I saw them vanish at the top under the château’s bright windows. William accelerated, and we shot down the last hill, met a wall of mist bonnet-high, slowed, sank down to second for the turn onto the bridge – and then stopped short, with brakes squealing.
I said breathlessly: ‘What is it?’
‘Can two cars pass on that road?’
‘The zigzag? No. But—’
He nodded towards it. I followed his gaze and said: ‘Oh, dear Lord,’ on a dreary little sob. A car had nosed its way down off the driveway and was talking the first hairpin with some caution. It got round, and came on its decorous way down …
‘Where are you going?’ asked William sharply.
I was fumbling with the door. ‘There’s a path straight up from the bridge through the wood … steps … I think I could—’
He reached across and his hand closed over mine. ‘Don’t be silly. You’d break your heart and I’d still be there before you. Sit still.’
‘But William—’
‘My dear girl, I know. But there’s nothing else to do.’ His voice was calm. ‘Look, he’s nearly down. Sit still.’
I was shaking uncontrollably. ‘Of course. It – it doesn’t matter to you, does it?’
His eyes were grave and gentle. ‘And it does to you? It really does?’
I said nothing. The descending car swung round the last bend, and her lights sank towards the bridge. There was mist lying as it had lain that night.
William said gently: ‘I’m sorry, Linda.’
The car was crossing the bridge, nosing through the mist. It paused, and moved out into the road with a lamentable crash of gears. William’s hand shifted and the Chevrolet leaped for the gap and went over the bridge with the mist flying out from the headlamps like spray in the teeth of a destroyer.
For a fleeting second before the cliff cut it off from view I lifted my eyes and saw the Château Valmy, brightly lit against the night sky. That was what William meant; I knew it. The castle in the air, the Cinderella-dream – nonsense for a night. Banquets abroad by torchlight, music, sports, nine coaches waiting!
Not for you, Linda my girl. You get yourself back to Camden Town.
The Chevrolet lurched up and round the final curve, and skidded wildly as her wheels met the gravel of the drive. She came to a rocking halt just behind the parked Cadillac.
There was another car in the drive and a van of sorts, but I hardly noticed them. I had my door open before our wheels had shrieked to a stop, and was out and stumbling up the steps to the great door.
Seddon was in the hall. He started forward when he saw me and I heard him say: ‘Oh, Miss Martin—’ but I fled past him as if he didn’t exist, and down the long corridor that led to the library.
The door was slightly ajar and a light showed. As I reached it my panic courage spilt out of me like wine from a smashed glass and I stopped dead with my hands actually on the panels ready to push.
Inside the room there was no sound.
I pushed the door open softly, took three steps into the room, and stopped short.
There were several men in the room, but I only saw two of them.
Raoul de Valmy was standing with his back to the door, staring down at his father.
For once Léon de Valmy was not in his wheelchair. He had fallen forward and out of it onto the floor. His body lay clumsily, pulled a little crooked by whatever harness he wore under his clothes. His head was turned to one side, his cheek against the carpet. His face was smooth, wiped clean of every line and shadow; beauty and evil had emptied themselves from it together. Now there was nothing there at all.
From where I was you could hardly see the blackened hole in the temple.
I would have fallen where I stood but that William’s arms came round me from behind and swept me up and out of the silent room.
Ninth Coach
21
Look you, the stars shine still.
John Webster: The Duchess of Malfi.
… Warmth, and the sound of liquid, and the smell of azaleas … And someone was patting my hand. But there was no music, and the voice that said my name was not Florimond’s. Nor was Raoul there waiting to sweep me out onto the terrace and under the moon …
William said: ‘Here, Linda, drink this.’
The liquid burned sourly on my tongue and made me gasp. I opened my eyes.
I was in the small salon, lying on the sofa before the fire. Someone had made this up recently. Tongues of pale flame licked round the new logs. I stared at them dazedly. I had never fainted before, and the memory of the roaring dizziness frightened me and I put an unsteady hand up to my eyes. The salon still swam round me, too bright and a little out of focus.
‘Finish it,’ urged William.
I obeyed him meekly. It was detestable stuff, whatever it was, but it ran into my body warm and potent, so that in a few moments more my eyes and fingers and even my brain were mine again. And my memory.
‘How d’you feel now?’ asked William.
I said drearily: ‘Oh, fine. Just fine. I’m sorry, William. That wasn’t a very useful thing to do.’
He took the glass from my hand and put it on the mantelpiece. Then he sat down on the sofa beside me. ‘Nothing we’ve done tonight has been so terribly useful, has it?’
I found myself staring at him in a kind of daze. Of course. It was nothing to him. I said, dragging the words up from the depths: ‘Have they … taken him away yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘William. I’ve got to … see him. Just for a moment. I’ve got to.’
I heard stupefaction in his voice. ‘But my dear Linda—’
‘When will he go?’
‘I’ve no idea, the police are still busy. The ambulance is waiting.’
I gave a little gasp and turned my head sharply. ‘Ambulance? Is he hurt? What’s happened?’ I sat up and gripped his arm. The bright roaring mist was there again. Dimly through it I saw William’s eyes, puzzled and a little shocked. Dimly I heard him say: ‘But Linda. Didn’t you realise? I thought you knew. He’s dead.’
My grip must have been savaging his sleeve. His hand came up to cover mine, quietly. ‘He shot himself,’ said William, ‘some time before Raoul and you and I got here.’
‘Oh,’ I said, in a silly high voice, ‘Léon. Léon shot himself. The ambulance is for Léon.’
‘Why – who else?’
I heard myself give a cracked breathless little laugh. ‘Who indeed?’ I said, and burst into tears.
It was hard luck on William. And for a shy British amateur, he was certainly doing very well. He produced some more of that filthy drink, and patted my hand some more too, and put a large comforting arm round me.
‘I thought you’d grasped the situation,’ he was saying. ‘I thought it was just the shock of seeing, er, Monsewer Léon that made you faint … The butler chap was telling me all about it just now when he brought the drink for you. I thought you heard. I’d no idea you were right out.’
‘I – I wasn’t really. I heard you talking. But I didn’t take it in. It was like voices in a dream … coming and going.’
The arm tightened momentarily. ‘You poor kid. Better now?’
I nodded. ‘Go on, tell me. What did Seddon say?’
‘Is that his name? Thank God he’s English! Well, he told me he’d gone in to look at the library fire soon after eleven, and found him dead on the floor, the way you saw him. Nobody heard the shot. He called the police and the doctor straight away, and then the Villa Mireille, but got no answer there.’
‘That would be before Philippe and I got into the house.’
‘Oh? They tried again later, twice. I suppose the first time was while you were telephoning me, and then they finally got Monsewer Hippolyte. That would be the call that came through as we left the house. Hippolyte’s on his way up. He’ll be here before long.’
‘If he knows how to drive the jeep.’
‘Oh, murder,’ said William. ‘I never t
hought of that.’
I said: ‘Are they sure it was suicide?’
‘Oh, quite. The gun was in his hand, and there’s a letter.’
‘A letter? Léon de Valmy left a letter?’
‘Yes. The police have it. Seddon didn’t read it, but from what the police asked him he pretty well gathered what it said. It admitted the first two attempts to murder Philippe, involving Bernard, but nobody else. He states categorically that neither Raoul nor Madame de Valmy knew anything about them. He never mentions this last affair of the poison – I suppose that would almost certainly involve his wife. He simply says that Bernard must have let something out to you about the two early attempts, and you got in a panic and bolted with Philippe. I think that’s about the lot. You’ve certainly nothing to worry about.’
‘No.’ I was silent for a moment. ‘Well, I shan’t volunteer anything else unless they ask me. I don’t somehow want to pile anything more onto Madame de Valmy, whatever she did. He’s dead, you see. She’s got that to go on living with. Funny, one somehow imagines her snuffing quietly out now, the way the moon would if the sun vanished. Somehow it’s like Léon to let her out, and me, and yet to turn the wretched Bernard in … though I suppose it was impossible to hide his part in it. And Bernard failed, after all.’
‘That’s not why,’ said William. ‘When Bernard found you both gone and Raoul on the trail he must have realised that Léon de Valmy’s bolt was shot and that there’d never be a future and a fortune for him the way he’d been promised. He moved onto the winning side, probably with an eye to the future, and played in with Raoul all day, looking for you and Philippe. Then last night – three or four hours ago – he came and tried to retrieve that lost fortune by putting the black on Monsewer Léon.’
‘Blackmail?’
‘Yes. It’s in the letter. He threatened to turn informer. If you ask me, that’s what tipped Léon de Valmy’s scales towards suicide in the end. I mean, there’s no end to blackmail, is there?’
I said slowly: ‘You’re probably right. I was wondering what had made him kill himself instead of waiting to see what Raoul and Hippolyte would do. After all, it was still all in the family. But when one thinks about it. … Even if Raoul and Hippolyte and I had agreed to hush the whole thing up for Philippe’s sake and the sake of the family – what was there left for Léon de Valmy? Hippolyte would be able to put any sort of pressure on that he liked, and he might have insisted on Léon’s leaving Valmy. Even if Léon was allowed to stay, Hippolyte would start sitting down tight on the money-bags, and presumably Raoul would be in a position to stop Léon milking Bellevigne any more. … And in any case Léon would have had to get out in five years’ time. And we all – even Philippe – knew what he’d done and what he was … And then, finally, the wretched tool Bernard started to blackmail him. Yes, one can see a desperate moment for Léon, and no future. Certainly he wasn’t the kind of man to submit to blackmail; he’d literally die sooner, I’m sure of it. It only surprises me that he didn’t kill Bernard first, but I suppose Bernard would be on guard against that, and he did have certain physical advantages. What did happen to Bernard anyway? Did Léon kill him?’
‘No, he’s disappeared. There’ll be a hue and cry, but I suppose it’s to be hoped that he gets away, and the rest of the story with him.’
I said: ‘Yes. Poor little Berthe.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Oh, nobody. Just one of the nobodies who get hurt the most when wicked men start to carve life up to suit themselves. You know, William, I doubt if I was altogether right about why Léon de Valmy killed himself. … I imagine all those things would be there, part of it, in his mind, but it would be something else that tipped him over. I think I knew him rather well. He’d been beaten. He’d been shown up. And I don’t think he could have taken that, whatever happened later. He was – I think the word’s a megalomaniac. He had to see himself as larger than life … everything that happened was seen only in relation to him … He sort of focused your attention on himself all the time, and he could do it, William. I believe he liked to think he could play with people just as he wanted to. He couldn’t ever have taken second place to anyone. To shoot himself, making that magnanimous gesture with the letter … yes, that was Léon de Valmy all right.’ I leaned back wearily. ‘Well, whatever his reasons, it made the best end, didn’t it? Oh, God, William, I’m so tired.’
He said anxiously: ‘Are you all right? What about some more brandy?’
‘No, thanks. It’s all right. This is just the anticlimax hitting me.’
‘D’you want to go now? Perhaps we could—’
‘Go. Where to?’
He pushed his fingers through his hair. ‘I – yes, I hadn’t thought of that. They didn’t exactly get the red carpets out at the Villa Mireille, did they? Though if you ask me they owe you a ruddy great vote of thanks, and I’ll tell them so myself if nobody else does!’
‘They know, for what it’s worth,’ I said.
‘But you don’t want to stay here, do you?’
‘What else can I do? When Monsieur Hippolyte gets around to it, he’ll see that I get my passage paid back to England.’
‘You’ll go home?’
‘Yes.’ I looked at him and gave a smile of a sort. ‘You see, when you’re in my position you can’t afford to make the grand gesture, William. I can’t just swep’ out. I’m afraid I must wait here till the police have asked all their questions. I think I’ll go along and see Berthe now, and then come back here and wait for them.’
‘Hang on, here’s someone coming,’ said William. ‘Yes, here they are.’
I must still have been in a semi-dazed condition, because, although I remember quite well exactly what the police inspector looked like, I can’t recall our interview with any accuracy. I did gather that after Léon de Valmy’s death the frightened servants had poured out the story of Philippe’s and my disappearance and all the accompanying rumours, but that the suicide’s letter, together with what Hippolyte de Valmy had said over the telephone and (finally) an interview with Raoul, had strangled stillborn any doubts about myself. This much I understood soon enough: the inspector’s manner with me was gentle and even respectful, and I found myself answering his questions readily and without any anxiety other than the dreadful obsessional one – the fox under my cloak that kept my eyes on the open door all through the half-hour or so of question and answer, and made my heart jump and jerk every time anyone passed along the corridor.
The inspector left us eventually when Hippolyte arrived. I saw them pass the door together on the way to the library. Hippolyte was still pale and tired-looking, but very composed. It was easy to suppose that, once the shock was over, the news would prove a relief.
I wondered fleetingly about Héloïse, and then again, sharply, about Berthe. But as I got to my feet to go in search of her Seddon came in with coffee, and in response to my inquiries told me that the police had dealt wth her very kindly, and had (when the interview was over) sent her in one of their cars down to her mother’s house in the village. I supposed this was the car that had held us up at the zigzag. There was nothing more to be done for Berthe except to hope that Bernard could be forgotten, so I sat wearily down again while Seddon poured me some coffee. He lingered for a while, asking me about Philippe, to vanish at length in the direction of the hall when Hippolyte came into the room.
William got to his feet a little awkwardly. I put my coffee cup down on the floor and made to follow suit, but Hippolyte said quickly: ‘No, please,’ and then, in English, to William: ‘Don’t go.’
I began to say: ‘Monsieur de Valmy, I – we’re awfully sorry—’
But he stopped me with a gesture, and coming over to the sofa he bent over me and took both my hands in his. Then, before I knew what he was about, he kissed them.
‘That is for Philippe,’ he said. ‘We owe you a very great deal, it seems, Miss Martin, and I have come belatedly to thank you and ask you to forgive me for my rather cav
alier treatment of you at the Villa Mireille.’
I said rather feebly: ‘You had other things on your mind, monsieur.’ I wanted to tell him not to bother about me but to go back to his own worries and his own personal tragedy, but I couldn’t, so I sat and let him thank me again with his grave courteous charm, and tried not to watch the door while he talked, or to think how like Raoul’s his voice was.
I realised suddenly that he had left the past and was talking about the future.
‘… He will stay with me at the Villa Mireille for the time being. Miss Martin – dare I hope that after your very terrible experience you will stay with him?’
I stared at him for some time, stupidly, before I realised what he was asking me. He must, in his own tragic preoccupation, have forgotten Raoul’s confession concerning me. I said: ‘I – I don’t know. Just at the moment—’
‘I quite see. I had no right to put it to you now. You look exhausted, child, and no wonder. Later, perhaps, you can think it over.’
There was a queer sound from the corridor, a kind of slow, heavy shuffling. Then I knew what it was, Léon, leaving the Château Valmy. I looked down at my hands.
Hippolyte was saying steadily: ‘If under the circumstances you prefer not to spend the night here, there’s a place for you as long as you choose to stay at the Villa Mireille.’
‘Why, thank you. Yes, I – I would like that. Thank you very much.’
‘Then if we can find someone to take you down –?’
He had glanced at William, who said immediately: ‘Of course.’ Then he stammered and added awkwardly: ‘I say, sir, I’m terribly sorry about taking the car. We thought – that is, we were in a hurry. I really am awfully sorry.’
‘It’s nothing.’ Hippolyte dismissed the theft with a gesture. ‘I believe you thought you might prevent a tragedy – a worse one than what actually happened.’ His eyes moved sombrely to the door. ‘I’m sure you will understand me when I say that – this – was not altogether a tragedy.’ Another glance at William, this time with the faintest glimmer of a smile underlying the sombre look. ‘You’ll find your own – extraordinary vehicle – outside. And now goodnight.’