Chapter Thirty-Three
Troubled that she’d somehow let her daughter end up in the middle of things despite all intentions to the contrary, Diane didn’t immediately notice anything missing when they trailed silently into the house.
It was Bryony, dragging her bag as if even that little weight was too much, who said, ‘Where’s Dad?’
His chair in the sitting room was empty, his crutches gone. They looked in the workroom and checked the downstairs loo. Both empty. Slowly, they moved towards the stairs. Diane took the lead. For a reason she didn’t examine too closely, she trod as quietly as she could.
The doors to the bathroom and the other rooms were wide open, showing empty rooms. But the door to Bryony’s room stood only a little ajar, and through the gap Diane could see Gareth sitting on Bryony’s bed, his back to the door, hunched over something in his lap. She hesitated.
With a mew of distress Bryony thrust past her, hurling the door back on its hinges. ‘Dad, how could you go through my things?’
Gareth’s head flew up, his face pulled wide with horror. One of his crutches lay across the duvet, the other was propped against the wall. The large drawer beneath Bryony’s bed was open next to his feet. A black leather box was open inside the drawer.
And Gareth’s lap glistened with the jewellery that had belonged to Diane’s mother and grandmother.
Beside him sat a blue canvas money belt, the one he took on holiday to keep their spending money safe. Several pieces of jewellery could be seen through its gaping mouth.
Bryony swayed on her feet. Diane guided her hurriedly into the pink basketwork chair. ‘Sit down, sweetie.’ All they needed was Bryony fainting.
Gareth’s hunted gaze flicked from daughter to wife. He cleared his throat and looked down at the brooches and chains laid out neatly across his legs like bizarre decorations. ‘I—’ He cleared his throat again.
In slow motion, Bryony stooped awkwardly for the box and held it out. Like a naughty child, Gareth put everything back. First the pieces from his lap: gold, silver, diamonds, emeralds, jet, amber; then from the pocket of the belt. Bryony checked inside. ‘Is that everything? Or do I have to frisk you?’ Her voice trembled.
Gareth nodded. ‘Everything.’ He picked up his crutches and threaded them onto his arms. Then he sat, silent, staring at the carpet, caught red-handed and stuck for an explanation.
Gradually, colour began to return to Bryony’s face. Her eyes glittered and Diane recognised anger. She was glad. Anger would serve Bryony better than shock and horror.
‘Mum, do you think Uncle Freddy will put these things back in his safe for me?’
‘I’m sure he will.’
‘Good. I’ll go over there now.’
‘I’ll come with you. Probably better if you’re not alone.’
Gareth turned quickly. ‘Bryony, darling, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been looking without asking but . . .’ He scrabbled for words. ‘I was only looking. The stuff in my belt — you don’t think I was going to take it, do you? No.’ He halted, licked his lips. ‘I was just going to get it valued.’
Bryony shook her head, her eyes as big as pansies. ‘Don’t expect me to believe your crap. Who needs a father like you? Not me — in case you were wondering.’ She turned her agonised eyes to Diane. ‘I mean that, by the way.’ Bryony made it from the room before she began to sob.
Diane hovered, not knowing who was the more devastated, Bryony or Gareth.
For herself, she was shocked. The implications of Gareth’s latest perfidy were almost too huge for her to dare to believe and she felt as if, for once, the light at the end of the tunnel could be daylight, rather than an oncoming train.
‘Why do you have to be so greedy?’ she whispered. ‘Why couldn’t you be satisfied with everything you already have? We’ll talk more, later, but I want you to move out of here in the next few days. You can live in your cottage. I don’t want your money and if you go without a fuss I won’t ask for any.’
‘How can I? I can’t live alone,’ he answered, gruffly. He flicked a glance her way. His eyes were . . . what? Not hurt. Worried? Probably, a bit. But angry, too; annoyed with himself for being careless.
‘Well,’ she said, preparing to follow her daughter. ‘Whether or not you can live alone, I think it’s time we lived apart. Maybe you could go live with your dad for a while, he could use the company. Or you could hire a nurse. Spend some of the dosh on yourself — you seem to be able to do that OK.’