“Lydia, this swirling madness is beginning to crystallise and take on a shape of reason,” Joe said. “And I think I preferred the madness.”
CHAPTER 15
Julia opened her eyes wide, snapping awake, knowing, as she always did, exactly where she was and that the time was five o’clock, the start of her working day. A precious hour to herself to bathe and dress and get ready for the day before waking Natalia.
No Natalia! No more routine! The thought brought relief and made her smile. But she had to make a start. She stifled a yawn and remembered enough of the night before to avoid stretching her aching limbs. She wanted no mewling and groaning to give her presence away.
A chink of daylight was already cutting through into the room at the edge of one of the carelessly drawn curtains and in the very far distance she could just make out the gentle buzz of the hotel getting ready for the day. The sounds reminded her that, of her many lapses the previous evening, she’d forgotten to put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign. She eased her way out of bed and moved quietly to the door. She managed to get it open without a sound and hung the warning over the doorknob. Half the staff in the hotel, she suspected, were on somebody’s payroll and she wasn’t experienced enough in that shady world to be able to spot them. The best she could do was keep all dubious strangers away from her for as long as possible.
The dubious stranger at present lying dead to the world in the centre of the double bed—she had no intention of attracting his attention either.
Just distinguishable in the grey light, the Vionnet dress and her french knickers were lying in a heap on the floor in lascivious liaison with the black leather strapping of her boot. In disgust, she gathered them into a bundle and left them by the door to make her exit swifter. Now for the tricky bit. She tittupped jerkily back and listened to his regular breathing. Too regular? At that moment, he grunted, scratched his bum and turned over. His head was now turned to his left and she smiled to see that the exposed side of his face still bore the marks of her palm and fingers from the almighty wallop she’d given him in the corridor. One of her best. Julia didn’t like violence but she’d grown up surrounded by it and had learned ways of controlling it, even using it judiciously. There was a kind of man—her father one of them—who wouldn’t hesitate to slap a woman about. They were too many but easily identified and the only way to get the better of them was to show you weren’t going to stand any of their nonsense.
She’d seen a film about tigers at a Saturday matinee for kids and it had changed her life. A female with two tiny cubs to protect had had to fight off a marauding male which threatened to kill them. The spitting fury of the attack the female launched while the male was still flexing his muscles and showing off had sent him reeling away. Both animals knew he had the power to win a stand-up fight but the steely intent in the eyes of the tigress had warned him that he’d emerge victorious but torn and bleeding—possibly to death. Julia had never had anything younger and weaker than herself to protect but she’d quivered and snarled and fought in spirit along with that tigress and knew that she was capable of the same passion.
Whack first, was a good plan. Not such a risky thing for her. Just about the only advantage of her condition. Nobody would raise a hand to a cripple. It was a rare man who let himself get within touching distance of her anyway. They usually gave in with bad grace at the challenge to their authority and accepted that they’d run up against a stronger will or they took off at once because they were looking for someone weaker to bully.
William Armiger seemed to come into neither category. He certainly hadn’t taken off and he hadn’t backed down either. He’d just laughed and made a grab for her. And she’d made her first mistake. She’d sheathed her claws. For a moment, staring at his handsome face, she was tempted to climb back into bed and repeat her mistakes.
Most faces softened in sleep when all defences were down. This one didn’t. It was all clear-cut brows, hard planes, smooth surfaces. The only flaw was the turgid mark she’d inflicted herself. Her hand went out automatically in a swiftly controlled impulse to rub it away. Too late now. A perfectly shaped head. Even the ears were neat. Where’d he sprung from? How had a man like this grown up so straight and limber amid the privations, the dirt and the disease of the pre-war East End? They were still there, in their teeming thousands, undersized, undernourished Londoners with rickety legs, raw lungs and rotting teeth. Though occasionally one got away and prospered. She’d compared Agent Armiger to Cary Grant, she remembered, carelessly, just to annoy Sandilands and show off that she was up to the minute with the movies, but she hadn’t been wide of the mark. That lovely bloke now parading around Hollywood was carving out a career for himself personifying Aristocracy, at least make-believe aristocracy. Julia had met samples of the real thing in three continents and they didn’t look remotely like Mr. Grant. He was never out of a tuxedo and top hat these days, surrounded by smart-mouthed, adoring beauties in white ostrich feathers and diamonds but, truth to tell, his childhood had been spent in England, in misery and poverty. If he didn’t have the same cleft chin and warm dark eyes, Armiger had the identical air of confidence and self-belief.
Julia remembered that William’s eyes were grey and penetrating. He wasn’t an easy man to lie to. If he’d gone along with Sandilands’ suggestion of catching her out in the matter of King Kong, she would have been unable to meet his eye and she’d have been sunk. Why on earth had he shielded her? So that she’d owe him a favour? Because he wanted to let her run a little farther like a wounded rabbit for sport before exposing her? Out of pity—that was more likely. Whatever the reason, he’d given a fine lesson in good-humoured courtesy to Gentleman Joe, who’d accepted it with good grace. She lingered, wondering, half-hoping the eyes would flick open and flood his features with laughter and lust.
She looked away from him with regret. She was wasting precious time. Things to do. She found his trousers and felt in the right hand pocket where he’d put the keys she needed. Kingstone’s suite. Kingstone’s telephone. The switchboard was manned through the night here. She should have no problems.
Bill half-opened an eye to watch her neat bottom disappear round the door. Now what the hell was all that about? He was tempted for a moment to leap up and haul her back; women never left him in the lurch the morning after. Losing his touch? He hadn’t thought so. It had all gone very well—better than he was expecting. At the recollection, he rolled over and snuggled his nose into the pillow she’d just left. Yes, it had been bluebells all the way. Light and joyful. She’d made him laugh and that was a first for Armitage. He’d never encountered that before. An earful of guilty sighing and doomful regrets were the usual price he paid for a night’s adventure. But here she was, nicking his keys and slinking off across the corridor. Just as well, perhaps. He groped for his wristwatch. Just after five. A busy morning ahead and at least he wouldn’t have to spend time raking over the events of the night before.
Still, he could have spared half an hour. Perhaps she’d heard the phone ring? She’d be bound to answer it. Bill had no illusions—all the girl’s loyalties were to her mistress, bloody hysterical Natalia, and, he could have sworn, to Kingstone himself in equal measure. He sat up and smoothed his cheek. Bloody woman! She’d never have put a hand to Kingstone’s craggy features even if he gave her cause. What made her think she had leave to make his face sting? Armitage remembered the bee and grinned. He’d paid up front for his pleasure.
INSPECTOR ORFORD WAITED impatiently for first light. He was getting pretty fed up with this stretch of riverbank. A detective sergeant could have done this particular bit of the investigation with no problems and reported back to him but—and he suspected that this was a trait he had in common with the assistant commissioner—he was a chap who liked to keep his own hand on the tiller.