wrapped in one of the enormous bath sheets
provided, padded around putting her clothes away in the drawers and
cupboards, and setting out her scanty array of toiletries in the
bathroom.
Her task completed, she dressed in a chocolate-coloured denim dress
with a low back and a halter neckline, and still barefoot walked out
through the French doors on to the balcony. To her left, a graceful
flight of wrought iron steps led downwards so that the occupants of
the rooms in this wing could reach the garden below without having
to go through the house. Certainly, it was a beguiling enough •settle
that met her eyes. An attractively paved patio lay below, with a long
rectangular swimming pool as its focal point. Beyond the patio more
lawns spread away to become eventually lost in a tangled riot of
greenery and flowering bushes, which Christina guessed marked the
limits of the garden proper. Beyond this barrier she could see the sea.
She wanted very much to go down the steps and explore the
grounds—to see if there was a way through the shrubbery to the
beach, but she hesitated. After all, Mrs Brandon might send for her,
and if she was missing- and no one knew where she was this would
cause problems. And as if to make up her mind for her, a telephone
buzzed sharply in the room behind her. Christina walked quickly
back into the bedroom and over to the elegant bedside table and lifted
the receiver.
'Hello,' she said. 'Christina Bennett.'
There was someone there, because she could hear them breathing—a
light shallow breath as if whoever it was had been hurrying. But they
did not speak.
After a minute, Christina said sharply, 'Yes? Who is it, please?'
No one replied, but Christina thought she detected a smothered laugh,
as if the alarm in her voice had been registered and appreciated. She
felt her temper rise.
'Will you please stop playing games and tell me what it is you want,'
she said very distinctly into the living silence, and nearly jumped out
of her skin as a peremptory tap sounded on the bedroom door.
She swung round with a gasp, still holding the telephone receiver as
the door opened. She was confronted by a girl, not much older than
herself. She was dazzlingly lovely with dark hair and eyes, and the
same smooth cafe au lait skin as Madame Christophe. In fact,
Christina thought instinctively, she was the image of what Madame
Christophe must have been like at the same age.
The girl smiled—a formal, perfunctory smile revealing white and
even teeth. 'If Mademoiselle would care to descend, there is tea in the
library. Or would you prefer me to bring a tray to you here?'
'No—oh, no,' Christina said hastily. 'I'll come down. You —you must
be Eulalie.'
'
'That is so.' The dark eyes surveyed Christina andwidened
questioningly as she was holding the telephone receiver.
'Mademoiselle desired something?'
'No—someone phoned me, but they won't answer.' Christina felt
foolish.
'May I?' Eulalie held out her hand and Christina with a feeling of faint
helplessness handed her the receiver.
Eulalie listened for a moment, then turned to Christina. 'There is no
one there now, mademoiselle. This is the house telephone. It is easy if
one hurries to dial a wrong number.'
'But why didn't they say so?' Christina felt that she had been put
subtly in the wrong. 'They just wouldn't speak at all. It was horrid.'
'Mademoiselle must have imagined it,' Eulalie said coolly. 'There is
no one in the house who would do such a thing.'
She turned and walked to the door, obviously expecting that Christina
would follow her. Christina snatched up a pair of low-heeled sandals
in natural leather and thrust them awkwardly on to her feet. She felt
gauche and confused. She knew she had not imagined the malice she
had sensed at the other end of the phone, but she was at a loss to know
what could possibly have inspired it.
As she followed Eulalie's studiedly graceful figure along the corridor
towards
provided, padded around putting her clothes away in the drawers and
cupboards, and setting out her scanty array of toiletries in the
bathroom.
Her task completed, she dressed in a chocolate-coloured denim dress
with a low back and a halter neckline, and still barefoot walked out
through the French doors on to the balcony. To her left, a graceful
flight of wrought iron steps led downwards so that the occupants of
the rooms in this wing could reach the garden below without having
to go through the house. Certainly, it was a beguiling enough •settle
that met her eyes. An attractively paved patio lay below, with a long
rectangular swimming pool as its focal point. Beyond the patio more
lawns spread away to become eventually lost in a tangled riot of
greenery and flowering bushes, which Christina guessed marked the
limits of the garden proper. Beyond this barrier she could see the sea.
She wanted very much to go down the steps and explore the
grounds—to see if there was a way through the shrubbery to the
beach, but she hesitated. After all, Mrs Brandon might send for her,
and if she was missing- and no one knew where she was this would
cause problems. And as if to make up her mind for her, a telephone
buzzed sharply in the room behind her. Christina walked quickly
back into the bedroom and over to the elegant bedside table and lifted
the receiver.
'Hello,' she said. 'Christina Bennett.'
There was someone there, because she could hear them breathing—a
light shallow breath as if whoever it was had been hurrying. But they
did not speak.
After a minute, Christina said sharply, 'Yes? Who is it, please?'
No one replied, but Christina thought she detected a smothered laugh,
as if the alarm in her voice had been registered and appreciated. She
felt her temper rise.
'Will you please stop playing games and tell me what it is you want,'
she said very distinctly into the living silence, and nearly jumped out
of her skin as a peremptory tap sounded on the bedroom door.
She swung round with a gasp, still holding the telephone receiver as
the door opened. She was confronted by a girl, not much older than
herself. She was dazzlingly lovely with dark hair and eyes, and the
same smooth cafe au lait skin as Madame Christophe. In fact,
Christina thought instinctively, she was the image of what Madame
Christophe must have been like at the same age.
The girl smiled—a formal, perfunctory smile revealing white and
even teeth. 'If Mademoiselle would care to descend, there is tea in the
library. Or would you prefer me to bring a tray to you here?'
'No—oh, no,' Christina said hastily. 'I'll come down. You —you must
be Eulalie.'
'
'That is so.' The dark eyes surveyed Christina andwidened
questioningly as she was holding the telephone receiver.
'Mademoiselle desired something?'
'No—someone phoned me, but they won't answer.' Christina felt
foolish.
'May I?' Eulalie held out her hand and Christina with a feeling of faint
helplessness handed her the receiver.
Eulalie listened for a moment, then turned to Christina. 'There is no
one there now, mademoiselle. This is the house telephone. It is easy if
one hurries to dial a wrong number.'
'But why didn't they say so?' Christina felt that she had been put
subtly in the wrong. 'They just wouldn't speak at all. It was horrid.'
'Mademoiselle must have imagined it,' Eulalie said coolly. 'There is
no one in the house who would do such a thing.'
She turned and walked to the door, obviously expecting that Christina
would follow her. Christina snatched up a pair of low-heeled sandals
in natural leather and thrust them awkwardly on to her feet. She felt
gauche and confused. She knew she had not imagined the malice she
had sensed at the other end of the phone, but she was at a loss to know
what could possibly have inspired it.
As she followed Eulalie's studiedly graceful figure along the corridor
towards
Similar Books
