Witching Hour. Sara Craven

he said smoothly, ‘the hotel has never precisely operated at full stretch, has it?’

      ‘As you say,’ she agreed woodenly. ‘That door leads to a courtyard, and the former stables. Do you want to look at them now? They’re rather dilapidated.’

      ‘I can imagine. Is there electricity laid on?’

      ‘Well—no.’

      ‘Then I’ll save that particular delight for another occasion. What kind of garden is there at the rear?’

      She said reluctantly, ‘Beyond the stables there’s a walled area which is quite sheltered. We grow vegetables there, and soft fruit, but not to any great extent.’

      ‘And use the home-grown produce in the hotel dining room?’

      She was a little taken aback. ‘Well, sometimes. We don’t grow all that much. There are a few apple trees as well.’

      Lyall gave a sharp sigh. ‘Perhaps we’d better look at the rest of the ground floor rooms—leaving the drawing room out of the tour. I’ve had enough of the stares of the curious.’

      ‘I suppose you think we should have told our guests to go,’ Morgana said defensively.

      ‘I didn’t say that.’

      ‘No—but you obviously don’t want them here. Only it is—or it has been our living, and we didn’t hear from you, so we didn’t know what to do for the best.’

      His mouth curled sardonically. ‘That last phrase I’d say sums up the present situation pretty accurately. Now, might we get on, please? As I’ve pointed out, my time here is limited.’

      Oh, that it were true, Morgana thought in impotent rage leading the way along the passage to the dining room.

      Lyall said little as she did the honours of the house in a small remote voice—like a bored house agent with a reluctant client, she realised with unwilling humour, as she heard herself uttering phrases like ‘original mouldings’ and ‘local stone’.

      She tried to look at him as little as possible, so it was difficult to gauge his reactions to what he was seeing—to know whether he was impressed, appalled, or simply indifferent. One of his few abrupt questions was about central heating, and she had to confess there wasn’t any, but that they’d always fround the open fires perfectly adequate. It wasn’t true. Her mother had bemoaned the lack of radiators on innumerable occasions, but Morgana wasn’t prepared to admit that. As far as this—interloper was concerned, the present occupants thought that Polzion House was perfect, warts and all.

      Besides, she didn’t want him to like the house. The solution to all their problems would be for him to refuse the inheritance, and he could just do that, if there were sufficient drawbacks. She could imagine the kind of accommodation that would appeal to him—some chic penthouse, she thought impatiently, with wall-to-wall carpeting, and gold-plated bathroom fittings, to go with his gold-plated image.

      As she led the way up the broad, shallow curve of the staircase, her sense of purpose faltered a little. At the head of the stairs was the long gallery off which the principal bedrooms opened, with smaller wings at each end, and in this gallery the family portraits were hung. However much she might silently condemn him as an intruder and a stranger, she could not escape the fact that every few yards they were going to come face to face with his likeness, and it wouldn’t escape him either.

      She made no reference to them as they passed, but took him straight to the master bedroom which her parents used to share, and where Elizabeth Pentreath now slept alone. He looked around it without comment, opening the door into the small dressing room which lay off it.

      ‘Are the guest rooms similar?’ he asked, when they were once again on the gallery.

      Morgana hesitated. ‘Well, usually guests have a choice of rooms. We charge different prices for them, of course. At the moment Miss Meakins has accommodation in the West Wing, but we moved Major Lawson over to the other side because of his typing.’ He said nothing in response, and after a minute she added defensively, ‘There’s nothing wrong with the rooms in the wings. We always show the guests everything that’s available.’

      She walked on quickly down the corridor, and Lyall followed.

      He said, ‘Just a moment. Haven’t you forgotten something?’

      She stopped and turned quickly. He was standing by a door, touching the handle, his brows raised interrogatively.

      She said reluctantly, ‘Oh—that’s my room.’ She half expected him to leave it, and follow her, but he remained where he was.

      ‘I suppose you want to see it.’ She made no effort to disguise her resentment.

      ‘I want to see everything. I thought I’d made that clear.’

      Yes, you did, she thought, as she walked back. And you’re also reminding me that this isn’t really my room any more. That it belongs to you, like everything else here, and that I’m only occupying it on sufferance. As if I could forget that, even for a moment! I just—hoped that you wouldn’t insist.

      Her hand was shaking as she turned the handle and pushed open the door, fumbling for the light switch. Every step he’d taken in this house was an invasion of privacy, but this was the worst of all.

      She had always slept in this room, from being a small child. Her whole life was laid out here for anyone to see. At a casual glance, Lyall could find out anything he wanted to know—could see the books, from childhood fairy tales to modern novels, which crammed the bulging bookcase—the worn teddy bear still occupying a place of honour on the narrow window seat—even the scent she used, standing on her dressing table, and her nightdress folded on the small single bed with its virginal white candlewick coverlet.

      As it was, his glance was far from casual. He walked into the centre of the room and stood there, his hands buried deep into the pockets of the black leather coat he hadn’t bothered to remove. And he took everything in, while Morgana waited in the doorway, feeling as humiliated as if she’d been forced to strip naked in front of him.

      It was deliberate, she knew that. Next time and every time that she entered this room, he intended her to remember his presence there, his scrutiny covering all her most personal possessions, lingering on the narrowness of the bed, while a half-smile played about his mouth which she had not the slightest difficulty in interpreting.

      She thought, ‘Damn you!’ and was aghast to see his smile widen, and realise she had spoken her thought aloud.

      He said softly, ‘It’s nice to know, darling, that one’s efforts are appreciated.’

      She said, ‘When you’ve finished your—inventory, I’ll be in the corridor.’

      He joined her there almost immediately. ‘I have to admire your choice of sanctuary,’ he observed rather mockingly. ‘I imagine that in daylight, the view from the window is quite spectacular.’

      ‘Yes—you can see the sea from all the first floor windows on this side.’ Her voice sounded stilted.

      ‘And I presume that the eyes I can feel watching me along this gallery are those of our mutual ancestors?’

      ‘Yes,’ she agreed resignedly.

      ‘Are they not included in the guided tour?’

      She shrugged. ‘As you pointed out, they are our mutual ancestors. You probably know as much as I do.’

      He said softly, ‘And you know that isn’t the truth. So suppose you tell me about them.’

      There was a note in his voice which sent little prickles of apprehension running along her skin, like a storm warning. There was a brief, crackling silence, then she said, ‘Very well. The man on your left is Josiah Pentreath. He built most of this house at the height of the tin-mining industry, but it’s always been reckoned he built the stables out of his profits from smuggling. He had two sons, Mark and Giles—they’re over