The Company of Strangers

Jantallian

4

"What does that woman want?" Emory Turner demanded irritably. "I suppose I'll have to be pleasant to her or she'll suspect I have some reason not to regret her husband's timely demise!" He thought for a moment, then issued his orders. "I don't want her taking a knife to Harper. Put him on duty somewhere out of the way for the moment – he can guard our other guest. And now I suppose we'd better entertain these females in an appropriate manner."

Emory Turner was inordinately proud of his residence and liked to display his wealth in fashionable habits. Consequently he dined late, in the evening, in order to show off to his guests the splendour of his imported chandeliers. Where ordinary working folk would be closing down for the day at sunset, the Turner household began to wake up to a brilliant and elaborate evening, at least when there were genuine visitors. The women present were expected to live up to this opulence and plenty of time was accorded for dressing and other preparations.

Chantal concentrated on creating the most feminine and alluring appearance she could from the ample array of dresses in the wardrobe of her room. At any other time she would have been delighted with prospect of choosing from so many lovely ones – and not having to buy them. As it was, any enthusiasm she might have had was utterly chilled by wondering why the garments were provided and what had happened to any previous occupants of them.

It had taken less than twenty four hours for her to find out that her guest status was a token one only. The Turners, father and son, were polite but quite definite: she would stay as long as they pleased and her stay would be governed by how long she continued to interest Rick. As for helping her to find her father - that caused the kind of laughter which chilled her spine and set her brain racing. Clearly they were not going to do anything of the kind. Whatever business dealings they had had with him, there was no vestige of friendship in it: she was in the company of total strangers.

Having left a note for Jess was no help either. How could it possibly reach him and even if it did, why should he follow up the reference to Turner or indeed, on his recent showing, bother with any consideration of her needs at all? In the midst of this predicament, she was exceedingly uncomfortable to find the blonde widow, June Dark, as her fellow guest, especially as she seemed to be such very good friends with Turner Senior. The mere sight of the woman drove home the way she had effectively forced Chantal to abandon any hope in the one person she had thought she could rely upon, in circumstances which hurt much more than she would admit. They had exchanged polite smiles and purely conventional conversation.

During the afternoon, Chantal had inveigled Rick into giving her a tour of the house. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, but she felt instinctively that knowing the exact layout of the building might prove very useful. The place was elaborate in the extreme and within the outer hacienda-like walls there proved to be a series of interconnecting courtyards, a vast number of stairways and more rooms of all sizes than she could be bothered to count. A number of things were interesting, however, including the fact that no rooms on the ground floor had external windows and those on the floors above were heavily barred, despite spectacular views over the steep cliff and river below. The place resembled nothing so much as a fortress prison. Chantal had a very good direction sense, despite the turns and twists of the corridors and stairways. She was certain there was one floor on the western side which Rick entirely omitted to show her. Her mind was racing even more as she returned to her room to dress.

The first thing she saw was the long note attached to the pin-cushion on her dressing-table. Her heart leapt into her throat and was immediately subdued by her common-sense. Jess was a minimalist when it came to writing and she was familiar enough with his atrocious handwriting to know this wasn't it - and besides there was no way he could possibly communicate with her because he didn't even know she was there - and anyway she never, ever wanted to hear from him again!

She picked up the note and waited for her vision to clear. When it finally did, she read:

'My dearest Chantal, how delightful that we are guests together. I was devastated to have missed you in Denver, even though we were staying at the same hotel. It will be wonderful to catch up on all the news. I am so sorry your father is unable to join us in experiencing Emory's superb hospitality. It is a setting in which Armand would be entirely at home. Speaking of which, I did enjoy the splendid midsummer ball which he gave for you. You looked so beautiful in the eau-de-nil satin and the silver train matched your hair exactly. You should wear that colour often, my dear. But I am sure you will shine tonight. Do I detect a little tenderness in the demeanour of a certain son and heir? My blessings on you both, June.

Chantal read the note carefully twice. Then she walked over to the window and gazed out at the view. As she did so, she carefully tore this remarkable missive into tiny pieces and let them flutter, a few at a time, out on the breeze, to drift down and be submerged in the dark water below. Since there had been no ball and no satin dress and no silver train, since eau-de-nil was a colour which made her look like a washed-out cabbage and since she and her father had never met June Dark, something else must be intended. Taking this into account and adding the fact that the letter was so harmless and open, it suggested considerable danger to the writer and the recipient. She thought, perhaps, four words in it had been in slightly darker ink – 'father … experiencing … Emory's … hospitality' – but she could not be sure. The rest was certainly a total fabrication, but June Dark had no reason whatsoever to write to her unless the note conveyed more than the outward meaning.

Coming to herself with a start, Chantal realised she should be dressing for dinner. She pulled open the huge wardrobe doors and surveyed the possibilities open to her. And there, on the rail, was an eau-de-nil satin dress! It did not have a silver train, but the skirt at the back was ruched into an elaborate set of pleats, cascading one over the other. Running her fingers down the folds, Chantal found another small piece of paper pinned inside. Clever June! Chantal would have liked to hug her. It was extremely unlikely that any man would be able to identify the colour or the material, let alone the styling, even if such a thought occurred to them.

She unfolded the note hastily. It was a minute scrap of paper and the information was curt and almost cryptic. 'Danger. Use you blackmail papa. Get away soon.' This note too she swiftly consigned to wind and water. Then she set about selecting a suitably stunning dress in dark green. She rang the bell for the maid and, with the help, piled and pinned her hair into an elaborate and sophisticated creation. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice reminded her that, even with black eye, she looked beautiful with it loose – but she thrust the thought away with a mental injunction to the original speaker: 'Sortir de ma tête!' It was time to face up to fascinating the Turners over dinner.

# # # # #

Men are expected to demonstrate hearty appetites, no matter what. Fortunately women can smile mysteriously and pick at their food with dainty disdain. This was just as well, since neither Chantal nor June had the appetite to do justice to the excellent food set before them. The company was small and the talk general. June appeared to be sulking about something and Emory had the air of one relishing a private joke. Rick drank a great deal and Chantal spent a great deal of energy in false charm and skilful manipulation of his responses.

She was heartily glad when dinner was over and the ladies were able to withdraw, leaving the men to their brandy and whiskey. June had already pleaded an early departure in the morning and gone to her room. Chantal wondered whether to follow her and seek more information, but decided against it. If the previous evening was anything to go by the men would be drinking for at least an hour. It was a God-given opportunity to do some investigation of her own.

She lurked in her room until she was certain that no-one was about. The Turners and their two male guests were busy drinking. The men Turner employed were similarly relaxing in their own quarters. Such was the impregnable position of the house itself that no-one thought it necessary to mount a guard, except at the foot of the main ascent – and one man could do so easily.

Chantal lost no time in finding her way, without much difficulty, to the one floor of the building which she had not been shown. It was something of a disappointment on first viewing. Most of the rooms on the outer side of the building were evidently unoccupied, their doors standing open and their contents blameless for all the world to see. On the inner side, due to the construction of the courtyard system, there were fewer doors and she guessed the rooms would be smaller. All the doors were closed.

She took off her high-heeled slippers and crept up to the first door. Utter silence greeted her ear when it was applied to the keyhole and there was no light either. When she tried the handle, the door was locked. The second was the same and the third. At the fourth door, however, her persistence was rewarded. There were faint sounds of movement inside, as if someone was shifting uncomfortably on a hard chair. Then, to her delight, she heard very softly, but distinctly, the words: "Merci. Je suis plus à l'aise maintenant."

More comfortable? It was her father's voice, but who on earth would be making him more comfortable if, as she suspected, he was not a guest but a prisoner? Her heart leapt in fear: Surely not a doctor?

"Garde le silence!"

The words sounded like a growl. Hardly the attitude of a doctor. Chantal was determined to find out what was going on and to do that she had to get the door open, at least a crack. Supposing it was locked, like all the others, she would have to find means to pick the lock. After a moment's thought, she put her shoes back on. If she was caught, she needed to brazen it out as if she had a perfect right to wander around the mansion. And if it came to a struggle, she knew no more painful sensation than to be stamped on by a high heel! She pulled a single hair-pin out of her elaborate hair-do and set to work on the lock.

The door was immediately flung open. It was a toss-up who was more surprised, the girl outside it or the men within.

"What the hell are you doin' here!"

Before she could react or reply, Jess had grabbed her by the shoulders and was administering a good shaking, punctuated by a whispered mixture of Spanish and English, uttered in the most formidable manner he could muster without actually raising his voice: "Poco tonto, estás intentando de asustarme a muerte! Y' supposed to be safe in the hotel in Denver! ¿Qué estás haciendo en esta casa? Just let me handle this, will y'!"

"Cabeza de toro!" Chantal spat back, wrenching herself out of his grip. "Tome sus manos de mi padre! What are you doing to him?"

"Same as you! Rescuin' him!"

This reply left Chantal momentarily baffled. In the pause, Armand Picard seized them both by the arm and ordered: "Dépêchez-vous, mes enfants! Let us complete the rescue. Then you can argue to your heart's content."

The reasonableness of this request touched neither Chantal nor Jess. They were simply staring at each other as if an extremely rapid adjustment of ideas was taking place for both of them. Armand was about to intervene again when Jess recovered with a visible effort. "Tu as raison, mon ami. But she's your daughter - you make her!"

"Mais non, Jess! Tu es le seul homme qui peut le faire!"

"Right." Jess grabbed Chantal again and swung her out into the corridor. "Come on!" When Armand joined them, Jess shut the door and locked it behind them. "That should cover your exit for a while."

"Where did you get the key?" Chantal demanded, nettled that her efforts with the hairpin had been unnecessary.

"I'm the guard," Jess told her briefly. "Now get a move on!" He suddenly appeared to take in the way she was dressed and added in exasperated tones: "I don't suppose y'can do much runnin' in those shoes." He picked her up as easily as he had done when he first rescued her from the cliff-face and raced down the nearest stairway, which fortunately ended in the courtyard of the only entrance to the mansion.

Although the main stables were below the cliff, on the flat ground bordering the river, a number of horses could be accommodated in the first courtyard, for the convenience of visitors. June's buggy was standing in an open-fronted outbuilding, along with some other carriages. Jess strode across to it, still carrying Chantal, with Armand close on his heels.

"Matón! Why are you carrying me?" Chantal hissed angrily.

"Those shoes'll make a hell of a racket on the cobbles, that's why!" Jess snapped back, dumping her down next to the buggy. He leaned into it and pulled out the rugs and tarpaulin stowed under the seat. "Get in, Armand, and get under here. Y' ain't gonna be comfortable, but June's leavin' first thing tomorrow. You'll have to bear it till then."

"Il est plus à l'aise que dans une prison!" the Frenchman replied as he folded his not inconsiderable height into the confined space. The rugs came in handy for padding and concealment. The whole operation took little more than a few minutes.

"Now for a diversion," Jess said with satisfaction. To Armand he added: "Don't worry if y' hear your daughter screamin'!"

Sortir de ma tête. Get out of my mind.

Merci. Je suis plus à l'aise maintenant. Thank you. I am more comfortable now.

Garde le silence. Keep quiet.

Poco tonto, estás intentando de asustarme a muerte! Little fool, are you trying to scare me to death!

Qué estás haciendo en esta casa? What are you doing in this house?

Cabeza de toro! Bull head!

Tome sus manos de mi padre. Get your hands off my father.

Dépêchez-vous, mes enfants. Hurry up, my children.

Tu as raison, mon ami. You are right, my friend.

Mais non, Jess! Tu es le seul homme qui peut le faire! Why, no – you are the only man who can do that.

Matón Bully

Il est plus à l'aise que dans une prison. It is more comfortable than a prison.