The evening meal over, Sarah, Paula and Francis decided to go outside for some air. The setting sun threw long shadows over the park.
‘A fiancé? Well, she finished consoling herself pretty quickly.’
‘You don’t understand, Sarah,’ said Francis. ‘Why would she need to console herself when it was she who broke off the engagement?’
Sarah gave a tinkling laugh.
‘And you believe it was Bessie who jilted Mike? What a joke!’
‘But no,’ insisted Paula. ‘She told us herself.’
‘And because she told you, you believe it?’ railed Sarah, turning to her brother and sister-in-law with an ironic, almost disdainful smile. ‘As far as psychology is concerned, you both have a lot to learn. And as regards Mike, you have the wrong version of the story. When he told her that it would be better if they separated, she clung to him, moaning and threatened suicide. Mike was very patient because he wanted to avoid a scandal at any price.’
Francis nodded thoughtfully.
‘That’s funny,’ he said. ‘She didn’t give me the impression she was at all jealous.’
‘As I’ve always said, Francis, you know nothing about women,’ sneered Sarah. ‘It’s painful enough to have been abandoned by the one you love, but then to see him in the arms of a friend is the supreme humiliation. Do you think that, on top of everything else, she would want to shout it from the rooftops? No, there’s only one attitude to take: suffer in silence behind a mask of nonchalance. And that’s what Bessie’s doing at the moment. Mike and I aren’t fools. That said, we won’t hold it against her.’
‘That’s a bit of luck,’ observed Francis. ‘Bessie’s a decent girl who, I’m sure, has nothing to blame herself for, and who’s certainly not the woman devoured by jealousy you’re portraying her as.’
‘It doesn’t really matter what you do or don’t think,’ declared Sarah dismissively.
Paula, who had gone ahead, chose the path leading to the chapel, which was hardly distinguishable in the twilight, surrounded as it was by trees. As they approached, Sarah came to a sudden stop, a distressed look in her eyes.
‘No,’ she murmured. ‘Not this way.’
After giving his wife a dirty look, Francis took Sarah’s arm and guided her gently in the direction of the manor. Paula shrugged and followed them. She thought about Harris Thorne with his welcoming smile, his red hair, his inevitable blue-checked jacket and his outbursts of laughter. She remembered him so vividly that she could almost see him in front of her. She shivered. “Harris Thorne,” she said to herself, “wasn’t so far wrong to be jealous of Dr. Mike Meadows, after all… And suppose his spirit is there, lurking in the shadows, spying on his wife, the wife Meadows set his sights on….”
She was startled out of her reverie by the voice of her own husband:
‘Dammit! I was forgetting about good old Brian.’
Paula was about to reply, but Sarah got her word in first:
‘Brian? What do you want with him?’
‘I promised to drop in to see him this evening,’ said Francis, rubbing his hands together cheerfully. ‘For a consultation… about my future.’
Francis’s enthusiasm as he knocked on Brian’s door faded once he stepped into the room. In the first place, Brian’s face was more like a waxen image than his normal self and his sombre expression was hardly more reassuring. The oil lamp, furthermore, seemed to have been set to give the minimum of light, which had the effect of accentuating the shadows rather than dissipating them. The only furnishings which were visible were a table, on which stood a large glass of water, and the gold bindings of the books on the stacked shelves. Brian’s face lit up suddenly with an affable smile.
‘My dear Francis, I’m not sure this is the best method for determining your future.’
Francis Hilton squinted in the darkness.
‘The best method? What method are you talking about?’
‘I sense you’re incredulous… You don’t believe in this science, am I correct?’
‘Well, let’s just say I’m not entirely convinced.’
Brian nodded, then asked Francis to take a seat opposite him, after which he took a deck of cards out from a drawer and spread them out on the table. The soft light of the lamp revealed many beautifully coloured figures: a cleric absorbed in a book, a woman holding a sword and a set of scales, a naked woman pouring the contents of a pitcher into a lake, a skeleton scything grass, a hanged man, a man falling from a tower, two dogs looking at the moon, and a host of others. Some of the cards only displayed symbols, crossed wands, swords, cups, coins, numbers from one to ten.
‘Do you know these cards?’ asked Brian.
‘It looks like a Tarot deck… but not quite.’
‘That’s right. It’s the Tarot of Marseille.’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Francis in surprise. ‘I assume they’re cards specially made for predictions?’
Brian smiled.
‘Yes, even today the introduction of Tarot in Europe is the subject of much controversy. The French claim it was a court painter, Jacquemin Gringonneur, who… but I don’t think that would interest you very much. Ah! I notice you’ve been studying the skeleton with the scythe.’
Francis looked up anxiously.
‘It represents death, doesn’t it?’
‘Not necessarily. It depends on the adjacent cards.’
This last observation hardly seemed to reassure Francis, who, at Brian’s request, shuffled the cards and cut them into six stacks. Brian took the top card from each stack and placed them face up in front of his visitor. After a moment’s reflection, he stared at the glass of water. The operation was repeated three times. There followed a long silence which seemed interminable to Francis.
‘Well?’ he said eventually.
Brian gave him an impenetrable look.
‘So,’ he announced, ‘there’s not a shadow of doubt. I did say beforehand that, in view of your scepticism, the outcome wasn’t assured, but… the message from the cards is quite clear. As you have no doubt noticed, we frequently turn up the same cards… the four of wands, the king of coins and the eight of swords followed by Death….’
‘Yes,’ said Francis in a quavering voice, ‘I noticed that last one. Please don’t tell me that….’
Brian stared thoughtfully at the glass of water before he spoke:
‘The eight of swords wasn’t turned up, so there’s no need to fear the worst… But beware of some kind of incident like a fall. But there’s also good news… Francis, you play the horses, don’t you?’
‘Sometimes, but without much success, I have to say. That’s why I only place small bets.’
Brian smiled broadly.
‘In your shoes, I’d be more adventurous next time: the king of coins next to the eight of wands indicates significant winnings!’
At a quarter to twelve, Patrick Nolan, a newspaper under one arm, pushed open the door of one of the pubs in Regent Street. He made a beeline for one of the few empty seats and was about to get himself a drink when he heard his name being called:
‘Patrick!’
He looked round to see someone making his way towards him, someone he hadn’t seen for quite a while and whom he didn’t particularly wish to see now. He feigned a pleasure he was far from feeling and replied:
‘Hello, Francis.’
They didn’t quite fall into each others’ arms, but almost. In the days when the Hiltons spent their holidays in Padstow, Francis and Patrick had got on well enough to become firm friends.
Blue Reed felt a sense of unease, of breathlessness, and of shame as the blood rushed to his cheeks. Frequently in his dreams — and in reality, for that matter — Francis had stood between him and White Camellia. Francis, with his blue eyes and his smile.