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“Two down and two to go, Mr. Hardcastle. I’ll give you a call around eight on Monday morning to let you know how many the Australians picked up.”
Cedric left his office just after midnight, and when he arrive
d home, he didn’t even make his nightly call to Beryl as she would already be asleep. She had accepted long ago that her husband’s only mistress was Miss Farthings Bank. He lay awake tossing and turning as he thought about the next thirty-six hours, and realized why, for the previous forty years, he’d never taken risks.
* * *
Ross and Jean Buchanan went on a long walk in the Highlands after lunch.
They returned around five, when Ross once again reported for “guard duty.” The only difference being that this time he was reading an old copy of Country Life. He didn’t move from his spot until he’d seen Don Pedro and his two sons return. Two of them looked rather pleased with themselves, but Diego appeared to be brooding. They all went up to their father’s suite, and were not seen again that evening.
Ross and Jean had supper in the dining room, before climbing the one flight of stairs to their bedroom at around 9:40 p.m., when, as they always did, they both read for half an hour: she, Georgette Heyer; he, Alistair MacLean. When he finally turned out the light with the usual, “Good night, my dear,” Ross fell into a deep sleep. After all, he had nothing more to do than make sure that the Martinez family didn’t leave for London before Monday morning.
* * *
When Don Pedro and his sons sat down for dinner in their suite that evening, Diego was singularly uncommunicative.
“Are you sulking because you shot fewer birds than I did?” taunted his father.
“Something’s wrong,” he said, “but I can’t put my finger on it.”
“Well, let’s hope you’ve worked it out by the morning, so we can all enjoy a good day’s shooting.”
Once dinner had been cleared away just after 9:30, Diego left them, and retired to his room. He lay on the bed, and tried to replay his arrival at King’s Cross, frame by frame as if it was a black-and-white film. But he was so exhausted that he soon fell into a deep sleep.
He woke with a start at 6:25 a.m., a single frame in his mind.
35
Sunday evening
WHEN ROSS RETURNED from his walk with Jean on Sunday afternoon, he was looking forward to a hot bath, a cup of tea and a shortbread biscuit, before he went back on guard duty.
As they strolled up the drive toward Glenleven, he was not surprised to see the lodge’s driver placing a suitcase in the boot of the car. After all, several guests would be checking out after a weekend’s shooting. Ross was only interested in one particular guest, and as he wouldn’t be leaving until Tuesday, he didn’t give it a second thought.
They were climbing the staircase to their room on the first floor, when Diego Martinez came bounding past them, two steps at a time as if he was late for a meeting.
“Oh, I’ve left my newspaper on the hall table,” said Ross. “You go on up, Jean, and I’ll join you in a moment.”
Ross turned and walked back down the stairs, and tried not to stare as Diego chatted to the receptionist. He was heading slowly toward the tearoom when Diego marched out of the lodge and climbed into the back seat of the waiting car. Ross changed direction and speed as he swung around and headed straight for the front door, and was just in time to see them disappearing down the drive. He ran back inside and went straight to the reception desk. The young girl gave him a warm smile.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Buchanan, can I help you?”
This was not a time for small talk. “I’ve just seen Mr. Diego Martinez leaving. I was thinking of inviting him to join my wife and me for supper this evening. Are you expecting him back later?”
“No, sir. Bruce is driving him into Edinburgh to catch the overnight sleeper to London. But Don Pedro and Mr. Luis Martinez will be staying with us until Tuesday, so if you’d like to have dinner with them…”
“I need to make an urgent phone call.”
“I’m afraid the line’s down, Mr. Buchanan, and as I explained to Mr. Martinez, it probably won’t be back in service before tomorrow—”
Ross, normally a courteous man, turned and bolted for the front door without another word. He ran out of the lodge, jumped into his car and set out on an unscheduled journey. He made no attempt to catch up with Diego as he didn’t want him to realize that he was being followed.
His mind moved into top gear. First, he considered the practical problems. Should he stop and phone Cedric to let him know what had happened? He decided against the idea; after all, his top priority was to make sure he didn’t miss the train to London. If he had time when he reached Waverley, that’s when he’d call Cedric to warn him that Diego was returning to London a day early.
His next thought was to take advantage of being on the board of British Railways, and get the booking office to refuse to issue Diego with a ticket. But that wouldn’t serve any purpose, because he would then book into a hotel in Edinburgh and phone his broker before the market opened in the morning, when he’d discover that Barrington’s share price had plummeted over the weekend, giving him more than enought time to cancel any plans to place his father’s shares on the market. No, better to let him get on the train and then work out what to do next, not that he had the slightest idea what that might be.
Once he was on the main road to Edinburgh, Ross kept the speedometer at a steady sixty. There should be no problem getting a sleeping compartment on the train, as there was always one reserved for BR directors. He only hoped that none of his fellow board members were traveling down to London that night.
