Dark Castle. Anne Mather

      Mrs. Macpherson nodded. ‘If you’re not, I’ve no doubt Mr. Hunter will soon let me know,’ she commented dryly.

      The housekeeper’s words aroused just the faintest sense of apprehension, but Julie dismissed the feeling impatiently. Left alone, she was free to explore her domain, but first she would take off her boots and allow her feet to sink into the soft cream carpet underfoot, and warm herself by the fire.

      After a wash, she examined her appearance critically. She had shed her sheepskin coat to reveal a plain tweed suit and high-necked white blouse. She had had to put her boots on again as her shoes were in the case downstairs. Her hair needed little attention, the few strands which had escaped from the chignon soon tucked back into place. She applied a light foundation cream to her skin, added a little eye-shadow, and was satisfied with the result. The wind had added a little colour to her cheeks, but it was not unattractive. She sighed. It would be a simple matter to change her image – to loosen her hair and add lustre to her lips, but she restrained the impulse.

      With a few minutes to spare she wandered round the room, examining the carvings that were an integral part of the furniture. The drawer handles on the tallboy were shaped like lion’s heads and one inserted one’s fingers into the open jaws to draw them out …

      She stood back in surprise. She had opened a drawer, almost without being aware of doing so, and now she stared at its contents. It was filled with filmy lingerie, pants and bras and slips in a variety of shades, fragile chiffon garments and pure silk that clung to her fingers.

      She closed the drawer with a jerk and turned away, unaccountably disturbed. Whose garments were they? What were they doing here in this bedroom that Mrs. Macpherson had implied had been long unused? Or had she said that? She had said that the formal apartments downstairs were seldom used, but that didn’t mean that no one had used this bedroom. On the contrary, she had said that Mrs. Drummond had always slept here. But somehow Julie knew that the Mrs. Drummond who had always slept here was not the person to wear such extravagant underwear.

      Her brows drew together. The articles she had seen were not old. Whose ever they were they had been put there only recently. Had Jonas had some woman staying with him? The idea was distasteful to her. And yet why should it be so? She and Jonas were separated. What he did was his own affair. And if he chose to take some woman as his mistress, it was nothing to do with her.

      Even so, there was an awful curling sensation in the pit of her stomach when she considered him sharing this bed with another woman. If he had, she would rather not sleep in it.

      She looked towards the embroidered quilt that covered its enormous width. The bed could have comfortably accommodated half a dozen people, she thought with aversion. Oh, why had she opened that drawer? Like Pandora, she had released something totally unexpected.

      She picked up her handbag and walked towards the door, but then she remembered she had not turned down the lamps. She went back to do so and as she passed one of the wardrobes her reflection mocked her. Curiosity was like a cancer inside her and without hesitation she reached out a hand and opened the wardrobe door. Inside were hanging perhaps a score of dresses, both long and short, suits and slack suits, skirts and trousers.

      She stared at them in amazement. Surely no woman would go away and leave so many clothes behind her! So what did it mean? That some other woman was still staying at the castle? That she had given up her room to Julie? It didn’t make sense.

      She turned down the lamps, closed the wardrobe door, and left the bedroom walking swiftly along the shadowy gallery to the spiral staircase. Before going down she looked upward, seeing the spiral disappear towards some upper section of the building. Were there other floors? And if so, did anyone occupy them?

      She shook her head. She was becoming fanciful. The sooner she went downstairs and stopped speculating about things that did not concern her, the better it would be.

      When she reached the lower hall she looked round. Now she could see that the reason the hall was not completely circular was that two doors had been set into the panelling and beyond them no doubt lay Jonas’s private rooms, the rooms Mrs. Macpherson had mentioned.

      She was hesitating about which door to open, when a voice behind her said quietly: ‘Did you find the accommodation to your liking?’

      She swung round to find that Jonas had come along the passage without her being aware of it and was standing supporting himself with one hand against the arched stonework of the aperture. He had clearly washed, too, and combed his hair which now lay smoothly against his head, flicking over the collar of his shirt at the back. He had also added a maroon velvet waistcoat which went well with his dark attire.

      Mentally squaring her shoulders, she replied: ‘Everything seems very comfortable, thank you.’

      Jonas’s mouth turned down at the corners and straightening he passed her to open one of the doors she had been hesitating over.

      ‘Won’t you go in?’ he invited, standing aside for her to do so. ‘This is my sitting-room. I spend most of my free time in here. The room next door is my study. We can have a drink before Mrs. Macpherson arrives with our meal. I’ve told her we’ll eat in here this evening.’

      Julie entered another strikingly attractive room. It was a curious shape, having three straight walls and one curved one, but its decoration more than made up for its lack of design. A soft apricot and olive green carpet flowed into every corner, no doubt to allay the chill of stone floors, long velvet curtains in matching shades covered the narrow windows, while soft cream leather armchairs and a well-worn cream and green tapestry-covered couch looked superbly comfortable. A small display case contained some exquisite Wedgwood pottery, while the shelves that flanked the fireplace were filled with books and magazines. Another log fire burned cheerfully in the grate and the flames winked on the collection of bottles and decanters which stood on the open flap of a cocktail cabinet. It was an elegant room, and yet it had a relaxing, lived-in sort of atmosphere, and as it was much smaller than the bedroom upstairs it was also less imposing.

      Jonas closed the door and nodded towards the chairs and the couch. ‘Sit down,’ he suggested, walking towards the cocktail cabinet. ‘What can I offer you to drink? Sherry? A Martini? Or do you still like Pernod?’

      ‘I’ll have a dry Martini, if I may,’ she replied, sitting down in one of the soft leather armchairs. Pernod, like the medallion, had too many associations with the past.

      Jonas shrugged and turned to pour her drink, pouring himself a generous measure of Scotch as he did so. Then he handed the glass to her and came to sit near her on the tapestry couch, stretching out his long legs towards the fire. He swallowed half his Scotch without any effort, and then looked sideways at her.

      ‘So,’ he said, ‘and how are you?’

      Julie stiffened. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

      His eyes assessed her critically, moving over the severely styled hair, the tweed suit, to the slender legs concealed in the suede boots. ‘You’re thinner. Don’t you eat enough – or not often enough?’

      Julie endeavoured to return his gaze coolly. She determined not to let him disconcert her again. ‘I don’t think my eating habits are any concern of yours,’ she retorted.

      Jonas’s eyes were disturbingly intent. ‘I thought we had agreed to call a truce,’ he commented mildly.

      Julie sighed. ‘All right. I’m fine. I eat as much as I need. As far as I know I’m perfectly healthy. Does that answer your question?’

      Jonas raised dark eyebrows. ‘You’re becoming shrewish, Julie. It doesn’t suit you.’

      Julie looked down at the glass in her hands. She was trembling, in spite of all her good intentions. ‘Jonas – I didn’t want to come here, to take this interview. It was all Mark’s idea—’

      ‘Mark Bernstein?’

      ‘Yes.’ She looked up. ‘Do you know him?’

      ‘I know – of him.’ Jonas