LITMIR.BIZ

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his throat, obviously embarrassed. ‘We’ll be on the ground for about forty minutes so you have time, I think, to …’

      Laird paused as the cockpit door opened.

      Sarah’s first impression was of an undertaker — black suit, parchment-colored skin drawn tight across a skeletal frame, languid blue eyes. The new arrival gazed down at her with all the enthusiasm of the clinically dead. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

      ‘Who I am is of no consequence to you, Miss Churchill. I am here, like Doctor Laird, to ensure your safe arrival.’ Extracting a tiny key from the pocket of his suit, he quickly unlocked the handcuff. ‘Follow me, please.’ He headed towards the back of the plane, threw open a narrow door then paused, waiting. ‘You have thirty minutes,’ he intoned as Sarah stepped across the threshold into a sumptuous boudoir.

      ‘Oh, my God,’ she gasped as she looked around her. The door closed behind her with a metallic click, that suggested … When she tried it, it was locked.

      She turned, taking in the room in a matter of seconds. Across the expanse of the double bed was spread a pale green silk shirtwaister dress, matching camisole, black silk underwear, stockings, black leather pumps and a hairbrush.

      When she went into the bathroom, she found a variety of shampoos and hair conditioners, toothpaste, everything she would need with the exception of make-up. No lipstick, no blush, only foundation creams - all of them expensive.

      In the wardrobe she found suits - his, she assumed. Expensive, finely cut worsteds in shades of dark blue and grey, and in the drawers, tailored shirts, heavily starched. In a lacquered box were cuff links and tie tacks, many containing semiprecious stones - others inlaid with gold.

      She ran her fingers across the shoulder of one of the suits, marveling at the softness of the material. ‘Who are you?’ she whispered aloud, ‘and, more to the point, what are you?’

      Her throat constricted in fear and perhaps something worse - something primeval.

      5

      Thursday, January 3rd, 1980

      Cavendish Hall, Southern Ireland

      The Gulfstream jet taxied across the tarmac then came to an abrupt halt twenty feet from a black, Series 3 XJ12 Jaguar sedan.

      Set roughly in the middle of the Develin estate, the private landing strip also contained a helicopter pad and a hangar in which was housed a vintage biplane, meticulously maintained and kept ready should Mr. Develin wish at any time to take it up himself.

      The window shade beside Sarah had been drawn, so she had no impression of where she was - nor would she.

      ‘Miss Churchill, I’m sorry, but I, ah … for security reasons I must ask you please to…’ Laird felt his throat constrict as he held up a black silk hood. ‘Just until we reach the house, you understand.’

      Blinded, Sarah was carefully led from her seat but it soon became apparent that she was too weak and traumatized to continue so Laird took her into his arms and carried her to the waiting car.

      He acknowledged Develin’s personal chauffeur, John, with a nod as he opened the door to the back seat. As he eased Sarah inside Laird realized that she was crying softly, the sound muffled. ‘Sarah, please don’t cry,’ he whispered. His heart ached for her - so young, so vulnerable.

      ‘Damn you, Develin, damn you to hell.’

      ‘Good flight, Doctor Laird?’ John asked as he watched Laird closely, looking for anything untoward that he might report to his boss.

      ‘Yes, thanks John. Everything went well.’ Laird’s voice was hushed, his emotions barely in check.

      ‘Mr. Develin is waiting back at the house. He does not expect to view the young lady until this evening of course, but he wants to see you at the earliest opportunity.’

      Laird nodded. He turned and walked around the back of the car and got in beside Sarah. She sat still as a statue throughout the fifteen minutes ride to the massive granite and brick edifice known as Cavendish Hall.

      As the car came to a stop at the front porch, Laird turned to Sarah. ‘We’re here, Miss Churchill. I can remove the blindfold now.’ She flinched when he touched her then relaxed slightly as the hood was drawn off. ‘I think it would be best if you made your way unaided. Welcome to Cavendish Hall.’

      Slowly, almost fearfully, Sarah turned towards the bleak grey-stoned mansion. Three stories high with jutting wings, the ground floor windows were recessed into the stone behind wrought iron grillwork like prison bars. She shuddered.

      ‘Be brave,’ Laird whispered with a reassuring smile just as the car door was opened. John reached in to offer her his hand. Sarah swayed slightly at first, but by sheer willpower she forced herself across the chipped stone driveway and up three steps into a stone porch.

      The solid wood and iron reinforced front door stood open, the entrance hall empty except for a brightly colored Persian carpet perhaps thirty feet square. To the right rose a pale grey marble staircase that widened then curved to the left as it reached the upper floor. Both the handrails and the balusters were in a deep, rich mahogany, ornately carved. The theme carried upwards, beyond the stairs to grace the length of the central hall, giving the second floor the illusion of a mezzanine. A massive crystal chandelier hung from the plafond ceiling more than fifty feet above, the baroque ornamentation and gold leaf clearly visible even at a distance. Sarah drew back, more terrified now than ever. The house reeked of excess and the abuse of power.

      ‘Come, Miss Churchill, I will show you to your rooms.’ Laird took her elbow gently. ‘Miss Penjan?’

      ‘Here, sir.’ From nowhere it seemed appeared a young woman, perhaps twenty-five years of age, dressed in the traditional sari of her native India. She bowed, cupping her hands to her forehead in formal greeting.

      ‘Miss Churchill, I would like you to meet Seefan Penjan. Miss Penjan will act as your maid and personal companion during your stay here.’

      Seefan bowed low, then took Sarah’s right hand and pressed it to her forehead. ‘Most welcome, lady,’ she whispered. She released Sarah’s hand, stepped back and bowed again. ‘Your rooms are ready and waiting for your inspection. You must be tired, yes?’

      Sarah nodded weakly.

      ‘I shall escort her, Doctor Laird. There is no need to trouble yourself. Besides, he knows of your arrival and awaits you, even now, in his office.’

      ‘Then I shall take my leave, Miss Churchill. Rest please, and again, take some nourishment. It will counteract the effects of the drugs, and the flight.’

      Halfway up the marble stairs Sarah paused and looked back. In the process of commencing the ascent was a powerfully built man dressed completely in black. He looked up straight into Sarah’s eyes then smiled, but there was no warmth there. Sarah stumbled then frantically gripped the handrail for support. A fraction of a second later he was at her side.

      ‘You must take care, Miss Churchill. A fall on these stairs would surely prove fatal. I fear the long flight has fatigued you so I shall assist you, if you will allow me?’ The voice was a smooth as honey.

      ‘I’m quite all right, thank you,’ Sarah shot back as she eased away from him.

      ‘As you say,’ he replied with a slight bow of the head, although he stood his ground, refusing to move either one way or the other. ‘Nevertheless, I shall see you to the accommodation set aside for you then I can confidently report to Mr. Develin that you have safely arrived.’ He smiled again. Cold grey eyes, slightly almond shaped, set within the face of a prizefighter. A nose not quite central, thinning hair and hands the size of dinner plates. A waist thickened by age but still trim enough to

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