down the broad flight of steps. The heat hit him like a hammer as he headed for the shade of the plane trees in Great Russell Street and began to walk briskly southwest, threading his way purposefully toward Long Acre.
Tim was peering through the viewfinder of his camera at the brilliantly lit dais in his studio. Nearby George was altering the positioning of the spots trained on a young man holding the leash of a tall, elegantly bored Dalmatian.
Sam stood in the doorway, surveying the scene over the shoulder of Tim’s other assistant, Caroline, who had run down the long flight of stairs in answer to his ring. His gaze rested on Tim and he frowned.
The young man on the dais stretched ostentatiously. “I’ll have to take the dog out for a crap soon, Tim, old son. Hurry it up a bit, for Christ’s sake.”
Tim ignored him. He waved George a few feet to the left and bent once more over the camera.
Sam slid into a chair at the back of the studio and sat watching the scene. It was half an hour before Tim had completed the session to his satisfaction and the young man and his dog dispatched out into the street. Caroline whispered at last in Tim’s ear and he turned, seeing Sam for the first time as he sat in the shadows.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Franklyn, I didn’t realize there was anyone here.”
They surveyed one another warily as George and Caroline plunged the dais into darkness and slowly began to tidy away the props. Tim moved toward Sam slowly. He was suddenly feeling very tired. “What can I do for you?”
Sam stood up and extended a hand with a relaxed smile. “I wanted to talk to you about Joanna. You were with her in Wales, I gather.”
Tim headed for the kitchen. He found two cans of beer in the refrigerator and handed one to Sam. “Jo is an old friend and a colleague of mine, Dr. Franklyn. I don’t talk about my friends behind their backs.”
A look of veiled amusement crossed Sam’s face for a split second. Almost instantly the expression was bland once more. “All I wanted to know was whether she seemed well and happy. As you may know, I have been helping her with her problems.”
“She told me,” Tim said shortly.
“So. How was she?” Sam’s eyes were suddenly probing as they sought and held the other man’s.
Tim ripped the ring off his can of beer and flicked it into the corner. He looked away. “She was all right.”
“Did she have any regressions while you were there?”
“That was what we went for.”
“Of course. How many did she have?”
Tim walked to the side of the studio and pulled at the lever that slid the blinds back from the huge skylights, flooding the whole area with sunlight. “Two or three.”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “Did they distress her?”
“The whole thing distresses her, Dr. Franklyn. The fact that she could not at first regress under self-hypnosis frightened her, then when it did happen, the experience itself frightened her. Waking up and having to leave that other world behind to come back to this one frightens her too.”
“So. She was frightened. But she displayed no physical symptoms afterward. Bruises? Cuts, aches and pains that were inexplicable?”
Tim thought for a moment. “No.”
“Do you have the photographs you took of her?”
Tim frowned. “I don’t know that I should show them to you without her permission.”
“I’m her doctor, man. I’m in charge of her case.”
“Her case?” Tim glanced at him sharply. “I wasn’t aware that Jo was a case.”
“Tim?” George appeared behind them. “Shall I start on the film?” He glanced curiously at Sam, who ignored him.
Tim nodded impatiently. “Let Caroline help you.” He waited as the two of them collected the cameras and left the studio, then he turned back to Sam. “Is she still in Wales?” he asked.
Sam nodded. “My brother has gone to her.”
A wave of near physical pain swept over Tim and he turned away sharply, trying to hide his face, conscious that Sam was watching him closely. He had a feeling that this man could read his mind.
“I’ll get the photos,” he said. He moved hastily across the studio and, unlocking a cabinet, produced a portfolio. He laid it on a large table and snapped on the harsh overhead light that hung low over the table, then pushed the folio toward Sam.
Slowly Sam opened it. His face was impassive as he turned over each successive photo. The pictures of scenery, the castles, the mountains, he barely glanced at. His attention was fixed solely on Jo.
Tim walked away miserably. He threw the empty beer can into a bin and went back into the kitchen for another. His guest, he noticed, had barely touched his own. The kitchen seemed suddenly very stark and bare; the white fittings had a surrealist glow in the slanting light from the sun filled studio. It was like a morgue.
He stood in the doorway drinking his beer fast, watching Sam’s face, which was floodlit by the working lights. Like a Rembrandt painting, he thought suddenly, the one of the doctors leaning over the table staring at the corpse. He shuddered violently at the analogy. “She said it made her feel naked,” he said, joining Sam by the table. “Me, photographing her like that.”
Sam did not look up. “Her expression is certainly very revealing,” he said guardedly. “Photographs can tell you so much about the subject.” He paused. “And about the photographer.” He glanced at Tim and Tim stepped abruptly backward, shocked at the open dislike, even hatred, he saw in the other man’s eyes.
For a moment they held one another’s gaze, then Sam looked away. He laughed. “Perhaps I’m wrong, but I don’t think so.” He closed the portfolio and pushed it aside. “Are these all you have?”
“That’s all.” Tim’s voice was very dry. He did not allow his eyes to wander toward the portrait on the easel beneath its cover.
Sam folded his arms, straightening. “I knew there was someone else,” he said softly. “I didn’t know who it was until now. Have you been regressed?”
Tim did not reply for a moment. His instinct told him to be very careful. Sam was dangerous. He wished, as so often these days, that his head was clearer. “Yes,” he said at last. “I’ve been regressed.”
Sam nodded slowly. “So,” he said, almost to himself. “Now there are three.”
“Three?” Tim echoed.
Sam smiled. “The three men who loved the Lady Matilda.”
Tim stared at him. “And you are one of the three,” he said thoughtfully after a moment.
“Me?” Sam said. “Let us say I’m an observer. Just an observer.” He picked up his beer can and raised it to his lips. “For now, anyway.”
27
Jo had fallen first to her knees, then slowly down until she was sprawled on the grass, her head near a lump of roughly shaped stone. Nick knelt beside her. “Jo!” he called urgently. “Jo, for God’s sake, can you hear me?”
His anger had vanished, the sudden unsought surge of antagonism gone. He took off his shirt and rolled it up, gently pushing it beneath her head, and, worried by her stillness, felt for the pulse in her wrist. It was there, quick and light, but steady, her breathing shallow. As he knelt, helplessly watching her, she flung out her arm with a little painful cry.
“Jo?” he whispered. “Jo, where are you? Can you hear me?” There was no response. Her eyes did not open; her face was still.
He chafed her hand gently as the thunder rumbled closer behind them and he saw a flicker of lightning in the valley. “Jo, love, you must wake up. We can’t stay up here in the rain. Jo!” He spoke more loudly, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her. She groaned and her eyes opened, but she did not see him. Her gaze went past him to the distant hills.
“Please, no,” she whispered. “Please.”
“Jo! You must wake up.” Nick shook her again, more roughly this time. “Jo. Come on! Listen to me.” He let her fall back with a sigh, and touched her face lightly with the tip of his finger. “Are you with him again, Jo? Is Lord de
