A Secret Rebellion Page 4

  She was leaving the English building later that afternoon, when one of her fellow professors hailed her. ‘Beth!’ called Nigel Dorner, hurrying across the quadrangle to intercept her. ‘I’m so glad I’ve caught you. I’m having a little reception tomorrow night, in the Students’ Union, and I wondered if you’d care to come. It’s an informal gathering, pre-finals and all that. A chance for the staff and students to get together before exams and degrees take precedence. What do you think?’

  Beth folded her arms around the pile of papers she was carrying, and waited until he had reached her. Nigel was in his forties, and although he made a big thing about his sporting activities he was decidedly overweight. He was panting by the time he came up beside her, and she allowed him to get his breath back before saying, ‘I don’t think so, Nigel. I’ve got these papers to read, and I promised David I’d take his Thursday evening seminar. I’ll have to do some preparation—’

  ‘Oh, Beth!’ Nigel expelled his breath on a disappointed sigh, and ran a hand over his thinning hair. ‘I was sure you’d come. It is almost the end of term. Surely you can take one evening off to have a little fun?’

  Beth caught her lower lip between her teeth, wondering why Nigel persisted in thinking she needed to have some fun. Ever since she had made it known she wasn’t interested in having a relationship with any of the younger members of the faculty, Nigel Dorner, who was a divorcee, and Andrew Holroyd, who was slightly older than Nigel and a bachelor, had been vying for her company. It was as if they didn’t believe she could live without a man’s attentions, and they had evidently decided she’d prefer an older man.

  ‘Look, Nigel,’ she said, not wanting to hurt his feelings, ‘college get-togethers aren’t really my thing. I only attend when it’s absolutely necessary, and I do have a lot of work I want to finish before the holidays.’

  Nigel hunched his shoulders. They were broad shoulders, she noticed, unwillingly finding herself comparing them to Alex Thorpe’s. It was because he had been so much on her mind today, she thought irritably, but she couldn’t help conceding that that was where the likeness ended. As well as having broad shoulders, Alex had also been tall, whereas Nigel was little more than her own height of five feet eight. And tubby, into the bargain, she added, his bulging belly always reminding her of Mr Pickwick.

  She supposed Andrew Holroyd was the better looking of the two, and he was taller, and less weighty. But neither of them attracted her in the slightest.

  ‘Well, I worry about you, Beth,’ Nigel said now, turning to an approach that had proved successful in the past. Whenever anyone said they were worried about her, Beth usually gave in. Not least because she disliked the thought that her behaviour was a cause for concern. ‘You live alone in that old house, with only the ghosts for company, and if it weren’t for your work here I doubt you’d have any social life.’

  Beth stiffened. ‘I really don’t think that’s any concern of yours, Nigel,’ she said coldly. ‘How I choose to spend my time is my affair—’

  ‘Of course it is.’ Nigel realised he had gone too far this time and hurriedly retrenched. ‘And I know it’s not for want of an alternative. Good heavens, you could be out every night if you wanted to. I know that. But you know what they say about—about all work and no play.’

  He looked so discomfited now, Beth took pity on him. It wasn’t Nigel’s fault that she had such a poor opinion of his sex, and once she left the faculty, albeit temporarily, she would be cut off from her normal round of acquaintances.

  Taking a breath, she allowed a smile to lift her lips for a moment, and then said, ‘All right. What time does this get-together start?’

  Nigel couldn’t believe his luck. ‘Oh—um—half-past eight,’ he offered, almost dropping the books he was carrying in his haste to show his enthusiasm. ‘I say, will you come? I’d be awfully flattered.’

  ‘Not too flattered, I hope,’ murmured Beth drily, starting towards the car park. ‘Until tomorrow, then.’

  ‘Until tomorrow,’ echoed Nigel eagerly. ‘Would you like me to—to pick you up?’

  ‘Oh, I think I can find my own way to the Students’ Union,’ Beth assured him lightly. ‘Goodbye. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  She was aware of him watching her as she strode to where the Renault was waiting, and she wondered if she had made a mistake by accepting his invitation. She wouldn’t like him to get the wrong idea, not with the summer break looming. As far as she knew, Nigel was staying on campus, and it could prove difficult if he started to get the wrong idea.

  Still, she consoled herself, unloading her burden of essays on to the back seat, she could always deal with that contingency if it arose. For the present, she had quite enough to think about, not least what she was going to wear tomorrow evening.

  Her house, the house she had bought four years ago, and which had considerably increased in value since that time, stood in a row of similar Victorian houses, overlooking Albert Square. The cul-de-sac was called Albert Terrace, and had evidently been named with the then Prince Consort in mind. During the past four years, Beth had steadily improved its appearance, and without losing its character at all she had had new wiring, and an adequate heating system installed. She knew it was too big for one person, but she had never intended to live there alone. And if the ghosts Nigel had taunted her with were sometimes more real than he imagined, they were not ghosts that Albert Terrace knew anything about.

  The phone was ringing as she entered the long narrow hall that ran from front to back of the building, and she frowned. She had hoped to be free of complications for the rest of the evening, and she nudged the door closed with her foot, before picking up the receiver.

  ‘Beth!’

  It was Justine Sawyer, wife of one of the maths lecturers, and the closest thing she had to a friend on campus. Justine was the one person Beth still had to deal with in her calculations. In her early thirties, and a social worker, Justine had been married to Mike for more than ten years, without having a family. Justine didn’t want children. She didn’t like them, and she had begun to assume that Beth felt the same. How she would react to the news she had to deliver, Beth didn’t know. Right now, she didn’t even want to think about it.

  ‘Hi, Justine.’ Beth wedged her pile of papers on to the hall table, as she responded to the call, absently scanning the letters her cleaner, Mrs Lamb, had left there for her. ‘You just caught me. I’ve just come in the door.’

  ‘Yes, I gathered that. I was beginning to think one of the students had delayed you,’ remarked Justine tersely. ‘You have heard the news, I suppose. It’s terrible, isn’t it? He was such a pleasant boy.’

  Beth frowned, putting the bills that had been distracting her aside. ‘What boy, Justine?’ she exclaimed. ‘What are you talking about? Nigel intercepted me as I was leaving the English building. That’s why I’m late. He wanted to ask me to some reception he’s having tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Well, there may not be a reception now,’ declared Justine, sounding a little impatient. ‘Beth, Tony Thiarchos is dead. Mike thinks he may have committed suicide.’

  ‘Oh, no!’

  Beth suddenly found she was a little weak at the knees. Groping for the banister, she lowered herself on to the second stair and took a steadying breath. It wasn’t that she had known Tony Thiarchos very well. He wasn’t even one of her students. But his girlfriend was, and that was how she’d got to know him. How she’d heard about the party in London.

  ‘I thought you’d be upset,’ said Justine, sounding slightly mollified now. ‘His girlfriend—what was her name? Linda something-or-other—is one of your third years, isn’t she?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Beth was finding it very difficult to respond at all. It was always a tragedy when a young person was killed, and Tony Thiarchos had seemed to have everything to live for. He was young, good-looking, popular with his contemporaries. She couldn’t believe he was dead. Much less that he had deliberately taken his own life.

  �
�Mike thinks he was worried about his finals,’ went on Justine. ‘He said he thought there was a lot of pressure on him from his family to do well. They’re going to be pretty shattered when they hear the news. I wonder if they’ll try to keep it out of the papers?’

  Beth blinked, struggling to escape from the sudden cloud that seemed to have engulfed her. She was letting herself get too involved, she thought. Tony Thiarchos had meant nothing to her. Just because she had used something he said in passing for her own ends was no reason to feel any sense of guilt now.

  ‘I—why would they?’ she managed, gripping the stair carpet beside her with tense fingers, and Justine gave a short laugh.

  ‘Well, if they can’t, no one can,’ she retorted grimly. ‘He’s a Thiarchos, Beth. Surely even you’ve heard of Constantine Thiarchos! As in oil—and shipping, and God knows what else!’

  Beth pulled herself together. ‘I—didn’t think,’ she mumbled, not altogether truthfully. But she hadn’t put the two names together. ‘How—how did it happen?’

  ‘His car hit a tree.’

  Beth frowned. ‘Well, why would you think—?’

  ‘He was the only person in the car, Beth.’ Justine was sounding impatient again. ‘And it was broad daylight, for heaven’s sake! He was a good driver. From what Mike says, he could handle that sports car of his like a professional.’

  ‘Even so—’

  ‘Oh, I know. It will probably be treated as an accident. These things usually are. But Mike saw what happened, and he doesn’t—’

  ‘Mike saw it!’

  ‘Yes.’ Justine sighed. ‘It only happened an hour ago. Near Founder’s Hall. That’s why I thought—Beth, are you all right? You sound—well, funny.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Beth was relieved to hear that her voice sounded almost normal. She tried to think coherently. ‘So—what happens now?’

  ‘Well, there’ll have to be an inquest, of course. And his family will have to be informed. I believe his father lives in London. I imagine he’ll be coming to arrange everything.’

  Beth nodded. ‘Poor Linda.’

  ‘Yes. I expect it’s pretty awful for her. They say they were really close. Not that his family would approve. People like the Thiarchoses don’t marry girls like her.’

  ‘Why?’

  Beth tried to focus on the least horrifying aspect of the affair, and Justine made a scornful sound. ‘Darling, we’re too old to believe in all that romantic stuff. Let’s face it, it was just a college infatuation. He’d have left this summer, and they’d have never seen one another again.’

  Beth pushed herself somewhat wearily to her feet. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘You know I am.’ Justine sounded irritatingly smug. ‘Now, how about you joining Mike and me for supper? I know it’s short notice, but I think we could all use a little company tonight.’

  Beth hesitated, but the thought of preparing a lonely meal for one had lost some of its appeal. She didn’t want to be alone tonight. She didn’t want to think about Tony Thiarchos. She didn’t want to remember that without his grumbling about not being able to attend his cousin’s birthday party she’d never have conceived the idea of gatecrashing the event. He’d been inadvertently responsible for her present condition; for her meeting Alex Thorpe—and that was something else she didn’t want to think about…

  CHAPTER TWO

  ALEX’S fingers felt numb.

  They shouldn’t have felt numb, he thought irritably, wondering how he could feel so cold on such a warm day. It was absurdly warm for May in England. But the chill he was feeling came from deep within himself.

  He wanted to put his hands in his pockets, but standing beside his son’s grave with his hands in his pockets seemed disrespectful somehow. Not that Tony would have reproached him. His son had always been complaining about his father’s concern for doing the right thing.

  Well, he wasn’t doing the right thing now, Alex thought bitterly, watching his son’s casket being lowered into a grave in an English churchyard. Tony’s grandfather had wanted—had demanded—that Alex bring Anthony’s body back to Greece for burial. Constantine had wanted his grandson laid to rest beside his wife and his mother, but Alex had ignored him. It was a small thing, a small rebellion, but Tony would defeat his grandfather in death as he had never done in life.

  Besides, there was the girl to deal with. Tony’s wife, if that incredible scrap of paper was to be believed. Was she the reason his son had crashed his car? Because Tony had been afraid to tell his father and his grandfather he’d married without their consent?

  Alex’s jaw hardened. He couldn’t believe that was so. It was too easy. Too simple a solution for something that surely had a deeper significance. But what? He had racked his brain trying to come up with an answer. He had hoped the girl could tell him. Linda. He tried out the name on his tongue. Linda Daniels—no, Linda Thiarchos. His lips twisted. His daughter-in-law!

  The service was ending. Bending to scatter a handful of soil over the mahogany casket, Alex felt a crippling sense of pain. God, he wished he had someone he could turn to right at this moment. Even Lucia—though she was far away in South America, too wrapped up with her new life, and her new family, to spare the time to attend her eldest son’s funeral.

  Besides, it was a maudlin wish. He and Lucia had never had anything in common—except their son—and their marriage had ended, as it had begun, in acrimony. Something else he had to thank his father for, he thought wearily. And if he thought Constantine had had a hand in this…

  He straightened and, as he did so, his eyes were riveted by the sight of a tall slim woman, standing behind, and to one side, of his son’s wife. He blinked once, twice, and then shook his head, as if the tumult of his emotions had caused some blurring of his vision. But no. She was still there. Across the grave. Her hand resting lightly on the girl’s shoulder, as if offering silent support.

  He looked down at the ground, incapable of believing that she was actually there. That Elizabeth Ryan was standing at the other side of the grave. And now, conversely, he hoped she hadn’t recognised him. It was obvious his name meant nothing to her. Alexander Thiarchos was a far cry from plain old Alex Thorpe.

  But his fear that she might recognise him had nothing to do with who he was. On the contrary, in the past three months, he had used all the means at his disposal to try and find her. And that had meant employing the whole weight of the Thiarchos name to get a result. But it had been for nothing. As of this morning, he had been no nearer to discovering where she was or why she’d disappeared.

  No, his fear now was that she might recognise him, and disappear again. And he wanted to know where she had been hiding. Needed to know, with an intensity that had bordered on the insane sometimes. It wasn’t just that such a thing had never happened to him before— though it hadn’t. No, he was furious that she had treated him like a fool.

  He chanced another glance in her direction, keeping his head lowered, looking at her through the dark veil of his lashes. Yes, that was Elizabeth Ryan all right, if indeed that was her name. Good God, after all the money he had spent on private investigators, that she should turn up at his son’s funeral. Who the hell was she? What was she doing here?

  The ironic thing was, he’d never once thought of calling his son and asking him if he knew her. It would have been difficult anyway, and it hadn’t occurred to him that Tony might know who she was. Perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps she was just a friend of Linda’s. After all, both Nick and Christina had denied they’d ever invited her to the party.

  ‘Mr Thiarchos…’

  The priest was at his shoulder, offering him his condolences, and Alex was obliged to lift his head to give his thanks. But he turned, so that the priest stood between him and the two women, as he exchanged a few words with the mourners, before they all trooped to their cars.

  His brother, George, was there, of course, with his wife, Simone, and their two sons, Nick and George Junior. There were uncles and aunts, a whole ar
my of cousins, and numerous other relatives and friends, who regarded any ceremony, happy or sad, as a reason for getting together.

  Only his father was absent. Ostensibly, Constantine was recovering from a cold, but Alex knew the old man had stayed away, in the hope that he would change his mind. But, in this, Alex had been determined to have his own way. Besides, if Tony did have a widow, he defended himself, it would be easier for her to visit his grave if it was here, in London.

  He hunched his shoulders. What ought he to do now? In other circumstances, he would have been expected to join his daughter-in-law, and escort her back to the house. But these were not normal circumstances on two counts, and the one conversation he had had with the girl had not been a comfortable affair.

  But what the hell? he thought tersely. How was he supposed to react to the news that his twenty-year-old son had been a married man for almost six months? Tony had been wrong. He should have told him. And now Tony was dead, with no chance of conciliation on either side.

  Squaring his shoulders, preparing himself to face not only his new daughter-in-law, but also the woman who had haunted his dreams for the past ten weeks, he turned round—and then felt a dizzying sense of disorientation. They’d gone. Linda, and Elizabeth Ryan. While he had been observing the proprieties, they had both disappeared. Lord, he thought, as his stomach hollowed, was he going mad?

  ‘Something wrong, Uncle Alex?’

  It was Nick, and Alex gazed at his nephew with blank unseeing eyes. For a moment, it was beyond his capabilities to get any words past his lips, but then the world around him steadied, and he expelled a nervous breath.