medieval Wales. With people talking Welsh all round me, for God’s sake!’
Nick shook up the dressing and poured it over the salad. ‘If it was Welsh,’ he said quietly, ‘God knows what it was you said. If you had jumped up and down shouting Cymru am byth I might have been able to substantiate it!’
‘Where did you learn that?’ she laughed.
‘Rugger. I don’t mess about when I go to Twickenham you know, it’s very educational.’ He touched her cheek lightly. ‘Good to see you laughing. It’s not like our Jo to get upset.’
She pushed a plate at him. ‘As Dr Bennet pointed out, it’s not every day that “our Jo” witnesses a full-dress massacre, even in a nightmare,’ she retorted.
They ate in the living room. ‘Bach to eat by,’ said Nick, putting his plate down and riffling through the stack of records. ‘To restore the equilibrium.’
She did not argue. It meant they didn’t have to talk; it meant she needn’t even think. She let the music sweep over her, leaving her food almost untouched as she lay back on the sofa, her feet up, and closed her eyes.
When she opened them again the sky was dark outside the French windows onto the balcony. The music had finished and the room was silent. Nick was sitting watching her in the light of the single desk lamp.
‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ she asked indignantly. ‘What time is it?’
‘Eleven. Time you were in bed. You look exhausted.’
‘Don’t dictate, Nick. It’s time you went, for that matter,’ she said sharply.
‘Wouldn’t you like me to stay?’
She pushed herself up on her elbow. ‘No. You and I are finished, remember? You have to go back to your cosy love nest with the talented Miss Curzon. What was it you said on the phone, “working late” – she won’t believe it, you know, if you stay away all night!’
‘I don’t much care what she believes at the moment, Jo. I am more concerned about you,’ Nick said. He stood up and turned on the main light. ‘I don’t think you should be alone tonight.’
‘In case I have nightmares?’
‘Yes, in case you have nightmares. This has shaken you up more than you realise, and I think someone should be here. I’ll sleep here on the sofa if the idea of me in your bed offends you, but I’m going to stay!’
She stood up furiously. ‘Like hell you are!’ Then abruptly her shoulders slumped. ‘Oh God, Nick, you’re right. I do want you to stay. I want you to hold me.’
He put his arms round her gently and caressed her hair. ‘The trouble with you, Jo, is that when you’re nice, you’re very, very nice, but –’
‘I know, I know. And when I’m horrid you hate and detest me. And I’m usually horrid.’ She forced herself to smile. ‘Well, tonight I’m being nice. But it is only for one night, Nick. Everything will be back to normal tomorrow.’
In bed they lay for a long time in silence. Then Nick raised himself on one elbow and looked down at her in the faint light which filtered through the blind from the street lamp in the mews.
‘Jo,’ he said softly. ‘You haven’t told me yet about Richard.’
She stiffened. ‘Richard?’
‘Your lover in that castle. He was your lover, wasn’t he?’
Restlessly she moved her head sideways so he could not see her face. ‘I don’t know. It wasn’t me, Nick! He left the castle. He wasn’t there at the end. I don’t know what happened next. I don’t suppose I’ll ever know.’ Agitated, she tried to push him away, but he caught her wrist, forcing it back against the pillow so that she had to face him.
‘You’re planning to see Bennet again, aren’t you?’
She shook her head violently. ‘No, of course I’m not.’
‘Are you sure?’
Something in his voice made her stare up into his face, trying to see the expression in his eyes.
‘For God’s sake don’t do it. It’s dangerous. Far more dangerous than you or Bennet realise. Your life could be in danger, Jo.’ His voice was harsh.
She smiled. ‘Now that is melodramatic. Are you suggesting I could be locked in the past forever?’ She reached up and tugged his hair playfully. ‘You idiot, it doesn’t work that way. People always wake up in the end.’
‘Do they?’ He lay back on the pillow. ‘Just make sure you’ve got your facts right, Jo. I know it’s your proud boast that you always do, but just this once you could be wrong.’
Early next morning Sam paid off the taxi and stood for a moment on the pavement staring round him, Judy’s address scribbled on a scrap of paper in his hand.
He looked up at the house then, slinging his case over his shoulder, he ran easily up the long flights of steps until he reached the shadowy landing at the top of the stairs. It was some time before the door opened to his ring.
Judy stared at the rangy figure in the rumpled cord jacket and her eyes hardened. ‘What do you want?’
‘Hello there.’ He grinned at her easily. ‘I’m Sam Franklyn.’
‘I guessed that. So – what do you want?’ Her tone was icy. With paint-stained fingers she pushed back the scarf which covered her hair.
‘May I come in?’
‘Please yourself.’ She turned away and walked back into the studio. Picking up a rag, she began to scrub at her fingertips with some turps. ‘What have you come here for?’ she asked after a minute. She did not bother to turn round.
Sam dropped his case in the corner and closed the door. ‘I rather hoped Nick would be here,’ he said mildly, ‘but I can see I’ve goofed. Where is he, do you know?’
‘I don’t.’ She flung down the rag. ‘But I can guess. He stood me up last night.’ She folded her arms and turned to face him. He could see now in the harsh revealing light of the studio windows that her eyes were red and puffy. There was a streak of viridian across her forehead.
‘Any chance of some coffee while you tell me about it?’ Sam said gently. ‘I’ve come straight from Heathrow and I’m parched.’
‘Help yourself. But don’t expect me to make polite conversation, least of all about Nick. I’m busy.’ She turned her back on him again.
Sam frowned. He watched her for a moment as she picked up a brush and attacked the canvas in front of her. Every muscle in her body was tense, the angle of her shoulders set and defensive beneath the faded green denim of her smock.
‘Do you know,’ she said suddenly, ‘I hate her. I have never actually hated anyone like that before. Not so much that I would like to see them dead. Do you think I’m paranoid or something?’ Her tone was almost conversational as with cool deliberation she loaded her brush with cadmium red and blotted a small figure out of the painting.
Sam watched her thoughtfully. ‘It sounds pretty normal to me,’ he said evenly. ‘Do I gather we are talking about Jo?’
‘Why don’t you make me some coffee too, while you’re at it,’ she returned sharply, ‘and shut up about Jo.’ Once again she pushed back the scarf which covered her hair.
Sam gave a small grimace. He found his way across to the kitchen by instinct and pushed open the door, then he stopped and surveyed the scene. There was broken glass all over the floor. Two saucepans of food had been left upside down in the sink. Staring down at