Steve’s haggard face sharpened into intensity, he caught her by the arm, his fingers digging into her. ‘What young woman?’
The landlady unhooked his fingers with a frown, but was not unsympathetic. ‘Are you looking for someone, dear? I can’t remember her name just now – it will be in the guest book, she signed it. A lovely-looking girl, blonde, with a funny accent.’
‘Blonde . . .’ The word sighed out of Steve in deep relief. His whole body seemed to sag.
‘That’s right, dear.’ The landlady watched him uneasily, with uncertain sympathy. ‘Friend of yours, is she?’
‘Is she in her room?’
‘Not just now. She was knocked unconscious –’
‘Is she badly hurt?’ he interrupted, leaning towards her in tense anxiety.
‘Oh, nothing serious, love, don’t worry. She’s in Arbory House, that’s across the street there, on the other side of the village green. She was here visiting them, the Broughams, so they kept her there for the night. They rang to let me know. That was good of Mrs Brougham, very thoughtful. She’s a lady, even if she is an American.’
Steve gave a bark of angry laughter. ‘I’m an American too.’
She winked at her customers and smiled at him. ‘Well, I did notice, dear. Get a lot of Americans here in the summer, we do. They like our olde-worlde look; we’ve an old church for them to visit, and a fair number of old houses. Can I get you two gentlemen a drink?’
Vladimir’s eyes brightened and he leaned on the bar counter, staring along the bottles as if wondering where he might start. He beamed as he saw a row of familiar labels.
‘We’ll take a couple of your Budweisers,’ he said. ‘Did you know the original Budweisers came from Czechoslovakia?’
‘Get away.’ The landlady produced two bottles for them, smiling. ‘And I thought they were American. You aren’t an American, are you? Got an accent just like the young lady; she was Czech, she said.’
Vladimir nodded. ‘Uh-huh, she works for me.’
‘Does she now? What sort of job does she do? I thought she looked like a model. Is she?’
Vladimir laughed. ‘No, no. She is a journalist. I run a news agency, covering world news for Eastern Europe.’
‘Well, I’d never have guessed that, she doesn’t look the type. I suppose you’re here about Mrs Brougham’s dad? Been reading all about him in the papers, haven’t we? American politician, over here making speeches, as if we haven’t got enough of that already. D’you think he’s going to be president next time? That would really put the village on the map; we’d have tourists pouring in to see where his daughter lives, I reckon. I’d have some more rooms built on at the back, and maybe put in a café at the side of the pub.’
Steve forced a smile. ‘I don’t have a crystal ball, I’m afraid, but good luck anyway. Could you let us have two rooms for the night? We need to talk to Miss Narodni and maybe we’ll have to wait until tomorrow.’
She beamed. ‘Well, I am having a busy night, aren’t I? Haven’t had this many overnight guests since the end of August. Sure I can let you have a couple of rooms. When you’ve drunk your lagers I’ll take you up.’
Sophie had been given the sedative left by the doctor, and was now tucked up in bed in a room at the top of the stairs. Cathy had lent her a nightie and dressing-gown, a pair of sheepskin slippers; they were very similar in size, which gave Cathy an odd feeling. She had stayed until Sophie was clearly drifting off to sleep, and then quietly went out, leaving one lamp lit by the door, with a very low wattage bulb in it, so that it would not disturb Sophie but if she woke in the night would give her enough light to see the room and remember where she was.
‘Shall we have dinner?’ she asked from the door, looking at Paul, sitting in his favourite chair, by the fireside, a large glass of brandy in his hand. She hoped he wasn’t going to drink too much; he rarely did but when he did it seemed to plunge him into dark brooding, a heavy gloom that didn’t lift until the effect of the alcohol wore off.
He didn’t look round at her. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Sandwiches?’
‘Later, maybe.’ She watched him swirl the golden liquid in his glass, saw the firelight glinting in it; Paul wasn’t looking at her, he was staring into the fire, his face still very pale and his mouth a straight, bloodless line.
‘Come and sit down. Go through it again. I still haven’t got it straight in my head.’
‘Do we have to?’ Cathy was heart-sick; wanted to cry. She had been so sure he loved her; how could that love go so quickly? Did money matter that much to him?
She wished she had never set eyes on Sophie Narodni; she had turned the world upside-down. The last couple of hours had been pure nightmare.
‘It’s all so far-fetched, it can’t be true,’ she said despairingly.
Sophie’s story reminded her of fairy stories she had read as a child; tales about stolen babies, wicked magicians who wanted to be king, a quest for a long-lost princess. What was that phrase the troubadours in Provence had loved so much . . .? La princesse lointaine . . . The distant, long-lost princess the poets dreamed about and sang about.
‘Cathy?’ Paul asked sharply and she started, looked at him in confusion.