Sweet Enchantress Read online

  CHAPTER ONE

  1935

  ‘What a sight!’

  The younger partner of Patterson, Dellhouse and Patterson rather fancied himself as a judge of women.

  And the girl opposite looked very different from the usual client who sat in the leather armchair in his comfortable office.

  “I came as soon as I received your letter enclosing – the ticket,” she was saying in a low melodious voice with just a little hesitation before the last two words.

  Mr. Alan Patterson coughed in a somewhat embarrassed manner.

  “My partners thought it wise to include it,” he said. “We did not know if, after your father’s death, you might have been finding it a little difficult to make – er – ends meet.”

  The girl on the other side of the desk smiled. Only a fleeting smile, but somehow just for an instant it transformed her face.

  “It was nice of you to think of it.”

  “And now, to get down to business,” Mr. Patterson said, opening a large file that had been laid ready at his hand by his attentive and very smartly turned out secretary.

  ‘Where do people get such clothes?’ he wondered, still occupied with the spectacle that his client presented in her ugly badly-cut tweed suit, which was worn at the elbows, while the natural coloured wool jumper seemed to make the pallor of her face even more noticeable.

  ‘She looks as if she might collapse,’ he thought. ‘I suppose she has been ill.’

  He noticed how tightly the skin was stretched over the prominent cheekbones and the harsh line of her jaw. Her eyes were sunk in her head and dark behind spectacles with steel frames.

  A sudden movement and a dropping of her eyelids told him that he was staring and once again he coughed apologetically.

  “I was just wondering,” he said quickly, “whether you managed to have breakfast on the train.”

  The girl opposite him shook her head.

  “No – I-I didn’t have – enough money.”

  Mr. Patterson put his thumb down hard on the bell fixed to his desk. His secretary opened the door.

  “Send out immediately for sandwiches,” he commanded. “Chicken, ham – anything they have and coffee, plenty of it.”

  The secretary raised her eyebrows.

  “Very good, sir,” she said with a little flounce of her black skirt.

  But, as if she understood the urgency of what was needed, coffee and sandwiches were brought into the office from the café next door in what was astoundingly quick time.

  “Ah! Here it is!” Mr. Patterson exclaimed in a voice that seemed over hearty. “Put it down in front of Miss Mansford so she can help herself. I see you have brought two cups. Good! I can do with a coffee myself.”

  The secretary left the room and Zaria Mansford gazed at the tray for a moment as if she did not know what to do with the gleaming plated coffee pots.

  “Black or white?” she asked at length.

  “Black, please,” Mr. Patterson replied.

  She poured it out for him and passed the cup across the desk. And then, when he had refused the sandwiches, her hand went out towards the plate, the fingers very thin and blue veins showing against the whiteness of her skin.

  ‘The old devil must have left some money,’ Mr. Patterson said to himself, while aloud he asked,

  “I think I am right in saying that your father died three months ago. We did not have the privilege of handling his estate.”

  “No! It was a firm in Inverness,” Zaria Mansford replied. “Mackenzie and McLeod.”

  “I think I have heard of them,” Mr. Patterson said. “Your father left you the house?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “But I don’t think that I shall be able to sell it. It is such an out of the way spot and it can only be reached by a private road across the moors. And then we are five miles from the nearest Post Office or telephone.”

  “I see,” Mr. Paterson remarked.

  “Not only that,” Zaria Mansford went on, eating with what he felt was deliberate slowness, as if only a definite effort of will power kept her from gobbling, “my father left a lot of manuscripts behind. In his will he instructed me to finish them. I am hoping when they are completed that I can find a publisher.”

  ‘In the meantime you have had nothing to live on,’ Mr. Patterson thought.

  “Well, all that is changed now,” he said aloud. “If you wish to finish your father’s last book, that, of course, will be up to you. But there is no need to do it in any discomfort. You realise that your aunt had two houses? A villa in the South of France and another in California. The latter is, I may say, a particularly valuable property.”

  Zaria Mansford stopped eating for a moment and stared at him.

  “I cannot quite believe it’s true,” she exclaimed. “I read your letter and I thought that you must have been mistaken. Of course I remember Aunt Margaret, but it is over eight years since I last saw her. I was eleven at the time.

  “My father and I were passing through Paris on our way to Africa. She asked him to bring me to see her and, while I was there, they had a bitter row. My father stalked out of her hotel, dragging me behind him. He never spoke to her again.”

  “I am afraid your father had – er – differences with a great number of people,” Mr. Patterson said firmly. “I understand that when he died he was in the process of litigation against two fellow archaeologists, his publishers, a firm of land agents and the Director of one of our big museums.”

  “Yes, that is true,” Zaria agreed in a low voice.

  ‘A man of strong impetuous temper,’ Mr. Patterson mused to himself, remembering what someone had once told him about the late Professor.

  Then, looking at the shrinking figure of the girl opposite, he wondered how much she had suffered personally from that temper.

  “Well, your aunt certainly remembered you,” he said in an effort to strike a more cheerful note. “She has left you practically everything she possessed. There are a few legacies to her staff, some thousands to her favourite charities, otherwise it is all yours.”

  “About how much does it come to?” Zaria Mansford’s voice was breathless.

  Mr. Patterson shrugged his shoulders.

  “A little over three hundred thousand pounds, I should think,” he said. “It is difficult to tell until probate has been agreed and the death duties provided for.”

  Zaria said nothing. He gathered that she was stunned by the information and it was not surprising.

  ‘It will be wasted on her,’ he added to himself a little enviously.

  He thought that even smart clothes, provided she had the taste to buy them, would not be able to alter the sharp angles of that skull-like bespectacled face.

  Her hair was lank and lifeless, dragged back from her forehead to fall straight and uneven behind her ears to her shoulders.

  “I wonder what you will do now?” he said aloud. “Would you like to go out to America to inspect your property there? Or perhaps a trip to the South of France would be easier.”

  “I don’t know. I – must think.”

  There was a sudden flutter of Zaria’s hands and a decided falter in her voice.

  “There is no hurry, of course,” Mr. Patterson said soothingly. “My partners have booked you a room at the Cardos Hotel – a pleasant but quiet family hotel in Belgravia. You will be comfortable there, I think.”

  “Thank you,” Zaria said gratefully.

  “And now to continue with your aunt’s will,” Mr. Patterson went on. “You inherit the sum of money I have already mentioned and Mrs. Crawford’s two properties. There is also your aunt’s yacht. It is at the moment under charter. It would be difficult to cancel the transaction, which was agreed some months ago and I feel sure that y
ou would not wish to.”

  “No, no, of course not,” Zaria Mansford agreed.

  “We managed to get quite an advantageous sum, or, rather, our agents did, from an American millionaire, Mr. Cornelius Virdon. He arrives in Marseilles, where the yacht is to meet him, in two days’ time. I understand that he will be cruising along the coast of Africa. He is extremely interested in archaeology and wishes to do some personal excavations.”

  “Is it a large yacht?” Zaria asked.

  “Very reasonable size, I believe,” Mr. Patterson replied vaguely. “It is called The Enchantress by the way.”

  Mr. Patterson paused and then looked down at a number of letters held together by a paper clip that had been placed on his desk beside the file.

  “Ah!” he said, as if they brought something to his memory. “There was something I particularly wanted to ask you. Mr. Virdon, this American millionaire, made one stipulation in renting the yacht. He asked us to engage on his behalf a secretary who had a knowledge of archaeology and who could speak Arabic.”

  He noticed a flicker of interest in the girl’s eyes as he continued,

  “My partners and I agreed without realising what difficulties we were to encounter. At one moment we feared the whole transaction would fall through owing to the fact that, despite innumerable advertisements, we could not find anyone who fulfilled Mr. Virdon’s requirements.”

  “Why was it so difficult?” Zaria asked.

  “I have no idea,” Mr. Patterson replied. “We could find archaeologists by the hundred, of course. We could find people who spoke Arabic. But the two never seemed to be combined.”

  He paused.

  “Then only ten days ago, when we were getting desperate, we had an application from a Miss – let me see – a Miss Doris Brown. She seems an excellent young woman who has worked at the British Museum and privately for some leading archaeologists. I think Mr. Virdon will be pleased with her.”

  “That’s settled then,” Zaria said, a little surprise in her voice as if she wondered why this long explanation was necessary.

  “You are wondering why I am bothering you with all this,” he smiled. “Well, the fact is we are still a little anxious and we would be most grateful if, as you happen both to be an expert on archaeology and speak Arabic, you would have a word with Miss Brown.”

  “I think my modern Arabic is rather rusty,” Zaria replied. “I have not been abroad with my father for the last five years. I went several times before that, of course, and then he – decided to go alone.”

  There was something in her voice that told Mr. Patterson there was a story behind this, but aloud he said,

  “I am sure that all you will need to do is just to ask Miss Brown a few questions. You see, we have our reputation to consider and we would rather send no one at all than send someone who was utterly useless.”

  “When would you like me to see her?” Zaria asked.

  “I will send her to your hotel this afternoon, if that will suit you,” Mr. Patterson said. “She has to catch the night ferry leaving Victoria at seven o’clock. Shall we say three o’clock at the hotel? And, as it’s Saturday, I am afraid I shall not be here should you telephone us to say that she is not as proficient as we hope.”

  He glanced at his wristwatch as he spoke.

  “Actually, I shall be playing golf,” he said with a smile. “It is my one relaxation at weekends.”

  “Then supposing Miss Brown cannot speak Arabic at all well, what am I to do about it?” Zaria asked.

  “First of all,” Mr. Patterson replied, “until you are perfectly satisfied about Miss Brown’s Arabic, do not give her the tickets and the passport necessary for her journey. I will, with your permission, entrust them to your care now.”

  He picked up a large envelope as he spoke and held it out to Zaria.

  “We may seem unduly cautious, but we have kept back everything until we obtained your approval of our selection. Mr. Virdon is a very important man, very important indeed, and I would not think of letting him down in a matter of this sort.”

  “And if Miss Brown is unsuitable – I-I am to tell her so?” Zaria said.

  “If you would be so kind,” Mr. Patterson replied. “Then perhaps you would ring my secretary at her home.”

  As he spoke, he wrote a number on the back of the envelope.

  “I have put down my secretary’s number,” he said. “But don’t trouble to ring her unless anything is wrong. And now, Miss Mansford, if you will excuse me, I have another client waiting.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  Zaria Mansford rose to her feet in a flurry, dropping crumbs onto the floor as she did so and rattling the cups on the coffee tray as she bumped awkwardly against it.

  “There is only one more thing to say,” Mr. Patterson added. “My partners have opened a bank account for you to tide you over until the estate is settled. They have, for the moment, deposited one thousand pounds in your name.”

  “Th-thank you,” Zaria faltered.

  “In the meantime,” Mr. Patterson continued, “as it is the weekend and you might be short of ready cash, here with a cheque book is fifty pounds in notes. I hope it will be enough, but you will find that the hotel will be only too willing to cash a cheque for any reasonable amount.”

  He held out a long envelope as he spoke and Zaria took it from him with fingers that seemed to tremble.

  “Thank – you,” she said. “You are – quite sure – that the money is really – mine?”

  “Quite sure,” he answered.

  “Then you could send some money to Sarah – the old woman my father employed at our house in Scotland?”

  “Of course. Do you wish to retain her services?”

  “No, because she wants to retire – but I think I ought to give her a pension.”

  “I will see to the matter at once, Mr. Patterson promised. “You can safely leave all these problems to us – goodbye, Miss Mansford.

  Zaria shook hands with him and it was almost as if he held only bones between his own warm fingers.

  Then she turned and walked from the room.

  He somehow had the impulse to laugh. It was ridiculous to think that scarecrow of a girl was worth so much money. More money than he was ever likely to earn if he worked until he was a hundred.

  “What a waste!”

  He said the words aloud as the door closed behind Zaria and his secretary escorted her through the outer office to the lift.

  Outside the office, Zaria Mansford, carrying a suitcase, stared up and down the quiet street. She had no idea how she could find the Cardos Hotel, but she supposed that a bus would drop her somewhere near it.

  She walked slowly up the street feeling inexpressibly weary.

  She had not slept the night before, despite the sleeper, which had been provided for her with her ticket. She was also conscious that the sandwiches and coffee, although she had been ravenously hungry for them, had given her indigestion.

  ‘I shall have to be careful what I eat,’ she told herself and, even while she craved for food, she felt suddenly nauseated by the thought of it.

  Oatmeal and potatoes – that had been her staple diet for the last six months and the years before, except when her father had been home. She could remember the row now when the butcher’s bill had come in at the weekend before he died.

  “Do you think I’m made of money, you little cannibal?” her father had shouted. “How dare you order all this amount of meat? Do you think I’m a millionaire?”

  Then he had hit her, as he had hit her so often before, slapping her across the face, raining blows on the back of her head until she had crumpled up before him.

  Soon he would be so weak that his blows would no longer hurt her. She had not guessed then how soon deliverance would come.

  She had reached Oxford Street by now and the roar of the buses, taxis and lorries tearing past seemed suddenly to send her dizzy.

  ‘I cannot faint here,’ Zaria thought and, even while s
he looked round wildly for some form of support or help, she remembered that she could afford to take a taxi.

  It was true, really true! She was rich! She never need be hungry again.

  She never need be afraid of that shouting voice, those paralysing blows, that terror of going down to the village to buy what she was afraid would never be paid for. She was rich! Rich!

  It seemed to her that the traffic was repeating the words over and over again, roaring them at her.

  “Rich! Rich! Rich!”

  *

  Miss Doris Brown arrived at the Cardos Hotel at three o’clock and was taken by a page boy up to the second floor. He walked down the corridor and knocked on the door of a room.

  Then, as a faint voice called, “come in”, he turned the key and invited Miss Brown to enter.

  Whatever sort of person Doris Brown had imagined to find, the reality was a surprise. Her reaction was very much the same as that of Mr. Patterson.

  ‘Good Lord! What a freak!’ she said to herself and then aloud asked in an almost incredulous tone,

  “Are you Miss Mansford? Miss Zaria Mansford?”

  “That’s right,” the girl she had addressed answered softly.

  “Will you come and sit down?”

  Zaria had taken off the coat of her suit and the hand-knitted, faded and darned jumper that she wore above her baggy, ill-fitting tweed skirt, made Miss Brown very conscious of her own elegant outfit.

  “Fancy you being Professor Mansford’s daughter,” Miss Brown said. “I saw him once, oh, a long time ago, and thought how good-looking he was. Of course, it isn’t everyone who likes beards, but he was a fine looking man.”

  “Yes, very fine,” Zaria agreed.

  “When they told me I was to come along and see you because you owned the yacht I was going to – ”

  She stopped suddenly, her eyes fixed on a darn at Zaria’s elbow.

  “It is you who owns the yacht, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Zaria said. “But I only heard about it for the first time today.”

  “Well, fancy that!” Miss Brown exclaimed. “It must have come as a surprise. Not, if it comes to that, that I should like to own a yacht myself. I’m not such a good sailor as to care for the sea. But still a job’s a job and when they offered me this one I accepted because it seemed a bit of a change.”