‘Fauré,’ said Dr van Rijgen. ‘Magnificent, isn’t it? He is practising for the International Organists’ Contest.’
Fran’s eyes had flown open. ‘However did you get here?’ And then, absurdly, ‘Good afternoon, Dr van Rijgen. I was trying to remember the composer—the organist is playing like a man inspired.’
She studied his face for a moment; somehow he seemed quite friendly. ‘Do you live here?’
‘Utrecht.’
‘But that’s the other side of Amsterdam…’
‘Thirty-eight miles from here. Less than that; I don’t need to go to Amsterdam, there is a road south…’
She was aware that the music had become quiet and sad. ‘You have patients here?’
‘What a girl you are for asking questions. I came to see if you were enjoying your holiday.’
She goggled at him. ‘Whatever for? And how did you know where I was staying, anyway?’
He smiled slowly. ‘Oh, ways and means. Your cousin told me you would most probably be here. She most kindly invited me back for tea. I’ll drive you, but there’s time enough. Shall we wait till the end? The best part, I always think.’
Fran opened her mouth and then closed it again. What was there to say in the face of such arrogance, short of telling him to go away, not easily done in church, somehow? But why had he deliberately come looking for her? She sat and pondered the question while the organ thundered and swelled into a crescendo of sound and faded away to a kind of sad triumph.
Dr van Rijgen stirred. ‘Magnificent. Do you like our Grote Kirk?’
‘It’s breathtaking; I didn’t know it was so old…all those years building it. I must get a book about it.’
‘I have several at home; you must borrow one.’
Fran stood up and he stood up with her, which put her at an instant disadvantage for she had to look up to his face. ‘You want something, don’t you?’ she asked. ‘I mean,’ she hesitated and blushed. ‘You don’t—you aren’t interested in me as—as a person, are you?’
‘That, Francesca, is where you are mistaken. I should add that I have not fallen in love with you or any such foolishness, but as a person, yes, I am interested in you.’
‘Why?’
She spoke softly because there were people milling all round them now.
‘At the proper time I will tell you. Now, if you are ready, shall we go back to your cousin?’
She went ahead of him, down the length of the vast church, her mind in a fine muddle. But I don’t even like him, she reminded herself, and then frowned quite fiercely. Once or twice during their strange talk, she had liked him very much.
CHAPTER TWO
SHE paused outside the great entrance to the church and he touched her arm. ‘Over here, Francesca,’ he said and led her to a silver grey Daimler parked at the side. On the short drive to Clare’s flat he made casual conversation which gave Fran no chance to ask questions and once there she saw that she was going to have even less opportunity. Apparently whatever it was he wanted of her would be made clear in his own good time and not before. And since she had no intention of seeing him again while she was in Holland, he would presently get the surprise he deserved.
Her satisfaction was short-lived. She was astounded to hear him calmly telling Clare that he felt sure that she would like to see something of Holland while she was there, and would Clare mind if he came on the following day and took her guest for a run through the more rural parts of the country?
She was still struggling for words when she heard Clare’s enthusiastic, ‘What a marvellous idea! She’ll love it, won’t she, Karel?’
Just as though I’m not here, fumed Fran silently, and got as far as, ‘But I don’t…’
‘Oh, don’t mind leaving Clare for a day,’ said Karel. ‘I shall be taking her to the clinic tomorrow anyway—you go off and have fun.’ He gave her a kindly smile and Fran almost choked on the idea of having fun with Dr van Rijgen. Whatever it was he wanted of her would have nothing to do with fun. She amended the thought; perhaps not fun, but interesting? All the same, such high-handed behaviour wouldn’t do at all. She waited until there was a pause in the conversation. ‘I had planned to visit one or two places,’ she said clearly and was stopped by Dr van Rijgen.
‘Perhaps another day for those?’ he suggested pleasantly. ‘It would give me great pleasure to show you some small part of my country, Francesca.’
There was nothing to say in the face of that bland politeness. She agreed to go, the good manners the aunts had instilled into her from an early age standing her in good stead.
He left shortly after with the suggestion that he might call for her soon after nine o’clock the next morning.
‘Don’t you like him?’ asked Clare the moment the sound of his car had died away.
‘Well,’ observed Fran matter-of-factly, ‘I don’t really know him, do I? He gave us lectures when I was training and he’s given me instructions about patients on the wards… He was absolutely beastly to me when I was a student and I dozed off during one of his lectures. I think he laughs at me.’
Clare shot her a quick look, exchanged a lightning glance with Karel and said comfortably, ‘Oh, well, I should think he’s forgotten about that by now—or perhaps he is making amends.’
A fair girl, Fran said, ‘I shouldn’t have fallen asleep, you know—I expect it injured his ego.’
Clare gave a little chortle of laughter. ‘You know, love, once you’ve got to know each other, I think you and Dr van Rijgen might have quite a lot in common. He’s very well known over here; did you know that?’
‘No. He comes to Bristol to lecture on tropical diseases, that’s all I know about him.’
‘Well, he goes to London and Edinburgh and Birmingham and Vienna and Brussels—you name it and he has been there. A very clever laddie.’
Fran had turned her head to look out of the window; Fran was a dear and Clare studied her… She was a thought old-fashioned but that was the aunts’ fault, and save for her lovely eyes she had no looks to speak of. But, her hair was fine and long, and her figure was good, if a trifle plump. Clare, with all the enthusiasm of the newly wed, scented romance.
There was no romance apparent the following morning. Dr van Rijgen arrived exactly when he said he would, spent five minutes or so charming Clare—there was no other word for it, thought Fran indignantly—and then led the way to his car.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Fran and, when he didn’t answer at once, ‘where are you taking me?’
He was driving south, through the country roads criss-crossing the duinen so that he might avoid Haarlem, and there was very little traffic about. He pulled in to the side of the road and turned to look at her. ‘Shall we clear the air, Francesca? You sound like the heroine in a romantic thriller. I’m not taking you anywhere, not in the sense that you imply. We shall drive across country, avoiding the motorways so that you may be able to see some of the more rural parts of Holland, and then we shall go to my home because I should like you to meet someone there.’
‘Your wife,’ said Fran instantly.
‘My wife is dead.’ He started up the car once more. ‘On our right you can just get a glimpse of Heemstede, a suburb of Haarlem and very pleasant. And down the road is Vogelenzang, a quite charming stretch of wooded dunes; we must go there one day to hear the