Shadowed Stranger Read online

  Her mother frowned now. ‘I don’t like to think of him not eating.’

  Her husband put down his newspaper. ‘How about the fact that I’m not eating?’ he grinned at her. ‘Isn’t lunch ready yet?’

  ‘You’re always thinking of your stomach!’

  Robyn chuckled as her mother flounced out of the room to serve the lunch. ‘It would serve you right if Mum didn’t give you any,’ she told her father.

  He laughed. ‘She wouldn’t be that cruel!’

  No, she wouldn’t. Her parents had a very happy marriage; they were ideally suited in every way, and their business partnership was as successful as their personal one.

  The bus service was erratic as usual the next day, and Robyn arrived ten minutes later at the library, earning a disapproving look from Mr Leaven.

  She loved working in the library, had a passion for books that bordered on obsession. Just to touch a book to anticipate devouring its pages, filled her with a warm pleasure. Which was the reason Mr Leaven hardly ever gave her the job of tidying the fiction shelves. She would become lost to her surroundings, engrossed in a newly discovered book, and the other books on the shelves would remain in disarray.

  Consequently she was quite surprised when Mr Leaven told her to tidy the books back into order, although she quickly made her escape before he changed his mind.

  She wasn’t quite as happy when she saw who she was to be working with. Selma! No wonder she had been sent to work with her; everyone else had probably opted out. Not that Selma wasn’t friendly—she was, too friendly upon occasion. She thought nothing of recounting all the intimate details of her life to anyone who happened to be around at the time. The trouble was that she demanded equally intimate revelations in return.

  There was no opportunity today to linger over a newly discovered book, listening half-heartedly as Selma chattered on about the fantastic new boy she had met over the weekend, becoming more friendly with him in those two days than Robyn intended becoming with any man before she married him!

  ‘What about you?’ Selma stopped in the H section, well out of Mr Leaven’s view.

  Robyn blinked her puzzlement. ‘What about me?’

  ‘Do you have a boy-friend, silly?’ Selma giggled.

  Robyn blushed. When around Selma, a girl very popular with the opposite sex, she felt more than a little embarrassed about her own boy-friendless state.

  ‘You mean you don’t?’ Selma saw that blush and interpreted it correctly.

  Irritation flashed in her violet-blue eyes. ‘I didn’t say that,’ she snapped.

  Selma looked interested. ‘So you do have a boy-friend?’

  ‘I—Yes. Yes, I have a boy-friend.’ Now why had she said that, why lie about something that wasn’t after all important?

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘His name?’ Robyn repeated slowly, licking her lips to delay answering. ‘It’s—er—it’s Richard,’ she said in a rush. ‘Rick, actually—Rick Howarth.’ God, this was getting worse, the lie was becoming deeper and deeper. It was just that she couldn’t stand Selma’s derision.

  The other girl always had at least one man in tow, whereas Robyn had only ever had the odd date, and very rarely with the same boy twice. She wasn’t interested in football or cars, and as that seemed to be all her dates ever wanted to talk about she usually ended up by not saying a word all evening. It had earned her the reputation of being ‘stuck-up’, an erroneous impression, but one that seemed to have lasted. Consequently she very rarely dated, something Selma had probably heard about.

  She certainly had all of the other girl’s attention now. ‘Where did you meet him?’ Selma wanted to know.

  ‘He—He’s just moved into Sanford,’ at least this part was true! ‘I met him at the weekend.’

  ‘Is he nice?’ Selma asked eagerly.

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Good-looking?’

  Robyn nodded. ‘Yes.’

  The other girl frowned. ‘Don’t you want to talk about him?’

  She concentrated on her work with an intensity she was far from feeling. ‘Not particularly,’ she replied in a bored voice.

  ‘Keeping him to yourself, are you?’ Selma teased, not at all offended by Robyn’s attitude.

  ‘Something like that,’ she nodded, wishing this conversation over.

  ‘When are you seeing him again?’

  ‘I—er—Tonight, probably,’ she invented, wishing she had never started this.

  ‘Going anywhere nice?’ Selma wanted to know.

  ‘I’m not sure. Probably just to his house.’ Robyn wished she could move away, put an end to these lies, and yet she knew that this job usually took most of the morning to complete. If Selma was going to ask her questions about Richard Howarth all that time …! She was going to run out of conversation about him any moment now!

  Selma’s eyes widened. ‘You’ve met his parents?’

  She shook her head. ‘He has his own house.’

  ‘He does?’ That took the other girl aback.

  ‘Yes.’ She moved on to the I section, getting nearer and nearer Mr Leaven’s desk, and she hoped nearer to ending this discussion.

  Selma looked wistful. ‘I’ve never been out with a boy who had his own house. I usually have to wait until his parents go out.’

  Wait for what? Robyn almost asked. Selma was a pretty girl, black hair kept long past her shoulders, deep brown eyes, a clear complexion, a nice slim figure, and yet she had earnt herself rather a bad reputation with the boys in the area. Most of them were willing to go out with her for a while, but they all ended up marrying someone else. It was a shame really, because she was a very nice girl given the chance to be.

  ‘He must be quite rich to own his own house,’ she remarked now.

  ‘I have no idea.’ Robyn moved up to the J section, luckily almost in view of Mr Leaven.

  ‘Or does he just rent it?’ He had obviously stepped down in Selma’s estimation if he did.

  ‘I—’

  ‘Would you two girls kindly get on with your work—quietly.’ Mr Leaven suddenly appeared behind them. ‘It may have escaped your notice,’ he continued in an angry whisper, ‘but this is supposed to be a library, a place where people can come to quietly read and study. Your voices—’

  ‘Ssh!’ A woman at a nearby table looked up to glare at him. ‘Can’t you read?’ she hissed, pointing to the sigh that read ‘QUIET, PLEASE, PEOPLE WORKING’.

  ‘Get on with your work!’ Mr Leaven snapped at Robyn and Selma before returning to his desk.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Selma giggled. ‘That’s put him in a bad mood for the rest of the day!’

  Indeed it had, and Robyn kept out of his way as much as possible. She kept out of Selma’s way too, not being anxious to reopen the subject of Rick Howarth. She felt slightly ashamed of herself for using him in that way, even if he didn’t know about it. She had thought it would get Selma off the subject of her having a boy-friend, and instead she seemed to have made matters worse. She hoped she would have forgotten all about it by tomorrow.

  The bus service was dreadful again that night, and the shop was already closed and her mother in the kitchen when she entered the house. ‘The bus,’ came her moody explanation for her lateness.

  Her mother nodded. ‘I thought you might be late, so I made a casserole for dinner.’

  ‘Lovely!’ Robyn ran upstairs to change into her denims and tee-shirt, the rumblings of her stomach making it a hurried change. She was always ravenously hungry in the evenings, and so was Billy. Her brother didn’t utter a word as he ate his portion of the chicken casserole.

  ‘I mended your bike today, Robyn,’ her father told her, eating his meal at a more leisurely pace.

  ‘You did?’ Her eyes lit up with gratitude, as she thought of not having to catch the bus again tomorrow.

  ‘Mm. I took one of the wheels off your mother’s old bike. She never rides it anyway.’

  ‘So you didn’t need to buy a new wheel?’ she frowned.


  ‘No,’ he shook his head.

  ‘That means you’ll have to give the money back,’ Billy emerged from eating his dessert long enough to utter.

  ‘Money?’ their mother repeated sharply. ‘What money is this, Robyn?’

  She refused dessert, although she knew the apple pie would be delicious—her mother’s cooking always was. ‘Mr Howarth gave me some money yesterday when he drove over my bicycle. I’d forgotten all about it.’ She reached into the back pocket of her denims, taking out the notes she had stuffed there yesterday.

  ‘Wow!’ Billy breathed slowly, looking at the two crumpled ten-pound notes Robyn held in her hand.

  ‘Wow, indeed.’ Their father looked disapprovingly over the top of his glasses. ‘You had no right accepting money from Mr Howarth, not when you openly admitted it was your fault for leaving your bike on the road.’

  Robyn was still dazed herself by the amount of money Rick Howarth had given her. Her bike was only an old one, more or less ready for the scrap-merchant who came round every couple of months—the whole thing wasn’t worth twenty pounds! ‘I’ll give it back,’ she said hurriedly.

  ‘You most certainly will,’ her father said firmly. ‘And as for you, young man,’ he turned towards Billy, ‘how did you know Mr Howarth gave Robyn some money?’

  ‘I—er—I—’

  ‘I told him,’ Robyn instantly defended. ‘Last night.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Billy agreed eagerly. ‘Last night when we were playing Monopoly.’

  ‘Mm,’ their father looked sceptical. ‘Well, you can return that money as soon as possible,’ he told Robyn.

  ‘Tonight,’ her mother put in firmly, standing up. ‘I have an extra casserole and an apple pie to go over to Mr Howarth. I was going to get Billy to take it over, but you might as well take it, Robyn, as you’re going anyway.’

  Robyn stood up to help clear the table. ‘Do I have to, Mum? I don’t mind taking the money back, but do I have to take the food too? Besides, it’s my night to do the washing-up.’

  ‘Billy can do it. Oh yes, you can,’ his mother insisted as he went to protest. ‘Your father has had a hard day.’

  ‘But I was going to football practice,’ Billy moaned.

  ‘This will only take you five minutes, you can go to your football practice afterwards.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Billy!’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’ He dutifully went into the kitchen, knowing when their father used that tone that he would brook no argument.

  Robyn knew that there was no point in her arguing either. She was going to have to take that casserole and pie over to Orchard House whether she wanted to or not. And she didn’t want to. Spending a couple of minutes giving Rick Howarth back his money was one thing, delivering a food parcel was another. If only she hadn’t told her mother that she didn’t think he was eating! She had put herself in this predicament by a few thoughtless words. And what Rick Howarth would make of her bringing him food she wouldn’t like to guess!

  ‘I don’t know why you’re so miserable,’ Billy muttered as he wiped up. ‘At least you got out of this!’ He pulled a face.

  ‘Shame!’ she said unsympathetically, packing the food into a tin so that she could carry it more easily. ‘Just think yourself lucky you don’t have to go and face the ogre. After yesterday I don’t fancy seeing him again.’

  ‘What was that?’ her mother asked as she bustled out of the larder with a jar of her homemade marmalade.

  ‘Nothing, Mum,’ Robyn answered hastily. ‘Has that got to go too?’ she indicated the jar.

  ‘Yes. I thought of sending jam, but not everyone likes jam, But I know he likes marmalade, he bought a jar when he first moved in. Now can you manage all that?’

  Robyn balanced the jar on top of the tin. ‘I think so. If you could just open the door for me?’

  The tin weighed heavy in her arms, and despite her reluctance to reach Orchard House she found herself hurrying down the road, anxious to get rid of her heavy burden.

  Orchard House looked unlived-in and neglected, and if it weren’t for the Jaguar parked outside and the thin spiral of smoke coming from the chimney she would have said the place was empty. There were no curtains at the windows, no sign of movement within.

  Her knock on the front door received no reply, so she went around the back and tried there. Still no answer. But he had to be there, he would hardly go out and leave a lit fire. Besides, there was the Jaguar, his transport.

  She knocked again, and still receiving no answer she tentatively turned the doorhandle and walked in. There were a couple of used mugs in the sink, but other than that the kitchen was bare, the cooker looked unused, the cupboards apparently empty. Surely no one could actually live in such discomfort?

  Which brought her back to the whereabouts of Rick Howarth. He obviously spent little time in the kitchen, so leaving the tin and the jar of marmalade on the kitchen table she decided to search the rest of the house. Each room proved to be empty of furniture and habitation, having a musty smell to it. The last bedroom she came to seemed to be the one with the fire in, although the room still struck chill. There was a single bed, a table containing a typewriter, one hard-looking chair, and no other furniture.

  Robyn repressed a shiver as she went back downstairs. How could anyone live in such starkness of human comfort? That brought back the question of why Rick Howarth was living in such conditions. Could her first assumption be correct, could he be a thief on the run?

  And yet a village certainly wasn’t the best place to use as a hideout, a town was much better for obscurity, and Rick Howarth appeared to her to be intelligent enough to realise that. In a village the size of Sanford you couldn’t even sneeze without the neighbours knowing about it, and a newcomer aroused much attention; her own mother’s interest in Rick Howarth was evidence of that. Her mother wasn’t a nosey person, and yet even she seemed to have learnt a little about the new occupier of Orchard House.

  But where was he? The house was empty, and yet he didn’t appear to be the type who enjoyed gardening. Did he look any type?

  She returned to the kitchen, in a quandary about what to do. She couldn’t just leave the food here, he would wonder where it came from, and if she took the food back home her mother would want to know why. But she could have to wait ages for him to come back, she had no way of knowing—

  ‘What the hell are you doing in here?’

  Robyn swung round, paling as she saw Rick Howarth standing dark and dangerous in the doorway.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE jar of marmalade she had been toying with slipped out of her hand and smashed on the tiled floor with a resounding crash, and she groaned as the sticky contents began to spread all over the floor. ‘Do you have a cloth?’ she asked desperately, going down on her hands and knees to begin picking up the bigger pieces of glass.

  ‘What the hell—!’ Strong sinewy fingers came out and Rick Howarth grasped her arm roughly, pulling her effortlessly to her feet. ‘Are you stupid, girl?’ he rasped, looking down at her contemptuously as she struggled to be free.

  Her head went back, her eyes flashing deeply violet in her anger. ‘Of course I’m not stupid, Mr Howarth,’ she snapped. ‘You just startled me, and I—I dropped the marmalade.’

  ‘I can see that.’ His mouth twisted.

  ‘Then you can also see that the floor is in a mess,’ she scorned.

  He gave an impatient sigh before moving to the cupboard under the sink unit, taking out some ragged pieces of material and throwing them down on the table in front of her. ‘Here,’ he said abruptly, ‘help yourself.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she muttered, getting down on to the floor once again to wipe up the broken glass. It really was a mess—glass among the sticky concoction that was all that was left of her mother’s beautiful home-made marmalade.

  ‘I’m still waiting to find out what you’re doing in my home,’ he said tersely, his face a harsh mask, deep lines grooved beside his m
outh.

  He was no better dressed than he had been yesterday, the denims and shirt were still as disreputable, although the over-long dark hair looked newly washed, slightly waving as it grew low down over his collar.

  ‘I did knock,’ she told him resentfully. ‘And when there was no answer—’

  ‘You just walked in,’ he finished coldly.

  ‘No!’ Robyn defended indignantly. ‘Well—yes. But it wasn’t quite like that!’

  ‘It never is.’ Rick Howarth’s mouth twisted contemptuously.

  Colour flooded her cheeks at his rude manner. ‘I didn’t come here to be insulted—’

  ‘If you didn’t violate people’s privacy perhaps you wouldn’t be,’ he snapped angrily, his eyes cold. ‘This is the second time in as many days that I’ve caught you on my property uninvited. Well?’ he quirked an eyebrow mockingly. ‘No comeback?’

  Robyn bit her lip. ‘No,’ she admitted reluctantly, knowing she couldn’t deny the truth. ‘But—’

  ‘Don’t go into lengthy explanations,’ he said dismissively, obviously bored by the subject—as he was probably bored with her! ‘Sufficient to say you were trespassing, the reasons don’t really matter. And today you’re doing it again, although you have some nerve actually entering the house.’

  ‘I told you, I—’

  ‘You knocked and there was no answer,’ he scorned. ‘When that happens it’s the usual practice to go away and come back some other time.’

  Robyn stood up at last, dropping the glass and sticky rags into the bin in the corner of the room. It was still sticky on the floor, but if Rick Howarth wanted it any cleaner he could damn well do it himself.

  ‘I was going away,’ she snapped. ‘I am going away, and I don’t intend coming back again—ever!’ She moved to the table, taking the lid off the tin. ‘I’ll just leave these with you,’ she slammed the dishes down on the table. ‘If you could return the crockery when you’ve finished with it I’m sure my mother would be grateful.’ She made a great clatter, deliberately so, as she put the lid back on the tin, just wanting to get away from this rude, ungrateful pig of a man.