Then the voice said into my ear: ‘No, he’s not here. Who’s that wanting him?’
‘Is he likely to be in tonight?’
‘Perhaps.’ Was I being jumpy, or was it suspicion that put the edge on that unfriendly voice? ‘He didn’t say. If you ring back in half-an-hour. … Who is that speaking, please?’
I said: ‘Thanks very much. I’ll do that. I’m sorry to have—’
The voice said, harsh and sharp: ‘Where are you speaking from?’
Suspicion. It bit like an adder. If I didn’t answer they could trace the call. I didn’t stop to ask myself why they should. It was enough for me that the Coq Hardi was on Valmy land and that presumably the news would reach the château just as quickly as wires could carry it. If I could let them think I was safe for another half-hour …
I said pleasantly, with no perceptible hesitation: ‘From Évian. The Cent Fleurs. Don’t trouble Monsieur Blake. I’ll ring him up later on. Thank you so much.’
And right in the teeth of another question I rang off.
I stood for a moment looking unseeingly at the telephone, biting my lip. Needless to say I had no intention of waiting to ring up again, but in putting off pursuit I had also put off William Blake. If he got my message at all, and if he was aware of the story that must by now be rife in Soubirous, he might realise I needed help and set straight off for Évian and the huge crowded floor of the Cent Fleurs, which certainly wouldn’t remember if a young woman accompanied by a small boy had used the telephone at some time during the evening.
Somehow I was very sure of William Blake’s desire – and solid capacity – to help. Now I had had to cut myself off from that, and only now did I realise how much I had depended on the comfort of his company when the inevitable showdown came. I was well aware that even the interview with Hippolyte wouldn’t be altogether plain sailing. Never before had I felt so miserably in need of a friend – someone who, even if they could do nothing, would simply be there. I gave myself a mental shake, I mustn’t start this. Just because, for a few short hours, I had laid flesh and spirit in other hands, I didn’t have to feel so forsaken now. I’d hoed my own row for long enough – well, it seemed I must go on doing just that. What one has never really had, one never misses. Or so they say.
I went back to my table, unwrapped three lumps of sugar, and drank my coffee black and far too sweet. The benedictine I drank with appreciation but, I’m afraid, a lack of respect. It was the effect, and not the drink I craved. I took it much too quickly, with half a wary eye on the card-players in the other corner.
Then, just as they were nicely involved in a new round of betting, I quietly paid the waiter, nodded a good night to Madame and went (unfollowed except by Philippe) out of the café.
18
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the onset come …
Shakespeare: Sonnet 90.
The Villa Mireille stood right on the shore of Lac Léman. It was one of a row of large wealthy houses – châteaux, almost – which bordered the lakeside, being served to landward by a narrow pretty road some two hundred feet below the town’s main boulevards. Most of the houses stood in large gardens plentifully treed and guarded from the road by high walls and heavy gates.
It was dark when we reached the Villa Mireille. The gate was shut and as our steps paused outside there was the rattle of a heavy chain within, and a dog set up a deep barking.
‘That’s Beppo,’ whispered Philippe.
‘Does he know you?’
‘No – I don’t know. I’m frightened of him.’
Here the door of the concierge’s lodge opened, and the light from it rushed up the trees that made a crowded darkness beyond the gate. A woman’s voice called something, shrilly. The barking subsided into a whining growl. The door shut and the trees retreated into murky shadow.
I said: ‘Is there another way in?’
‘You can get in from the lake-shore. The garden runs right down, and there’s a boat-house. But I don’t know the way down along the lake.’
‘We’ll find it.’
‘Are we going further?’ His voice was alarmed and querulous; tears of pure fatigue were not far away.
‘Only to find a way down to the lake. We can’t go in past Beppo and Madame – what did you say her name was?’
‘Vuathoux.’
‘Well, unless you’d like to go straight to her—’
‘No.’
I said: ‘You’d be safe, Philippe.’
‘She would telephone my Uncle Léon, wouldn’t she?’
‘Almost certainly.’
‘And my cousin Raoul would come?’
‘It’s possible.’
He looked at me. ‘I would rather wait for my Uncle Hippolyte. You said we could.’
‘All right. We’ll wait.’
‘Would you rather wait for my Uncle Hippolyte?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then,’ said Philippe, swallowing, ‘perhaps we will find the way quickly?’
We did – three houses along from the Villa Mireille. A small wicket, swinging loose, gave onto a dim shrubbery, and as we slipped cautiously inside we could see the dim bulk of a house looming unlighted among its misty trees. No dog barked. We crept unchallenged down a long winding path, along beside a high paling bordering an open stretch of grass, and eventually once again between big trees towards the murmur of the lake.
Neither moon nor stars showed tonight. Over the water mist lay patchily, here thick and pale against the dark distances, here no more than a haze veiling the lake’s surface as breath mists a dark glass, here as faint as the sheen that follows a finger stroking dark velvet. Long transparent drifts of vapour wreathed up from the water and reached slow fingers across the narrow shore towards the trees. The water lapped hollowly on the shingle beside us as we crunched our way back towards the Villa’s garden. The night was not cold, but the water breathed a chill into the air, and the slowly-curling veils of mist brushed us with a damp that made me shiver.
‘That’s the boat-house,’ whispered Philippe. ‘I know where the key’s kept. Are we going to go in?’
The boat-house was a small square two-storeyed building set, of course, over the water, at the head of an artificial bay made by two curving stone jetties. The shore was very narrow here, and from the yard-wide strip of shingle rose the steep bank crowded with trees that edged the grounds of the Villa Mireille. The rear wall of the boat-house was almost built up against this bank, and the beeches hung their branches right over the roof. Mist and darkness blurred the details, but the general effect of desertion, looming trees, and lapping water was not just exactly what the moment demanded for Philippe and me.
I said briskly: ‘I want to go up through the garden and take a look at the house. For all we know he’s already here. Would you like to stay in the boat-house? You could lock yourself in, and we’d have a secret signal—’
‘No,’ said Philippe again.
‘All right. You can scout up the garden with me. Very carefully, mind.’
‘Madame Vuathoux is deaf,’ said Philippe.
‘Maybe. But Beppo isn’t. Come on, petit.’
The bank was steep and slippery with clay and wet leaves that lay in drifts between the roots of the beeches. Above it was the rough grass of a small parkland studded with more of the great trees. We crept softly from one huge trunk to the next; the spring grass was soft and damp underfoot, and there was, incongruously, the smell of violets. Elms now, and horse-chestnuts. I could feel the rough bark of the one, and the sticky buds of the other licked at my hand. The hanging fronds of willow brushed us wetly, clung, hindered us. We pushed through into a grove of willows as thick as a tent, and paused. We were almost at the house now. The willows curtained the edges of a formal lawn; the terrace of the house lay beyond this, thirty yards away. Near us was the metallic gleam of a small pool and I could see something that looked like a sta
tue leaning over it.
I took Philippe’s hand and we crept softly up behind the plinth of the statue, where the willows hung like an arras down to the water’s surface. I pulled the trailing stems aside and scanned the facade of the house. None of the windows showed light, but there appeared to be a lamp over the front door, illuminating the drive. The door itself was out of our range of vision, but the glow of the lamp showed part of a circular gravel sweep, and banks of rhododendrons. Up here the mist was still only a blurring of the air, a thickening of the lamplight that lay like hoar-frost on the wet leaves.
I said softly: ‘The windows on the terrace. What room’s that?’
‘The salon. It’s never used. My Uncle Hippolyte has his study upstairs. The end window. There’s no light in it.’
I looked up at it. ‘Then I’m afraid he’s not home yet.’
‘Are we going in?’
I thought for a moment. ‘Where’s the back door?’
‘Round the other side, near the lodge.’
‘And near Beppo? Then that’s out. And I doubt if there are any windows open. And there’s that light over the front door … No, Philippe, I think we’ll wait. What do you think?’
‘Yes. I – there’s a car!’
His hand gripped mine almost painfully. The road was not more than twenty yards away on our right. A car was coming along it, slowing down rapidly through its gears. Brakes squealed. A door slammed. Footsteps. A bell clanged. Seconds later through the clamour of the dog we heard the chink of iron and the squeak of a hinge, as Madame Vuathoux hastened to open the gates.
Philippe’s grip tightened. ‘My Uncle Hippolyte!’
A man’s voice said something indistinguishable beyond the banked shrubs.
‘No,’ I said on a caught breath. ‘Raoul.’
The cold hand jerked in mine. I heard the concierge say, in the loud toneless voice of the very deaf: ‘No, monsieur. Nothing, monsieur. And has there been no trace of them found?’
He said curtly: ‘None. Are you sure they couldn’t have got in here? This is where they’ll make for, that’s certain. Is the back door locked?’
‘No, monsieur, but I can see it from my window. Nobody has been there. Or to the front. Of that I am sure.’
‘The windows?’
‘Locked, monsieur.’
‘No telephone call? Nothing?’
‘Nothing, monsieur.’
There was a pause. In it I could hear my own heart hammering.
‘All the same,’ he said, ‘I’ll have a look round. Leave the gates open, please. I’m expecting Bernard here any minute.’
Another heart-hammering pause. Then the car started up and the lights turned in slowly off the road, slithering metallically across the sharp leaves of the rhododendrons. He parked it in front of the door, and got out. I heard him run up the steps, and then the door shut behind him. The dog still whimpered and growled a little. Back at the lodge, the concierge called something to it, and after a few moments it fell silent.
I felt the cold hand twitch in mine. I looked down. The child’s face was a blur with great dark pools for eyes. I whispered: ‘Keep close behind the statue. He may put some lights on.’
I had hardly spoken before the salon windows blazed to brilliant oblongs, and the light leaped out across the terrace to touch the lawn. We were still in shadow. We waited, tense behind the statue. It was the figure of a boy, naked, leaning over to look at himself in the pool; a poised, exquisite Narcissus, self-absorbed, self-complete …
Room after room leaped into light, was quenched. We followed his progress through the house; light and then black darkness. The windows on the terrace facing us remained lit. Finally they were the only ones. He came to one of the long windows, opened it, and stepped out onto the terrace. His shadow leaped across the lawn to the edge of the water. He stood there for a minute or two, very still, staring at the night. I put a gentle hand on Philippe’s head, pushing it down so that no faint probe of light would touch his face. We were crouching now. My cheek was against the stone of the plinth. It was cold and smooth and smelt of lichen. I didn’t dare lift my head to look at Raoul. I watched the tip of his shadow.
Suddenly it was gone. In the same moment I heard another car came fast along the road. Lights swept in at the gate. The salon windows went black, blank. I lifted my head and waited straining my ears.
Steps on the gravel. Raoul’s voice, still on the terrace, saying: ‘Bernard?’
‘Monsieur?’ The newcomer came quickly round the corner of the house. I heard Raoul descending the terrace steps. He said in that quick hard voice he had used to Madame Vuathoux: ‘Any sign?’
‘None, monsieur, but—’
I heard Raoul curse under his breath. ‘Did you go back to the hut?’
‘Yes. They weren’t there. But they’d been, I swear they—’
‘Of course they had. The Englishman was up there last night till midnight. I know that. They’d go to find him. Have you found out where he is?’
‘He’s not back yet. He went out with a party up to the plantation beyond Bois-Roussel early this morning and they’re not back yet. But, monsieur, I was trying to tell you. I rang up just now, and they told me she’d telephoned him at the Coq Hardi. She—’
‘She telephoned him?’ The words flashed. ‘When?’
‘Thirty to forty minutes ago.’
‘Sacré dieu.’ I heard his breath go out. ‘Where was she speaking from?’ Did the fools think to ask?’
‘Yes, indeed, m’sieur. They had heard the scandal from Jules, you understand, and—’
‘Where was she speaking from?
‘The Cent Fleurs, in Évian. They said—’
‘Half-an-hour ago?’
‘Or three-quarters. No more.’
‘Then the Englishman can’t have heard anything. He must be still away with the party. She’s not with him yet.’
He turned away abruptly and Bernard with him. Their voices faded but I heard him say roughly: ‘Get over to Évian immediately with that car. I’m going myself. We have to find them, and quickly. Do you hear me? Find them.’
Bernard said something that sounded surly and defensive, and I heard Raoul curse him again. Then the voices faded round the corner of the house. Seconds later the Cadillac’s engine started, and her lights swept their circle out of the driveway. The dog was barking once more. Madame Vuathoux must have come out of her cottage at the sound of the second car, for I heard Bernard speak to her, and she answered him in that high, overpitched voice: ‘He said he’d be here at twelve. Twelve at the latest.’
Then Bernard, too, was gone. I lifted my head from the cold plinth and slid an arm round Philippe. I waited for a moment.
Philippe said, with excitement colouring the thin whisper: ‘He’s coming at twelve. Did you hear?’
‘Yes. I don’t suppose it’s far off nine now. Only three more hours to wait, mon gars. And they’ve gone chasing off to Évian.’
‘He came down the terrace steps. He must have left a window open. Shall we go in?’
I hesitated, then said dully: ‘No. Only three more hours, Let’s play it quite safe and go back and lock ourselves in the boat-house.’
The boat-house looked, if possible, rather more dismal than before. Philippe vanished round the back of it and after a minute reappeared with a key which he displayed with a rather wan air of triumph.
‘Good for you,’ I said. ‘Lead the way, mon lapin.’
He went cautiously up the steep outside stair to the loft over the boats. The treads were slippery with moss and none too safe. He bent over the door, and I heard the key grate round in the lock. The door yawned, creaking a little, on a black interior from which came the chill breath of dust and desertion.
‘Refuge,’ I said, with a spurious cheerfulness that probably didn’t deceive Philippe at all, and switched on the torch with caution.
The loft, thank heaven, was dry. But that was its only attraction. It was a cheerless little black box
of a place, a dusty junk-hole crowded with the abandoned playthings of forgotten summers. I found later that one of the concrete piers of the harbour had a flat platform in its shelter which in happier days made a small private lido. Here in the loft had been carelessly thrust some of the trappings that in July’s sunshine were so amusingly gay; striped canvas chairs, a huge folded umbrella of scarlet and dusty orange, various grubby objects which looked as if, well beaten and then inflated, they might be air-cushions, a comical duck, a sausage-like horse with indigo spots … Seen by torchlight in the chilly April dark, with a vigil ahead of us and fear at our elbow, they looked indescribably dreary and grotesque.
There was a small square window low down in the shoreward wall. I propped a canvas chair across it to conceal the torchlight from a possible prowler, then turned to lock the door.
Philippe said dolefully behind me. ‘What are we going to do till twelve o’clock?’
‘Failing Peggitty and chess,’ I said cheerfully, ‘sleep. I really don’t see why you shouldn’t. You must be worn out, and there’s nothing now to worry you and keep you awake.’
‘No,’ he said a little doubtfully, then his voice lightened. ‘I shall sleep in the boat.’
‘Little cabbage, the boat isn’t there. Besides, how wet. Now up here,’ I said falsely, gesturing with the torch towards the dreary pile, ‘it’s much nicer. Perhaps we can find—’
‘Here it is.’ And Philippe had darted past me and was pulling out from under three croquet mallets, a half-deflated beach-ball and a broken oar, a flat yellowish affair that looked like a cyclist’s mackintosh.
‘What in the wide world –?’ I said.
‘The boat.’
‘Oh. Oh, I see. Is it a rubber dinghy? I’ve never seen one.’
He nodded and spread his unappetising treasure out on the unoccupied half of the floor. ‘You blow it up. Here’s the tube. You blow into that and the sides come up and it’s a boat. I want to sleep in it.’
I was too thankful that he had found something to occupy him to object to this harmless whim.