Haunted Dreams

He called a florist next morning and sent Emilie roses; he wanted white ones but the girl ruefully assured him she could only manage either red or pale pink.

‘Pink, then,’ Ambrose said. ‘Two dozen.’

They arrived while Emilie was at work, and Mary put them into green glass vases for her and arranged them in the sitting-room.

‘That’s nice of him,’ her grandfather said, staring at them. ‘He certainly knows how to make a gesture.’

‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ Emilie said dreamily, touching a rose with gentle fingers. The petals were like cool velvet, their colour the delicate pale pink of mother-of-pearl.

The doorbell rang, Mary went to answer it; they heard her talking and then a male voice replying.

‘Sholto!’ Emilie said, and George Rendell grimaced.

‘That young man…What is he doing here at this hour? Have you asked him to dinner?’

‘No, I wouldn’t, without asking you first. You know that!’

‘If he stays long, we shall have to ask him, I suppose!’ George muttered, and stamped off to get himself a drink. He liked Sholto well enough, but the dinner party had used up all his hospitable feelings; he had been looking forward to an evening spent quietly at home with just Emilie for company.

Sholto came in, bringing a rush of cold air with him, and gave her a hopeful look. ‘Hi, I thought you might like to come and see a film—there’s a terrific thriller on at the moment.’

She sighed, wishing he hadn’t come. She was trying to avoid him at the moment; she still hadn’t got over that proposal during Ambrose Kerr’s Christmas party. Sholto had been far too insistent; he had scared her off.

‘I’m sorry, Sholto, I’m too tired tonight. I had a lot to do at work today.’

‘Oh, come on, Em,’ he said, his mouth sulky.

She had given in before when he looked like that, because she had felt guilty about refusing, but not this time. She firmly shook her head.

‘I want to get an early night; I have another busy day tomorrow.’

As she turned away her sleeve caught a small card which had been resting against one of the vases of roses; it fluttered to the ground and Sholto bent to pick it up.

Before she could stop him he had read it. He looked at the roses, scowling. ‘He sent you those? How many are there? There must be a couple of dozen…Pink roses in December? They must have cost an arm and a leg! Why did he send them? What the hell is going on, Emilie?’

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_c26f38ee-a17d-52c5-b556-ba1d2f3db3c4)

EMILIE knew Ambrose was going to be at the board-meeting on Thursday morning at ten-thirty. She kept her eye on her watch and at about ten-twenty began her weekly job of first pruning and tidying up, then watering the plants on the windowsill in the office, while she threw an occasional casual glance out of the window at the car-park below. Other directors arrived, parked, went into the office block to make their way up to the board-room, but Ambrose was late.