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Authors: Ruth Rendell
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cardboard and brown paper, might have been a plant stand, a lectern or a standard lamp, and cursing under his breath made his way into the living room.
This time the Alsatian had been left behind. Dinah Sternhold had been sitting by the hearth, gazing into the heart of the fire perhaps while preoccupied with her own thoughts. She jumped up when he came in and her round pale face grew pink.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry to bother you, Mr Wexford. Believe me, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it was absolutely – well, absolutely vital. I’ve delayed so long and I’ve felt so bad and now I can’t sleep with the worry . . . But it wasn’t till this morning I found out you were a detective chief inspector.’
‘You read it in the paper,’ he said, smiling. ‘“Beautiful daughter of a country policeman.”’
‘Sheila never told me, you see. Why should she? I never told her my father’s a bank manager.’
Wexford sat down. ‘Then what you have to tell me is something serious, I suppose. Shall we have a drink? I’m a bit tired and you look as if you need Dutch courage.’
On doctor’s orders, he could allow himself nothing stronger than vermouth but she, to his surprise, asked for whisky. That she wasn’t used to it he could tell by the way she shuddered as she took her first sip. She lifted to him those greyish-brown eyes that seemed full of soft light. He had thought that face plain but it was not, and for a moment he could intuit what Camargue had seen in her. If his looks had been spiritual and sensitive so, superlatively, were hers. The old musician and this young creature had shared, he sensed, an approach to life that was gentle, impulsive and joyous.
There was no joy now in her wan features. They seemed convulsed with doubt and perhaps with fear.
‘I know I ought to tell someone about this,’ she began again. ‘As soon as – as Manuel was dead I knew I ought to tell someone. I thought of his solicitors but I imagined them listening to me and knowing I wasn’t to – well, inherit, and thinking it was all sour grapes . . . It seemed so – so wild to go to the police. But this morning when I read that in the paper – you see, I know you, you’re Sheila’s father, you won’t . . . I’m afraid I’m not being very articulate. Perhaps you understand what I mean?’
‘I understand you’ve been feeling diffident about giving some sort of information but I’m mystified as to what it is.’
‘Oh, of course you are! The point is, I don’t really believe it myself. I can’t, it seems so – well, outlandish. But Manuel believed it, he was so sure, so I don’t think I ought to keep it to myself and just let things go ahead, do you?’
‘I think you’d better tell me straight away, Mrs Sternhold. Just tell me what it is and then we’ll have the explanations afterwards.’
She set down her glass. She looked a little away from him, the firelight reddening the side of her face.
‘Well, then. Manuel told me that Natalie Arno, or the woman who calls herself Natalie Arno, wasn’t his daughter at all. He was absolutely convinced she was an impostor.’
6
He said nothing and his face showed nothing of what he felt. She was looking at him now, the doubt intensified, her hands lifted and clasped hard together under her chin. In the firelight the ruby on her finger burned and twinkled.
‘There,’ she said, ‘that’s it. It was something to – to hesitate about, wasn’t it? But I don’t really believe it. Oh, I don’t mean he wasn’t marvellous for his age and his mind absolutely sound. I don’t mean that. But his sight was poor and he’d worked himself into such an emotional state over seeing her, it was nineteen years, and perhaps she wasn’t very kind and – oh, I don’t know! When he said she wasn’t his daughter, she was an impostor, and he’d leave her nothing in his will, I . . .’
Wexford interrupted her. ‘Why don’t you tell me about it from the
This time the Alsatian had been left behind. Dinah Sternhold had been sitting by the hearth, gazing into the heart of the fire perhaps while preoccupied with her own thoughts. She jumped up when he came in and her round pale face grew pink.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry to bother you, Mr Wexford. Believe me, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it was absolutely – well, absolutely vital. I’ve delayed so long and I’ve felt so bad and now I can’t sleep with the worry . . . But it wasn’t till this morning I found out you were a detective chief inspector.’
‘You read it in the paper,’ he said, smiling. ‘“Beautiful daughter of a country policeman.”’
‘Sheila never told me, you see. Why should she? I never told her my father’s a bank manager.’
Wexford sat down. ‘Then what you have to tell me is something serious, I suppose. Shall we have a drink? I’m a bit tired and you look as if you need Dutch courage.’
On doctor’s orders, he could allow himself nothing stronger than vermouth but she, to his surprise, asked for whisky. That she wasn’t used to it he could tell by the way she shuddered as she took her first sip. She lifted to him those greyish-brown eyes that seemed full of soft light. He had thought that face plain but it was not, and for a moment he could intuit what Camargue had seen in her. If his looks had been spiritual and sensitive so, superlatively, were hers. The old musician and this young creature had shared, he sensed, an approach to life that was gentle, impulsive and joyous.
There was no joy now in her wan features. They seemed convulsed with doubt and perhaps with fear.
‘I know I ought to tell someone about this,’ she began again. ‘As soon as – as Manuel was dead I knew I ought to tell someone. I thought of his solicitors but I imagined them listening to me and knowing I wasn’t to – well, inherit, and thinking it was all sour grapes . . . It seemed so – so wild to go to the police. But this morning when I read that in the paper – you see, I know you, you’re Sheila’s father, you won’t . . . I’m afraid I’m not being very articulate. Perhaps you understand what I mean?’
‘I understand you’ve been feeling diffident about giving some sort of information but I’m mystified as to what it is.’
‘Oh, of course you are! The point is, I don’t really believe it myself. I can’t, it seems so – well, outlandish. But Manuel believed it, he was so sure, so I don’t think I ought to keep it to myself and just let things go ahead, do you?’
‘I think you’d better tell me straight away, Mrs Sternhold. Just tell me what it is and then we’ll have the explanations afterwards.’
She set down her glass. She looked a little away from him, the firelight reddening the side of her face.
‘Well, then. Manuel told me that Natalie Arno, or the woman who calls herself Natalie Arno, wasn’t his daughter at all. He was absolutely convinced she was an impostor.’
6
He said nothing and his face showed nothing of what he felt. She was looking at him now, the doubt intensified, her hands lifted and clasped hard together under her chin. In the firelight the ruby on her finger burned and twinkled.
‘There,’ she said, ‘that’s it. It was something to – to hesitate about, wasn’t it? But I don’t really believe it. Oh, I don’t mean he wasn’t marvellous for his age and his mind absolutely sound. I don’t mean that. But his sight was poor and he’d worked himself into such an emotional state over seeing her, it was nineteen years, and perhaps she wasn’t very kind and – oh, I don’t know! When he said she wasn’t his daughter, she was an impostor, and he’d leave her nothing in his will, I . . .’
Wexford interrupted her. ‘Why don’t you tell me about it from the
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