Lady of Hay by Barbara Erskine (reading an ebook TXT) 📕

"May I ask who is inquiring?" the impersonal voice on the other end of the wire said in response to his question after a series of clicks and silences.

Nick spelled out his name patiently. "I was at the hospital earlier, " he said. "Tim is a very old friend. "

"I'm sorry, then, Mr. Franklyn. " The voice suddenly became compassionate. "But I have bad news, I'm afraid. Mr. Heacham never regained consciousness after the operation. He died at a quarter to three. "

Chapter 39

Sam braced himself against the aircraft seat and closed his eyes. He hated the moment of take-off—the pressure against his body as the plane accelerated, the speeding tarmac beneath the wheels, turning into a blur outside the window that defied eyesight, the knowledge that he was trapped, strapped into the fuselage as it hurtled forward out of his control, bearing him helplessly to whatever destination it chose. He focused his eyes desperately on the No Smoking sign, waiting for the slight bump that would indicate they had left the ground.

His head was whirling. A monumental hangover, no doubt, though he couldn't remember drinking anything at all. He remembered walking up Park Lane as dawn was breaking. It had started to rain and he had thrown back his head to feel the cool droplets on his face. Exhausted, he had reached the apartment at last. Nick was still out, presumably at his office party.

Sam meticulously packed all his things, checking for anything left behind. Then he turned out the lights and drew back the curtains on the gray early morning. Outside it was raining hard.

Before he left the apartment he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the crucifix. He stared at it for a long time, then he kissed it gently and stood it on Nick's writing desk, propped against the lamp. He stood looking at it for several seconds, then, crossing himself, he turned for the door. After slamming it, he slipped the keys through the letter box, then he made his way toward the stairs. He still needed to walk, exhausted though he was. He would walk now, through the rain, to Green Park Station and take the Piccadilly line to Heathrow. Only at the last minute had he turned his back on the Edinburgh flight and asked instead for a standby ticket to Paris. He had no reason to think that Judy would tell the police about the fracas in her studio, but if she did, perhaps it would be better if he made himself scarce for the time being. He smiled grimly as he reached for his American Express card and then slowly made his way toward the departure lounge.

He leaned toward the window and stared out at the landscape of miniature houses and roads, so meticulous, so square, laid out beneath the steadily climbing plane. Then there were meadows and the silver curve of the river. For a second he caught sight of the majestic towers of Windsor Castle, then the plane sliced up into the soft, enveloping down of cloud. Sam sat back and unfastened his seat belt and for the first time thought of Jo.

He closed his eyes again, feeling icy sweat drench his shoulders. He had abandoned her. He had sent her to Corfe and abandoned her. He had failed. Once more he had fled. Fled to France. And so history was to repeat itself after all.

He could feel the ironical laughter welling up inside him. For a moment he tried to stop it, fighting the explosion building up inside his chest, then he pressed his head back against the seat and opened his mouth to let the sound escape. It came out as a huge heart-rending sob. Within seconds his face was coursing with tears.

It was eight o'clock when Nick looked in on Jo. He stood watching her tenderly, tucking the blanket more tightly around her deeply sleeping form, then he stooped and kissed her gently and lingeringly on the lips. "Jo, my love, " he whispered. "I'm going to the office to pick up the contracts, then I'm coming straight back. Can you hear me, Jo?"

She did not move. He could see the blue veins on her eyelids, the almost transparent quality of her skin against the vivid dark hair with its hints of chestnut on the white pillowcase.

"I'll be back in forty minutes, Jo, I promise, " he whispered again. "Then I won't leave you again. "

Outside the front door he hesitated for a moment. Should he run upstairs and ask the Chandler woman to come and sit with Jo until he got back? He glanced up at the dim stairwell, barely lit by the rain-splashed skylight three floors above, then he began to run downstairs. Jo was still deeply asleep. Dr. Bennet had said she would be out for at least eight hours. He would fly to the office in a cab, grab the contracts and outline presentations, and be back before nine.

As the door closed behind him, Jo opened her eyes. Her head was spinning and she felt violently sick. Fighting to make her heavy limbs move, she climbed out of bed and made her way to the bathroom.

Forty minutes, Nick had said. Just forty minutes to get away.

She stood under the cold shower until she was shaking but wide awake. After toweling herself dry, she dragged on her jeans and a thick sweater, then she drank a mug of scalding black coffee. The caffeine hit her like a hammer and she felt it jolt her system, making her heart palpitate uncomfortably as she groped on the shelf for a road map.

She took a denim jacket, a scarf, and her bag with the map, then looked for the keys of the Porsche. They were still there where she had dropped them on the desk. With a faint smile she slipped the key ring