‘I have not slept one wink.’
Shakespeare: Cymbeline
I READ for a long time, hoping it would make me drowsy. It didn’t, which was frustrating. I was determined to wean myself off the sleeping pills while I was away, and had no intention of giving in on the first night.
Footsteps and muted voices passed my door from time to time as the other guests came up to bed. Finally, I put my book down, turned off the lamp and resolutely lay down. But immediately, behind my closed eyelids, winding country lanes rushed past me, bends appeared and my body turned into them. Acknowledging that it was hopeless, I opened my eyes again.
After a minute they adjusted and I could make out the unfamiliar shapes of furniture, faintly visible in the light from the uncurtained window. I lay motionless, my head turned to the pale rectangle, watching the black ragged clouds skid over the sky.
And inevitably, my thoughts reverted to Matthew and Philip. Since that blistering hour before dinner, I’d been too occupied with my fellow guests to think of them, and I didn’t want to start now. Safer by far to concentrate on Morgan and the Mortimers and the old ladies. Miss Hettie had the cameo, Miss Olwen the amethyst. Or was it the other way round?
An owl hooted again, and again I jumped. What was making me so nervy tonight? Admittedly there’d been one or two riddles during the last few hours, but they were puzzling rather than sinister.
Mentally I ran through them, in case any could account for my unease. The first, of course, was the note Gareth had brought me, with its childish references to Aladdin and Jack and the Beanstalk. Easy enough, at that point, to accept as a game of some kind – indeed, Gareth had said as much.
But the arrival of its duplicate gave it added significance, specially since there was no way to account for its presence in my room. Perhaps that was subconsciously causing my edginess.
More nebulous was that feeling, in the lounge, of being watched, and the glimpse of what I’d thought to be a face disappearing up the stairs. It could have been imagination, but it was directly responsible for my near panic when Morgan came innocently down the stairs. Really, I told myself severely, I was becoming neurotic.
The bar of brightness under the door disappeared as the light in the corridor was switched off. The hotel settled itself for the night. Still I lay there, willing myself to sleep with increasing desperation, and eventually, after what seemed aeons, I sank at last into the longed-for drifting between wakefulness and oblivion.
Then, from one second to the next, I was wide awake, lying rigid, heart pounding, eyes staring, wondering what had disturbed me. And in that moment it came again – a faint, metallic click.
My head swivelled to the door. Beyond the window, the clouds raced away from the moon and its pale light gleamed on the polished knob. And as I watched it, it moved.
I clutched the sheet tightly to my chin, staring with unblinking eyes at the slowly turning handle. When it had reached its full extent, the door creaked softly as pressure was put against it. Thank God I’d snipped down the lock. Two keys, Mr Davies had said, mine and the chambermaid’s. Then who—?
After a timeless interval, the knob silently returned to its original position. Drenched in perspiration, my heart hammering, I waited, and my straining ears caught a faint rustling and scraping.
I sat up, scarcely breathing, in time to see a white oblong appear under the door. It was pushed farther into the room and another, less white, followed. Then there was a creak of the boards as my unknown visitor stole away.
My hand shot out for the lamp and the room sprang to life, reassuringly normal, with my clock on the bedside table and my clothes over the chair. But on the carpet just inside the door lay two envelopes, one white, one buff.
I gazed at them as though they might explode any minute. Then I was out of bed and at the window, my fingers fumbling with the catch as I closed it and pulled the curtains securely across. The airlessness would be stifling, but I would rather suffocate, I told myself grimly, than sleep with the window open tonight. There was a most convenient drainpipe just outside.
Cautiously I approached the envelopes and picked them up, feeling them between my fingers. The buff one was flat, with the flap casually tucked inside, but the white was quite bulky and had required some manoeuvring to ease under the door – the scraping sound I’d heard. There was, I saw now, a gap of at least an inch – one disadvantage of old buildings that Mrs Davies had omitted to point out.
Quite definitely I could not have received these by mistake; someone obviously thought it was I who should have them, and the explanation of a treasure-hunt was becoming progressively less convincing.
Useless to hand them in; the hotel staff had been unable to help with the note. But why should I be singled out? Was it a subtle attempt at harassment?
Suddenly anger replaced fear. What the hell did they think they were playing at, creeping about at dead of night and scaring the life out of me? I’d show them I could play games too! I’d write a note from Goody Two Shoes and pin it on the hall notice-board. That should silence them!
I sat on the bed, ripped open the white envelope and pulled out a folded wad of paper. I don’t know what I expected, but certainly not what I now held. It was a small booklet entitled Cefn Fawr Castle and on the front, scrawled in pencil, were the words X marks the spot!
Had I, after all, been too quick to dismiss the treasure-hunt? I opened it curiously. It was one of those pamphlets on sale at ancient monuments, full of references to the Great Hall, the Keep and the Norman Tower. At the back was a plan of the castle, with what appeared to be a long passage down one side, and almost at the end of this was a pencilled cross. Written faintly across the top of the page were the words Rub out immediately.
A folded sheet of paper had been slipped into the back of the booklet. I opened it and read:
Sweetheart: I’m passing this to Sinbad to await your arrival. By the time you read it, the full company should be there. Aladdin has directions to the loot, but needs your input as to location. Remember you’re supposed to be lovers, but in public only – no shared room! You know the initial impact you have on people, so keep him in check and remember I’ve a very jealous nature! Seriously, darling, take care. We’ve worked so long for this. Shipment arranged according to plan. Burn this when you’ve read it. As always – ‘Jack’.
I stared at it for a long time, while my anger ebbed away and panic spread its sticky tentacles over me. The game wasn’t a game any more. I wished vehemently that I’d not opened the envelope. But I had and whoever had pushed it under my door – Sinbad, presumably, whoever he might be – would know that I had.
My fingers were shaking so much I had difficulty in refolding the paper. I slipped it and the booklet back in the white envelope, and only then did I remember the buff one. Since the damage was done, I might as well open it, too.
It contained a single slip of paper, printed in the same hand as the note on my dressing-table.
How now, Goldilocks! it began breezily. Glad to report Aladdin will be with us by lunch-time tomorrow. Operation Beanstalk scheduled for Tuesday – reconnaissance necessary Saturday or Sunday among holiday crowds. Can’t disclose identity except in emergency – you know the rules! – but will be on hand if needed. Good luck! Over and out.
‘Sinbad’
Snippets of conversation flitted through my brain like crossed telephone wires: The young lady won’t be here till Sunday. Evidently someone didn’t know that. When the gentleman joins you … The chap can’t get here till tomorrow.
So what could I make of it all? I wondered feverishly. It seemed a man and woman should have arrived here today, but had been independently delayed. Jack had phoned the Plas Dinas – where, perhaps, they’d arranged to meet and come on together? – to let her know ‘Aladdin’ had been held up, but was told she’d already left for Carreg Coed. So he’d phoned Sinbad – on his mobile, presumably, since the hotel knew nothing of the call. And Sinbad, not knowing the girl’s arrival had also been postponed, assumed, like Gareth before him, that I was she.
But what lay behind it all? What did the cross on the plan of the castle signify, what was ‘the loot’, and what, in heaven’s name, was ‘Operation Beanstalk’? In a macabre way, the use of these nursery names made the whole affair more menacing.
My first basic instinct was flight. If I left straight after breakfast, with luck no one but the Davieses would miss me till lunch-time, and by then I could have got clear. But Sinbad, having delivered his message, might well be keeping an eye on me.
I had a terrifying vision of the little car racing for its life up the tortuous mountain roads, with Aladdin and Sinbad, in grotesque pantomime masks, hot on my heels.
Anyway, where could I run to? My name and address were in the hotel register – there was nowhere I could hide indefinitely.
Useless, now, to plead innocence. From whatever motive, I had opened the envelopes and seen the plan. I couldn’t in any event appeal to Sinbad, because I didn’t know who he was. For that matter, I couldn’t trust anyone at the hotel, for if ‘the full company’ was gathered here, there was no saying how many were involved.
There remained the police, but what could I tell them? I didn’t know anything, I had only a plan with a pencilled cross, and I could imagine official reaction to stories about Sinbad and Aladdin.
There was also still a very faint chance that the danger was imaginary; it could still be an elaborate scavenger-hunt, organised by a rambling club or some such, as Jack had told Gareth. In which case, I’d look very silly if I ran to the police about it.
The argument, rational though it might be, didn’t convince me. Despite the closeness in the room, I was shivering with apprehension and it was imperative to steady myself so I could think clearly. A hot drink might help.
I flicked through the assorted packages of beverage on the stand, selected one containing chocolate powder and tipped it into a cup. Then I filled the kettle at the basin and, despite the proverb’s warning, stood watching as it came to the boil, my mind going round and round this latest development. Was there anything of significance that I’d missed?
Yes! A sentence came back to me, offering a pinpoint of hope. Abandoning the kettle, I hurried back to the bed and opened Jack’s letter again. You know the initial impact you have. Initial impact! Then Aladdin had never met Goldilocks!
Slowly a fantastic idea was forming. Could I – dare I bluff him into believing I really was her? Because otherwise, things might get very unpleasant. I had, after all, been handed what could be regarded as incriminating evidence, and even if I told him of the mix-up, he’d realise I knew too much.
If, on the other hand, I could go along with them until I learned what ‘Operation Beanstalk’ and ‘the loot’ were, I could present the police with the complete picture.
The sound of the kettle boiling merrily intruded on my brooding and I made my drink. Then, hands round the hot, soothing cup, I tried to marshal my thoughts.
On the plus side, Sinbad was already convinced of my identity; I could reel off a string of code names, and I had the plan. And Aladdin for his part would hardly be expecting a substitute.
The crux would come when the real Goldilocks arrived. When the expected approach wasn’t made, she would contact Jack, who’d get on to Sinbad.
Well – I straightened my shoulders – if it came to that, I’d have to brazen it out – say I’d thought it was a joke. Blondes were supposed to be dumb, weren’t they?
At best, I only had until Sunday; to have any chance of pulling off my deception, the proposed ‘reconnaissance’ must therefore take place tomorrow. After that, I should know exactly what was involved, and could decide my course of action. And with luck I could still be away before she arrived.
I glanced down at the letters. I was under orders to destroy them, but they and the notes were all I had to support my story and there was no way I was going to dispose of them.
Fumbling in my handbag, I took out the identical notes which had started the whole affair and slid them, together with the letters, into the buff envelope. Then, since I should later be showing the map to Aladdin, I obediently rubbed out the pencil markings on it with the eraser on my diary pencil and slid it back into the white envelope.
Now to find a suitable hiding-place. Sipping my cocoa, I carefully studied the room. Then, setting down the cup, I dragged the dressing-stool over to the wardrobe, climbed on it, and, reaching up, explored the top with my fingers.
It was lined with sheets of newspaper, screened from below by the bevelled edge of the ornate frontage. Ideal, I thought, and climbed down to retrieve the envelopes, which I carefully inserted between the newspaper and the top of the wardrobe.
Feeling like a character in a spy novel, I replaced the stool and checked that no sign remained of my dead-of-night manoeuvres. Then, confident that I had done all I could for the moment, I climbed back into bed, switched off the light, and prepared to wait for the dawn.