Dark Corridor

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

A captivating love story from the 100-million copy bestselling Queen of Romance - originally published in 1974 and now available for the first time in eBook. Corisande Gilroy is engaged to the most wonderful man in the world ? handsome, debonair Martin. But when Corrie meets him at the hotel in Madeira for a holiday, he isn?t there. His room is empty, his suitcase only half unpacked ? it is as if he vanished into thin air. There is no trace of him despite all the efforts of the local police. Faced with this mystery, Corrie is plunged into an agony of love and fear. Has she lost Martin to the dark corridor that has haunted her dreams?

Release date: October 17, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 192

Sample

SHE WAS IN THE middle of the dreaded nightmare again. She called it the Long Dark Corridor. Usually she woke up bathed in sweat and crying out, yet she knew perfectly well, when she grew calmer, that even a recurrent bad dream has no real significance and she mustn’t take it seriously.

She had been christened Corisande Gilroy, but from childhood they had called her Corrie. She couldn’t think why she should have ever suffered from this sinister nightmare — particularly not last night when she was so happy, and had so much to look forward to.

She was going to be married very soon to Martin Ashley — the most marvellous man in the world in her estimation. She was very much in love. For the last two years she had worked in Green Fingers, a florist shop in Hampstead, where she also shared a flat with the owner, Christine Taylor. Now, for good, she had left that life and was down in the country at Brabett’s Farm with her aunt, Ann, where she spent most of her weekends. She loved Brabett’s and meant to stay there until her life changed dramatically — starting with her wedding day.

Martin wanted her to have three months of freedom now, which is why she had said ‘goodbye’ to Christine and her job, and moved from London to the little Sussex farmhouse in Nutley. Since the death of her parents, Corrie had made Ann’s house her home. And Miss Williams, who had never married, appreciated the company of her delightful niece. They got on well together.

Last night Corrie had spent some time sorting out old clothes and finding things for Ann’s next local jumble sale. They had a light supper, looked at TV for an hour, then gone early to bed. Corrie had not even read a book, which was her custom. She had quickly fallen asleep, first giving a long blissful look at Martin’s photograph on the table beside her bed.

“Good night, my darling dear,” she had whispered, “I do love you so much.”

Why couldn’t she have had a lovely dream about him? Why did she have to dive headlong into a grim nightmare, and find herself moving down that mysterious corridor, trembling, terrified, knowing that it always ended with the icy hand reaching out from some invisible doorway, dragging her into a fearful void of nothingness. It reduced her to utter despair — as black as it was inexplicable. Then she would hear herself scream, wake up, and dissolve into the customary storm of tears.

After such occasions, Corrie became nervous and unlike herself and was ashamed of the fact.

When first she had told Martin about it, he had laughed, kissed the tip of her nose, and said, “You’re adorable, but quite idiotic, my love. Nightmares don’t mean a thing. Indigestion probably, poor sweet! I wish I could go to sleep too and find myself in the same nightmare with you. Then I could reach out my hand and pull you into that room which seems so awful and you would find it full of light and you’d be in my arms. And whether the ring was on your finger or not, I’d make mad love to you and you’d be wholly mine and you’d never be afraid again.” That was comfort indeed.

Corrie had noticed a change last night in the usual pattern. She distinctly remembered hearing somebody call to her at the end of that corridor, and it was Martin speaking — sharply. It was unlike his usual low-pitched lazy voice which she found so attractive. He called her by name, her full name for once: “Corisande!” She tried to answer but couldn’t, then she was dragged into that dreaded room. After that, the awakening.

She wept as she sat up and realised that the night had gone. Faint light filtered through the window panes. Her bedside clock told her that it was seven o’clock. She was at least glad she would not have to try to get to sleep again. That was always difficult.

She got out of bed, went into the bathroom and sluiced her tear-wet face in cold water. Looking into the mirror she shuddered. What a sight! Haggard and pale, and hair damp with sweat. Fortunately she was having her hair done in East Grinstead this morning.

She and Ann had planned a morning’s shopping.

Corrie attended to her make-up until she was satisfied that she looked more herself. Martin would have a fit if he could see her so changed — so disturbed. She must get a grip on her emotions.

Hastily she finished making up her face and brushed back the splendid hair which almost matched the warm golden-brown of her eyes. Martin in one of his poetic moods, once described them as the eyes of an enchantress. Sometimes he teased her. “You know perfectly well when you flick your long black lashes, you enchant and confuse me until I haven’t a clue how to cope with you.” Which extravagance made her laugh but she was secretly pleased.

She couldn’t deny that the gods had given her the gift of beauty. A slim, graceful figure, a delightful tip-tilted nose and a wide sweet mouth made for loving and kissing (as Martin frequently reminded her). She was a sensitive, artistic sort of girl but far from weak or shy. She had an unusually strong will — even a streak of obstinacy. She was certainly not one to give in easily where her principles were concerned.

“You know, Corrie, you have everything,” Martin had told her when he first asked her to marry him, “absolutely everything a man could want. Why should you want to marry me?”

In his arms she had answered, “Because you’ve got everything I want and I don’t know why you want to marry me! So we’re quits.”

Now on this cold morning, she rapidly recovered from the effects of the tantalising nightmare. She fully expected a letter from Martin this morning and looked forward to its arrival eagerly.

Martin worked for Horton & Mullins, the publishers. At the early age of twenty-five he had already been promoted to European sales manager. A well-paid and creditable position for a young man who had only been with the firm four years. He was dedicated to his job, and ambitious. It seemed to Corrie that he was bound to succeed.

At present he was in Lisbon, attending the Book Fair which was held there every year in the early spring. While she thought only of Martin, she relived a few of her special moments with him.

For instance, the dinner at Mariota’s, an Italian restaurant in Chelsea which had become a favourite. Corrie had no need to look at the menu, that particular night. In advance, Martin had ordered her favourite food — pasta, followed by truite almondine, and a special chocolate gâteau topped with whipped cream and flavoured with Grand Marnier.

Corrie had become engaged to Martin during a dinner in this very restaurant. Mario, the proprietor, had been delighted and brought them a special bottle of wine. They had all three toasted the great event. She had been blissfully happy. Martin had seemed so utterly right for her.

It was at Mariota’s they dined just before Martin flew to his job in Lisbon. Mario, sentimental and perceptive, saw that evening neither of his young clients seemed to laugh as much as usual. But Corrie smiled at the anxious little Italian as he poured out their wine, “Nothing is wrong. It’s just that we can’t bear to be parted, can we?” She turned to Martin.

He reached for her hand, kissed it, and answered, “Darling, you really have got a super nose, the way it tilts just a fraction upwards.”

“I like your big boney nose,” she joked back. “Oh, darling, won’t it be marvellous when you get back from Lisbon and we can be together again!”

Three weeks ago he had thought up the plan for her to meet him in Madeira on the return journey.

“Even for a few days — let’s have a sort of pre-honeymoon holiday.”

At once Corrie agreed. “Super idea. I’ll be waiting for you. People may think us mad but meeting you like that sounds so heavenly, I can’t resist it. It’ll be madly extravagant too.”

“Then madly extravagant we’ll be,” he said. “And everyone will think we’re an old married couple.”

Then he had given her a wicked look from those sleepy handsome eyes of his — grey and darkly lashed. But the sleepy look was deceptive. Martin, as they all told Corrie at his office, was right on the ball. And so very good-looking with his thick fair hair, not too short, not too long, his attractive mouth and boyish gay smile. He was not tall. Of medium height and with the broad, strong shoulders of an athlete. He played excellent tennis when he got the chance. Corrie played less well but they enjoyed a set or two together.

Thinking of their plans for Madeira she said, “The only thing I have against all this gorgeous madness is that I’m not allowed to pay for my ticket. I’ve saved up quite a bit, you know.”

He smiled. “My precious. You must get used to me spending what money I have on you, and only you. In any case, my grandmother is financing us as one of our wedding presents.”

“You don’t think it will spoil the thrill — staying at Reid’s? I mean, we intend to have our real honeymoon there,” Corrie ventured a protest.

“I do not. It will increase the thrill of anticipation,” he answered.

Her pulses quickened and her cheeks burned.

“Oh, I love you so, Martin! I hate you going to Lisbon without me. I shall miss you so much.”

“I shall miss you. But look what we’ve got to look forward to!”

She laughed softly. “We’re old-fashioned really, don’t you agree we are? And romantic — more so than a lot of our friends? Some say today that romance is just an illusion.”

He gave her another all-embracing look and lifted his wine-glass.

“I give you a toast. To illusions! — may ours never be shattered.”

They drank deeply to that.

It was a tender, happy yearning kind of evening ending in the sitting room of the flat Corrie shared with her employer during the week. There Martin had held her tightly against him and they exchanged those long breathless kisses which at times he jokingly told her were bad for his nerves.

The next day he flew to Lisbon.

On this cold bright March morning, Corrie finished dressing, added a touch of coral-pink to her lips, and looking through the casement windows was glad to see that the frost was rapidly vanishing. The pale weak sunlight made her think with fresh longing of the golden sun that would shine on her once she landed at Madeira. It would be like early June over there, warm enough for them to swim in the heated pool at their hotel, if not in the sea.

She tidied her room feeling more cheerful. She would have a happy day with Ann — who had been less of an aunt than a friend or sister. Miss Williams was a delightful woman, fond of the young and particularly of Corrie.

The girl heard Ann’s pet — a Schnauzer, barking in the bedroom and called out, “Morning, Ann.”

“Morning, dear,” Miss Williams called back. “Let Zena out for me.”

The door opened and Zena the grey, soft-eyed Schnauzer bitch bounded out still barking.

Corrie took her downstairs.

THE TELEPHONE BELL WAS ringing. Corrie ran to the hall and answered the call. The rich throaty voice at the other end of the line was familiar. It was Martin’s much-loved grandmother.

“Good morning, pet.”

Lady Grey-Ewing, once-famous actress and dancer, was known to thousands in the thirties as Violetta Maye — leading lady in many successful musicals. Violetta had retired from the stage ten years ago. Now she was a widow of eighty, still sparkling, still attractive. At first meeting Corrie had quite fallen in love with her. Silver-haired, with her lined pretty little face, eyes as blue as forget-me-nots and petite figure — she wore up-to-date clothes and prided herself on being ‘with it’.

Martin had lived with his grandmother since her daughter, Vanessa — Martin’s mother — had married for the second time, a man Martin did not care for. They had gone to live permanently in Australia.

Violetta this morning was asking for news of her adored grandson.

“Did he phone you and are you still planning to meet him in Madeira?”

“Yes, darling, it’s booked, signed and sealed — thanks to your generosity. We’ll have at least three super days together.”

Violetta gave one of her chuckles. Corrie could visualise those incredibly blue eyes dancing with mischief behind the big horn-rimmed glasses.

“Permissive pair! Shame on you! I oughtn’t to countenance it. Staying in Reid’s Hotel and not even married.”

Corrie’s cheeks burned but her own eyes sparkled. She laughed. “I don’t think we’ll actually spoil the Great Day, dearest, and we are in separate rooms — but we can’t miss this opportunity. Martin so rarely gets any time off except his normal three weeks’ holiday. But the firm’s allowed him extra time, and thanks to you, darling, we’re able to afford it. Reid’s Hotel sounds so gorgeous.”

Now Corrie heard a sigh from Martin’s grandmother. “It is — and so nostalgic for me. I can hardly bear to think of me not being there with you. It was Bill’s and my honeymoon hotel!”

Hastily Corrie looked at the grandfather clock just behind her. Much as she adored Violetta, she couldn’t afford the time this morning to listen to a tale about the once-famous actress and the late Lord William Grey-Ewing when in Madeira. She had heard it so many times.

“Do forgive me, but I’ve got to get on, darling. I’m late with Ann’s breakfast —” Then as she heard the slither of envelopes through the letter box, “Hang on, I’ve just seen a telegram being pushed through the box. It must be from Martin. I’ll open it and see if there is any news.”

There were three lines. Enough to make her heart beat fast.

“All set for Sunday, 19th March. Meet me at Reid’s. I love you. Martin.”

Corrie repeated this to Violetta.

Lady Grey-Ewing squealed delightedly. “Terrific, my pet. Oh, how I envy you! Come up and have lunch — or dinner — before you go.”

“I will but I’ll have to hustle. He’s only given me forty-eight hours’ grace to get myself ready.”

“But you’ve got your ticket. I booked the 19th for you. Remember?”

“Yes, and you gave me the escudos, darling. You’ve been angelic.”

“I remember —” began Violetta but Corrie broke in.

“Oh, darling, forgive me, but I must go.”

As soon as Violetta rang off, Corrie telephoned her answer, addressing the wire to Martin’s hotel in Lisbon.

“I’ll be there. I love you.”

She felt light-hearted with happiness. Her next act was to go to her aunt’s room to tell her the exciting news.

She found Miss Williams just coming out of her bath.

“Going to be a good day, Corrie. Let’s get into East Grinstead before the crowds spoil the field.”

“I’m ready now. I’ll go down and make the coffee,” said Corrie.

Miss Williams buttoned up her shirt. A cigarette hung from her lower lip. She was a tall thin woman in her middle age. The reverse of Martin’s grandmother. There was very little of the feminine about Ann. She had large hands and feet and a bony face redeemed only by a pair of fine hazel eyes. She didn’t wear glasses. She boasted that she could see anything, any distance. She had all her own teeth, thick curly hair, and was rarely ill. An excellent sportswoman, she trained her horses with the help of a girl assistant and a stable-boy. Her foals were in great demand.

Since her childhood when she first came to live with her aunt, Corrie had rarely seen Ann (she was never allowed to call her aunt) wear anything but trouser-suits and polo-necked sweaters. There had been a time, once Martin came on the scene when Corrie wondered whether his grandmother and her aunt would ‘get on’. But once they met, the two women — so unalike — seemed to take to each other. Violetta warmly admired any woman who could do what Ann Williams had done. On very little capital she had made a fine business of her stables, and sent her orphaned niece to school on the proceeds. She had lost the only man she had ever cared for, through polio, and since then had cared for nothing but her horses. But Ann, secretly, envied Lady Grey-Ewing her beauty — faded though it was — her tiny figure, her wit and her charm. They became firm friends.

Corrie was devoted to her aunt. The ‘horsey’ atmosphere of Brabett’s Farm had never succeeded in destroying the girl’s natural femininity. And she had accepted the fact that Ann had little interest in pretty clothes or romance or other things the average woman enjoyed. Ann was just ‘a good sort’.

Usually she was already down in the stables at this hour but today her assistant was on duty. Ann could relax. She put on a blue tweed trouser-suit as she chatted to her niece. She was pleased the girl had heard from Martin. She knew Corrie had been on tenterhooks, waiting for this summons. Being more of a thrifty disposition than Lady Grey-Ewing, Ann had protested at first against the ‘ridiculous extravagance’ as she called it, of an expensive flight for only three days’ holiday. But Lord Grey-Ewing had left his wife plenty of money. Martin would inherit it, so Miss Williams had no worries about her niece’s future.

She couldn’t help noticing this morning how really beautiful Corrie looked. Excitement made her eyes brilliant. She was glowing.

True to type, Ann never flattered. With a grin, she scowled at the girl, “Now, now, don’t get the bit between your teeth. It never pays to bolt. Easy does it.”

“You can’t damp my spirits, you misery!” Corrie tossed her head.

“And you remind me of old Firelight,” grunted Miss Williams, “forever tossing her head and champing at the bit! Don’t get so het up.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Corrie laughed. “It’s all terrific. The day after tomorrow, I’ll be off on my pre-honeymoon holiday — Martin and Madeira. The two big M’s in my life.”

“Okay, now let’s get breakfast and get the car out,” said the practical Miss Williams, but under her toughness there lay an enduring affection for her niece.

She just didn’t believe anyone should be too sentimental and show it. Corrie’s effervescing spirits reminded Ann of her sister, Corrie’s mother. She had been just as beautiful and excitable. Poor pet — happily married, everything to live for and she and her husband had to go and die in a car-smash. Rotten luck. Enough to make one harden up. All a long time ago now, of course. Ann had looked after Corrie since she was seven. She had been a happy, friendly child and never looked back. Ann had no need to worry about the man she’d chosen. Martin Ashley was a good boy.

Corrie resigned herself to what she called ‘a lot of horsey talk’, and good-naturedly listened to her aunt rambling on about her stables during breakfast. Corrie knew all the names — Firelight — Chestnut King — Ebony Boy, the beautiful black horse she had just bought in Ireland. And the rest! Corrie liked them but in one way she knew she had disappointed Ann. She had never cared for riding.

This morning her thoughts circled like restless birds round and round Martin. She could not imagine any sort of life without him now. If he were to die suddenly, unexpectedly … people did … if she were to find herself alone forever in that long corridor of her nightmare — God! what a horrible idea. She wouldn’t be able to endure it, and she certainly would never find a substitute for him. She would want to die, too.

Corrie drank two cups of strong coffee and shut her mind to any such possibility.

Once in the car, on the way to East Grinstead, she cheered up, remembering Martin’s telegram. All was well. In forty-eight hours’ time they would be together.

She par. . .