The Perfect Solution Page 2

  He nodded, taking something from a pocket to hold out to her. 'Would you like some identification?'

  Surprised, Joanna took the yellow card from him. The photograph and signature confirmed not only that he was Marc Anstey, as he said, but also that he was a member of the National Union of Journalists, and worked for the Sentinel, one of the major national newspapers.

  Her eyes flew to his face. 'You're a journalist?' She almost threw the card back at him. 'If you're here in a professional capacity, Mr Anstey ‑'

  'Of course I'm not,' he said wearily. 'I'm on leave. And I don't deal in gossip, Mrs Clifford. I'm a foreign correspondent for the Sentinel. My business with you here tonight is strictly personal.'

  Joanna looked at him in silence for a moment, then held the door open. 'I suppose you'd better come in.'

  'Thank you.' Her unwelcome visitor stood very still in the hall, watching her as she bolted the door. He looked like she felt, thought Joanna. His close-curling black hair gave a spurious impression of youthfulness contradicted by his olive-skinned face, which was haggard with grief. His black eyes narrowed a little as he registered her appearance.

  'I've just changed,' Joanna said without thinking, then could have bitten her tongue. What she chose to wear was nothing to do with her unwelcome visitor.

  'Did your heart sing a gay Te Deum as you discarded your widow's weeds?' he asked, his voice accentless, but with a gravelly huskiness even more pronounced now they were talking face to face.

  Joanna stared in affront. 'I beg your pardon!'

  He rubbed a hand over his face wearily. 'I apologise. To you and to Noel Coward. The last thing I want is to antagonise you, Mrs Clifford.'

  She opened the drawing-room door and motioned him through. 'Perhaps you'd better sit down and tell me what it is, precisely, that you do want. And what it can possibly have to do with me.'

  Marc Anstey took the chair she indicated, looking bleak and self-contained, and nothing at all like Joanna's idea of a journalist in a dark, well-cut suit, his black tie reminding her all too forcibly of his connection with Rosa Anstey, aka Paul Clifford's mistress.

  'I'm sorry to intrude at what must be the worst possible time for you.' He looked at her levelly. 'At the moment I'm based in Washington, but as luck would have it I'd just arrived on leave in the UK when the accident happened. I managed to get to the hospital in time to be with Rosa before she died.' His jaw tightened as he reached a hand into an inside pocket and drew out a long, legal-looking envelope. 'Before she died Rosa gave me this and told me to bring it to you.'

  Joanna took the envelope from him, trembling inside at the thought of what it might contain.

  'Would you read it, please?' he said tersely. 'I can't stay long. I've got someone with me in the car.'

  Joanna sat down on the edge of the sofa, her face set. 'It must be very important, Mr Anstey, to bring you here the very day of my husband's funeral.'

  His mouth took on a sardonic twist. 'It was not an errand I relished, believe me.'

  Joanna drew a document from the envelope, unsurprised to find she was looking at the last will and testament of Paul Clifford, dated only weeks before his death. It was brief enough to read very rapidly. To his wife, Joanna Clifford, he bequeathed the painting by Stubbs from the Chelsea house. To James Frederick Fowler, lifelong and devoted friend, he left his gold watch and cufflinks. To Rosa Maria Anstey he bequeathed the company known as PC Plastics, or whatever sum was received for the sale of said company, this sum to be used for the education of Paola Anstey. In the event of Rosa Anstey's death the legacy would pass to said Paola Anstey, daughter of Rosa Anstey and Paul Clifford.

  Joanna read through the document a second time in disbelief. Paola, she thought in anguish, daughter of Paul Clifford. Marc Anstey, watching her closely, leaned forward abruptly.

  'Are you all right?'

  Joanna nodded, ashen-faced. Marc Anstey gave a quick glance round the room, then went over to the silver salver on a side-table, poured brandy into a glass and brought it back to her. 'Drink some of that. You'll feel better.'

  'I loathe brandy,' she protested.

  'It'll do you good.'

  Joanna took a reluctant sip of Paul's best cognac, vaguely resentful when her visitor was proved right.

  'You've had a hard day,' said Marc Anstey stiffly.

  'It gets worse as it goes on.'

  'Mine hasn't been too wonderful either.' He rubbed a hand over his face.

  'No,' agreed Joanna, surprised by an unexpected pang of remorse. 'I imagine not. You were obviously very close to your sister.'

  He nodded grimly. 'I loved Rosa very much. Otherwise, Mrs Clifford, I wouldn't be here right now. Rosa begged me to come, made me promise as she—as she was dying. I've always dismissed deathbed promises as so much melodramatic poppycock. When they happen to one personally it's a different kettle of fish, believe me.'

  Joanna nodded. 'I know.'

  He frowned. 'But I thought your husband was killed instantly.'

  'He was. My particular promise was made to my father.'

  'Were you able to keep it?'

  'At some personal cost, yes.' Joanna regarded the haggard, attractive man with curiosity. 'Is your promise anything to do with me, then, Mr Anstey?'

  'Yes, very much so.' He looked her in the eye. 'There's no point in beating about the bush, Mrs Clifford. I've come here to make a suggestion you're going to find totally unacceptable. Insane, in fact. By way of explanation, you have to understand that my sister couldn't bear to think of her child in the hands of strangers. She knew that owing to the nature of my work I can't care for my niece myself for the time being. So Rosa made me swear I'd come to see you in person and ask you to take Paola, your husband's child, until I'm in a position to do so myself.'

  Joanna stared at him incredulously, her face so pale again he moved towards her swiftly, but she held up her hand. 'I'm not ill—just appalled that you should use such emotional blackmail. Whatever vow you made to your sister is nothing to do with me, Mr Anstey. It's—it's outrageous. You can't possibly expect me to do such a thing!'

  He lifted one shoulder in a gesture which contrived to convey derision, hostility and scorn all at once. 'I don't. I never thought for a moment you'd agree. It was my sister, not I, who was convinced you were the right one to have her child.'

  'I can't think why!'

  He looked her over assessingly. 'Having met you, neither can I, Mrs Clifford.' He met her outraged eyes levelly. 'But there's something you've overlooked. By the terms of Paul Clifford's will Paola now owns PC Plastics. However, Rosa left a will, appointing me trustee to look after my niece's interests. And if I block the sale of PCP to the developer all its present resources will be swallowed up to meet its debts, including your house, Mrs Clifford.'

  CHAPTER TWO

  Joanna stared at him, her blue eyes icy with outrage. 'May I ask you a question?' she said after a taut silence.

  'By all means.'

  'If, Mr Anstey, you are the trustee in the case, why did your sister want me to take care of the child?'

  He shrugged. 'Make no mistake, Mrs Clifford, I couldn't love my niece more if she were my own child. But I'm single, and I lead a peripatetic sort of existence. After spells in Moscow and Tokyo I'm presently based in Washington.' His mouth tightened. 'When Rosa moved into your husband's Chelsea house I took over her studio flat as a London base, but neither the flat nor my lifestyle is suitable for looking after a child.'

  'In the circumstances your sister must have been very fond of you to consider you a suitable guardian for her daughter!'

  'She was. As I was of her. Rosa knew perfectly well I wasn't in an ideal position to bring up Paola myself—not yet, anyway. But I swore to her I'd see that her daughter received the best of care—and love.'

  Joanna nodded, eyeing him. 'I see. So let me just get this straight. I am to have the responsibility of bringing up the child, but you are the—er— treasurer, shall we say?'

  The black
eyes narrowed to a hard gleam. 'Precisely. Not that I gain anything, Mrs Clifford. Whatever comes to the child will be held in trust for her. If you had agreed to give her a home an ample allowance would have been yours for your trouble.' He shrugged indifferently. 'I knew it was a mistake to come here. I apologise for my intrusion—believe me, it was the last thing I felt like tonight. Nevertheless, I've now carried out my sister's wishes as I promised, so my part in all this is over. Goodnight.'

  'Wait,' said Joanna, springing to her feet. 'What are you going to do?'

  He turned, one eyebrow raised. 'Do? About the sale?'

  'No, I don't care a damn about the sale!' she snapped. 'I meant what about—about the child?'

  He rubbed a hand along his shadowed chin wearily. 'I don't know yet. But I'll think of something. My problem is the time factor. I've only got a week's leave to sort things out.'

  Joanna bit her lip, eyeing him. 'Where is—is your niece now?'

  'Outside in the car.'

  'What?'

  He shrugged. 'Since Rosa died she tends to cling to me like grim death. A friend of mine came to the funeral with us, and stayed in the car with her until it was over.'

  'Is your friend outside in the car too?'

  His face hardened. 'No. An hour spent with a crying child put paid to the lady's maternal instincts. The moment the funeral was over she took off in a taxi. I came here alone. Paola was so worn out I just wrapped her up in a rug on the back seat of the car and she went off to sleep—which reminds me, I'd better see if she's all right.'

  'Could I see her?' said Joanna impulsively.

  'Why?' His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  She looked at him in appeal. 'Look, until tonight I didn't even know she existed. I just want to see her for a moment, that's all.'

  Marc Anstey shrugged, then made for the door. 'As you like.'

  Joanna followed him outside towards the car parked at the far edge of the gravel circle in front of the house. He put a finger to his lips as he leaned forward to peer into the back seat.

  'She's still fast asleep,' he said under his breath. 'I won't open the door. Satisfy your curiosity, Mrs Clifford, then I'll be off.'

  Joanna's throat tightened as she gazed through the car window at a tangle of black curls and sleeping, tear-stained face.

  'Well?' he demanded in an undertone. 'Have you seen enough?'

  Joanna shook her head slowly. 'As she's asleep will you come back into the house for a moment? You can leave the door open to watch out for her.'

  'If I must.'

  They went back into the hall and stood in the open doorway, both of them looking fixedly at the car rather than at each other.

  'Mr Anstey,' began Joanna, choosing her words with care, 'this has all come as a great shock. It's only a couple of hours since I learned about my husband's association with your sister. To discover there's a child as well is hard to take in. I can't think straight. But I'm not heartless. I see your difficulty, and ‑' she breathed in shakily '—I feel for the child. Deeply. On the other hand you can't expect me to decide something so important as this off the top of my head.'

  'I don't expect anything,' he said curtly. 'In fact, a moment ago I seem to recall you dismissed my sister's request as melodramatic nonsense.'

  Joanna's chin lifted. 'Look, Mr Anstey, if you mean to be unpleasant there's no point in going on with this.'

  He controlled himself with visible effort. 'I'm sorry. This isn't easy for either of us. Believe me, the last thing I wanted was to come barging in on you tonight, of all nights. But I've got so little time to get things settled.' One black eyebrow lifted. 'And I assumed you'd need the will. It seemed best to get it over with. Not best for you, nor for me, but for Polly.' He smiled wryly at her questioning look. 'Her favourite song, "Polly Wolly Doodle". The name stuck.'

  'I see.' Joanna looked at her watch, then over at the car. 'Are you driving back to London now?'

  'No. I haven't slept much lately. I couldn't face the drive back to town tonight. On the way here I booked a room at the Lamb and Flag in the village. The landlady's organising some supper, after which my plan is to tuck Polly up in one bed and crash out in the other myself.'

  'I see.' Joanna braced herself. 'In that case, Mr Anstey, would you consider bringing your— bringing Polly to see me in the morning?'

  'On approval, you mean?' he queried scathingly.

  'No!' Joanna's nails bit into her palms. 'I'd just like to make Polly's acquaintance. I knew your sister quite well at one time, and I liked her very much. But I find it very hard to visualise her as Paul's mistress.' She paused as Marc Anstey winced. 'I'm sorry. What I'm trying to say is that her relationship with Paul won't prejudice me on the subject of her child's welfare. But right now would be a bad time for Polly and me to meet. In the morning she should feel better, and I—well, shall we say I shall have had time to get used to certain aspects of my husband's life unknown to me until today?' She met his black, assessing eyes candidly. 'I'm not saying I'll do what your sister wanted. For one thing, Polly might hate the sight of me. But what I am saying is that I won't dismiss the idea out of hand.'

  'No.' He showed strong white teeth in a mirthless smile. 'Because if you do you lose your money and your house.'

  Joanna gave him a patronising little smile. 'As it happens, I don't, Mr Anstey. The house is mine. I was born here. And with care I can continue to live here. I don't need money. Your blackmail wouldn't have worked.'

  For a moment Marc Anstey was silent, then he gave her a mocking little bow. 'I apologise, Mrs Clifford. I got the facts wrong.'

  'And you a journalist—how very strange!'

  He threw up a hand, smiling faintly. 'All right, Mrs Clifford. I'll bring Polly here after breakfast in the morning. Just for a few minutes. But she's a little human being, remember, not a puppy. If you do take her you can't send her off to the dogs' home if it doesn't work out.'

  Only the memory of a small, tear-stained face prevented Joanna from slamming the door in his face. 'I won't bother to answer that, Mr Anstey. I'll see you at ten in the morning.'

  A disquieting gleam flashed in the dark eyes for an instant before Marc Anstey turned away. He paused under the portico light to look at her. 'By the way, I should have said this before. Please accept my condolences. Belated, I'm afraid. If you find it hard to think of Rosa as Paul Clifford's mistress, I find it damned impossible to think of you as his wife.'

  'But I'm not his wife, Mr Anstey. I'm his widow. Goodnight.'

  Which, thought Joanna, as she bolted the door yet again, was about right. After the revelations of the day it was difficult to remember she'd ever been Paul Clifford's wife. Rosa Anstey and Polly had probably seen far more of Paul than she had during the entire duration of her marriage.

  Jim rang later to say his wife's leg was in plaster, and other than feeling mad with herself for doing something so stupid Maisie was in good heart. 'How are you, love?' he asked.

  'Like Maisie, as well as can be expected. Give her my love and tell her I'll visit her.' Joanna paused, then told him about the unexpected visitor who'd brought the missing will. 'So I know about the child now, Jim. Paul's left everything to the daughter I never knew he possessed.' She gave a mirthless little laugh. 'He left me the Stubbs painting. You know the one, a grey rather like my poor Saladin. Liked his joke, did Paul.'

  Jim groaned. 'I kept trying to tell you about the little girl, love,' he said, 'then the shock about Maisie sent everything out of my head. How do you feel about it?'

  'I'll let you know when I've had time to get used to the idea.' She explained about the terms of the will and Rosa Anstey's dying wish regarding her child.

  'You've got to be joking!' said Jim, flabbergasted. 'She couldn't have known what she was saying.' He paused. 'I've never met this brother of hers. Heard of him, mind. A bit of a high-flyer, tipped for the top, so I hear. A kid could cramp his style. He might be trying to pull a fast one, Jo, dumping the kid on you to evade his own responsibility.' />
  'No,' said Joanna, thinking it over. 'I don't think so. In fact, Jim, I rather got the impression that the high-flying Mr Anstey isn't in the least keen to hand his niece over to me. Which is natural enough. He knows nothing about me, after all.'

  Jim cleared his throat noisily, sounding embarrassed. 'But Rosa did, love. She admired you no end. I know for a fact she felt pretty bad about what happened with you and Paul. It might seem crazy, but she must have really believed you were the best one to look after her child.'

  'She may have,' said Joanna sharply. 'It doesn't mean I'm going to, though, Jim.'

  'No, no, of course not.' Jim paused. 'But if this Anstey chap kicks up rough about the will it's going to make things a bit difficult for us all at PCP.'

  * * *

  Joanna went early to bed, but not to sleep. She lay tossing and turning all night, certain she must be insane even to contemplate taking Rosa's child. But the small, tear-stained face of Polly Anstey kept rising to haunt her, along with harrowing thoughts of a dying woman's plea. If she refused to take the child, Joanna had a sinking feeling she'd regret it for the rest of her life.

  She smiled bitterly as she realised that Paul had achieved his family in the end, after all, though not in the precise way he'd wanted it. Paola Anstey's great drawback in his eyes would have been her sex. Paul had been so desperate for a son. Joanna shook her head in the darkness, marvelling at her husband's talent for deception. Paul Clifford had lived a lie for years, juggling two separate lives with the skill of a magician. If he hadn't been killed she might never have known. Suddenly Joanna felt a searing pang of inadequacy, depressed at the lack in herself which had sent her husband into the arms of another woman. She wept a few bitter tears into her pillow, then pulled herself together, sniffing, knowing full well she was weeping from wounded pride, rather than grief.

  The tears disappeared altogether when Joanna finally acknowledged the inescapable fact that Polly Anstey's pathetic little face was not the only one keeping her awake. As the night wore on she found it harder and harder to dismiss Marc Anstey's dark, haggard features from her mind. Joanna heaved over on to her back restlessly, assuring herself it was only natural to feel some sympathy for Marc Anstey. And not for him exactly, but for his dilemma. His sister had left him in a pretty pickle one way and another. Joanna's lip trembled. It wasn't fair of Rosa to make her feel guilty like this. Why should she be expected to take charge of another woman's child? Why had Rosa thought she could solve her problem by passing it on to Joanna Clifford? Only the problem wasn't an 'it'. It was a desolate little girl, crying for her mother. And probably for her father, too.