Misleading Engagement. Marjorie Lewty
are you still there?’
‘I’m here,’ she said. ‘I’ll try to get to you, Bob. Will you give me the address and advise me on the best route?’
After hours sitting behind the wheel of her car Anne was aching all over by nine o’clock that same evening, when she finally arrived at the address Bob had given her—the Wheatsheaf Hotel, Penryll. She parked the car beside three or four others at the front of the building and stood, stretching and yawning, looking for the entrance.
‘Hotel’ seemed rather too grand for this small, friendly-looking place, she thought. It was old, as if two or three fishermen’s cottages had been knocked into one, and lights shone from all the small, deep-set windows on the ground floor. From the two windows on the left, which were wide open to the road, there issued the unmistakable sounds of a public bar. No jukebox, thank goodness, simply the loud talk and rough laughter of the local folk enjoying their evening pint.
The next door bore the word ‘Residents’, and Anne pushed it open and blinked around. A steep flight of narrow stairs faced her and on her right was a door marked ‘Residents’ Lounge’. There was no sound from within. She opened the door and found herself in a small room with red velvet banquettes round the wall and three armchairs arranged round an ancient oak table. In one of the chairs sat Bob Riley, a glass of whisky beside him, his head drooping on his chest. His right arm was in plaster and supported by a sling. He looked the picture of misery.
‘Hello, Bob,’ Anne said brightly.
His head jerked up, his pleasant fair face lighting with a wide smile. ‘Anne, angel—you made it. I’d begun to think you’d got stuck somewhere. Am I pleased to see you! Come here and let me give you a hug with my one good arm.’ She went across to him and he gave her a delighted hug with his left arm. ‘Forgive me for not getting up,’ he said. ‘Pull up a chair. Would you like something to eat or drink?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m OK. I had some sandwiches at a service place on the motorway. Now, tell me what’s going on. Where are the others?’
‘They went down for a breath of sea air. The beach is just at the bottom of the hill. They’ll be back soon.’ He gave her a worried look. ‘I hope we haven’t brought you all this way in vain, Anne. I’m afraid things are not all plain sailing yet. Roger went to see this writer bloke—he’s the subject of our film, by the way—a couple of hours ago, to tell him we were expecting a replacement and to check that we could still start tomorrow morning, as arranged. Roger didn’t get much joy.
‘He said Gardiner was in a black mood—something about a computer that had let him down—and he was making noises about not wasting his time pulling pretty faces in front of a camera until he’d got someone out to fix the computer, which, Roger gathered, was problematical. We’re a long way from any technology centres. As there are ladies present, I’ve edited his language.’
Anne sat up. ‘Gardiner? Is that his name?’
‘That’s the name he writes under—Francis Gardiner. I believe his real name is Rayne.’
Anne slumped back in her chair weakly. She supposed she might have guessed. Lady Brent had said his pen-name had something to do with gardens. And he himself had said he had three hundred miles to drive when he’d left her that morning. ‘I believe I know him,’ she said slowly. ‘How about if I go along and try my hand at smoothing him down?’
Bob regarded her doubtfully. ‘Are you sure you aren’t too tired to beard the lion in his den?’
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