His mouth relaxed a little. ‘I apologise. But you gave me a shock. Go on. Explain yourself.’
I drank sherry, regarding him straightly. ‘It’s only that I can’t quite see how it could have been pure accident. The place was so open and he must have been able to hear us fairly easily. I think it was some silly prank – some youth, perhaps, showing off or trying to startle us. And he got nearer than he meant to, and then was so scared of what he’d done that he made off.’
‘I see.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘You had better fill in the details for me. Exactly where were you?’
‘We went down the path that short-cuts the zigzag towards the Valmy bridge. We left it about halfway down, where you cross a deep ravine and turn right down the valley.’
‘I know it. There’s a cascade and a trout-pool.’
Some fleeting surprise must have shown in my face, for he said quietly: ‘I have lived at Valmy all my life, Miss Martin.’
It was an almost physical effort to keep from looking at the picture above our heads. I said quickly: ‘Of course. Well, you know how the path runs along the hillside down the valley? After about half a mile it’s quite wide, and flat, and there are thick trees on the left going down towards the river, but on the right, above you, they thin out.’
‘I know. An open ride, with grass and beech rising to a ridge of rock. Above the rock is the planted forest.’
I nodded. ‘The pines are about twenty feet high now, and very thick. We were going along the path; Philippe was singing and hopping about ahead of me, not looking where he was going.’
‘Fortunately, it seems,’ said Léon de Valmy dryly.
‘Yes. Well, just as he tripped and fell flat, a bullet went slap into the tree that had tripped him, and I heard the report from above us, to the right.’
‘From the ridge?’
‘I suppose so. It was the best cover, and where it happened there was nothing between us and the ridge except brambles and a few stumps covered with honeysuckle.’
‘You saw nothing?’
‘Nothing. I shouted, and then, of course, I had to attend to Philippe. I suppose I assumed that whoever it was would have had a bad fright, and would come pelting down to see if we were hurt. But he didn’t. I’d have gone up to investigate, only I thought I ought to get Philippe straight home.’
He was watching me curiously. ‘You would have done that?’
‘Of course. Why not?’
He said slowly: ‘You are a courageous young woman, are you not?’
‘Where’s the courage? We both know it couldn’t have been deliberate. Why should I be afraid of a fool?’
A pause, then all at once his face lighted with that extraordinarily charming smile. ‘A young woman might well be afraid to approach a fool armed with a rifle. Don’t be angry with me, mademoiselle. It was meant as a compliment.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I swallowed, and said as an afterthought: ‘Thank you.’
He smiled again. ‘Tell me, just how much do you know about guns?’
‘Nothing whatever.’
‘I thought as much. You seem, when you talk of an “accident”, to be picturing a singularly unlikely one. You think, in fact, that this fool with the gun fired more or less at random through the trees at a barely-seen target, or even at a sound?’
‘Yes. And I can’t quite see how he didn’t know—’
‘Exactly. The place was open and you said Philippe was shouting or singing.’
‘Yes. That’s why I thought it must have been meant as a joke.’
‘Some unauthorised youth with a talent for excitement? Hardly. No, the explanation’s far simpler than that. An “accident” with a gun usually only means one thing – a carelessly-held gun, a stumble (as Philippe stumbled) over a stone or a root … and the gun goes off. I think, myself, that he must have seen Philippe fall, and have thought he had hit him. So … he panicked, and ran away.’
‘Yes, of course. That does seem to be the answer.’
‘Well, you can be sure it’ll be looked into. The culprit may even come forward when he hears that no damage was done – but personally I don’t think he will.’ The long fingers toyed with the glass. He said, kindly (it could surely not be amusement that so faintly warmed his voice?): ‘My poor child, you’ve had a strenuous couple of days, haven’t you? We’re very grateful to you, my wife and I, for your care of Philippe. I’m sorry it’s been such a frightening burden today.’
‘It’s not a burden. And I’m very happy here.’
‘Are you? I’m glad. And don’t worry any more about this business. After all, whether we find the man or not, it’s not likely to happen again. His Philippe got over his fright?’
‘I think so.’
‘There’s no need to call a doctor, or take any measures of that kind?’
‘Oh no. He’s perfectly all right now. I doubt if he really knows how – how near it was. He seemed quite happy when I left him, but I did have to promise to go back and play a game before bed-time.’
‘Then I won’t keep you. But finish your sherry first, won’t you?’
I obeyed him, then set the glass down and said carefully: ‘Monsieur de Valmy, before I go, I have a confession to make.’
An eyebrow lifted. I was right. It was amusement.
I said: ‘No, I’m serious. I – I’ve been deceiving you and Madame de Valmy, and I can’t do it any longer. I’ve got to tell you.’
The glint was still there. He said gravely: ‘I’m listening. How have you deceived us?’
I said, in French: ‘This is how I’ve deceived you, monsieur – ever since I came into the house, and I think it’s high time I came clean.’
There was a short silence.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘Not just good French, either; the French of France, Miss Martin. Well, let’s have it. Come clean.’
The murder was out. It was over. My useless deception was confessed, and nothing had happened except that Léon de Valmy had laughed rather a lot – not only at the shifts I had been put to, but at the idea that my job should be contingent on an ignorance of French. Shamefacedly, I laughed with him, only too ready, in my relief, to admit my own folly. But …
Somewhere, deep inside me, something was protesting faintly. But …
But now the Demon King laughed good-temperedly, and, thankfully, I laughed with him.
It was into this scene of hilarity that Raoul de Valmy came a few moments later. I didn’t hear him come in until he said from the door: ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were engaged.’
‘It’s all right,’ said his father. ‘Come in.’
With a click, the lights sprang to life. Raoul came round the bookcase into the bay where we sat. ‘I’ve just got in—’ he began, then saw me sitting there, and paused.
‘Good evening, mademoiselle.’ He glanced from me to his father. ‘I believe you wanted to see me, sir?’
I got quickly to my feet.
‘I was just going,’ I said. I spoke in French, and I saw Raoul’s brows lift, but he made no comment. Then I paused, glancing back diffidently at my employer. ‘Perhaps Monsieur Raoul has found something about the shooting? Has he been out to look for this man?’
‘No,’ said Monsieur de Valmy. He nodded a pleasant dismissal. ‘Well, Miss Martin, thank you for coming. Goodnight.’
‘Shooting?’ said Raoul sharply.
He was speaking to me. I hesitated and looked uncertainly at Monsieur de Valmy. Raol said again: ‘What’s this about shooting? Who should I have been looking for?’
‘Oh,’ I said awkwardly – I had, after all, been already dismissed the library – ‘I thought perhaps … then you don’t know what happened this afternoon?’
Raoul had moved between his father’s chair and the fireplace and was reaching for the sherry decanter.
‘No. What did happen?’
Léon said coldly: ‘Some fool out with a rifle in the woods has narrowly missed killing your cousin.’
Raoul’s he
ad jerked up at that. Some sherry splashed. ‘What? Philippe? Someone shot at Philippe?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Was he hurt?’
‘He wasn’t touched.’
Raoul straightened, glass in hand, his shoulders back against the mantel. He looked from one to the other of us. ‘What did the chap think he was doing?’
‘That,’ said his father, ‘is what we would like to know.’ He tilted his head back to look at his son. ‘You’ve been out, you say. Did you see anyone?’
‘No.’
‘What way did you go?’
‘East. I told you I was going up through the new plantations. I went up from the kitchen gardens. I never saw a soul. Where did it happen?’
‘On the track through the beechwood, half a mile north of the bridge.’
‘I know the place.’ He looked at me. ‘This is – shocking. He really wasn’t hurt at all?’
‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘He fell down, and the bullet missed him.’
‘And you? I take it you were there?’
‘I was with him. It didn’t go near me.’
He stood looking down at the glass between his fingers, then set it carefully on the mantelpiece beside him. ‘Don’t go yet, please. Sit down again. D’you mind telling me just what happened?’
Once more I told the story. He listened without moving, and his father leaned back in his chair, one hand playing with the stem of his empty glass, watching us both. When I had finished Raoul said, without turning his head: ‘I assume you have the matter in hand?’
For a moment I thought he was speaking to me, and looked up, surprised, but Léon de Valmy answered: ‘I have,’ and proceeded to outline the various instructions he had given by telephone. Raoul listened, his head bent now, staring into the fire, and I sat back in my chair and watched the two of them, wondering afresh at the queer twisted relationship that was theirs. Today all seemed quite normal between them; last night’s perverted cut-and-thrust might never have been. The two voices, so alike; the two faces, so alike and yet so tragically different … my eyes lifted to the devil-may-care young face above the mantelpiece, with the pictured smile and the careless hand on the pony’s bridle. No, it wasn’t Raoul; it could never have been Raoul. There was something in his face, something dark and difficult that could never have belonged to the laughing careless boy in the picture. I had the feeling, watching Raoul as he talked to his father, that the young man of the picture would have been easier to know …
I came back to reality with a jerk. Léon de Valmy was saying: ‘We seem to treat our employees a little roughly. I would have liked to persuade Miss Martin to take the evening off, but she feels it her duty to entertain Philippe.’
‘I must,’ I said. ‘I promised.’
‘Then go out afterwards. Not’ – that flash of charm again – ‘for a walk, as we seem so determined at Valmy to dog you with malice, but why not shake our dangerous dust from your feet, Miss Martin, and go down to Thonon? It’s not late. A café, a cinema—’
‘By the time she has put Philippe to sleep there’ll be no buses to Thonon,’ said Raoul.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said quickly, surprised at the desire to escape that had swept over me. An evening outside Valmy – supper in a crowd, lights, voices, music, the common comings-and-goings of café and street – suddenly I longed desperately for these. I had had enough of drama this last two days. I got to my feet, this time decisively.
‘It’s very kind of you, but I did promise Philippe, and he’s been upset … I mustn’t disappoint him. I’ll rest after dinner.’
‘Tea alone in your room again and an early bed?’ Raoul straightened his shoulders. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go out?’
‘Well, I—’ I hesitated, laughing. ‘I can’t, can I?’
‘There are two cars at Valmy, and the requisite number of people to drive them.’ He glanced down at Léon. ‘I think we owe Miss Martin her escape, don’t you?’
‘Assuredly. But I’m afraid Jeannot has the big car in Geneva on my business, and the shooting-brake isn’t back yet from the sawmill.’
‘Well,’ said Raoul, ‘there’s mine.’ He looked at me. ‘Do you drive?’
‘No. But look, you mustn’t think – I wouldn’t dream—’
‘You know,’ said Raoul to the ceiling, ‘she’s pining to go. Aren’t you?’
I gave up. ‘It would be heaven.’
‘Then take my car.’ He looked at his father. ‘You can spare Bernard to drive it?’
‘Of course.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Out. I sent him straight away to look for traces of this fool with the gun, but it’s dusk now so he should be back. No doubt he’ll be in soon to report … That’s settled, then. Excellent. It only remains for me to wish you – what, Miss Martin? A pleasant evening, an evening to remember?’
I said, thinking of Philippe’s face streaked with mud and tears: ‘I thought it was to be an evening to forget.’
Léon de Valmy laughed.
Raoul crossed the room and opened the door for me.
‘At eight, then?’
‘Thank you. Yes.’
‘I’ll see he’s there. I – er, I gather we now speak French?’
I said, low-voiced: ‘I told him just now.’
I didn’t add that I was pretty sure my confession had been quite unnecessary. The Demon King had known already.
* * *
Punctually at eight the lights of the car raked the darkness beyond the balcony rail. Philippe was already sound asleep, and Berthe sat sewing beside the fire in my sitting-room. It was with a light step and a light heart that I ran downstairs towards my unexpected evening of freedom.
The Cadillac was standing there, its engine running. The driver, a tall silhouette against the lights, waited by the off front door. I got in and he slammed it after me, walked round the front of the car, and slid into his seat beside me.
‘You?’ I said. ‘That wasn’t in the bond, was it?’
The car glided forward, circled, and dived smoothly into the zigzag. Raoul de Valmy laughed.
‘Shall we talk French?’ he said in that language. ‘It’s the language I always take girls out in. Construe.’
‘I only meant that I don’t see why you should chauffeur me. Couldn’t you find Bernard?’
‘Yes, but I didn’t ask him. Do you mind?’
‘Of course not. It’s very nice of you.’
‘To follow my own inclinations? I warn you,’ he said lightly, ‘I always do. It’s my modus vivendi.’
‘Why “warn”? Are they ever dangerous?’
‘Sometimes.’ I expected him to smile on the word, but he didn’t. The light mood seemed to have dropped from him, and he drove for a while in an abstracted, almost frowning silence. I sat there rather shyly, my hands in my lap, watching the road twist and swoop up to meet us.
The car dropped down the last arm of the zigzag, turned carefully off the bridge and gathered speed on the valley road.
He spoke at length in a formal, almost cool tone. ‘I’m sorry you should have had such a bad two days.’
‘Two days?’
‘I was thinking about last night’s episode on the bridge back there.’
‘Oh, that.’ I gave a little laugh. ‘D’you know, I’d almost forgotten it.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. But perhaps that’s only because what happened this afternoon has overridden it. You seem to have got over your scare now.’ He threw me a quick glance and said abruptly: ‘Were you scared?’
‘Today? Ye-es. Yes, I was. Not of being shot or anything, because that part was over before I knew anything about it, but somehow – just scared.’ I twisted my fingers together in my lap, thinking back to that heart-stopping point of time, trying to explain. ‘I think it was the moment when I heard the shot and there was Philippe flat on the path … the moment before I realised he wasn’t hurt. It seemed to last for ever. Just the silence after the shot,
and the world spinning round out of gear with no noise but the tops of the trees sweeping the air the way you hear a car’s tyres when the engine’s off.’
We were sailing up the curve towards Belle Surprise. The trees streamed by, a moment drenched in our flowing gold, then livid, fleeing, gone. I said: ‘Have you ever thought, when something dreadful happens, “a moment ago things were not like this; let it be then, not now, anything but now”? And you try and try to remake then, but you know you can’t. So you try to hold the moment quite still and not let it move on and show itself. It was like that.’
‘I know. But it hadn’t happened after all.’
‘No.’ I let out a long unsteady breath. ‘It was still then. I – I don’t think I’ll forget the moment when Philippe moved as long as I live.’
Another of those quick glances. ‘And afterwards?’
‘Afterwards I was angry. So blazing angry I could have killed someone.’
‘It takes people that way,’ he said.
‘Because they’ve been scared? I know. But it wasn’t only that. If you’d seen Philippe’s face—’. I was seeing it myself a little too clearly. I said, as if somehow I had to explain: ‘He’s so quiet, Philippe. It’s – it’s all wrong that he should be so quiet. Little boys shouldn’t be like that. And today was better; he was playing the fool in that silly maddening way children have, shouting rubbish and hopping about, only I was so pleased to see him like that that I didn’t mind. And then … out of the blue … that beastliness. And there was mud on his face and he didn’t want to stop to look at the trout and then he – he cried.’ I stopped then. I bit my lip and looked away from him out of the window.
‘Don’t talk about it any more if you’d rather not.’
‘It … gets me a bit. But I feel better now I’ve told someone.’ I managed a smile. ‘Let’s forget it, shall we?’
‘That’s what we came out for.’ He smiled suddenly, and said with an abrupt, almost gay change of tone: ‘You’ll feel quite different when you’ve had dinner. Have you got your passport?’