Shadowed Stranger. Carole Mortimer
was that?’ her mother asked as she bustled out of the larder with a jar of her homemade marmalade.
‘Nothing, Mum,’ Robyn answered hastily. ‘Has that got to go too?’ she indicated the jar.
‘Yes. I thought of sending jam, but not everyone likes jam, But I know he likes marmalade, he bought a jar when he first moved in. Now can you manage all that?’
Robyn balanced the jar on top of the tin. ‘I think so. If you could just open the door for me?’
The tin weighed heavy in her arms, and despite her reluctance to reach Orchard House she found herself hurrying down the road, anxious to get rid of her heavy burden.
Orchard House looked unlived-in and neglected, and if it weren’t for the Jaguar parked outside and the thin spiral of smoke coming from the chimney she would have said the place was empty. There were no curtains at the windows, no sign of movement within.
Her knock on the front door received no reply, so she went around the back and tried there. Still no answer. But he had to be there, he would hardly go out and leave a lit fire. Besides, there was the Jaguar, his transport.
She knocked again, and still receiving no answer she tentatively turned the doorhandle and walked in. There were a couple of used mugs in the sink, but other than that the kitchen was bare, the cooker looked unused, the cupboards apparently empty. Surely no one could actually live in such discomfort?
Which brought her back to the whereabouts of Rick Howarth. He obviously spent little time in the kitchen, so leaving the tin and the jar of marmalade on the kitchen table she decided to search the rest of the house. Each room proved to be empty of furniture and habitation, having a musty smell to it. The last bedroom she came to seemed to be the one with the fire in, although the room still struck chill. There was a single bed, a table containing a typewriter, one hard-looking chair, and no other furniture.
Robyn repressed a shiver as she went back downstairs. How could anyone live in such starkness of human comfort? That brought back the question of why Rick Howarth was living in such conditions. Could her first assumption be correct, could he be a thief on the run?
And yet a village certainly wasn’t the best place to use as a hideout, a town was much better for obscurity, and Rick Howarth appeared to her to be intelligent enough to realise that. In a village the size of Sanford you couldn’t even sneeze without the neighbours knowing about it, and a newcomer aroused much attention; her own mother’s interest in Rick Howarth was evidence of that. Her mother wasn’t a nosey person, and yet even she seemed to have learnt a little about the new occupier of Orchard House.
But where was he? The house was empty, and yet he didn’t appear to be the type who enjoyed gardening. Did he look any type?
She returned to the kitchen, in a quandary about what to do. She couldn’t just leave the food here, he would wonder where it came from, and if she took the food back home her mother would want to know why. But she could have to wait ages for him to come back, she had no way of knowing—–
‘What the hell are you doing in here?’
Robyn swung round, paling as she saw Rick Howarth standing dark and dangerous in the doorway.
THE jar of marmalade she had been toying with slipped out of her hand and smashed on the tiled floor with a resounding crash, and she groaned as the sticky contents began to spread all over the floor. ‘Do you have a cloth?’ she asked desperately, going down on her hands and knees to begin picking up the bigger pieces of glass.
‘What the hell—–!’ Strong sinewy fingers came out and Rick Howarth grasped her arm roughly, pulling her effortlessly to her feet. ‘Are you stupid, girl?’ he rasped, looking down at her contemptuously as she struggled to be free.
Her head went back, her eyes flashing deeply violet in her anger. ‘Of course I’m not stupid, Mr Howarth,’ she snapped. ‘You just startled me, and I—I dropped the marmalade.’
‘I can see that.’ His mouth twisted.
‘Then you can also see that the floor is in a mess,’ she scorned.
He gave an impatient sigh before moving to the cupboard under the sink unit, taking out some ragged pieces of material and throwing them down on the table in front of her. ‘Here,’ he said abruptly, ‘help yourself.’
‘Thanks,’ she muttered, getting down on to the floor once again to wipe up the broken glass. It really was a mess—glass among the sticky concoction that was all that was left of her mother’s beautiful home-made marmalade.
‘I’m still waiting to find out what you’re doing in my home,’ he said tersely, his face a harsh mask, deep lines grooved beside his mouth.
He was no better dressed than he had been yesterday, the denims and shirt were still as disreputable, although the over-long dark hair looked newly washed, slightly waving as it grew low down over his collar.
‘I did knock,’ she told him resentfully. ‘And when there was no answer—–’
‘You just walked in,’ he finished coldly.
‘No!’ Robyn defended indignantly. ‘Well—yes. But it wasn’t quite like that!’
‘It never is.’ Rick Howarth’s mouth twisted contemptuously.
Colour flooded her cheeks at his rude manner. ‘I didn’t come here to be insulted—–’
‘If you didn’t violate people’s privacy perhaps you wouldn’t be,’ he snapped angrily, his eyes cold. ‘This is the second time in as many days that I’ve caught you on my property uninvited. Well?’ he quirked an eyebrow mockingly. ‘No comeback?’
Robyn bit her lip. ‘No,’ she admitted reluctantly, knowing she couldn’t deny the truth. ‘But—–’
‘Don’t go into lengthy explanations,’ he said dismissively, obviously bored by the subject—as he was probably bored with her! ‘Sufficient to say you were trespassing, the reasons don’t really matter. And today you’re doing it again, although you have some nerve actually entering the house.’
‘I told you, I—–’
‘You knocked and there was no answer,’ he scorned. ‘When that happens it’s the usual practice to go away and come back some other time.’
Robyn stood up at last, dropping the glass and sticky rags into the bin in the corner of the room. It was still sticky on the floor, but if Rick Howarth wanted it any cleaner he could damn well do it himself.
‘I was going away,’ she snapped. ‘I am going away, and I don’t intend coming back again—ever!’ She moved to the table, taking the lid off the tin. ‘I’ll just leave these with you,’ she slammed the dishes down on the table. ‘If you could return the crockery when you’ve finished with it I’m sure my mother would be grateful.’ She made a great clatter, deliberately so, as she put the lid back on the tin, just wanting to get away from this rude, ungrateful pig of a man.
He came over to look at the casserole and the pie. ‘What’s this?’ he rasped, his eyes narrowed.
Heavens, anyone would think they were trying to poison him! ‘What does it look like?’ she derided, sighing at his blank expression. ‘It’s food, Mr Howarth. Chicken,’ she indicated the deepest dish. ‘Apple,’ she pointed to the other one.
‘What’s it doing here?’
‘My mother thought you were in need of sustenance.’ She gave the impression that she personally couldn’t give a damn if he expired of starvation in front of her eyes.
His mouth tightened, his eyes glacial. ‘Your mother?’
‘Mrs Castle.