Lure of the Falcon Page 2

  'No, I must be off.' There was no 'thank you', Wyn

  noticed, putting her hand out to pull the drawing room door wider so that she could join the Tylar family, which she did not want to do, and acquire her cup of tea, which she did. 'You first,' she waited while the woman who had shown her to her room appeared with a large dish in her hands, which she carried carefully, shielding her fingers with, a cloth, as if it contained something hot. Wyn sniffed. 'Toast?'

  `Crumpets. The children love them ... oh, do be careful!' Her warning went unheeded and Wyn stepped back from the door sharply, nursing her elbow.

  'Were you listening at the door?' Diane thrust it open and strode through, ignoring the fact that her careless exit had given Wyn a sharp bang.

  'Certainly not!' Wyn flushed scarlet, anger robbing her of the faculty for further speech.

  'She was holding the door open for me, Miss Diane.' Nanny gave her the kind of look that must have quelled many a nursery insurrection, thought Wyn with sudden amusement, and her tone suggested that it was a courtesy the flaxen-haired girl would probably not have thought to offer.

  'I'll hold it for both of you.' Russell Tylar stepped out of the room behind Diane. He smiled at the elderly woman, and accorded Wyn a curt nod which left her undecided whether she should speak to him or not. She compromised by an unsmiling 'thank you', but he had already turned his attention to his companion.

  'I'll see you to your car. Where did you park it?'

  'In the stable yard.' They passed along the hall together, their voices fading, and Wyn followed her guide into the drawing room.

  'This is Mrs Tylar, Miss Warwick. And Mr Val.'

  Nanny deposited the plate of crumpets on the trolley and beckoned to two raven-haired children, a boy and a girl, who had been sitting beside a wirehaired fox terrier on the hearthrug.

  'Come and have your tea, now.' They rose instantly, Wyn noticed with approval, and gave her shy smiles as they obeyed the summons, the crumpets keeping them and their helper occupied and leaving Wyn to make the acquaintance of the tall, white-haired woman of aristocratic appearance who occupied the chair opposite to the one Diane had sat in earlier.

  'Come and sit here beside me,' the owner of the soft voice patted the seat next to her, and offered her other hand in a friendly manner at the same time. 'You must be longing for a cup of tea.' She nodded towards Nanny, who obligingly started to pour out, and indicated the auburn-haired man who had risen from the chair opposite to her own. 'Val is my younger son. You've already met Russell, of course.' She neatly sorted out her family for Wyn, who turned to meet another pair of grey eyes very like Russell's, but containing a smile in them that was interested as well as friendly, and obviously approved what they saw. It was strange how a dark-haired family so often threw up an auburn-haired member, she thought reflectively, liking Val Tylar on sight. I'm prejudiced because he stood up for me, she told herself scornfully, but just the same it was good to feel she had one ally in this household. Mrs Tylar was friendly enough, but it would be difficult to tell what she was really thinking. Her high-boned face bore latent evidence of once great beauty, faded now with age but still graciously lingering like the elusive perfume of pot-pourri that brings back memories of

  summer rose petals to tantalise a winter's day.

  'And-this is Jonathan and Jane,' she smiled at the children who had quietly resumed their seat on the rug and sat regarding Wyn with frank curiosity that even took precedence over the crumpets. Wyn glanced quickly towards the fox terrier that looked as if it waited the opportunity to sneak the piece in the boy's fingers, and consume it on the spot.

  'In your basket, Scamp.' The man checked the dog just in time, and Wyn's eyes twinkled. 'His turn will come after tea,' Val smiled easily, and Wyn wished that his older brother could be more like him, it would have made her welcome warmer, and her task much easier; that was, if she was to remain. She wondered uneasily what would be the outcome of the argument.

  For the moment the tea was delicious. She was offered a choice, and opted for China tea with nothing added, a favourite whenever she had the opportunity, though her work tended to mean more snatched meals on journeys than leisurely ones in such delightful surroundings. It would be nice if she could stay. She missed her home, the big family farmhouse that sheltered her parents and two married brothers, each with a family of their own, so that the place, although it was divided strictly into three, and was large enough to make each abode a roomy home, tended to become a general dwelling whose occupants were fond enough of one another's company to want to be together as much as possible, and was in consequence a happy place of chatter and laughter. Her work took her solely among adults, as a rule, often into unoccupied, museum-like houses that were cold through lack of habitation, and she missed the children. Here, she could have had the

  best of both worlds, she thought wistfully, if it hadn't been for the prejudice of the owner and his fiancée.

  'Sorry I took so long.' Russell reappeared and joined them at the tea table. 'Don't bother, I'll cope,' he waved aside his mother's move to help him and wielded the silver tea pot and milk jug with an expert hand, but disdained the sugar, which Wyn thought was a pity; his manner could do with sweetening. 'Diane had a bit of bother with her car coming out here,' he explained, 'and she was afraid it might give trouble on the way , back.'

  'Was it much?' Val's interest perked up at the mention of mechanical mysteries. -

  'Only a tappet chattering.' Russell helped himself to a crumpet. 'I borrowed your feelers and put it right. I've put them back in your toolbox,' he reassured his brother..

  'It's unlike Diane to bother about tappet noise.' Val's eyebrows rose. 'Where's the girl who used to go stock car racing, and live with a spanner in her hand?' he jeered, and Wyn looked up at him, surprised. She could not imagine Diane being interested in mechanical things.

  'Does your fiancée race?' she asked Russell. There was no telling with people, of course, they had the most unlikely occupations. Her own career was a case in point.

  'Diane doesn't race now,' Russell retorted shortly. 'It was a teenage enthusiasm,' he stated flatly.

  'Are you engaged, Uncle Russell?' the small girl asked interestedly.

  `No, poppet—mind, the butter's dripping! ' he reached hastily for his handkerchief and mopped her fingers.

  'Yet!' The murmur came from Val. It reached Wyn's ears, and she thought his mother's from the quick frown she sent in his direction, but mercifully Russell did not seem to hear it; he was absorbed with the two children.

  'Surely being an antiquarian is an unusual career for a girl, even in these enlightened times?' The elderly woman cut across the awkward moment adroitly. 'Was it choice, or circumstance?' She smiled in a manner that told Wyn her interest was genuine.

  'Both really. It started with an interest in antiques, and my family are friends with the Stapletons. It grew from there,' Wyn explained.

  'They must value your services, to feel they can send you out on missions like this?'

  'They've asked me to become their partner.' Wyn spoke quietly, talking to her elderly listener, but at the same time informing Russell. He should know he was not dealing with a 'chit of a girl'. Her anger simmered again as she remembered his description.

  'Indeed? You must be very knowledgeable. And very interested in your work.' Mrs Tylar looked suitably impressed. 'Tell me about it,' she commanded. 'All right, Nanny, you can clear away,' she broke off to give permission for the tea trolley to be removed. 'And the children can go out to play until bedtime,' she smiled down at them. 'Mind you see that Scamp doesn't get into mischief,' she warned them. 'Now,' she turned back to Wyn as they left the room, 'we can talk comfortably. Your work ...' she reminded her.

  'Our ,work's our life, really,' Wyn answered her frankly. She did not say 'our living', it was so much more than that to the Stapletons and to herself. That

  was what made it such a pity about Bill's wife ...

  'Do you often get an assignment like
this?' Val sounded as interested as his mother.

  'Quite often. Sometimes it's at the request of an insurance company, the same as this. Sometimes a family home has to be sold and the contents come under the hammer, so they must be separately valued first.' Tylar Grange was a beautiful home, a place of dreams in fact, Wyn had already fallen in love with the little she had seen of it, but it was not unique, and it would not hurt its arrogant owner to realise this, she thought. 'And of course there's always the odd police enquiry,' she drew a red herring across the conversation, which she felt sure Val would follow. The lack of response from his brother was monumental, and his curt tone when he answered her question about Diane left her feeling snubbed. She had asked on impulse, but his demeanour accused her of prying, as pointedly as Diane had accused her of doing much the same thing

  - —listening at the door.

  'Police enquiry?' Val exclaimed. 'I didn't know antiquarians went in for that sort of cloak and dagger stuff,' he rose to her bait obediently. 'But then I didn't know an antiquarian could look like you,' he grinned, and Wyn's colour rose. She wished she had not laid the trap for him, it had sprung back on to her own fingers. Russell's brows drew together", but his brother ignored him. He could afford to, thought Wyn ruefully, but she could not. 'Tell us more,' Val begged.

  'Yes, do. I'm intrigued,' his mother joined in, and Wyn was left with no option but to oblige them, which she did willingly enough. If Russell wasn't interested he need not listen, she told herself. She had the evening

  to get through yet among this family, and even surface rapport with two of them would help it along.

  'Mostly the cloak and dagger work, as you call it,' she smiled at Val, 'involves paintings. Forgeries.' It sounded dramatic, but it was only the truth, and if Russell thought she was merely seeking attention she could not help it. 'We're usually able to sort it out, though the result isn't always satisfactory to the owner.'

  'It's sad to think of old homes like these being sold, and their contents auctioned off,' Mrs Tylar reverted to Wyn's former comment.

  'I always feel that.' Wyn turned to her impulsively. 'I often wonder how the furniture feels when it's stood by another piece for perhaps a couple of hundred years, and then the whole lot has to be sold in separate pieces, and they're scattered to the four winds. It sounds silly, I suppose,' she didn't think it would to two of her listeners, and she didn't care, she told herself firmly, whether it did or not to the third, 'but we always try to find good homes for the pieces that come through our hands. We try to make sure they go to people who value them for themselves, not for what they cost.' It was the nearest explanation she could give for her feelings, but she felt her listeners understood.

  'I know what you mean,' the white head opposite to her nodded comprehension. 'People who love their past ...'

  'We always try to trace the history of any piece that comes into our possession.' She pursued her train of thought lost in her enthusiasm, and encouraged by the fact that another enthusiast listened, so that for the moment she could ignore the black-browed presence of the man close beside her.

  'That must make the pieces more interesting to your clients,' Val interposed, plainly impressed. Too plainly, thought Wyn vexedly, biting her lip. She wished Val's eyes would leave her face for a moment; his obvious admiration for wavy brown hair and amber eyes set in a delicate bone structure was both juvenile and becoming an embarrassment.

  'Does it take long—this searching for history?' His brother spoke up suddenly, and she jumped. He had not uttered a word for some time, and briefly—blissfully—she had forgotten he was there.

  'Months, sometimes.' She turned to face him, and found to her astonishment that an expression of interest lit his face, too. I wonder he bothers to listen to a chit of a girl, she thought waspishly, but nevertheless she went on quietly, sure of herself on her own ground, and of her name that, if these people hadn't heard of it before, was becoming flatteringly well known in the world of antiques. 'Sometimes the antiques themselves reveal their own history. We've found—oh, all sorts of things—in concealed drawers in cupboards and bureaux, and once we discovered some documents in the back of a picture.'

  'Did you indeed?'

  Wyn looked at him, puzzled by the sudden sense of alertness that had taken hold of all three of her companions. A significant glance passed between them, and embarrassingly their eyes returned to her face, and in each of them there was a look of—she watched them, her puzzlement deepening—almost a look of hope, she thought wonderingly.

  'We're not always so lucky, of course.' Some instinct warned her to go on, told her to warn her listeners, she

  did not know herself of what, but she carried on talking anyway, striving to brealc the silence that held a strange tension, that was intensified by Russell's stare, which she was sure had nothing to do with her own appearance, but seemed to look at and through her, as if he was seeing something inside her that she could not.

  'It just might work.' He spoke half to himself, and removing his eyes from her face met those of his mother and brother with a question written large in his own.

  'It will only work if you tell Miss Warwick what it is she has to look for.' Again that hint of firmness-in his mother's tone, and once again it worked, Wyn noticed. Not, she-was sure, because Russell was subservient to his mother's will; he had much too strong -a character for that, his jawline alone, square and firm in his tanned face, was evidence enough of his ability to make up his own mind, but because he respected her judgment.

  `For heaven's sake can't we call you Wyn?' Val protested. 'This Miss Warwick sort of formality destroys me,' he said impatiently.

  'I'd be glad if you would,' Wyn confessed her own dislike of formalities. 'But Bill Stapleton didn't say anything about a search here. Should he have done?' she asked, doubtfully.

  'No, this-didn't crop up until after I spoke to him.' Russell turned his gaze back to her, still with the same incredulous look of hope in it. 'We need to—we must—find a will,' he explained, speaking almost reluctantly as if he found it difficult to unburden himself to a stranger—and an unwelcome one at that, Wyn thought, but she remained quiet, waiting for him to go on. 'Tempest Tylar—my late uncle—left a will naming his heir.'

  'I thought estates such as this were always entailed.'

  Wyn was mystified and showed it. 'I thought they descended directly through the next male in line of succession?'

  'Tylar Grange is entailed, just as you say,' Russell told her, 'and to our prior knowledge my uncle had no children. But the solicitor has a letter in his handwriting which he left to be opened one month after he died. It mentions a will left somewhere in 'the house, which names his rightful heir. By the time the letter was opened, the solicitor had advised me to move in here, if only for security's sake. You can appreciate it would not do to leave such a place unoccupied.' Wyn could appreciate it very well; the thought that it was occupied but under-insured for so long still horrified her. 'We thought no more of it at the time. My uncle was—slightly eccentric.' A bit of a ,recluse, Bill had called him. A love affair gone wrong ... 'Anyhow, we didn't take it at all seriously.' His manner was serious enough now, his voice faintly weary, and a quick stir of sympathy caught Wyn by surprise. What a blow to inherit such a lovely home, and then have a doubt cast on its ownership.

  ,It should be possible to find out fairly quickly if anyone else has a claim to the estate,' she said practically. 'Can't your solicitors advertise, or something?' She was a bit vague about the details, but she felt something like that could be done.

  'There's no need to advertise,' Russell told her, and there was no doubt that he sounded weary now, and disheartened. 'Someone—a man of about Val's age—has come forward claiming that he is Tempest Tylar's son, and the rightful heir to Tylar Grange,' he said bitterly.

  CHAPTER TWO

  `AND what's worse, he wants to turn the place into a sports drome,' Val snarled into the silence that followed Russell's announcement.

  'A�
�what?' Wyn felt her ears were deceiving her.

  `Hardly a sports drome, Val. A leisure centre, I think the solicitor called it,' his mother corrected him. 'A sort of safari park without the animals,' she suggested vaguely.

  `Safari park, sports drome, leisure centre—what's the difference?' Russell pushed aside his chair with an impatient gesture, and paced the carpet restlessly, reminding Wyn of a caged tiger in the safari parks he despised. 'I wouldn't mind so much,' he jerked out, 'if the Grange was going to be used properly, but this ...' His feelings choked him into silence.

  `The idea's monstrous.' For a moment she had almost felt sorry for the unknown contender for the Grange, Russell would be a formidable opponent, but her feelings hardened against anyone who could contemplate using good parkland for such a purpose. 'The land's been neglected,' her home background had trained her eyes to notice such things, 'but with time and a lot of hard work it could be reclaimed. There's some fine grazing going to waste out there,' she gestured towards the long picture windows that looked out across an ornamental bridge over a brook that had been dammed further down so that it widened into a large pond, from

  where an avenue of mixed deciduous trees made a cool walk across parkland that had all the appearance of .a Capability Brown landscape.

  'There speaks a country lass,' Val hazarded shrewdly, and Wyn smiled.