In the shadow of the staircase, only yards from her… It cantilevered over her head towards the gallery on her right, its other branch, like some great upended railway junction, leading to the rooms of the west wing. She moved stealthily, startled by the sound of her own name.
Except for the three of them, the hall was empty. She shivered as the first of the fireworks exploded to dutiful noises of acclaim and surprise. She pressed into the alcove on the opposite side of the staircase, hearing her name again.
'… Marian knows nothing!" That was David, the contempt clear in his tone.
"Whatever she's heard, or thinks she's heard, she knows nothing!"
"She's suspicious, I tell you," Egan persisted.
"I know when someone's trying to dig up information. She thinks there's something in the rumours—"
"Who's been speaking to her?"
"Could be anyone—"
"Keep your voice down!" David hissed.
Marian felt heated She had blundered into the conversation with Egan, disarmed by the occasion, and her own self-confidence.
"All right, all right. I just thought I'd better let you know."
"Because you panicked, Sam?" David mocked.
"Panic was why you called her the other day, wasn't it?"
"I thought—" '-she could or would help. Marian? A blessing I stopped you before you went bleating to her! Listen to me find out who may have talked to her. You know all the local subcontractors. It must have been one of them. Find out and let me know."
I'll do that," Egan reassured.
"Good. Now, go and see the fireworks before that wife of yours thinks you've sneaked up to a bedroom with one of the catering staff!"
Immediate footsteps. Then David added with contemptuous venom: The fireworks cost my father a small fortune. Try to enjoy them."
Marian pressed back into the alcove and the shadow of the staircase.
Egan passed her hiding-place without glancing in her direction, attracted by another explosion and a flash of multicoloured light that seemed to blow into the house like a stream of confetti. Weak-legged from tension, Marian sank on to a hard Caroline chair in the alcove and sipped furiously at her wine. More fireworks exploded.
Kenneth Aubrey tottered in from the rear terrace, his stick making severe tapping noises on the marble. He passed Egan in the doorway.
"Kenneth!" she whispered hoarsely, jumping from the chair, spilling the last drops of her wine.
Aubrey turned, half-startled, half-preoccupied. He was opposite the door of the library which she heard close with a heavy, comfortable sound. More fireworks, more exhaled wonder.
"Marian… What is it, my dear?" He glanced towards the library."
"In close recess and secret conclave"," he murmured.
"What?" Her nerves made her voice sharp.
"Oh, Milton. Your friends are all fore gathered in there. I glimpsed them as the door closed. A tight little group portrait. Laxton, Rogier, the Transport Commissioner, Bryan Coulthard, David, of course… and that Euro MP, what's his name—?"
"Ben Campbell. He is forgettable," she smiled.
"You look shaken in attentively so."
They were talking about me David and a builder who lives in the constituency.
I'd been talking to him a few minutes' before… What's going on, Kenneth?"
"What were they saying?" Aubrey asked heavily.
"About you?"
"Egan thought I was too suspicious about the possibility of fraud in the—"
"I warned you, Marian!" Aubrey snapped.
"You revealed your hand?"
"I didn't think-!"
Then do so now." He patted her arm as they leant together.
"Egan, the builder, thought I was trying to open a can of worms, that much was obvious. I asked him about cash flow, late payments. Things I'd heard doesn't matter from where. He jumped to everyone's defence then rushed to tell David I was asking awkward questions."
There was something more alert and hound like about Aubrey as he listened.
Concern for her, expressed as irritated anxiety, faded and was replaced by a voracious curiosity. He continually glanced towards the closed door of the library.
There is knowledge they are afraid you may possess. Concerning—"
"My fraud theory? You don't believe me at last?"
"Something, anyway and it involves money. Probably a very great deal of it."
The firework explosions were more frequent now, as if heralding some climax.
Flashes of coloured light were caught by mirrors, polished surfaces.
"Michael Lloyd…?" she remembered. Then, clearing her throat as Aubrey glanced anxiously at her, she said: "I spoke to a subcontractor yesterday, working on the Urban Regeneration Project. He believes he's being threatened, along with his family, because he complained. The money's dried up for the smaller fish. He wasn't getting paid by Euro-Construction—" '-which is wholly owned by Winterborne Holdings, who are principal contractors for—"
'-as much as thirty per cent of the whole project. European funds are pouring in.
Brussels thinks of it as a model for the future of the EU, price no object…"
"And the funds appear not to be flowing out again." Aubrey took her arm.
"Come on, my girl, I think another drink is called for. Clive's best whisky, I fancy. He'll not mind."
"Where is Clive?"
"Rattling the tin under the noses of the richest guests by this time, I should think."
A cacophony of explosions; cheering and clapping after a momentary, stunned silence.
"We need to talk. Come!"
Twelve-sixteen. He looked up from the flight engineer's panel on the flight deck of the 494 as the Norwegian chief engineer's slight form appeared in the doorway.
"All finished," Strickland announced.
"Good you want more coffee? How is she?"
"Fine. No problems. Yes to coffee. I'll come out. The fuel computer's OK, so are the instrument readouts."
"What did happen the crash?"
"It's still being analysed, all the data. It looks like a rogue chip — not the one used in this baby gave the command to jettison the fuel but there were no readouts that didn't say everything was normal… It was lucky the pilot spotted it. It won't happen again."
Strickland closed the door of the flight deck behind him and followed the Norwegian to the main passenger door. The routine servicing of the
494 all such effort soon to be wasted — continued at its unhurried pace.
"We've had no problems over the past six months," the Norwegian offered.
"She's a good plane."
"At Vance Aircraft we like to think so. And do we need the world to think like you!"
"Come in the office, have your coffee there."
"Sure. Thanks."
He turned to look back at the 494. The huge dock had been moved back, away from the aircraft, and it sat in the hangar like some fabulous sea mammal thought extinct but utterly real, alive. He could regret what he had arranged for the fate of the airplane, even if the lives of its crew and passengers failed to impinge. It was, like all aircraft, proof of the beauty of machines.
There was a sardonic amusement in his situation. The chief engineer obviously wanted to grill him on the Phoenix crash. Professional curiosity. Who better than himself to explain in detail, after all…
?
There was bright morning light coming through the heavy drapes of the bedroom windows. Almost ten. The bed beside him was empty, cool.
Charley had got up without disturbing him.
He fumbled for the telephone which had woken him. He hadn't slept well, endlessly rehearsing his meeting with yet more bankers and institutional shareholders, as if recollecting each move in a game of chess… a game which he feared, last night, he might have lost, despite his bravado and Vance's good news from Phoenix. That pilot, Gant his ex-son-in-law amazing… But the men in suits were cautious; soaked by a sudden shower, they seemed to expect another at any moment.