Wicked Caprice. Anne Mather

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      Isobel put the things she had bought on the kitchen table, unloading perishable items into the fridge before going upstairs to change and take a shower. It was one of her idiosyncrasies that she liked to bathe and change her clothes before sitting down to supper. Then she could look forward to a pleasant evening ahead, with good food, a glass of wine, and possibly some music on the radio.

      She had a television, but she seldom watched it, preferring the radio or her own choice of music on compact disc. She wasn’t particularly highbrow in her choice of listening: she enjoyed a lot of modern music, particularly jazz. But her favourite composer had to be Chopin, his sonatas filling the cottage with beauty whenever she felt depressed.

      Because it was a warm evening, she didn’t bother getting dressed again, but came downstairs wearing a dark red silk kimono with orchids appliquéd along the satin lapels. It was hardly her sort of thing, but her mother had brought it back from a buying trip to Tokyo, and although the colour was more vivid than she was used to there was no doubt that it was superbly comfortable to wear.

      She was stir-frying some vegetables to go with the omelette she intended to have for her supper when someone knocked at the door.

      She wasn’t expecting anyone, and although it wasn’t late she had hoped to spend the evening alone. Neither of her parents was likely to call without prior warning, and there’d been no messages on her answering machine from either them or her brother and sister-in-law.

      For a heart-stopping moment, she thought of the man who had come into the shop earlier. Was it possible he had decided he wanted to take the necklace tonight after all? But no. That was ludicrous. He didn’t know where she lived, and in any case she never brought other people’s purchases home.

      Removing the pan from the heat, she wiped her hands on a paper towel and surveyed her appearance with some misgiving. She had washed her hair in the shower, and although she’d used the drier on it she’d left it loose about her shoulders, and her image now wasn’t at all the one she preferred others to see.

      The knocker was rapped again, and she heaved a sigh. With all the windows in the cottage open, she could hardly pretend she wasn’t at home. No, there was nothing for it but to see who it was, and hope she could get rid of them. She grimaced. It might be the vicar, after all.

      The idea of the fairly sanctimonious Mr Mason being confronted by the scarlet kimono made her smile, and she was attempting to straighten her expression as she opened the door. But it wasn’t the Reverend Mason, it was Richard Gregory, and he stared at her as if he’d never seen her before.

      ‘Hello,’ he said, his eyes darkening. ‘You look nice. Are you going somewhere special?’

      ‘In this?’ Isobel was mildly sarcastic. ‘I don’t think so somehow.’ She paused. ‘How did you know where I live?’

      ‘Oh, Chris told me ages ago,’ responded Richard without hesitation. ‘Can I come in?’ He lifted his hand. ‘I’ve brought a bottle of wine.’

      Isobel’s tongue circled her lips. ‘It’s very kind of you, but-’

      ‘You’re not going to turn me away, are you?’ His face assumed a mournful expression. ‘I’ve driven all the way from Oxford. I thought you’d be glad to see me.’

      Isobel suppressed a sigh. ‘Now why should you imagine that?’ she asked, vaguely resenting his presumption. ‘I’m sorry. I—I should have explained at once. I am going out this evening, actually. I was just getting ready.’ She crossed the fingers of one hand behind her back, and gave him an apologetic smile. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey.’

      Richard’s features suffused with a rather unbecoming colour. He was very fair, his hair so light that it appeared almost white sometimes, and the redness that entered his cheeks gave his face a hectic look. He was obviously disappointed, but there was something more than disappointment in his manner. If she hadn’t known he was such a good-humoured man, she’d have said he was angry. There was something almost aggressive in his stance.

      ‘And that’s it?’ he said, revealing a side of himself that hitherto she hadn’t encountered, and Isobel felt a momentary twinge of fear. After all, the cottage was at least a dozen yards from its nearest neighbour, and the elderly couple whose property adjoined hers were away.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, and something—perhaps an awareness that he was in danger of destroying their friendly association—seemed to bring him to his senses.

      ‘Yes,’ he said, in an entirely different tone. ‘Yes, I should have phoned first; I realise that now. Well—’ he handed her the bottle ‘—there’s no point in wasting this. Have it with my blessing, and I’ll see you next week.’

      Isobel wanted to refuse the wine. The way she was feeling at the moment, she wanted nothing of his to mar the peaceful ambience of the cottage. But it was easier to accept it than risk creating another confrontation, and she thanked him very politely as she bid him farewell.

      It was only as she closed the door that she wondered if by chance he could have smelt the stir-fried vegetables. It seemed likely, which might account for his sudden aggressive mood. If he’d thought that she was lying to him, he could have felt resentful, but, either way, she was extremely glad he had gone.

CHAPTER THREE

      ‘HE WENT to see her on Tuesday night. I know he did.’ Jillian’s voice was filled with outrage. ‘I thought you were going to speak to her, Patrick. You promised me you would.’

      Patrick expelled a resigned breath. ‘How do you know he went to see her?’ he asked, avoiding a direct answer. ‘Did you follow him?’

      ‘Of course not.’ Jillian sounded indignant now. ‘But I did check the milometer like you told me to, and there was over a hundred miles more on Wednesday morning.’

      Patrick cast the towel he had been using to dry himself aside and bent closer to the mirror to examine his overnight stubble. He had hardly got out of the shower when his housekeeper had come to tell him that Mrs Gregory was on the telephone. He’d half expected her to ring him last night, but it had been fairly late when he’d got back from Basle.

      ‘Well?’ Jillian was impatient. ‘Did you speak to her or didn’t you? For heaven’s sake, Pat, I’m getting desperate. Rich has never been so indifferent to my feelings before.’

      ‘Don’t you mean he’s never been so reckless before?’ suggested her brother drily, wishing he’d never agreed to get involved in this. ‘The very fact that you use the word “before” proves it. How many times does he need to be unfaithful to you before you come to your senses?’

      Jillian sniffed. ‘I love him, Pat. You know that. I know he has his faults, but deep inside he loves me too.’

      Patrick stifled a groan. In his opinion, Richard Gregory didn’t love anyone but himself. At present, he was enamoured of the rather colourless young woman Patrick had visited on Tuesday afternoon, but Patrick had no doubt that Isobel Herriot was just a passing fancy and that pretty soon there’d be some other contender for his brother-in-law’s affections. It wasn’t as if she was a raving beauty, or possessed any outstanding attribute that Patrick could see. She was simply a village shopkeeper, with a personal axe to grind.

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