Part 1 (1/2)

Cry For Kit.

Veronica Heley.

CHAPTER ONE.

'Kit! Kit Jeffries!' The voice hissed at me from the dark alley.

I was intrigued, because n.o.body had called me Kit Jeffries for eighteen years and one month, not since I married Pat Neely in New York in spite of everything his friends had had to say against the marriage. They'd been proved wrong, because Pat and I had had a good time in our marriage, and I include the years in which he was dying and we had both known it.

'Who is it?' I shaded my eyes against the glare of the lamp under which I stood, and peered into the unlit alley. I was standing in the new shopping precinct-new since my day, that is-having just come through the alley from the Market Square beyond. It looked as if someone had followed me. I could make out that there was a dark figure standing just beyond the lamplight, but I couldn't identify him-or was it her? The voice was a hoa.r.s.e whisper, quite unrecognisable. The big city hummed with life in the still, summer night.

'Come here!' Whoever it was, he or she seemed to be dressed in black. I'm not a big woman, even in high heels, and I could see that the person who had called to me was taller than I was.

'Is it Jack?' I asked, stepping nearer. There were a few people crossing the shopping precinct, but no-one was within fifteen yards of me. I had no intimation of danger as I walked out of the light into the alley, for this was my homeland, in which I had lived until I was seventeen. This was not New York, where I wouldn't have dreamed of going for an unaccompanied stroll after dinner for fear of being mugged.

I didn't even see my a.s.sailant. Something thick and dark descended over my head and shoulders and I was sent reeling into the ancient brick wall of the alley. Even as I fell, I remembered the actions Pat had drilled into me to avoid the worst effects of a mugging. Roll away from them as you fall. Act dead. Let them take what money or jewellery they want. Don't move until they've gone.

I rolled away from my attacker, cursing myself for having brought my purse with all my traveller's cheques and pa.s.sport in it. I was also wearing a very beautiful and costly pair of emerald earrings, Pat's last gift to me.

I could feel the thud as something metallic struck the pavement beside my head. I acted dead. I couldn't see a thing with that heavy material over my head. I remembered to let my fingers relax and spill my purse on to the stone pavement, and I listened.

Heavy breathing. Fingers at my wrist. Oh, please don't take my engagement ring! Fingers withdrawn, followed by a distant tinkle. My charm bracelet? Oh, no!

Why didn't someone come?

Something caught me between the ribs, hard. I'd been kicked. I began to wonder if it wouldn't be worthwhile shrieking for help, when the voice came through again.

'You'll leave tomorrow if you know what's good for you!'

I began to get angry. I haven't got red hair for nothing, and even at the ripe age of thirty-six, I was fit enough to welcome a fight. But even as I fumbled with the material over my head, someone entered the alley from the direction of the shops, and I heard my attacker run off, back towards Market Square.

'You all right?' the newcomer asked. He was a young man with long hair, wearing jeans and a brilliant T-s.h.i.+rt. He helped me to my feet. I looked down the alley, but my a.s.sailant had disappeared.

'Quite all right, thank you. A bruise or two. Did you get a good look at the mugger?'

'Sorry. By the time I realised something was wrong, he'd gone. I'm afraid my boots made a row as I reached the alley, and that's what frightened him off.'

It was true that the alley resounded to the slightest sound. I groped about on the pavement for my purse, which was open. I checked that I still had my engagement ring. I did.

The young man helped me back into the lights of the shopping precinct, which made me feel twice my age. Luckily the white silk of my dress was only slightly marked, and my hair looks better ruffled than brushed into a smooth style. His lips pursed in a silent whistle, and I knew he was going to take some shaking off.

'Thanks, I'm all right now,' I said, checking the contents of my purse. Everything was there, including my pa.s.sport and travellers' cheques. All I had lost was my charm bracelet, which had sentimental value but wouldn't be worth auctioning at Sotheby's.

'You're a stranger here? American?' He put his hand back under my elbow and pressed it.

'I've lived in America for a long time, but I was born here. Thank you, you've been a great help. I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't come along. Nothing's missing except a piece of costume jewellery. If you could see me through the alley back into the Square? I'm staying at the White Lion Hotel.'

He wasn't eager to see the last of me. 'The police? I could ring them for you. I'm supposed to be meeting my mate, but...'

'Oh, no, thank you. That's not necessary.' Walking back through the alley, his feet caught in something lying on the pavement. It was a woman's black coat, made of poor-quality cloth. I remembered it had smelt of sweat and face powder.

The lad frowned. 'Was this used on you? Lady, you should go to the police. If someone brought this to the alley to use on you, then that means the robbery was premeditated, and...'

'Nonsense,' I said. 'I wore it myself. It's not mine, but a friend's. I went out for a stroll to see if the city centre still looked the same, and borrowed it.' I took the coat off his arm and gave him my hand to shake. 'Thanks a million. You were terrific.'

He swallowed it, as I knew he would. He didn't want to let go of my hand, but we were within sight of the hotel, and people were pa.s.sing in and out of the ballroom beside it. He knew I had only to raise my voice to summon help. He went away reluctantly, looking back to see if I might change my mind.

My knees warned me to find a seat, and be quick about it.

Not Edward! I thought. Please don't let it be Edward!

Yet it had to be someone I'd known in the past, someone who had cause to fear my return and who knew about the bracelet. Who else but Edward?

I needed a drink. I was no candidate for Alcoholics Anonymous, but I'd always enjoyed a drink. Pat had taught me to drink beer, but back in England again I'd taken to brandy and dry ginger. Sustained by a vision of a double measure of brandy, I tottered into the hotel.

'h.e.l.lo! Turned up again, has it?' said the receptionist. He took the black coat off me and hung it on a rack in the lobby. 'Someone left it here during the week, and we've been waiting for them to collect it.'

So anyone pa.s.sing through the lobby might have picked the coat up in pa.s.sing. Bang went my only clue as to my a.s.sailant's ident.i.ty, but perhaps I could unearth another.

'You've been busy tonight. Has there been much coming and going while I've been out for my stroll?'

'All the time. Always the same when we've a function on in the ballroom.'

He turned away to give his attention to some new arrivals-people I didn't know-and I stiffened my legs and ordered them to take me to the cloakroom. Afterwards, I tried to find a seat in the bar, but it was so crowded that I ordered a drink brought to me in the lounge instead.

If only it were not Edward!

It had to be someone I knew, because they had called me by my maiden name. It had to be someone from the past, who didn't know that I was registered at the hotel as Mrs Patrick Neely. It had to be someone who had seen me that night.

I had only arrived back in the U.K. two days ago, had spent one day shopping in London, and returned by train to my birthplace at two o'clock that afternoon. I had not seen anyone I knew on the train, and I had taken a taxi from the station through the sprawl of the ancient city, through the towering blocks which had replaced the slums, and out to the pleasant suburb in which my sister lived. It was a big city and it had grown since my day. Once it had been a market town, but now it was given over to industry.

I had spent the afternoon with my sister and her husband, Tom, and seen no one else I knew. Both Mary and Tom wanted me to disappear again, but I couldn't see either of them stalking me down dark alleys, and neither would have been interested in my charm bracelet.

From my sister's house I had taken another taxi to the hotel. I had registered, unpacked, dined and settled myself in the hotel bar for the evening. I wanted to be quiet. I needed to think over the problem of Mary and Tom, and plan my next move. I had been unhappy, and missing Pat.

Up till a year ago I had thought to live out the rest of my life in the States, but when Pat could no longer run his various business enterprises efficiently, he began to worry about my future. He had done well since I had married him, and he was worth a lot of money. He sold all his companies and invested the money for me. He had long discussions with me about his past, the things he had done, and the things he had left undone. He was afraid I would be lost without him, because I am the kind of woman who needs a man to fuss over. He said he was worried I might be wooed after his death by men who wanted me for my money, rather than for my looks or kind heart. He was obsessed with the idea that I ought to return to England and claim my son.

'No mourning,' he said. 'You must marry again, but wisely. There is still time for you to have another child, to make up for our failure...'

'No failure,' I'd said. 'You know I didn't care.'

'You cared, but you were loyal, and we did well enough. However, there is your son to consider. He has the right to meet you and the right to know his father's name. He'll be eighteen soon.'

'You know I promised my sister that I'd never try to see him. I even signed a paper to that effect on the day I handed him over to her.'

'Things are different now. You were only seventeen then, the boy's father couldn't marry you, your parents were unsympathetic, your sister barren, and you had no money or place to live. All these years you've sent money for his keep and in return received a progress report and a snapshot from your sister once every six months. That's not much. It was only natural for your sister to fear you would try to take him from her when he was a child, but at eighteen he should be about ready to leave home himself, or at least be capable of making his own decisions. When he's old enough to vote, he's old enough to know the truth. Think what it must have been like for him to grow up without knowing whose son he is...'