Dangerous Deception Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Anthea Fraser from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Recent Titles by Anthea Fraser from Severn House

  The Rona Parish Mysteries

  (in order of appearance)

  BROUGHT TO BOOK

  JIGSAW

  PERSON OR PERSONS UNKNOWN

  A FAMILY CONCERN

  ROGUE IN PORCELAIN

  NEXT DOOR TO MURDER

  UNFINISHED PORTRAIT

  A QUESTION OF IDENTITY

  JUSTICE POSTPONED

  Other Titles

  PAST SHADOWS

  FATHERS AND DAUGHTERS

  THICKER THAN WATER

  SHIFTING SANDS

  THE UNBURIED PAST

  A TANGLED THREAD

  DANGEROUS DECEPTION

  Anthea Fraser

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which is was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicably copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain 1998 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA

  First published in the USA 1998 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of

  110 East 59th Street, 22nd Fl., New York, NY 10022

  This eBook first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Ltd.

  Copyright © 1998 by Anthea Fraser.

  The right of Anthea Fraser to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Fraser, Anthea

  Dangerous deception

  1. Art thefts – Fiction

  2. Thrillers

  I. Title

  823.9’14 [F]

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-5318-9 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-727-1 (ePUB)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk

  Stirlingshire, Scotland

  Chapter One

  ‘Now spurs the lated traveller apace

  To gain the timely inn;’

  Shakespeare: Macbeth

  I HAVE often marvelled that so small a thing as a bee was responsible for everything that happened.

  But as I was approaching the M4/M5 junction, where I’d planned to turn off for my proposed stay in Somerset, a large bumble flew through the open car window and started circling round my head. By the time I’d directed it outside again, I realised to my frustration that the junction was past and I was heading for Wales.

  Resignedly I surveyed the options open to me; either I could turn off on the next A road and join the M5 further south, or I could totally revise my plans, stay on the M4 and see where it led me.

  It made little difference; I’d not booked in anywhere and no one was expecting me. In fact, I hadn’t wanted to come away at all, and it was only at my uncle’s insistence that I’d finally set out.

  I decided flippantly that if the registration of the next car I passed contained the letter S, I’d take the A road; if not, I’d continue the way I was going.

  It didn’t. Abandoning Somerset without a second thought, I headed into Wales.

  This would be my first visit, though Uncle and Philip had spent a holiday there some years ago. I remembered them talking about the peace and beauty of the area; it might be worth trying to track down where they’d stayed – a country hotel, up some valley beyond Cardiff.

  Glad to have a firm destination in mind, I pulled in to the next service station and extracted my road atlas from the boot. With luck, one of the place names in the vicinity might ring a bell.

  I found it almost at once: Dryffyd. You take the Dryffyd road just past Cardiff, Uncle had told my parents. I remembered it because it rhymed with ‘triffid’, and I’d been reading John Wyndham’s book at the time.

  I closed the atlas with a satisfied little pat, tossed it on to the back seat, and started off again. No warning bells rang in my head. All I remember thinking was that Uncle would be surprised when he received my postcard.

  Two hours later, it was with considerable relief that I saw the sign ‘Plas Dinas Hotel’ and turned off the long, dusty valley road. This was the first hotel I’d come to, and whether or not it was the one I was looking for, I was more than ready for a break from my brooding.

  For I’d been thinking, almost all the way, about Philip, and the main point of driving across the breadth of England and over the Welsh border had been to forget the whole, miserable business. It wasn’t even, I told myself impatiently as I got out of the car, as if I had loved him.

  The early September sun burned down, igniting the stone walls into a dazzling whiteness that hurt the eyes. The front door stood open, and I went thankfully inside.

  It was dim and cool after the glare outdoors but, as my eyes accustomed themselves, I found myself in a pleasant foyer with a bar in one corner and a staircase rising from the centre. Somewhere out of sight an electric fan whirred busily, stirring the lazy air into a welcome draught.

  “Good afternoon, miss. Can I help you?”

  A girl detached herself from the shadows at the back of the hall.

  Hot and thirsty, I decided to satisfy immediate needs before inquiring about accommodation. “I’d love some tea, if that’s possible.”

  “Of course; will you have it in the garden? There are umbrellas—”

  I shook my head. “No thanks, I’ve had enough sun for the moment.”

  “I’ll bring it to the lounge, then.” She nodded towards the room on the left of the hall.

  “Thank you. And is there somewhere I can freshen up?”

  “The cloakrooms are down that passage by the stairs.”

  “Bronwen!” A head appeared between some double doors behind her. “What did you do with the pile of clean napkins, then?”

  I pushed open the cloakroom door and it swung to behind me, shutting off the sound of their lilting voices. It was a relief to wash away some of the strain of the journey. I splashed cold water on my face and patted it dry on the soft towel. No need, here, for make-up – a touch of lipstick was all that was called for. Not for the first time, I thanked Providence for the blessing of soot-black brows and lashes despite my ash-blonde hair. All that needed camouflage were the shadows under my eyes, and I told myself firmly that ten days of rest and country air would do more for them than all the beauty creams in the world.

  The room indicated as the lounge was small and cheerful, its paned windows open to any available breeze, though there was no
one here to take advantage of it. A copper jug full of poppies stood on the hearth, their glowing colours vivid against the grey stone, and above the fireplace hung a large watercolour – a peaceful scene of hills and valleys. Local, no doubt, I thought, admiring the sweep of cloud-filled sky.

  I settled myself in a chair, grateful for the comfort of it after hours of jolting about in the car. I was more tired than I’d realised, and my half-formed decision crystallised. It was pointless to go any farther; even if this wasn’t the right hotel – and there was no way of knowing – it was a pleasant, friendly little place, and I was already beginning to unwind. The homely atmosphere would surely help me snap out of my depression.

  Bronwen came in with the tray and I said impulsively, “Could you put me up for a while? I’m hoping to spend—”

  My voice tailed off as her face clouded. “Oh, there’s sorry I am, miss, but we’ve no vacancies. Only six rooms we have, and all of them taken.”

  “Oh.” Having made my decision, I was acutely disappointed. “Well, it can’t be helped. I was trying to find an hotel where my uncle stayed, but I’ve had more than enough driving for today.”

  “There’s the Carreg Coed, just up the road. It’s bigger than we are, they might have room.”

  I hesitated. I’d have to find somewhere for the night, and this could as easily be the hotel I was looking for. “Is it far?”

  “Not above five miles. Shall I ring and see if they’ve any vacancies?”

  “That would be a help; thanks.”

  As she went out, I turned with belated misgivings to the table in front of me. I’d expected a pot of tea with perhaps some biscuits, but here were warm Welsh cakes with unsalted butter, home-made jam, and slices of crusty currant bread. Out of the habit of enjoying food, I embarked on it half-heartedly, and was surprised to find how quickly I finished it.

  I poured a second cup of tea, deliberately postponing my return to the hot car. Well, Uncle Matt, I thought, I’ve done what you asked. Now what?

  “You should get away for a while, Clare,” he had said, frowning worriedly at me. “All this business has taken a lot out of you.”

  “I’m all right,” I’d replied a little waspishly. “Anyway, all my friends have had their holidays, and it’s not much fun going alone.”

  “I’d come with you myself, but unfortunately I can’t get away at the moment.”

  Which was as well, I’d reflected, because if he had, far from forgetting the matter, it would have totally enveloped me. For Matthew was himself at the heart of it – he and Philip.

  I took a quick sip of tea. Philip again. I couldn’t get him out of my head today – probably because for the first time I’d had no work to occupy me.

  Slowly I replaced the cup. A little therapy seemed called for; if I could steel myself to go back to the beginning, perhaps I’d see everything in perspective and, firmly ruling a line under the past, could forget it and get on with my life.

  So, as ‘the beginning’ stretched back as far as I could remember, I let my mind drift to what, in memory, were the perpetually sunny days of childhood, the picnics, the treats and the holidays. And Matthew had always been a part of them.

  From the start there was a special relationship between us, since in addition to being my mother’s twin he was also my god-father. And though he’d had plenty of friends, he seemed to enjoy coming to our house, where he’d submit to joining in my games and reading me stories. In short, he was like a second father to me.

  Then, just after my fifth birthday and when he was in his late thirties, he married a widow six years older than himself, with a twelve-year-old son. Shock had reverberated through the family.

  “He could have had anyone!” I heard my mother exclaim hysterically, when she thought I was in bed. “What is he thinking of, saddling himself not only with that pasty-faced woman but her child as well?”

  “It’s called love, darling,” my father had replied mildly.

  I remembered standing on the stairs in my nightdress, one bare foot on top of the other as my world, rocked about me. For how could Uncle love anyone but us?

  As it happened, Aunt Margot won us over at once. She was a gentle, sweet-faced woman, and since she clearly adored Matthew, she was soon welcomed into the family.

  Her son, at least in my eyes, was a different matter; I bitterly resented having to share my uncle’s affection with another child, the more so since Philip himself appeared to reject it.

  Imprinted on my memory from that time was a tea-party at Conningley, when Aunt Margot had casually said, “Pass this to your father, Philip,” and the boy had drawn himself up and answered clearly, “My father is dead.”

  In fact, throughout all those early years I never heard him call my uncle by any name that implied relationship, and as soon as he was eighteen, he addressed him as Matthew. Recalling this for the first time in years, it seemed ominously significant.

  After the marriage, we inevitably saw less of them. Matthew and his wife sometimes had Sunday lunch with us, but Philip was by then away at boarding school. When the two of us did meet, there was still a faint animosity between us – on his side, perhaps, simply because I was a girl, but on my own due to lingering jealousy.

  So our paths seldom crossed until the summer of six years ago. Philip had just left university and was about to join the family business when Aunt Margot died suddenly of pneumonia. The memory of those days was still painful – Matthew disappearing for long stretches to walk until he was exhausted; Philip, white-faced, abruptly leaving the dinner table; my mother in tears over the dishes.

  But at least, with them spending so much time with us, the tragedy brought us close again, and a result of this was that Philip and I necessarily became more tolerant of each other.

  However, I still regarded him as ‘only Philip’ until one day, Cora Browne – I haven’t thought of her in years! – called round while he was there and pierced my unawareness with her blushes and giggles.

  “Clare!” she whispered. “He’s gorgeous! Where have you been hiding him?”

  “Philip?” I had said in astonishment. “Gorgeous?”

  Suddenly, looking at him with her eyes, I saw that perhaps he was, and it wasn’t long before I began – quite shamelessly, it seemed now – to make use of him. If at any time I found myself without a partner – for a tennis match, a party, even to go to the cinema – I’d ask Philip to take me. Surprisingly, he always complied, and although I’d no particular feelings towards him, I enjoyed having him as an escort.

  Philip’s interest in me developed so slowly as to be for a long time unnoticeable. When, instead of waiting for my phone calls, he began inviting me out unprompted, I scarcely noticed the difference; and although we were spending more time together I attached no importance to the fact, ignoring the meaningful glances which passed between Matthew and my parents.

  No one rushed us; we drifted along together and, because we were now coupled in the minds of our friends, no one else made a counterclaim. Philip’s kisses never lit fires inside me, but they were acceptable enough, and he always stopped when I asked him. Obviously those wild, impassioned affairs I’d read about happened only in books. I was content, and the families were overjoyed. The only formality of our engagement was buying the ring.

  My fingers had been unconsciously pulling and tearing at the paper napkin and it now lay shredded in my lap. I stared down at it. Was I after all ready yet, detached enough, to go back over everything?

  There was a tap on the door and Bronwen came in. “Is there anything else I can get you, miss?”

  I wrenched my thoughts back to the present. “No, no thank you. That was delicious. Did you get through to the hotel?”

  “Yes, they have a room free, and they’re expecting you. The Carreg Coed it is – you can’t miss it.”

  “Thank you.” At least I’d have a bed for tonight.

  The sun was lying in wait for me, a suffocating gold dust in the car park. Reluctantly I turned t
he car out on to the road again. My departure from home that morning seemed light-years away.

  I pictured the bleak little flat, empty and waiting. This was the time I arrived back in the evening, and I knew exactly how it would be looking, even to the slant of sunlight which fell across the sideboard.

  Suddenly, stupidly, I was overcome by a wave of homesickness for it, lonely as it was. At least I didn’t have to pretend there. I wished vehemently that I’d not allowed myself to be persuaded into taking this holiday.

  But it was too late for second thoughts. I straightened my back against the driving-seat and concentrated on the road ahead.

  I heard the motor-bike before I saw it, a tiny speck in my driving mirror that grew rapidly bigger. Moving over slightly, I waited for it to pass, but to my alarm the rider slowed down as he reached me and waved at me to stop.

  Horror stories of deranged attackers flooded my mind, and my foot was already on the accelerator when, to my untold relief, I recognised the waiter from the hotel I’d just left.

  “Glad I managed to catch you, miss,” he said breathlessly. “It’s Gareth, from the Plas Dinas. There’s a message just come for you.”

  He handed me a slip of paper.

  “For me?” I said blankly. “But it can’t be – no one knows where I am.”

  “Well, see, a gentleman phoned from London. Wanted to speak to a Miss – Lawrence, is it?”

  “Laurie?”

  “That’s it. Said you were calling in for tea and he’d hoped to catch you – a fair-haired young lady on her own.” His shrug was self-explanatory. “Queer message it is, and all. Couldn’t make sense of it myself, but he said it’s to do with a treasure-hunt. Made me read it back to him, word for word.”

  I glanced at the paper in my hand, and if the gods of chance were holding their breath, nothing warned me of the fact.

  Aladdin delayed, I read in an unformed scrawl, but Beanstalk still on schedule. Sinbad will make contact. Jack.

  “I’m not surprised you couldn’t make sense of it,” I remarked, “but I can assure you it’s not for me. As I told you, no one knows where I am. What else did this mysterious caller say?”