Named of the Dragon Page 8

  She frowned, picking up one of the discarded pages of James's typescript that littered the carpet and wadding it to stuff between the coals. "I don't remember saying anything about Arthur. Only Gareth."

  "But you mentioned Arthur," I held firm, "and that reminded me of Lewis. My assistant," I told James. "He's Welsh, you see, and always insisting that Arthur's Welsh, too, and not English. And Lewis once said that all Welshmen should know Merlin's prophecies." Which was also true, I thought, pleased at my memory for digging that up at this moment. I could clearly remember him saying that, now, during one of his lectures to me on Welsh history. No doubt that's why it had worked its way into my subconscious mind, and my dream. I relaxed. "But it's really not important. If you don't know—"

  "I'm afraid that I don't" James frowned faintly, watching Bridget as though something she'd just said had set him thinking. And then I saw his face clear and his gaze came back to me. "You know, you really ought to ask our neighbour, Mr. Morgan. He remembers all that rubbish. I could introduce you, if you like."

  "No thanks. We've met."

  "You have?"

  "This morning, on the coast path. He mistook me for a journalist."

  "Oh dear." He smiled. "And you're still in one piece?"

  Bridget told him not to worry. ' 'I've seen Lyn take down men twice Gareth's size." She struck a match and touched it to the paper, then sat back to watch it burn.' 'There, now, keep your fingers crossed that those sticks catch, this time... that's done it." Satisfied, she stood and brushed her sooty fingers on her jeans. "Honestly, James, you ought to use this fireplace more often. It gives the room a certain ambiance."

  He swivelled in his chair. "Yes, well, I already do have a tree dropping needles all over my dining-room—that's all the ambiance I need. Besides, the very point of central heating is to save us all the fuss of building fires in the fireplace."

  "Don't be daft. You cannot have a proper Christmas," Bridget said, "without a fire."

  "Christ," James sought assistance from the ceiling. "Not another of your Christmas things. What's next? A Yule log blazing in the hall and ten lords leaping round my writing-room?''

  "I thought the eight maids milking might be easier to do. We do have cows."

  "We do, indeed." He looked at me. "You've been her agent how long?"

  "Four years."

  "You should be sainted." He turned again and, shutting down his laptop, pushed it further down the table so he could rest an elbow on the place where it had been. "I suppose I'd best give up the thought of working, while you're here. I find the company of women too distracting."

  I shared his smile, and settled back. "Do you write every day?"

  "Not every day, no. Sundays are my days of rest, and sometimes when the story isn't flowing I do give myself a holiday."

  Bridget took the chair across from mine. "In other words, he hardly works at all. That's why it takes him so damn long to write a book."

  He took her teasing lightly. "That, my darling, is what separates the writer from the hack—the time we spend in crafting every sentence to perfection."

  "Give over, you pretentious git," she said, and plumped the cushions at her back. Lacing her fingers across her stomach, she stretched her feet towards the fire and yawned. "So, how much have you done today?"

  "Four paragraphs." He felt for his cigarettes and lit one. "Rather a good day, for this book. It's coming more slowly than the others did, for some reason. Ivor," he told me, "would say it's my setting. He doesn't approve of my writing a book set in Wales—Scotland's easier to sell, he says."

  I very nearly told him what I thought of Ivor's viewpoint, but I caught myself in time. Instead I said: "I'm sure whatever you choose to write will be brilliant."

  Someone groaned in the hallway. "Oh, please," said Christopher, putting his head round the half-open door, "don't feed his ego. It's quite large enough, as it is."

  James turned. "And where have you been hiding?"

  "Pembroke Dock. Elen had some shopping to do and she couldn't find Gareth, so I drove her in." Crossing to the fire, he gave the coals a cheerful stir. "Have I missed anything?"

  "There's a forest sprouting in the dining-room," James said, "but other than that..."

  "My God." His brother looked amazed. "Don't tell me that you've gone and bought a Christmas tree?"

  "Of course I didn't buy it. It was here when I woke up."

  "I see. Well done," said Christopher, to Bridget. "You've accomplished the impossible." He glanced round, and the sight of me seemed to remind him of something, because he immediately began patting down his jacket pockets. "Oh right, I forgot, there's a letter that came for you ... ah, here it is."

  I silently groaned when I saw the intertwined green S and H of the Simon Holland agency printed on the slim envelope.

  Bridget was instantly curious. "How did the agency get this address?"

  "I left it with Lewis."

  James frowned and looked at his brother. "When did that come? In this morning's post?"

  "Yes."

  "And it's taken you this long to give it to her?"

  "Well, I met the postman on my way out, didn't I? So I put this in my pocket. And I've only just got back."

  James thought that rather inconsiderate. "It might be something important."

  "I doubt it," I said, not wanting them to argue. "The agency would ring me in a crisis." And to prove how unimportant the letter probably was, I set it to one side, unopened.

  Christopher, who hadn't appeared to be bothered by conscience in the first place, took no notice. He was already thinking of something else. "We didn't have anything planned for this evening, did we?"

  James narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

  "Elen has invited us to dinner."

  "I don't know that I'm up to macaroni cheese ..."

  "Spaghetti bolognese," his brother corrected him. "Gareth's coming too, and that's his favourite meal, apparently."

  Which rather decided the matter, for Bridget.

  It wasn't until a few hours later, when I was sitting in her bedroom waiting patiently and watching while she shuffled through the hangers in her wardrobe, that it suddenly occurred to her I might not be so keen to go to Elen's. Turning, she sent me a dubious glance. "You are all right with this, aren't you? I mean, with there being a baby and everything..."

  I assured her I'd be fine. "It doesn't bother me to see a baby, Bridget."

  "Good." Openly relieved, she turned her attention back to the wardrobe. "Be honest, now. Which one would you choose?"

  I tipped my head, considering. "The turquoise one, I think."

  "You're right. The black's too sexy for spaghetti, isn't it? Too bad," she said. "It makes me look like I've lost half a stone."

  If Bridget slimmed at all, I thought, she'd simply disappear. As it was, she hardly took up any space in the gigantic mirror hung beside the bed. Trying on the turquoise dress, she twirled before her own reflection, critically.

  I'd shared this ritual before. I knew enough to keep my own face bland and not say anything—the most innocent comment or change of expression could send Bridget back to the wardrobe. Instead, I looked around the bedroom, larger than my own, with Chippendale-style furniture in some dark wood that glowed against the golden damask paper on the walls. The whole room had been done in shades of gold and Nile-blue, as rich as an Egyptian tomb, and the canopied bed was so soft that it seemed to engulf me in satins and silk. I sighed. "I guess James likes you best."

  "What?" She glanced round sharply. "Oh, because of the room, you mean? Yes, isn't it lovely? Not the sort of thing you'd expect to find in a farmhouse, really, but James's uncle has some gorgeous furniture. Most of it, I'm told, he bought from Elen."

  I lifted my eyebrows. "From Elen next door? Really?"

  "Mm. It's what she does, you know. She works from home, restoring furniture and selling it. James says his uncle Ralph keeps her in business."

  Christopher, meeting us downstairs, confirmed this. "Ele
n wouldn't let him reduce the rent when Tony died, so he started buying furniture instead, to help her out. He has his work cut out for him," was Christopher's opinion. "Elen and Tony spent all of their spare time at auction, you know—that green shed at the top of the drive is still packed to the rafters with what they brought home. She'll be years working through all of that."

  Bridget was clearly intrigued. "Really? A shed full of furniture? I'd love to have a peek at that."

  James, coming into the front hall to join us, told her that shouldn't prove too difficult. "Elen's always forgetting to padlock the shed." I noticed he himself didn't bother locking the front door behind us as we left, but then we were, after all, only going next door.

  The evening air had sharpened, and I pulled my collar tighter as I followed the others across the front lawn to the East House. It blended nicely with the older buildings, though I could tell it had been added in this century. And when Christopher gave a brief knock at the door and then opened it, calling "hello" with the casual air of a man who was sure of his welcome, we entered a porch full of bright coloured tile and floral stained glass, pure Art Deco. The large and gracious entry hall beyond it made our hostess, when she finally appeared, look somewhat small and lost.

  But then, she was small to begin with.

  I doubted Elen Vaughan would reach my chin. She had that lovely, fragile look some women keep past girlhood, and I felt half-afraid that I would break her hand by grasping it too hard. Owen had been right about her "flower child" look, only I would have called it "New Ager"— the silver-ringed fingers and long crystal pendant and masses of fair curls tied back with a lavender scarf. Her peasant-style blouse was not unlike the ones I'd worn in my own childhood—fashion came right round again, my mother always said—and the crinkled cotton skirt that brushed her ankles had a row of tiny bells that dangled from the waistband, making music when she moved. She couldn't, I thought, have been much more than twenty. Over our handshake her blue eyes studied me as frankly as a child's, and when she smiled I thought I knew what made Gareth Gwyn Morgan and Owen and Christopher feel so compelled to take care of her.

  James alone seemed immune. "And of course," he said, continuing the introductions, "you remember Bridget."

  "Yes." The doll-like blue gaze drifted past me, and the smile wavered. "How are you?"

  It was not, I thought, the most enthusiastic greeting, but Bridget didn't seem to take offence. "Fine," she said, and looked round. "The baby's not up, then, I take it?" She seemed rather pleased by the fact.

  Elen lost what remained of her smile, growing wary. "He's sleeping."

  A deep voice spoke out of the dimness behind her. "And the person that wakes him will have me to deal with. It took me an hour to settle him down." Gareth Gwyn Morgan strolled forward to join us, relaxed in dark trousers and' polo-neck, holding a drink in one hand. He looked slightly less threatening, here, than he had on the coast path that morning, but I still couldn't class him as friendly. One of the cats had come with him and he gave it a nudge with his foot that sent it scurrying back down the corridor. He nodded at James, and at Christopher; let his gaze linger on Bridget...

  "Why, Gareth," she said, "what a pleasure to see you again. I believe you've already met Lyn."

  He looked at me, expressionless. "We haven't had a proper introduction."

  "Lyn Ravenshaw." Accepting the challenge, I met his eyes squarely and held out my hand. "I work for Simon Holland."

  I fancied his gaze altered over our handshake, but the change was imperceptible. "I should have known."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Your executive director's a persistent bugger, I will give him that. I've told him time and time again that I don't want to sign, but he won't give up."

  The ego of the man, I thought. First he'd thought me a reporter, chasing for an interview, and now he apparently thought I'd been sent to seduce him to join Simon Holland. I smiled my sweetest smile, and set him straight. "I hate to disappoint you, Mr. Morgan, but I didn't come down here because of you."

  James draped an arm round my shoulders, defending my honour. "She came because of me. Although she's Bridget's agent, actually. Is that a drink?"

  "Your agent? Is she really?" Gareth slanted a laconic look at Bridget, seeking confirmation. "You want to take much better care of her then, and not let her go walking the coast path alone."

  "Oh, Lyn can take care of herself," Bridget told him. "I could tell you some stories ..."

  I cut her off smartly. "You do and I'll raise your commission."

  "You see?" Bridget laughed. "Tough as nails."

  James, still with his arm round me, eyed Gareth's glass. "What is that, Scotch?"

  "Apple juice. But never fear, I'm sure that we can find you something stronger."

  Elen recovered herself. "I have sherry," she offered, "and Scotch. Gareth, could you ... ?"

  "Of course." Taking charge, he led us through into the dining-room while Elen retreated again down the corridor, presumably to check on the food. I was glad of the chance to move, to slip free of James's brotherly hold. He was just being friendly, I knew, but Bridget didn't like to share, and I couldn't afford to offend either of them. I deliberately hung back to let them both go in ahead of me, then followed after Christopher.

  This dining-room appeared, if possible, even larger than the one next door, with an Art Deco fireplace and a soaring seating alcove filled with windows at the front. At the opposite end of the room; where a second door stood open to a dimly lit passage—the kitchen passage, I deduced—the wall was all but hidden by a huge glass-fronted china cabinet.

  "Wow," said Bridget, looking at that cabinet, "this I like."

  "It's not for sale," said Gareth, shortly. Then, as an afterthought, he showed us the bottles and glasses laid out on the sideboard and said, "I'll let you help yourselves to drinks."

  I chose the sherry, and retreated to the far side of the room where I absorbed myself in studying a wall display of photographs. A wedding portrait had been given pride of place, and seeing Elen, proud and laughing, circled by her husband's arms, I felt a prick of sympathy. He looked so young, I thought. So young and full of life, his broad smile brighter than the summer sunlight gleaming on his golden hair.

  "You've found the shrine, I see," said James, moving up behind me. I thought it a surprisingly callous comment for a man who wrote with such sensitivity about other people's lives, but then perhaps James hadn't lost a loved one, yet. Still, he was right—this was a shrine. It only wanted candles and some incense. Every photo showed the same young man—sometimes alone, sometimes with others, always smiling. And, with the one exception of the wedding portrait, always the same age, as though the record of his life had been confined to one brief summer.

  "I'm surprised she kept this one." James pointed to a picture at one edge of the arrangement, an inexpert shot of Tony Vaughan in angler's gear, his face all but obscured by the hood of his bright orange raincoat. "He looked like that the day he died. I shouldn't think she'd want to be reminded."

  "Were you here the day he died?" I asked him, glad of the excuse to look away from all those photographs.

  "I was. I'd only just begun to get the germ of the idea for the book, so I came down to poke about, to do some research. Not the best of timing, really. I arrived the Sunday morning, and that night they brought the body in. Elen," he informed me, "went quite mad. There was some talk, you know, of putting her in hospital."

  "In hospital? Was she as bad as that?"

  "My dear girl, she was barking. Seeing demons in her bedroom. The doctors were worried she'd do herself harm."

  I frowned. "And now?"

  "Supposedly, she's better now." He shrugged. "I'm no psychiatrist, I wouldn't know. But there are some who think young Stevie would be better off in care."

  I thought about this later, watching Elen slice the bread. In her small hand the long knife somehow looked more dangerous, as a Doberman might look on the end of a lead being held by a child—one
didn't get the sense that she was fully in control.

  "So," said James, "I take it all was quiet last night? No more sounds from Stevie's room?"

  Gareth answered for her and his voice, I thought, held a warning for James. "No."

  Elen, oblivious to the interplay between the men, said, "Gareth put a new lock on the window for me, too, so Stevie will be safe now."

  Safe from what, I didn't know, and didn't want to ask. The less we talked of babies, the more comfortable I'd be. Head down, I concentrated on my food—an easy thing to do, since it was excellent. Barking she might be, but Elen could certainly cook. Her sauce, unlike mine, didn't come from a jar, nor had any of the marinated vegetables she'd heaped on to the technicolour plate of antipasto. And the bread, from its warm yeasty smell and texture, must also have been freshly baked.

  Christopher, who apparently not only shared Bridget's penchant for flirting but also her appetite, finished his first helping faster than anyone. He looked expectantly at Elen. "Is there more?"

  "Yes, of course..."

  "It's all right, I can get it." He rose, plate in hand, and headed for the kitchen while Elen told the rest of us, "There's more of everything. I always make too much."

  "With Bridget and my brother here, you won't have any leftovers," James promised her. He poured himself another glass of wine and glanced at Gareth. "Oh, I nearly forgot— Lyn was asking me earlier. How much do you know about the prophecies of Merlin?"

  ' "The prophecies?'' His frown, I thought, looked faintly diabolical. "A fair amount. I have the book, at home."

  "What book?" asked James.

  ' 'A History of the British Kings, by Geoffrey of Mon-mouth. The prophecies are part of that. It's rather hard going, twelfth-century prose, and the prophecies themselves don't make much sense, they're more like riddles."

  "There you are, then," Bridget said, to me. "You should borrow the book."

  I studied the man seated opposite. "I don't imagine Mr. Morgan likes to loan his books."