Robin’s mouth twisted. ‘God, do you think I want to see him again? Of all the people in the world …’ He gave a little cracked laugh. ‘But it’s got to be done. Too much hangs on this deal. No Devereux is going to ruin any more of my life.’

‘Brave words,’ she said ironically. ‘But even if Blair confides in you, and he’s going to the auction tomorrow, what can you do to stop him?’

‘I’ll think of something. And you’ll help.’

Courtney shook her head again. ‘That’s quite impossible. Anyway, I’m seeing Clive this evening.’

‘Oh—Clive,’ said Robin with dissatisfaction, and his sister gave him a swift glance.

He had never totally approved of her seeing Clive FitzHugh, and up to quite recently this had not particularly bothered her because it was a casual relationship created more by familiarity and proximity than searing passion. They’d known each other since they were children, and in the last twelve months had drifted into each other’s company for trips to the cinema and theatre in the surrounding large towns, and sometimes they sampled the local eating houses. Clive was only Robin’s age, and certainly not ready to settle down into thoughts of marriage, which was a relief to Courtney, who knew that although Colonel and Mrs FitzHugh were always kindness itself, they would not welcome the idea of their son tying himself up to a penniless girl. The FitzHughs had always been local landowners and they were nowhere near the breadline, but they would expect Clive to marry ‘sensibly’ in the fullness of time. Meanwhile they welcomed Courtney into their home in much the same spirit as they had done when she was a child. Courtney herself was well content with the relationship. Clive was good company, if nothing more, and the area of Harlow St Mary wasn’t overflowing with young bachelors eager and willing to take her out.

Clive and she were going out for a meal that evening, and she wasn’t prepared to put him off to pursue some wildcat scheme of Robin’s. Besides, she didn’t want to have to see Blair Devereux again.

It was an unfortunate sort of day, and more than once she wished she was at the office. She could have found something to do there surely, and it would have been better than listening to Robin’s constant jeremiads. Uncle Philip telephoned during the afternoon—to find out if Robin was ever going to work at the bank again, Courtney surmised. She absented herself tactfully for the duration of the call, but the cottage was too small to avoid altogether Robin’s voice raised in complaint and self-justification, and although she could only hear his side of the conversation, it was clear it was not going his way.

He offered no explanations when she rejoined him, but there was something about the set of his shoulders, and the mutinous expression on his face which spoke volumes. She guessed that if not actually dismissed, he had certainly been given some kind of ultimatum, and wondered what else he could have expected.

It was a relief to have her date with Clive to prepare for. To be able to lock herself in the tiny bathroom and pamper herself with bath oil, and scented powder. She put on a red needlecord skirt, softly full from a tight waistband, and a white blouse, ruffled at the neck and cuffs. She highlighted her eyes and cheekbones, and put a warm gloss on her mouth. When she had finished, she was quietly satisfied, having few illusions about her own cool attraction.

When she went down to the living room to wait for Clive, she found Robin had already left, and she couldn’t be sorry.

Clive arrived punctually, his blue eyes holding a smiling admiration as he looked at her.

‘You look positively edible,’ he told her. ‘I’m sorry we aren’t going somewhere more exotic.’

Courtney’s heart sank at his words, but she concealed it.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked brightly.

‘I booked a table at the White Hart for eight o’clock,’ said Clive, glancing at his watch. ‘I thought we could have a drink somewhere else first.’

‘Marvellous!’ Courtney kept her smile firmly pinned in place. She could only hope silently that Robin had had second thoughts about seeking Blair out. Perhaps neither of them would be there, she thought, crossing her fingers surreptitiously in the folds of her skirt. She resolved to take as long as possible over the preliminary drink, in order to give them a chance to meet and go their separate ways before she and Clive arrived on the scene.

But when they walked into the small cocktail bar at the White Hart some three-quarters of an hour later, Courtney realised that none of her hopes were to be fulfilled.

Blair was sitting with Robin at a corner table. Rob looked up as she walked in, and although he smiled at her and waved, the expression in his eyes said trouble.

Clive said, surprised, ‘You didn’t tell me old Rob was going to be here tonight. And who’s that he’s with. Good God, it looks like …’ He paused abruptly, obviously embarrassed.

Courtney said rather tautly, ‘I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know. And you’re quite right about his companion—it is Blair Devereux.’

She didn’t want to join them. There were other tables, but both men had risen and were waiting, so unwillingly she crossed the bar.

‘What an unexpected pleasure,’ Blair said smilingly. ‘First Rob, and now you, Courtney. This is turning into quite a reunion.’

‘Yes, isn’t it.’ She kept her tone light. ‘You’ll have to excuse us. We’re dining here and …’

‘Oh, I haven’t eaten yet either,’ Blair said calmly, and he signalled towards the head waiter who was hovering in the doorway of the dining room. ‘I hope that you’ll join me as my guests.’

Clive was looking totally baffled by the entire situation, and never more so than when Courtney tucked her hand through his arm.

‘We couldn’t do that,’ she said. ‘They say three’s a crowd, so four is plainly impossible. I’m sure you understand.’

‘I do indeed,’ said Blair. ‘Nevertheless I hope you’ll change your mind.’

Robin broke in. ‘Yes, come and join us, you two. After all, it’s not often that such old friends have a chance to get together again.’ He shot Courtney a veiled, urgent look.

Clive said feebly, ‘Look, I just don’t know about this. I’d rather counted on having Courtney all to myself this evening.’

‘But you can see her any time,’ Robin argued. ‘Come on, Clive, be a sport!’

Courtney was still prepared to argue, but she sensed that their discussion was attracting some curious glances from other parts of the room, and the head waiter, all smiles, was bearing down on them with menus and wine lists, so she reluctantly acceded. To her dismay she found she was being ushered to the wide velvet-covered bench seat which ran the length of the wall to sit beside Blair. She smoothed her skirt round her slim legs, taking care that the folds went nowhere near him, then put her bag on the seat between them, knowing by the faint smile playing around his mouth that he was quite well aware of her manoeuvres.

But she was past caring what he thought. It was no wish of hers to be here. It had been brought about by an ironic combination of circumstances. She had hoped never to see him again.

She stole a look at Clive. He knew perfectly well what the situation was, and must be wondering what Robin was doing on such apparently friendly terms with someone who, in ordinary circumstances, would have been regarded as an enemy. He knew too that there had been no contact at all between the Lincolns and the remaining family of their former business partner for several years. And Clive wasn’t the only one to be puzzled. There were other local people and acquaintances in the room who would be watching avidly, intrigued by this unexpected piece of gossip.

She ordered melon and a rare filet mignon almost at random. Her appetite had vanished anyway. Across the table Rob was talking slightly too loudly and laughing rather too much, and she winced inwardly. It was the kind of performance calculated to put Blair Devereux on his guard. He certainly wasn’t all chatter and bonhomie. On the contrary, the expression on his face was almost sardonic.

If Rob goes on like this, he’s going to run out of topics before the first course is served, Courtney thought, adding mercilessly—and he needn’t expect me to help him out!

It was easier in a way once they got into the dining room and the food was being served. Its excellence was a perfectly acceptable conversational gambit, and even Clive joined in with some relief.

‘I’d forgotten how good English food could be, Blair commented.

‘Oh?’ Clive looked at him. ‘Have you been abroad?’

As Blair nodded, Rob asked breezily, ‘Anywhere interesting?’

‘A whole number of places,’ Blair drawled. ‘But I’m sure you don’t need a travelogue from me.’

Ah, but you’re wrong, Courtney said silently. I’d like to know where you’ve been. I wonder if Switzerland was on the itinerary, and whether you’ve now got one of those famous numbered accounts as a souvenir.

He was watching her across the flicker of the candles on the table. He said softly, ‘But you, Courtney— been happening to you? You vanished so rapidly this morning, I didn’t get a chance to ask. You were planning an academic future of some kind, if my memory serves.’

Her smile became stretched and tight. ‘Oh, that didn’t transpire,’ she said. ‘I’m a working girl.’

‘Interesting job?’ There was something in his expression which warned her that he already knew where she worked and exactly what her employment comprised.

She said calmly, ‘Fascinating,’ and ate her last sliver of melon as if it actually tasted like succulent fruit instead of ashes in her mouth.

He watched her for a moment, his smile widening, then he said gently, ‘And Rob, I hear, is becoming quite something in the City.’

‘I’m glad you think so.’ Briefly, Rob let his mask of geniality slip. ‘I’d have described it as a dead-end job myself.’

Blair’s brows rose. ‘I hardly think Monty Pallister would be pleased to hear an assocation with him described in such unflattering terms.’ His voice was soft.

Courtney silently thanked Providence for the waiter who appeared at that moment to clear the table and bring the next course. The minor upheaval provided Rob with a breathing space.

At last he said with a fair measure of poise, ‘I think you’ve been misinformed. Mr Pallister is unlikely to be interested in a nonentity like me.’

‘You don’t do yourself justice,’ Blair said lightly. ‘I understand the gentleman in question is always on the look-out for fresh talent to help him in his—endeavours.’ The pause was smooth and quite deliberate, as Courtney knew was the choice of word. She stared down at her plate as if she was trying to analyse the lyonnais potatoes which lay there.

Clive broke in. ‘Changing your job, old boy? You’ve never mentioned anything about it.’

‘Because there’s nothing to mention.’ Robin’s laugh was uneasy. ‘I like their way of doing calabrese here, don’t you?’

‘Very much,’ Blair agreed evenly. ‘In fact I’m so impressed with the place as a whole, I’m tempted to extend my stay.’

There was a brief pause, then Clive said, ‘Fantastic. Then we can hope to see more of you?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Blair said gravely, ‘I think I can safely promise that.’ His face was expressionless as he glanced at Courtney, but at the back of his eyes little devils of amusement danced as if he knew the effect it was costing her to use the knife in her hand on the steak instead of himself.

Rob rallied, concealing his dismay. ‘Well, Courtney has a few days off from work. I’m sure she’d be glad to help you rediscover old haunts.’

For a moment she couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. She stared at Rob, an indignant denial already forming on her lips, then she saw the urgent appeal in his eyes and subsided in silence. Her mind was whirling frantically. What in the world was Rob playing at? He couldn’t imagine that she wanted to spend one more second in Blair Devereux’s company than she had to, especially after this horrendous meal. Yet she couldn’t ignore that silent plea from him, even though she didn’t understand it.