Dangerous to Know. Barbara Taylor Bradford

taken. As far as I could tell.”

      “Does that mean they’ve now ruled out the possibility of an intruder?”

      “They didn’t say.”

      “It’s perplexing.” I sat back in my chair, my mind turning over the few facts we had. “When I lunched with Sebastian he mentioned that Mrs. Crane was away on vacation…” I stopped and looked at him.

      “What are you getting at, Viv?”

      “I guess I think it’s a bit odd that Sebastian came up to the farm when there was no one there to look after him. When she was away. Even the police think that, Jack.”

      “He told me on Thursday that he had some work to finish. He gave me the impression he was looking forward to being alone up here, from his tone and his attitude.”

      “Maybe he wasn’t alone, though.”

      Jack threw me a swift look and his brows puckered. “That’s a possibility. Somebody could have been with him. Yes, of course they could.”

      “And that somebody might have ended up doing him bodily harm,” I pointed out.

      “Only too true.”

      “By the way, why did you and Luciana suddenly come to the States? Was there a special reason for this visit?”

      “We didn’t come to kill Sebastian,” he said, and gave me a smirk that was oddly ghoulish.

      “For God’s sake, I wasn’t implying any such thing. And do stop it. You know your facetious talk only infuriates me. Grow up, act your age, Jack. This is very serious…a serious situation.”

      “Sorry, Viv. Luciana and I came in for the annual meeting of Locke Industries,” Jack explained in a quiet, more subdued tone, sounding suddenly and effectively chastised at last. “It was supposed to be held tomorrow. Naturally, it’s been canceled.”

      “I should hope so! Anyway, I must go back to my original reaction of earlier today, when you first told me Sebastian was dead. I was certain he’d had a heart attack, or possibly a stroke. And to tell you the truth, I still believe, deep down, that that’s what happened.”

      When Jack made no response, I gave him a penetrating look, asked, “Well, don’t you?”

      He brought his hand up to his face, rubbed his mouth and his chin, suddenly reflective. “I don’t know,” he answered. “This afternoon I would have agreed with you, but now I’m vacillating. Not sure of anything.”

      “Do you honestly think he was attacked? By an intruder?” I pressed.

      “Maybe. He could have gone into the farmhouse and surprised a burglar.”

      “Before the burglar had an opportunity to steal anything? Is that what you think? After all, you said there’s nothing missing.”

      “Well, the paintings and the major art objects are in place. On the other hand, Sebastian could have had something else there worth stealing, something to tempt a thief.”

      “Such as what?” I frowned, shaking my head. “I don’t get it, Jack.”

      “Cash, Vivienne. You know Sebastian always carried a lot on him. I was often warning him about that. Or maybe there were some documents around.”

      “Documents,” I said sharply, staring at him. “But if someone stole documents that smacks of premeditation, doesn’t it? Listen, a thief breaking in at random, looking for loot, is one thing. A thief breaking in and stealing documents is a different thing altogether. It suggests prior knowledge to me.”

      Jack nodded. “You’re right there.”

      “What made you think of documents? Are there any missing? And what kind of documents did you have in mind?”

      “I don’t know, and to be honest, I don’t know why I thought of them. Except that Sebastian said he was going to the farm to work. Whatever else he was, he wasn’t a liar. If he said he had to go over papers, then he was telling the truth. But there weren’t any, at least none that he’d been working on—”

      “What about all those scattered around the library?” I cut in.

      “The letters on the floor and spread over the desk were just the usual things. Correspondence, bills, personal notes from people. The way he spoke on Thursday he sounded as if he had real work to do on important documents. Come to think of it, he did actually say documents. I guess that’s why I just thought of them now.” He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Look, I haven’t been at Laurel Creek Farm in a coon’s age, Viv, so how would I know if there’s anything missing? Mrs. Crane’s the best person to ascertain that, but then only as far as the art is concerned. Not even she would know if any papers have disappeared.”

      “No, she wouldn’t.” I let out a long sigh. “It looks as if we’re back to square one.”

      “Yep…” Jack shook his head, his puzzlement surfacing again. Then he said suddenly, in a torrent of words, “Look, Viv, I disagree with you. I don’t think he died of natural causes, as you do. I think he was killed. Most probably by an intruder. Sebastian surprised him. The intruder ran out. Sebastian chased him. They struggled. And Sebastian got himself killed. Sort of inadvertently.”

      “Or he was murdered by someone who was with him at the farm, for reasons we don’t know,” I remarked.

      Jack pondered for a moment. Then slowly, and more thoughtfully than usual, he said, “We’re speculating. We’d better stop. It’ll lead nowhere.” Pinning me with his eyes, he added, “Let’s admit it, Vivienne, we won’t know exactly how he died until the police get that autopsy report from the Chief Medical Officer in Farmington.”

      I could only nod. I agreed with him, at least as far as his last comment was concerned.

       CHAPTER THREE

      Long after Jack had left, I prowled around the house, stacking the dishwasher, clearing up, making the den and the dining room neat and tidy.

      At one moment I even had another stab at my story, hoping to do the final edit, but I was not very successful. I would try again tomorrow, and if my concentration still eluded me I would have to let it go out as it was. The piece had to be at the newspaper in London by Friday at the latest, and I would have to FedEx it on Wednesday, no matter what.

      The hall clock was striking midnight by the time I climbed the stairs of Ridgehill and went to my room, feeling weary and worn down.

      I, like all of my female forebears, occupied the master bedroom that stretched almost the entire length of the house. Situated at the back, rather than the front, it was a charming room with rafters, many windows, and an imposing stone fireplace. French doors on either side of the fireplace opened out onto a wide balcony suspended over the garden. This was the most marvelous spot in the world for breakfast on spring and summer mornings, especially when the lilacs were in bloom.

      Ridgehill stood at the top of Tinker Hill Road. Set amidst a copse of centuries-old maples, it looked out over Lake Waramaug. When my illustrious ancestor Henrietta Bailey had built this house she had thought things out most prudently, had chosen well when situating the master bedroom within the overall architectural plan. The views were spectacular from the many windows, were panoramic in their vistas.

      I went and stood at one of the windows, moving the curtain slightly, staring out across the tops of the trees toward the large body of water far below. The lake was as flat and as unmoving as black glass, and above it the sky was littered with tiny bright stars. There was a harvest moon tonight, silvery and perfectly spherical, riding the black clouds. It cast a sheen across the murky waters of the lake, touched the tops of the trees with brilliance.

      What a beautiful night, I thought, as I let the curtain