'The Commander won't be long now,' he said. 'I've just had word his launch left fifteen minutes ago.'
Launch… They had more than one boat, then. And just had word. There had been no sound of a telephone ringing, and anyway the house wasn't on the phone. He went out and closed the door. She began to panic once again, realised she was lost without her bag, left in the car. No comb, no lipstick. She hadn't touched her face since before going down to the bar at the Kilmore Arms. She peered into the mirror hanging on the wall beyond the desk. Hair dank, face white and pinched, she looked frantic. She wondered whether it would be best for him to find her sitting in one of the armchairs, drinking her coffee, seemingly relaxed, or standing rather boyishly before the fireplace, hands in her jacket pockets. She needed direction, she needed someone like Adam Vane to tell her what to do, how to place herself before the curtain rose.
She turned round from the mirror, facing the desk, and saw the photograph in the blue leather frame. The photograph of her mother as a bride, her veil thrown back, the irritating smile of triumph on her face. There was something wrong, though. The groom standing beside her was not Shelagh's father. It was Nick, the best man, hair en brosse, supercilious, bored. She looked closer, baffled, and realised that the photograph had been cleverly faked. Nick's head and shoulders had been transposed on to her father's figure, while her father's head, sleek-haired, smiling happily, had been shifted to the lanky figure behind, standing between the bridesmaids. It was only because she knew the original photograph on her father's desk at home, and had a copy herself somewhere, stuck away in a drawer, that she recognised the transposition instantly. A stranger would think the photograph genuine. But why on earth? Whom did Nick want to deceive, unless it was himself?
Shelagh moved away from the desk, uneasy. People who were mentally sick deceived themselves. What was it her father had said? Nick had always been a border-line case…. She had been frightened before, standing on the shore by the lake questioned by the two men, but that had been physical fear, a natural reaction in the face of possible brutality. This was different-a feeling of revulsion, a strange apprehension. The room that had seemed warm and familiar became kinky, queer. She wanted to get out of it.
She went to the French window and pulled aside the curtains. The window was locked. No key, no way of escape. Then she heard the sound of voices in the hall, and this is it, she thought, I've got to face it. I must lie, make up my lines, improvise. Fm alone here, but for the steward, with someone who is sick, who is mad. The door opened, and he came into the room.
Surprise was mutual. He had caught her, literally, on the wrong foot, hovering between armchair and coffee-table, semi-bent, an awkward position, no sort of poise. She straightened herself and stared. So did he. He was not in the least like the best man in the authentic wedding group, except for the figure, lanky and tall. The hair was no longer en brosse because there was little of it, and the small black patch over the left eye suggested Moshe Dayan. The right eye was very bright and blue. The mouth thin. As he stood there, staring, the little dog pranced in behind him. He called over his shoulder to the steward. 'See that Operation B goes forward as of now, Bob,' he said, without taking his eye off Shelagh, and 'Aye, aye, sir,' replied the steward from the corridor.
The door closed, and Nick came into the room and said, 'I see Bob brought you some coffee. Is it cold?'
'I don't know,' Shelagh replied. 'I haven't drunk any yet.' 'Add some whisky to it, you'll feel better.'
He opened a wall-cupboard and brought out a tray with decanter, soda syphon, and glasses upon it. He put it on the table between the two chairs, then flung himself down on the one opposite her, the dog on his lap. Shelagh poured some whisky into her cup of coffee, aware that her hand trembled. She was sweating, too. His voice was clear, rather clipped, authoritative, reminding her of a director who used to teach at drama school and had half his students in tears. All except her. She had walked out of class one morning, and he had had to apologise.
'Come on, relax,' said her host. 'You're as taut as a bow-string.
I apologise for the abduction, but it was your own fault for wandering down by the lake late in the evening.'
'The signpost said footpath to Lough Torrah,' she replied. 'I didn't see a notice forbidding trespassers, or warning people away. They ought to advise visitors at the airport never to wander after sundown, but I suppose they can't, it would hit the tourist trade for six.'
Stuff that up, she thought, and tossed down her whisky-laced coffee. He smiled, but not with her, at her, and began to stroke the smooth, sleek coat of the little dog. The one eye was disconcerting. She had the impression that the left eye was still there behind the patch.
'What's your name?'
Her reply was instinctive. 'Jinnie.' she told him, and added, 'Blair.'
Jennifer Blair was her stage-name. Shelagh Money had never sounded right. But nobody except her father had ever called her Jinnie. It must have been nerves that had made her blurt it out now.
'M'm,' he said. 'Jinnie. Rather nice. Why did you want to see me, Jinnie?'
Improvisation. Play it by ear, Adam Vane always said. This is the situation, take it from here. Starting now….
There was a cigarette box on the table, and a lighter. She leant forward and took a cigarette from the box. He did not attempt to light it for her.
'I'm a journalist. My editors want to run a new series in the spring about the effects of retirement on Service men. Whether they like it, whether they're bored. Their hobbies, and so on. You know the kind of thing. Well, four of us were given the assignment. You were on my list, and here I am.'
'I see.'
She wished he would take that eye off her for one moment. The little dog, in ecstasy at the stroking hand, was now lying on its back, paws in the air.
'What made you think I should be of any interest to your readers?'
'That wasn't really my problem,' she told him. 'Other people do the check-ups in the office. I was merely given brief particulars. Service career, good war record, retired, lives at Ballyfane, and told to take it from there. Bring back a story. Human interest, and all that….'
'Curious,' he said, 'that your bosses should have picked on me when there are many far more distinguished persons living over here in retirement. Generals, rear-admirals, scores of 'em.'
She shrugged her shoulders. 'If you ask me,' she said, 'they pick the names out of a hat. And someone, I forget who, said you were a recluse. They love that sort of thing. Find out what makes him tick, they told me.'
He poured himself a drink, then leant back again in his chair. 'What's the name of your paper?' he asked.
'It isn't a newspaper, it's a magazine. One of the new glossies, very up and coming, published every fortnight. Searchlight. You may have seen it.'
Searchlight was, in point of fact, a recent publication. She had skimmed through it in the aircraft coming over.
'No, I've not seen it,' he told her, 'but then, living as a recluse, that's hardly surprising, is it?'
'No, No, I suppose not.'
The eye was watchful. She blew a cloud of smoke into the air.
'So it was professional curiosity that took you wandering to the lake by night, rather than wait until daylight to approach me?'
'Naturally. And the fact that you live on an island. Islands are always mysterious. Especially by night.'
'You're not easily scared?'
'I was scared when your henchman Michael and the rather unpleasant postmaster seized me by the arms and forced me into the boat.'