‘This is Richard’s room,’ Julia declared, taking a quick look around to confirm the fact.
‘It also happens to be the only bedroom in the house with a fire made up,’ came the pleasant reply. ‘Speaking of which, would you mind shutting the window as you go out again, it’s creating quite a draught.’
Julia twitched her shoulders straight and marched over to the window, hauling down the sash with a crash. Having made her point she went back to the bedside to demand of the bland, sleepy face: ‘What have you done with Richard?’
It was a stupid thing to say. If he was a criminal psychopath who’d stuffed Richard up the chimney he wasn’t likely to admit it. He could just as easily dispose of her with one swipe of a large paw. She ought to feel frightened, or at least apprehensive, but she didn’t.
‘I have done nothing with Richard. I have no idea where he is, and what is more I don’t care. It’s late and I would like to get some sleep.’ His unusually soft voice was further husked by sleep and the grey hair stood up in little points where the movements of his head against the pillow had disturbed its straightness. He must be a restless sleeper, thought Julia, distracted for a moment. In the car his chin had been smooth, immaculately shaven, but now its contours were roughened by pepper and salt whiskers. The general air of ruffled untidiness made Julia soften towards him. She couldn’t very well blame him for Richard’s vagaries.
‘May I suggest,’ he continued, shattering the illusion of vulnerability, ‘that you pass along your groupie-grapevine the gloomy news that the country’s teenage heart-throb is not currently in residence.’
‘Groupie-grapevine!’ Julia’s voice neared squeak-level again. ‘I am not a groupie. I happen to be a friend …’
‘That’s what they all say,’ he interrupted with precise distaste. ‘I wonder how your old-fashioned parents would feel about this situation?’
His words reminded her of their manner of meeting.
‘Are you a friend of the Marlows? If you’d said you were coming here you could have given me a lift all the way.’
‘I didn’t realise I was obliged to inform you of my travel plans,’ he said, with mild sarcasm. ‘Besides, I got the impression you preferred the company of the handsome young truck driver.’
‘He was a friend too,’ Julia told him, frowning at his sceptical look. ‘And I happen to have known Richard for years.’
‘So have several thousand other young women.’
‘Does Mrs Marlow know you’re here?’ Julia firmly ignored the impulse to argue further. First she must find out who he was and why he was here. Had one of the family broken the rules already and invited a guest?
‘No, but I assure you she would be unconcerned if she did know.’
Julia doubted it. Should she ring Connie in the morning and let her know? What if she wanted him to leave? What if he didn’t want to go? Julia couldn’t imagine herself bodily ejecting him. Maybe Mrs Brabbage could do that, since they were of a similar size. Julia grinned at the upturned face but there was no answering smile.
‘Who are you?’ she tried again. ‘And how did you get in?’
He hesitated before answering, then seemed to resign himself to the fact that she was not budging without an answer. ‘With a key. Now would you mind …’
‘The one from under the flowerpot!’ That put him within the privileged circle. ‘No wonder I couldn’t find it.’
‘You mean you do use conventional entrances on occasion? How about using a conventional exit.’ He pointed to the door, the long silk-clad arm commandingly straight. He looked and sounded as if he was used to being obeyed.
‘At least tell me how long you intend staying,’ she pleaded. She was the one who would be looking after him, even if he didn’t know that yet. She looked forward to disabusing him of the groupie notion, though she couldn’t blame him for it after her silly behaviour in his car.
He leaned back on the double pillows with a sigh, closing his eyes as he did so. The thick lashes threw tiny half-circles of shadow on the hard planes of his cheeks. The lamp light bleached the pale face of all expression so that it looked as if it had been carved out of cold white marble by the bold, sweeping strokes of a master sculptor.
‘I said …’ Julia raised her voice, thinking he must be drifting off.
The heavy lids lifted. ‘Unfortunately, I heard what you said. Your curiosity is ill-timed to say the least. Can’t this wait until daylight?’
‘Don’t you want to know what I’m doing here?’ Julia asked incredulously. Nobody could be that incurious. Why, she could be a psychopathic murderess!
‘I know what you’re doing here,’ he said. ‘And I’m even less impressed with your wisdom than I was this afternoon.’
‘Well, I’m staying here too,’ Julia offered gratuitously. ‘I happen to be—’
‘Resident groupie?’ The full lower lip tightened with irony.
‘I told you I’m not a groupie,’ Julia insisted impatiently, against all the evidence. ‘I’m the cook.’
The irony on his face intensified as he pushed himself up from the pillows. Julia stepped back involuntarily. It was like the raising of the Titanic. ‘Why, Jean, you’ve lost a lot of weight since I saw you last,’ he drawled.