All Your Secrets: A taut psychological thriller with a NAILBITING finale

by Jane Holland

  We’re in the sunny front room. She peers at the open doorway into the hall. I glance over my shoulder too, but there’s nobody there.

  Tamsin lowers her voice. ‘Not here, darling. Away from the chateau.’

  ‘Whatever you want.’

  I hear the steady clack of heels as the housekeeper comes down the uncarpeted stairs into the hallway.

  Aunt Tamsin releases my wrist. She gives me an apologetic smile. ‘You’re a good girl.’ She glances at the photograph of Emily on the wall, and her expression becomes vague. As though she’s slipping into the past again. ‘You don’t mind, do you? Having a little chat, I mean. There are things that need to be said before I forget.’

  I run upstairs to change into shorts suitable for a day on a yacht. Not the tiny silver ones I wore to meet Robin at the Pam Pam. Those would make Tamsin’s eyes bulge in disbelief, thinking me some kind of Emily copy-cat. Pierre’s too, no doubt, though I doubt he would disapprove. But I do have some mid-thigh length shorts in a soft blue-and-white striped fabric that look like they might be designer wear, at a pinch, and a tight white vest-top perfect for yet more sunbathing. I need to be careful though. The coconut oil was nice, but with my pale skin, sunblock may be required if I’m going to be at sea most of the day.

  Despite being an outdoors type, the sun here is far stronger than on the Cornish Riviera, and when I glance in the mirror, I can see my shoulders are already burning.

  I change my clothes, then rummage under the bed for a pair of trainers. I’ve been wearing sandals mostly since arriving, but they have very little grip. And I have no desire to slip on damp decking and take an impromptu dip in the Mediterranean.

  Through my open attic window, I hear the high, whining buzz of an electric saw in the gardens below. Stepping cautiously onto the narrow balcony, I grip the rail and force myself to look down. It’s perfectly safe, I tell myself.

  Jacques is still out there, in his ragged cut-off denim shorts and sandals, now clearing old, dead wood growing against one of the roadside walls. His bare back is tanned and glistening with sweat. It’s hard not to stare. I watch his muscles ripple as Jacques bends to lift an armful of heavy, sawn-off branches and carry them to a small trailer, presumably to be disposed of later.

  Not a bad package, I think. Physically fit, good-looking, and highly self-confident, judging by the arrogant tilt of his head.

  I can’t help wondering if the gardener ever talked his way into Emily’s highly exclusive bed. As a teen, she was dismissive of anyone outside her immediate circle. I often caught her being rude to Lucille and other members of her aunt’s staff.

  ‘They’re only servants,’ Emily told me once, with that characteristic shrug of hers that meant, ‘Screw it, I can do whatever I like.’

  But perhaps her tastes changed as she grew older. Perhaps she decided a bit of rough in her bed was more amusing than the rich kids we used to mix with, or the sharp-eyed paparazzi who bought Emily drinks when her credit had run out, according to Robin.

  I think about Robin. The taste of his kiss.

  In the cemetery, standing above my cousin’s grave, Robin had promised to tell me all about Emily, to expose her secrets, to explain why she had been in the sea that night. But all he had done was go back over facts I already knew. The one interesting suggestion had been that Emily ‘wasn’t alone that night’. That shocked me.

  ‘What do you mean? Who was with her, then?’ I asked Robin when he said that.

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘Robin, for God’s sake …’

  He took my hand, stroking his thumb rhythmically over the soft inner pad of my thumb. ‘Look, you’re going to have to trust me for now. I’d tell you everything if I could.’

  ‘Did you tell the police, at least? The coroner?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘But why not?’

  To my frustration, Robin had refused to say any more. He seemed almost afraid.

  But of what?

  Down below in the gardens, Jacques looks round at that exact moment and gazes straight up at my attic room, as though sensing my gaze on his back.

  Embarrassed, I step back into the bedroom and close the shutters. I don’t want the gardener to think I’m interested in him. Especially if Emily had interests in that direction too. I should try to get Jacques alone before I leave France though, and ask what he knows about Emily, if anything.

  If they were close, maybe it was Jacques who was out with her the night she drowned. That would explain his silence. If he could have saved Emily by raising the alarm, but didn’t for some reason, that would almost certainly result in his dismissal. Perhaps they went swimming together after drinks, but then she argued with him and swam away in the darkness. Which is entirely the kind of thing Emily might have done. She was always mistress of the dramatic gesture.

  Not that it matters. Knowing who she was with that night won’t make Emily any less dead.

  My aunt calls up the stairs from the hall below, her voice echoing about the attic. ‘Caitlin, dearest, are you ready?’ She sounds old and frail, and again I feel desperately sorry for her. For what she has lost. For the loneliness she must feel stretching ahead of her without Emily. ‘The car’s here.’

  There are things that need to be said before I forget.

  I’m curious now. Whatever those things are, it seems Tamsin doesn’t want to discuss them within earshot of her devoted Lucille.

  In white designer shorts that show off his tanned, muscular thighs and an immaculate white polo shirt, it’s easier to see that Pierre is one of those idle, wealthy men who a few generations before might have been known as an international playboy. Tamsin told me in the car that his father owns some massive French company, though I’ve never heard of it. Pierre is clearly being groomed to follow in Daddy’s footsteps, yet he seems to have enough time at his disposal to sail us along the coast at a moment’s notice.

  I soon realise why. He greets Tamsin with casual intimacy, and speaks of Emily with every evidence of crushing grief.

  There’s love there, possibly for both women.

  ‘My darling Tamsin.’

  ‘Pierre.’

  They kiss and embrace while I wait discreetly to one side, watched by several blue-capped crew members in spotless uniforms, their hands clasped behind their backs.

  The yacht is vast and white, like all the other yachts in this part of the marina, and is called Emily. I spotted the name of the yacht as soon as we arrived, written in huge gold cursive script below the prow, and was surprised. But I remember Pierre’s mournful behaviour when we met at the funeral. His curious emphasis when he called her a ‘very good friend’.

  They were lovers too, I suppose. She always did hate to be alone.

  ‘We meet again, Caitlin,’ he says in immaculate English, kissing me fervently on both cheeks as though we too are old friends. He holds me at arms’ length, studying me for a moment, then sighs. ‘For cousins, you don’t look much like her.’

  The yacht sways beneath me in a sudden warm breeze. It’s not an entirely comfortable sensation.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Emily was like a full-blown rose. You are more like …’

  ‘A thorn?’ I can’t resist making the joke.

  He smiles, but shakes his head. ‘I was going to say a rosebud. But perhaps your petals will open soon.’

  I want to laugh but dare not. ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  Pierre nods, still searching my face as though curious about me. ‘If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes, I need to discuss lunch arrangements with the chef. I thought we could anchor somewhere for lunch and a swim before heading into port at St Tropez, if that’s agreeable.’ He glances at Tamsin. ‘I believe you’ve arranged to be collected by car from the harbour side, is that right?’

  ‘Lucille’s driving down in the Rolls,’ Tamsin agrees. ‘She grumbled, of course, bad-tempered creature that she is. But it gives her a chance to do some shopping.’ She claps her
hands. ‘How I love St Tropez. What fun I had there as a wild young thing. And Emily loved it too.’ She winks at me. ‘All those gorgeous artists on the quay. You could have your portrait sketched, Caitlin.’

  Pierre agrees with this, though his smile seems a little strained. ‘You should do that. I’d be glad to show you the best artists.’ He nods to us both, oddly formal. ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Emily’s death hit him hard,’ Tamsin tells me after he has gone below. We sit in the shade on the upper deck, being served cocktails and canapés by a fair-haired teenage sailor with an impassive face. She waits until the boy has moved away, then lowers her voice. ‘Pierre was madly in love with her, poor thing. Would have married her too. Emily wasn’t interested, of course. She never was.’

  ‘Never?’

  I sip my tall, sunset-red cocktail, and make a face. It’s very potent, and the slice of orange perched over the rim of the glass doesn’t seem to be helping offset the bitterness.

  Tamsin waves a hand, her silver bracelets jangling. ‘Oh, it’s only a little hyperbole. You know what Emily was like. The two of you were so close.’

  ‘Not since we were kids,’ I remind her gently.

  But I don’t press the point. The past is what Tamsin remembers best these days. I shouldn’t confuse things by wresting that from her too.

  Pierre returns and takes a seat opposite us. The chairs are deeply cushioned, eminently comfortable. The boy comes forward with the cocktail tray but he declines a drink, waving him away. He talks with Tamsin about the funeral instead, how moved he was by the service and the procession afterwards, a break in his voice whenever he says, ‘Emily.’

  Behind him I watch as the yacht manoeuvres slowly out of the marina, the crew moving with quiet efficiency about their tasks. Soon we are out in the open bay. The wind is up today, the water a little choppy, and as we turn to run west along the coast, the boat starts to rock hard enough to make me feel queasy. I clutch the side of my chair, and wish I had not accepted that cocktail either.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Pierre says, seeing my expression. ‘It should settle down. This is just while we’re turning across the wind.’

  ‘Good.’

  He grins, suddenly more relaxed. ‘I take it you don’t sail.’

  ‘God, no.’

  Tamsin is watching us closely. ‘Caitlin swims though. Don’t you, dearest? A little mermaid in the water, just like Emily.’

  There’s an awkward silence.

  Tamsin reaches for her cocktail. Her hand trembles. ‘To Emily,’ she says in almost a whisper, and raises her glass in a toast.

  ‘To Emily,’ we echo dutifully, though Pierre has no drink.

  I sip on my cocktail again, and nearly choke. I’m not sure if I can finish it, it’s so strong. What the hell is in this concoction? Half a bucket of gin?

  Pierre has keen eyes. ‘It’s a little early for aperitifs, isn’t it?’ He leans back in his chair, crossing one tanned, hairy leg over the other. His shorts ride up, the white material stretched taut over his crotch.

  I look away.

  ‘Perhaps you would prefer something lighter, Caitlin?’ he continues. ‘Daniel could fetch us both some coffee. We have soft drinks too.’ He pauses. ‘Or perhaps you’d like a cup of tea?’

  ‘I am feeling a bit English today,’ I admit, and do not complain when the boy hurries forward to remove the remains of my unwanted cocktail. ‘Tea with milk would be lovely, if you have it.’

  I add, ‘with milk,’ in the knowledge that French tea seems to arrive black otherwise, even served occasionally with a lemon.

  He gives an order in rapid French to the boy Daniel, who nods and disappears.

  ‘So you like to swim,’ Pierre says easily, studying my figure as though trying to imagine what I’ll look like in a swimsuit.

  Ordinarily I would be offended by such an intent look from a man I’ve only just met. But Pierre has a very relaxed air, and I don’t get any disturbing vibes off him. I can see why Emily liked him.

  ‘Everyone swims where I come from.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘North Cornwall. I live only a few minutes from the coast.’ To my surprise, I am suddenly and acutely homesick. ‘I can see the Atlantic from my bedroom window, and spend most of my spare time on the beach.’

  ‘Do you surf?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ I grin back at him. ‘I’m not very good though. How about you?’

  ‘Much the same.’

  ‘Do you know Cornwall at all?’

  ‘I spent a few weeks in Falmouth once, waiting for repairs on my yacht.’ He glances at my aunt, as though to reassure her. ‘Not this boat, an earlier model.’

  ‘Oh, I love Falmouth.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful place. The scenery is stunning.’ He looks up as Daniel reappears with a tray of steaming drinks. ‘Fantastic, I need caffeine.’

  ‘You speak very good English.’

  ‘Oxford,’ he confesses, his gaze meeting mine. ‘School of Economics, three years. My father wanted me to get a good education, and the Sorbonne was a little too wild in those days.’

  ‘Oxford wasn’t wild?’

  ‘Not in his eyes. My father went there a few times as a student, many decades ago. Still thinks of it as tweed jackets and bicycles.’ His shrug is eloquent and amused. ‘Oxford had its moments though. You only get out what you put in, n’est-ce pas?’

  Tamsin laughs.

  ‘And do you know Robin too?’ I ask him.

  His smile disappears abruptly and his face darkens at the name. ‘Robin?’ he repeats grimly, spitting out the name with obvious distaste. ‘You mean, Robin Halifax?’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘Emily’s friend, yes.’

  Inexplicably tense, Pierre looks towards Tamsin without answering me. As though asking a silent question of his own.

  She says hurriedly, as though afraid of his reaction, ‘Caitlin was friends with Robin Halifax years ago, when she came here on holiday as a child.’

  ‘We lost touch,’ I add. ‘I wondered what he was doing these days, that’s all.’

  ‘I see.’ Pierre’s expression is unreadable. ‘I’m afraid I have no idea. Though I believe he went to Paris at one stage.’ He hesitates, then adds oddly, ‘I don’t think Robin felt very welcome here after his father died.’

  I glance across at the coastline as the yacht begins its run towards St Tropez, glad that the choppy seas closer into land seem to have levelled out. The distinctive and jagged red rocks along this stretch of the coast remind me of rusted ironworks, as though the land is more metal than earth and stone. I always think the sea ought to be dull red here too, the rusty cliffs bleeding into the water, not this deep azure blue that surrounds us on all sides.

  I don’t think Robin felt very welcome here after his father died.

  I want to ask what exactly he means by that, but Tamsin is frowning and I don’t want to ruin the day by upsetting her. I know how deeply the death of Robin’s father must have affected her. They were so close. It’s clearly not a topic I can pursue without causing her more heartache, especially so soon after her daughter’s death.

  She must feel she’s lost everyone she cared about.

  I decide that I’ll have to ask Robin about Pierre. There’s something about the way the Frenchman’s looking at me that makes me uncomfortable.

  Have I hit a nerve by mentioning Robin?

  Soon Pierre excuses himself again, leaving me alone with Tamsin.

  I wait until he’s disappeared, then sit up. I’m more used to the pitch and roll now, listening to the rushing hiss and splash from below as the yacht cuts elegantly through the water. But I am still uncomfortable at sea, what my dad would jokingly call a ‘landlubber’. Swimming is one thing, sailing quite another. For me, the latter feels distinctly unnatural.

  ‘Aunt Tamsin?’

  She stirs, and slowly turns her face towards me, lying flat on her sun lounger as though prostrated by the heat. She is looking pale and fad
ed today, wraith-like in an ankle-length white lace dress, her skin kept carefully out of the harmful rays of the sun. Maybe she too is suffering from a touch of sea-sickness.

  ‘Yes, darling?’

  ‘Do you mind if I stay behind when we reach St Tropez? I know you arranged for Lucille to collect us, but I have some friends I’d like to meet for dinner.’

  ‘Friends? Who?’

  I shrug with deliberate carelessness. ‘Oh, no one you’d know. People I’ve kept in touch with over the years. Old friends of mine and Emily’s, you know.’

  Tamsin looks as though she wants to press me for names, but then purses her lips. I get the feeling she’s unwilling to wear herself out over the kind of intrigues Emily was famous for.

  ‘Very well.’ She pauses. ‘But how will you get home? By train? I’m not sure how late they run, you know. And it’s an awfully long drive back round the peninsular.’

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  Again she compresses her lips, but I catch a flash of worry in her eyes.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I insist. ‘And if I do end up stranded in St Tropez, I’ve got your phone number.’

  ‘Hmm,’ is all she says to that, but her thin brows are arched.

  ‘Back at the house, you said you wanted a chat,’ I remind her.

  ‘Did I? Goodness me.’ She looks vague, and then evasive. ‘Well, it’s gone now. I don’t imagine it was important.’

  ‘Something about Emily, perhaps?’

  Tamsin looks almost alarmed by this suggestion. She turns on her elbow and settles back heavily as though planning to have a nap. The lounger creaks under her worryingly.

  ‘I don’t think so, darling. What would I have to say about Emily? Maybe it will come back to me later. When we’re on dry land again.’

  She means in the car, perhaps. Tamsin doesn’t want to say anything that might be overheard. We’re still too public here. But Lucille will be in the car too.

  I frown, not understanding. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Now if you don’t mind,’ she says, and there’s genuine fatigue in her voice, ‘I’m going to close my eyes for a few minutes. I’m rather tired.’