The Evil at Monteine. Brian Ball

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      Had I known of the seismic changes that were soon to undermine our lives, I would have taken more than the one large measure of spirits.

      CHAPTER THREE

      The dinner was a disaster.

      I was on the defensive from the moment a neat little waiter appeared to tell us it was ready. I knew what to expect, for I had looked up the word ‘catalyst’ in the library on my way down to the bar. I was, as the dictionary put it, a substance that causes change. I was part of an experiment.

      They were going to watch the effects of my presence on Richard: I was sure that they would try to needle me into committing some social gaffe that would then reveal me as unsuitable for an International executive’s wife.

      Mercifully, Max was out of earshot. He stayed in the bar, making a pretence of deferring to the three; Jensen, Fitch, and the Sievel woman as the waiter ushered us through the entrance hall of Monteine Castle to a large dining room.

      I wobbled on my sandals, but I didn’t wince. Richard made me lean on his arm, and Jensen solicitously placed his large fat hand under my right elbow. I couldn’t help glancing back as we passed into the panelled room. The pseudo-barman was watching me. I might have been a laboratory specimen for all the humanity he showed.

      “Madam,” said the waiter, helping me into an antique tall-back chair. I sat down and smiled at the Sievel woman. She would attack first.

      “I’ve done it myself,” she smiled back. “The soap,” she explained. “I’ve slipped on my butt before now. So undignified! And it hurts!”

      Fitch poured the wine. “I can’t imagine Miss Blackwell in any but a dignified position.”

      Jensen said, “Do let’s stop embarrassing Anne and decide what we wish for the first course of this excellent meal. The game pâté is superb with the Pommard!”

      “Richard’s told us a little about your work, Anne,” said Eric Fitch, when all but Richard had chosen the pâté. “Does it involve a great deal of travelling?”

      I caught the faint whiff of some form of perfume from him as he handed me the pâté. I disliked him intensely from that moment.

      “Goes with the job, doesn’t it, darling,” said Richard. “Anne’s a good driver.”

      “I’d say that Anne would be very competent at whatever she put her hand to,” said Jensen, dipping his toast and pâté into a glass of green wine. He sniffed at the result.

      Eric Fitch laughed. “It’s quite a cut-throat business, the design world, so I hear. And you’ve prospered. Falco’s right. You must be very competent.”

      “How did you start, Anne?” asked Monica Sievel,

      They knew, of course. They’d investigated me thoroughly, but I mustn’t show that I knew.

      “I could always draw and paint a little,” I said. “I realized my limitations at about sixteen, though. I knew I wasn’t good enough for original work, but I could match materials and design. I freelanced, and I was lucky in getting some good, reliable artists.”

      “So you’re an artistic entrepreneur,” smiled Fitch. “How clever you must be.”

      He was mocking me. I kept my temper. Richard took their interest for what it seemed to be: polite, easy flattery.

      “It’s more of an instinct for sensing what fits the mood of the times,” I said, and drank some wine.

      “Your Anne has a marvellous life,” said Monica in her deep, sincere tones. “You’ve no idea what a bore it can be, the endless round of personality tests on people who are far more interesting than oneself. Lucky girl,” she smiled.

      “Terrible bore,” agreed Jensen, as he finished his wine. “Look at Richard. Full of health. Enough action and excitement behind him to fill a dozen lives. Unlimited prospects before him—”

      “Depending on your reports,” Richard pointed out. “I haven’t officially been offered a job yet, and I’ve yet to consider the offer if and when it comes.”

      “Outspoken and crisp,” said Eric Fitch.

      It was coming. I sensed it in the slight edge of malice in Fitch’s tone, “And with the finest prospects a man could wish for in this age,” said Jensen, unperturbed by Richard’s interruption. “Everything about Richard says he’s a notable acquisition for the company.”

      “Of course!” I burst out.

      “Steady on the wine,” said Richard very quietly, for I was on my second glass of the green-white wine by now. I hadn’t noticed that the waiter had refilled my glass.

      “You’re both lucky,” said Jensen. “A meeting of the talents. Embodied in the male, strength and courage. And, I if it isn’t too fanciful, in the lady here, all the qualities of creativeness and beauty that best complement the man of action. Ah, the pheasant!”

      The little waiter made quite a business of removing the cover of the huge platter. There were six pheasants, neatly arrayed two by two, cock and hen together. I might have felt hungry if I hadn’t been so apprehensive. The carving and the serving took long enough for me to recover my composure, and Richard and I were able to take a little time out to talk about ordinary things. He asked about Tony. I said he wasn’t expecting me till the weekend. I asked if there were any other guests at the Castle; there weren’t. Then I wanted to whisper that I had overheard the bar-steward and the others, but I sensed an alertness as they made jokes about one another’s appetites; without seeming to, they were listening. When Jensen took the carver and flicked it around the steel, I felt he was about to dissect me. I took the recommended portion.

      Red wine was poured, dark-red and beautiful in the cut-glass goblets.

      Fitch neatly chomped his way through the large plateful of food before him; Jensen guzzled noisily, doing a Falstaff act. Monica Sievel began to draw Richard out in conversation. She asked about simple things, beginning with food at sea. I listened carefully, but they all seemed to have forgotten about me,

      Richard explained that the storage space on his latest yacht was enough for a complete range of frozen and dehydrated foods, He was enjoying himself thoroughly; he loves talking about boats.

      I began to unwind, thankful that I had been ignored. Richard finished telling quite an amusing story about cooking a Christmas dinner for himself in a Force Seven gale along the coast of South-West Africa, when Monica Sievel turned to me and said:

      “You’ll have to get Richard to write it all down for your children, my dear!”

      “Children?” I said, and noticed that my glass had been filled again. Fitch was watching me.

      “I made a few notes of my voyages,” Richard said. “A sort of extended log, but I wouldn’t know how to make stories of them. Not my line of country at all.”

      He didn’t know that the Sievel woman was needling me about my son.

      “Richard’s often told my son about his experiences,” I said, very deliberately. “Tony would keep Richard telling stories for hours at bedtimes if I let him, wouldn’t СКАЧАТЬ