CHAPTER 54
Harriet
Dorset
Harriet glanced at Owen, who gave her a reassuring nod. She rang the doorbell.
Perhaps he was out. The afternoon seemed to be drawing in already and the temperature was certainly dropping, but Harriet’s hands were clammy and the hairs on the back of her neck were standing to attention. Was she making an absolute idiot of herself? Again?
Through the glass, she saw him approaching on the other side of the door. What was there to be afraid of? She glanced again at Owen, whose face was impassive. She took a deep breath.
The second he opened the door and they stood there facing each other, she knew she hadn’t been imagining things. He looked shocked. The colour drained from his face, his eyes widened and his grip on the door handle grew tighter. He seemed smaller close up – and not dangerous at all. Even so . . .
‘Good afternoon,’ Harriet said.
‘Er . . . good afternoon,’ he stuttered back in reply. He made no move to invite them inside.
Harriet glanced at Owen. If he was surprised by the appearance of Harriet’s dangerous prowler, he didn’t show it. ‘I’m Harriet Shepherd,’ she went on smoothly. ‘But I think you already know that?’
The prowler nodded dumbly. Harriet felt almost sorry for him.
‘And this is Owen Matthews, who owns Warren Farm.’
He nodded again.
‘And you are . . . ?’ she asked helpfully.
She knew why she’d never really been scared of this man, never contacted the police as Joanna had urged her to, why she’d been brave enough to turn the tables stalker-wise.
It was because he was more scared than Harriet and perhaps she had always sensed that. She waited.
‘Henry Adams,’ he said at last in a querulous voice. ‘Professor.’
Harriet laughed. Professor, yes, that was how he always signed himself in the brief notes to her that accompanied his manuscripts: Prof A. A good joke.
‘You can drop the professor,’ she said, aware that she sounded a bit like a New York cop. ‘I assume you know that it’s me who’s been doing your typing for you?’
‘Yes, of course.’ He opened the door ever so slightly wider. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You’ve done a good job. I’m very grateful.’
Harriet glared at him. ‘But that’s not why we’re here.’
‘No.’ He pushed his glasses further up his nose. ‘I didn’t imagine it was.’
His eyes were pale blue, she noted, his eyelashes slightly ginger. He seemed so harmless. But now was not the time to soften. She glanced once again at Owen. He looked fierce and unsmiling. She was proud of him, glad he was on her side.
‘Is Henry Adams your real name?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yes.’ He regarded her intently through the glasses.
In fact, it was odd, but he was looking at her with some warmth, affection even, she realised.
Was it possible that one of her previous theories had been correct after all?
That he had happened to spot her in the village and had, well, taken a fancy to her?
Harriet felt the heat on her face. It was possible, wasn’t it?
Part of her was extremely flattered by the idea.
He was a bit older than her, yes. He didn’t cut the most manly of figures.
Even so . . . it was always pleasant to be admired.
‘And I am a professor,’ he reiterated. ‘For my sins.’
‘Is that right?’ Owen’s voice was mild enough, but he took a step forwards and for a mad moment Harriet thought he was about to clock him one.
The professor must have been anxious too, because he moved back a fraction. ‘Yes, yes.’ He was nodding frantically. ‘I used to work at Aberystwyth University, but I’ve retired to, er . . . write a few papers, that sort of thing.’
Harriet narrowed her eyes. ‘And does that sort of thing include spying on people?’
‘Oh, no.’ He clutched at the door frame for support. ‘That is . . . what do you mean?’
Harriet folded her arms. She might have guessed he wouldn’t immediately confess to his transgressions. ‘I mean that you’ve been hanging around our cottage – I’ve seen you in the lane outside too. Once, you nearly fell off your bike and once you were up on the Down. With binoculars.’
Owen cleared his throat loudly and coughed. Harriet hoped he wasn’t finding this amusing.
‘A public lane?’ the professor murmured. ‘And a well-trodden footpath in the country? Surely a soul can do a spot of bird-watching or ride along the lane without—’
‘I saw you in our farmyard,’ Harriet said. ‘Twice. And that’s private property – especially in the middle of the night.’ She gave Owen a put that in your pipe sort of a look.
He raised an eyebrow. She hadn’t told him about the night-time bit.
‘Ah.’ The professor bowed his head. ‘I’m so sorry. Truly.’
‘You admit it then?’ Owen demanded. ‘What did you think you were playing at, man?’ He stuck his hands in his pockets so forcefully that Harriet wondered if he was trying to stop himself throttling the poor old prof. For the first time she wondered if she’d been right to bring him along after all.
The door opened a touch wider. ‘I never meant to frighten you. I never meant you any harm. I only wanted . . . Ah, dear.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘What a fool I have been.’
‘Perhaps,’ Owen said, ‘it might be an idea if you invited us in and told us what it was you did want, eh?’
Harriet shot him another look. The professor seemed harmless, of course, but was it a good idea to go inside?
What if he suddenly pulled a knife or something?
But looking at him, she had to admit it didn’t seem likely .
. . He appeared to have entirely caved in.
She felt even more sorry for him than before.
The professor scratched his head. His hair was thin and he had a bald patch in the centre that gave him a monkish appearance. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose you’re right. What point is there skulking around day after day hoping for the merest glimpse . . .’
Ah. Mentally, Harriet couldn’t help preening herself. So, she’d been right. He was just trying to catch sightings of her whenever he could. Poor, sad man.
‘Come in, please,’ he said.
‘And you’ll tell us everything?’ Owen pressed. He still looked rather hostile and Harriet felt a slight shiver. This was a side of Owen she hadn’t seen before.
‘Indeed, indeed.’ The professor sighed. ‘I should have come clean from the start.’
‘Yes, you should.’
She and Owen followed the professor into a neat, almost bare sitting room. The chairs were worn and on the desk in the corner were a stack of books and some papers she recognised as the manuscript she’d recently been typing for him.
Suddenly, to her horror, the professor took a step towards her and took both her hands in his. Oh, heavens. Was the passion going to be too much for him? Was he going to lose control?
‘Steady.’ Owen stepped forwards too.
But Harriet was mesmerised by the look on the professor’s face. He seemed, well, almost besotted. ‘Why me?’ she whispered.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Owen shoot her a strange look.
‘You?’ He smiled.
‘Yes, me. Why did you want to follow me, catch glimpses of me?’ What was it that had made Harriet – perhaps for only the second time in her life – special?
He squeezed her hands. ‘She doesn’t go out much, does she?’
Harriet frowned. ‘Who?’
‘Your mother. Audrey Shepherd.’
The affection couldn’t be mistaken now. Ye Gods.
Suddenly Harriet realised what was going on here.
‘It’s my mother you’re after,’ she blurted.
‘How dare you!’ If he hadn’t been holding both her hands, she would have slapped him – although whether it was for wanting her mother or not wanting her, she wasn’t quite sure.
She shook her hands free. The only time, she realised, that she had not been second best was with her father.
He was the only man who had loved her for herself alone.
The dream, never far away, edged into her consciousness.
And even that was flawed, damn it. She was tempted to let Owen loose on the man – that would teach him.
It was Owen who worked it out. He put a hand on her shoulder as if to calm her, and only then did Harriet realise how much she was shaking.
‘And why would you be wanting to see Audrey, may I ask?’ he said. But he looked as if he knew.
The professor gazed deep into Harriet’s eyes and smiled. It was, she had to admit, rather an endearing smile.
‘Why would I want to see her?’ He sighed. ‘Because she’s my mother,’ he said.