Moon Witch

A huge cream car was standing at the Masons’ gate this afternoon and Brian said: ‘Gosh! It’s a Mercedes, Sara! It must be someone from that man—that Mr. Kyle, for you!’

Sara shook her head, her mouth suddenly dry. Since the solicitors had first advised her of that clause in the will she had deliberately put all thoughts of it out of her mind. Now, seeing the cream Mercedes, it all came flooding back, and with it a frightening sense of panic.

Brian was looking at her strangely. ‘What’s wrong? You’ve gone all white, Sara! Heavens, there’s nothing to be scared about. I wish it was me that was going to be involved with a man like that—as rich as that!’

Sara looked scornfully at him. ‘Money! Is that all you can think about? I feel like a bartered object—like something at the saleroom!’

Brian laughed. ‘Well, you don’t look like one, Sara. Wait until he sees you. He’ll probably turn out to be a real sugar-daddy!’

‘You mean a dirty old man,’ said Sara gloomily.

‘Is he old?’

‘Well, it stands to reason, he must be,’ exclaimed Sara. ‘He was Grandfather’s contemporary!’

‘Y–e–s,’ said Brian slowly. ‘Well, come on, let’s go and see!’

They entered the narrow hall of the Masons’ house. There was the low murmur of voices coming from the sitting-room, and Sara looked apprehensively at Brian. He grinned cheerfully at her, and then the sitting-room door opened and Mrs. Mason came out. When she saw Sara she quickly closed the door, and came across to her.

‘Mr. Kyle’s here to see you,’ she whispered conspiratorially. ‘At least he says he’s Mr. Kyle. He’s much younger than I expected, and of course, I didn’t like to ask questions.’

Sara reserved her own opinion. Mrs. Mason was not the type of person not to ask questions, and it could only mean that Mr. Kyle had not appeased her by answering them.

‘He’s waiting to see you,’ went on Mrs. Mason, as Sara did not reply. ‘Do you want me to come in with you?’

Sara bit her lip. ‘Er—no, I don’t think so, Mrs. Mason,’ she said awkwardly.

Mrs. Mason stiffened and folded her arms across her ample breast. ‘Well, of course, if that’s what you want, Sara,’ she said reproachfully.

Sara moved her shoulders. ‘I—I think it would be best, Mrs. Mason.’

‘Very well. Come along, Brian.’ Mrs. Mason swept off along the hall towards the kitchen, and sighing, Sara walked to the sitting-room door. Gathering up her small store of courage she opened the door, and walked in, closing it firmly behind her.

A man rose from his seat in a low armchair at her entrance. He was tall and lean, with crinkly, ash-blond hair that persisted in lying over his forehead, despite his attempts to brush it back. His face was tanned a deep brown, as though he had just spent several weeks in the sun, while he had the bluest eyes she had ever seen. He was not handsome, she thought nervously, but he was certainly no contemporary of her grandfather’s.

If she was surprised at his appearance, he seemed no less surprised at hers. ‘You are Sara Robins?’ he exclaimed.

Sara swallowed hard. ‘Yes, Mr. Kyle. I’m Sara Robins.’

‘How old are you?’

Sara shrugged. ‘Um—well—seventeen, actually,’ she faltered.

‘Seventeen! I see.’ He drew out a cigar case. ‘Do you mind?’ and as she shook her head, he took a cigar out and lit it. ‘My—my father thought you were perhaps fifteen. Instead, you——’ He halted. ‘Are you planning to leave school soon?’

‘I suppose I can leave when I like,’ replied Sara carefully, studying her fingernails. ‘When—when Grandfather was alive I did intend to go on to take “A” levels, but now …’ Her voice trailed away.

He moved impatiently, and gave her a strange look. ‘Well, Sara Robins, haven’t you any questions you want to ask me?’

Sara was taken aback. ‘You—you’re younger than I expected.’

‘Well, maybe so.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Your grandfather made a slight error of judgement. He left your future in the hands of the chairman of Kyle Textiles expecting my father still to be in that position.’

‘Your father!’ Sara stared at him. ‘You mean—it was your father who knew my grandfather!’

‘That’s right. Unfortunately, my father retired eight years ago through ill health. I am now the chairman of Kyle Textiles. My name is Jarrod Kyle, too.’

‘Oh, I see!’ Sara’s expression cleared. ‘That explains it.’

‘Yes, to you perhaps,’ remarked Jarrod thoughtfully, his eyes appraising her very thoroughly, so that Sara felt uncomfortable under his scrutiny. This was definitely a situation her grandfather had not envisaged when he added that awful clause to the will. ‘Tell me,’ went on Jarrod, ‘do you have any relations at all?’

Sara flushed. ‘No,’ she replied, nervously brushing back the swathe of heavy chestnut hair that swung silkily to her shoulders.

‘And what would you have done had that particular clause not been added to your grandfather’s will?’

Her flush deepened. She had the feeling he was being slightly sardonic, even though his expression had not changed. ‘I—I suppose I should have left school immediately and got a job,’ she said defensively.

‘As what?’

She shrugged awkwardly. ‘I don’t know—in an office, or perhaps as a trainee nurse! The nursing profession always appealed to me.’

‘Hmn!’ He seemed to grow tired of this questioning, and turned away, walking to the window overlooking the sparse patch of lawn in front of the small house. ‘Nevertheless, the clause was added, so’—he swung round again—‘collect your coat. We’re leaving!’

‘Leaving?’ Sara’s greenish-hazel eyes were wide. ‘Leaving?’

‘Only temporarily, for the moment,’ he replied smoothly. ‘My father wants to meet you. Afterwards—well, afterwards we shall see!’ he finished enigmatically.

Sara wanted to argue with him. She wanted to say she knew nothing about him and that she didn’t want to leave all that was known and familiar to her for some unknown destination, but her position was too nebulous, too helpless, for her to be intrepid enough to argue with the chairman of Kyle Textiles. He might not be as old as her grandfather, but he was obviously in his thirties, or thereabouts, and that seemed a great age to someone who was only seventeen. So she gave him a reluctant nod and went to explain the position to Mrs. Mason.

The white Mercedes was superbly comfortable, and even after Jarrod had left Bridchester and was moving swiftly along the road towards Malthorpe in the Forest she felt little sensation of speed. In fact she was a little bemused by the whole operation, and couldn’t help but see it in the light of a crazy dream that could not be substantiated with fact.

Jarrod Kyle was wearing a dark lounge suit, a thick fur-collared overcoat overall, and even with her limited experience of life and material possessions, she could tell his clothes were expensively tailored. Her own fur-collared blue tweed, which she had donned in preference to her dark school duffle coat, looked cheap and inelegant by comparison, and she felt faint stirrings of alarm when she contemplated meeting Jarrod Kyle senior. His son was intimidating enough for both of them. He did not seem particularly pleased about something, she thought, and as she had little to go on she could only assume it had something to do with her.

She sighed, and he glanced her way. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘have you spent any time away from Bridchester?’

Sara frowned thoughtfully. ‘Only on holidays,’ she answered. ‘I’ve been to Blackpool twice, and to London, and once we went to Hastings.’

‘I see. You’ve never been abroad, I gather.’

‘No, I’m afraid not.’ She looked across at him solemnly. ‘I—I suppose you have.’

‘Some,’ he replied non-committally, and Sara realised it had been a stupid, childish question to a man like him. ‘What are your interests, then?’ he was asking now. ‘What do you do when you’re not at school?’

She frowned. ‘Well—I like reading, of course, and records, and occasionally Grandfather used to take me to the theatre in Leeds, or even a cinema.’

‘What is your favourite subject at school?’

‘Do you mean my favourite subject—or the one I’m best at?’ she asked candidly.

He looked half-amused. ‘Is there a difference?’

‘Yes. My favourite subject is English Lit., but I’m best at art.’

‘Art!’ Jarrod sounded surprised. ‘And don’t you like art?’

‘Well, I passed in “O” level, and I quite like messing about, but Miss Finch, our art teacher, is a bit of a—well——’ She was obviously stumped for a suitable word. ‘Anyway, nobody likes her, so I suppose that’s why I’m not keen on art,’ she finished, sighing.

Jarrod swung the car off the main road on to a minor road which led to Malthorpe in the Forest. As the wheel slid expertly through his hands, Sara noticed the length of his fingers. Long and tanned, they looked hard, capable hands, a broad gold signet ring inset with a huge ruby on the little finger of the right.

It was quite dark when they halted at the lodge gates and Jarrod sounded the horn which brought Hedley to the gate. Sara looked at him again and trembled a little.

Jarrod, as though aware of her nervousness, said: ‘Don’t be alarmed. This is routine procedure. My father has a valuable collection of antiques which he wants to protect.’

‘I see.’ Sara bit her lip. Even in the gloom the place had an air of grandeur to which she was not accustomed, and the thought of the interview ahead filled her with trepidation.

The car halted before the front doors which opened as if by magic. ‘That is our butler, Morris,’ murmured Jarrod, rather mockingly, glancing her way. ‘I’m convinced he has installed radar in the kitchen quarters so that he knows when any car is within a certain radius.’

Sara couldn’t prevent the smile that lifted the corners of her mouth. Although Jarrod had said nothing to reassure her, his manner was more relaxed, probably because he’s got me off his hands, she thought uncharitably, and he seemed to be trying to relax her also. As Jarrod slid out, she got out too without waiting for anyone’s assistance, and stood looking awkwardly at the tall, imposing figure of Alister Morris.

‘Good evening, Mr. Jarrod,’ he was saying smoothly. ‘Your father is waiting for you in the lounge.’

‘Thank you, Morris.’ Jarrod mounted the steps easily, and then looked back at Sara standing lost and alone at the foot of the steps. ‘Come on, Sara Robins. Surely you’re not afraid!’ His tone was mocking.

Sara stiffened and climbed the steps too. ‘No, Mr. Kyle, I’m not afraid,’ she said tautly, and he smiled sardonically.

‘Are you not? Then you must indeed be unique. I would have thought these circumstances might represent quite an ordeal to a child like yourself.’

Sara followed Jarrod inside the entrance on to the luxurious blue carpeting of the wide hall. She looked about her in wonder for a moment, and then turned her attention to Jarrod, who was watching her with undisguised sarcasm.

‘My grandfather used to say that only a fool was afraid,’ she said in small clear voice. ‘A coward dies as swiftly as a brave man.’

Jarrod bowed his head in mocking salute to her comments. ‘I think your grandfather had quite a lot to commend him,’ he said. ‘After all, it’s not every man who thinks to endow his granddaughter with the richest guardian available!’

Sara stared at him in shocked surprise. ‘What do you mean by that, Mr. Kyle?’ she exclaimed.

‘My son is a cynic, Sara,’ said a voice from behind her. ‘I heard you arrive, my dear. Welcome to Malthorpe Hall.’

CHAPTER TWO

SARA swung round to confront an older edition of Jarrod Kyle. His father had grey hair, of course, and was a little stooped, but otherwise they were very alike, only the deeply carved lines on the older man’s face belying his age. He was smiling warmly, and looked unlike the formidable individual she had conjured up in her imagination.

‘You’re—Mr. Kyle?’ she said awkwardly. ‘The Mr. Kyle who knew my grandfather?’

‘Correct on both points.’ J.K. looked across at the butler. ‘Close the door, Morris, and take Miss Robins’ coat. Come along, my dear. I’m having tea served in the lounge.’ He gave his son a questioning glance. ‘Will you join us, Jarrod?’

Jarrod Kyle was removing his own overcoat with lazy movements, and Sara became aware of a strange quickening of her senses. She couldn’t understand it, certainly she had never felt anything like it before, but there was something about Jarrod Kyle that disturbed her. Obviously, she had never met a man like him before, but it wasn’t only that. Mentally, she shook herself. She was being fanciful, because of the strangeness of her surroundings.

He shook his head now in reply to his father’s question. ‘No, I don’t think so, J.K. You have your afternoon tea. I need something a little stronger.’

His father’s lips tightened and he turned away. Then he looked back. ‘Lauren rang this afternoon,’ he remarked casually. ‘She wants you to ring her.’

‘Does she?’ Jarrod was lighting a cigar. ‘And what did you tell her?’

His father smiled. ‘I told her—you’d been—busy!’ His tone was mocking, and Sara was aware of the antagonism between them like a tangible thing in the air.

Jarrod turned to the stairs, taking them two at a time without replying, and his father gave a satisfied little chuckle before taking Sara’s arm to lead her into the long, high-ceilinged lounge.

Sara’s attention was taken by the magnificent décor. The carpet, cream and thick-piled, was the background for deep red and black chairs and the dark polished wood of a corner cocktail bar. There was an enormous television set combined with a radiogram, while concealed lighting above the high coving drew attention to the extravagantly carved ceiling. It was like something out of a film set, and she gasped.

‘Do you like it?’ asked J.K., looking pleased.

‘I—I think it’s marvellous, Mr. Kyle,’ she exclaimed. ‘I—I didn’t know places like this existed in Yorkshire!’

He laughed. ‘Oh, Sara, what a refreshingly youthful remark! And you must call me J.K. Everyone does. It at least distinguishes me from my son.’

Sara did not know how to answer, so she merely smiled, and J.K. rang the bell to summon the maid. ‘Sit down, Sara,’ he said, nodding to a low couch. ‘I want to hear all about you—and your grandfather.’

She subsided on to the couch as he indicated, smoothing the skirt of her dark blue pinafore dress. She wondered what the servants would make of her. She was hardly the usual kind of visitor to Malthorpe Hall. It was so beautifully warm, too, and she thought there would be no need to wear warm clothes in these surroundings.

A neatly uniformed maid brought a tray of tea and placed it on a low table near Sara, and after she had gone, J.K. seated himself opposite her, and said: ‘Can you handle a teapot?’

The cups were small and wafer thin, but Sara managed to accomplish the feat of handling the silver teapot without accident, adding cream and sugar to J.K.’s at his instigation, and only cream to her own. There were sandwiches of ham and salmon, and small scones oozing with jam and fresh cream, but she ate very little, her throat still rather constricted with nerves.

J.K. glanced at a gold cigarette box afterwards, and said: ‘Did your grandfather allow you to smoke?’

Sara smiled, shaking her head, ‘No, not that I was particularly interested—Mr.—I mean J.K.!’ She flushed.

‘Very good, too. It’s a filthy habit in women. But still, it does give one something to do at interviews and suchlike. Anyway, Sara, come on: tell me about yourself. Your school, your plans, what you and old Jeff used to do together.’

He was very easy to talk to, much less frightening than his son, and Sara soon found her nervousness dispersing in the warmth of his interest. She told him about everything, even the Masons, describing her life with such attention to detail that J.K. became really intrigued, to the extent that he forgot the passage of time, and it was only when Morris knocked and entered, interrupting them, that he glanced at his watch.

‘Will the young lady be staying for dinner, sir?’ Morris asked politely.

‘Well, as it’s already almost seven o’clock, I think that would be the most sensible course,’ said J.K., nodding across at Sara. ‘Don’t you agree?’

‘Oh, but—I mean, I’m not dressed for—dinner,’ stammered Sara awkwardly, recalling Jarrod Kyle’s presence with some misgivings.

J.K. gave a deprecatory gesture. ‘That’s of no importance, my dear. I shan’t be changing now, and I don’t suppose Jarrod is still at home. Eh, Morris?’

‘Mr. Jarrod left half an hour ago,’ said Morris evenly. ‘He told me to tell you he might be late.’

J.K. smiled sardonically. ‘Did he? How thoughtful of him! All right, Morris. Dinner for two.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Morris withdrew, and J.K. rose to his feet and crossed to the cocktail bar.

‘What will you have to drink?’ he asked. ‘You must have something. Something innocuous, of course.’

Sara swallowed hard. ‘Wh—what do you suggest?’

‘Oh, I don’t know—how about a small sherry?’

‘Yes. That would be fine.’ She relaxed against the red upholstery, thinking with relief that Jarrod would not present his disturbing presence at dinner. Then she frowned. If Jarrod had left, how was she going to get home? ‘Mr.—J.K.?’

He glanced round. ‘Yes?’

‘If—if your son has left—how will I get home? I mean—is there a bus service, or something?’

J.K. shook his head. ‘Naturally Potter will take you in the car.’

‘Potter?’

‘My chauffeur. Now, there you are. I think you’ll find that to your liking.”

Sara sipped the sherry pensively, wondering where Jarrod Kyle had gone.. Obviously he would have plenty of friends and acquaintances in the district. She wondered if he was married. And where was J.K.’s wife?

‘Is your wife——?’ She halted abruptly. It was none of her business after all. Turning red, she hoped he had not noticed her words. But of course he had, and he said:

‘Go on! What were you going to ask? I think you’re entitled to ask a few questions yourself. I’ve done most of the questioning so far. Don’t be nervous!’

‘Well, I was just going to ask where your wife was,’ said Sara.

J.K. nodded. ‘My wife is in Jamaica,’ he said easily. ‘She lives there.’

‘Oh!’ Sara’s mouth belied her astonishment.

He smiled, swallowing some of the Martini in his glass. ‘Do you think that is an unconventional relationship? Don’t be afraid to say.’

Sara shrugged. ‘Well, do you live here?’

‘Most of the time,’ he nodded.

‘Then yes, I do think it’s unconventional. Are you divorced?’

‘No. Just separated, through choice. Helen is not like me; she likes the social life. She also likes a warm climate. Several years ago she developed a mild congestion of the lungs. She was advised not to winter in England, so’—he shrugged—‘she moved to Jamaica.’

‘And you?’

‘Well, for a while—in fact for many years—we had discovered we had nothing in common. Our lives were quite separate. It was a natural course of events that she should eventually leave.’

‘How awful!’ Sara sighed. ‘I am sorry.’

‘Why be sorry? Helen is happy, and so am I. We’re not enemies. We’ve been quite civilised about it since Jarrod was about—oh, seven or eight years old.’ He poured himself another Martini. ‘Helen came from a wealthy Yorkshire family. I think she fell in love with me, although I’m not certain of that. At any rate she was sufficiently interested to marry me, and in so doing provide me with the necessary funds to expand my business.’

Sara’s eyes were wide. ‘You mean—you married her for her money!’

J.K. lifted his shoulders. ‘How cold and calculating you make that sound, Sara. How capable young people are of exposing life to the cold light of day! I would say we married out of a mutual need, at that time. I’ve repaid Helen every penny of the money she loaned me. I don’t consider my actions so despicable.’ He sighed, as he watched the revealing expressions crossing her face. ‘I suppose you do.’

Sara bit her lip. ‘Oh, really—J.K.—it’s nothing to do with me. I mean—I don’t know all the facts or anything. I’m not your judge.’

‘No, perhaps not. But you make me see myself as others might see me.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘How Jarrod would have enjoyed hearing you bare the basic facts of life! I think sometimes he can be a little cruel himself.’

Remembering Jarrod’s mocking, meaningful words in the hall of Malthorpe, Sara thought that was entirely likely.

The evening passed so quickly that Sara could hardly believe it when J.K. told her it was time she was going home. She felt a sense of regret that it should be over so swiftly, but was surprised when J.K. said:

‘Will you come again on Thursday? I can’t invite you tomorow. Jarrod is entertaining some chaps from the Ministry, and it would all be incredibly boring, anyway.’

Sara slid her arms into her coat. ‘Well, yes—I can, if you want me to,’ she said a little breathlessly.

J.K. nodded. ‘Good, good! I’ll look forward to that. Goodnight, Sara.’

‘Goodnight, J.K.,’ she answered him, and followed Morris out to the chauffeur-driven Rolls that waited at the foot of the steps.

Mrs. Mason was very curious about what had happened when Sara returned to their house in Mead Road. ‘What’s going to happen to you?’ she asked. ‘Are you going to live with this Mr. Kyle and his wife?’

Sara sought about awkwardly for words to say. She knew Mrs. Mason of old, and everything she said to her would be spread around the small town of Bridchester within a few days. ‘Nothing has been decided yet, Mrs. Mason,’ she replied honestly. ‘I—I had dinner with the older Mr. Kyle, the one Grandfather used to know. The man who came here—was his son.’

‘I see.’ Mrs. Mason frowned. ‘Did you tell him you couldn’t go on staying here?’

‘I don’t think we discussed that at all, Mrs. Mason.’

‘You didn’t? Well, what did you discuss then?’

‘Oh, mostly about—Grandfather,’ replied Sara, wishing this catechism was over. She ought to have thought about this coming home in the car, and prepared her answers accordingly. ‘Do you mind if I go to bed now?’

Mrs. Mason shrugged. ‘I suppose so. When will you know what’s going on?’

‘I’m having dinner with Mr. Kyle again on Thursday evening,’ said Sara. ‘I—I might have made some plans by then.’

‘What sort of plans?’

Sara gave her a desperate look. ‘I don’t really know. Honestly, Mrs. Mason, I haven’t seemed able to make any plans yet. It’s been so—so sudden. But I will. I thought of going to see the Matron at the hospital to see if she would take me on as a probationer.’

Mrs. Mason frowned. ‘Did you now? Well, our Lily tried that, but she didn’t like it.’

Sara could have said that ‘their Lily’, who was eighteen, didn’t like anything that remotely resembled work, but she held her tongue and merely went upstairs to get washed, thus ending the conversation.

On Thursday afternoon, Potter arrived in the Rolls to take her out to Malthorpe Hall, and Mrs. Mason, who had remained silent during the last couple of days, now said, rather spitefully:

‘I suppose you’ll be thinking you’re too good for the likes of us soon, Miss Robins,’ as Sara left the house.

Sara stared at her in astonishment. ‘Why should I think that, Mrs. Mason?’ she asked in surprise.

Mrs. Mason seemed to regret her impulsive tongue. ‘Oh, nothing, nothing. Go along with you. And don’t be late.’

In the back of the Rolls, Sara felt rather lost and alone. Even the prospect of dinner at Malthorpe Hall did little to assuage her depression. She seemed now to be a representative of neither walks of life. Ostracised and sneered at by Mrs. Mason and her cronies, and tolerated by a man who had once known her grandfather rather well, but who had now passed out of their sphere.

The drive gates were opened at their arrival, and the car sped up the drive to halt at the main entrance. Potter had not spoken on the journey. He had kept the glass partition between the two compartments firmly closed and Sara had not had the heart to attempt any kind of conversation. Besides, he was probably not accustomed to talking with his passengers. They most likely had plenty of other things with which to occupy them. Unlike Sara, who would have been glad of anything to lighten her mood.