“Not at all, my dear. I only hope you’re feeling a bit better now,”
“Much better,” I said with forced brightness.
Denzil took swift advantage. “I wonder, then, if you’d care to invite me in for a cup of coffee?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I... I really am rather dead.”
He bore his disappointment with a brave smile. “Perhaps some other time?”
I didn’t answer that. “Goodnight, Denzil,” I said, and slipped inside; quickly.
Chapter Fifteen
Perversely, all day Thursday, when I only wanted to be left alone, the shop was thronged with customers. Perversely, too, when the very sound of the phone bell turned me cold with dread that it would be Ben on the line, I had a dozen calls.
The first one was from Denzil, to enquire how I was feeling.
“I’m fine now, thanks,” I lied.
“You don’t sound fine, Tess. Did you have a bad night?”
“I slept like a top.”
“In that case, perhaps you simply need taking out of yourself,” he said, “and I have an idea about that. A party of us are going to the Chichester Festival Theatre this evening. I’m sure there’s a spare ticket. Why not come along?”
“No, really ... it’s sweet of you, but I can’t.”
“Can’t?”
“I’m too busy. Honestly, Denzil.”
“If you really mean that. But don’t work too hard, Tess, for goodness sake. I’ll drop by sometime and see whether you’ve got anything that interests me. I frequently bought some little piece or other from your uncle, you know.”
I thanked him, and invented the need to attend to a customer, feeling too numb-headed for idle conversation. By midday I was flaked out. I seemed to have had a solid morning of talkative customers who ended up buying nothing, and phone enquiries for things I didn’t happen to have. I was on the point of giving up, of slipping the door catch and turning over the CLOSED, sign, when a figure darkened the doorway.
It was Peter. He smiled at me testingly.
“I’ve got these papers ready now, Tess, and I thought I’d bring them round on the off-chance I might persuade you to have lunch with me.”
I started to refuse, then hesitated. I’d liked Peter instinctively that first time I met him in his office, and ever since then I’d had a feeling that I was being a bit unfair to him.
Even so, it was more defiance against Ben than any positive wish to be with Peter that decided me. Somehow I had to get Ben Wyland out of my system. Fast.
“All right, Peter,” I said. “Thanks.”
He seemed surprised by my capitulation, but was obviously pleased. In the event, though, we spent a dismal forty-five minutes together at a Hungarian restaurant near the Aquarium.
“Tess, what’s on your mind?” he asked, watching me toy with a plate of goulash.
I gave a dismissive shrug. “I’m all right.”
“You don’t look it. You look ... really fed up.”
I felt a halfhearted urge to confide in him, but I let it go. Peter frowned at me across the table.
“Just don’t forget that I’m here, Tess.”
“I never have forgotten.”
“Yet you keep fending me off.”
“I’m sorry, Peter, but...”
“But... ?”
“Oh, nothing. Never mind. Leave it.”
The afternoon was a terrible drag. I had a feeling the whole world was ganged up on me, mocking me. I nearly sold half a dozen flower-engraved wineglasses for the price of one, nearly bought from an old man a mass-produced mantel clock in thinly gilded spelter, which was something Pearl had happened to warn me about.
At five o’clock, unable to stay sane another minute, I closed up shop. An hour later I couldn’t even bear the flat upstairs, feeling claustrophobic for probably the first time ever. Grabbing up my purse and a jacket, I set out and began to walk aimlessly.
It was past ten before I braved the flat again, having walked to Black Rock and back. It was late enough by now to feel confident that Ben wouldn’t ring me tonight, with Bombay time so much ahead of ours. I sat and watched an old movie on television, then went to bed and let sleep swallow me.
The phone rang just as I was opening the shop next morning. I stared at it with a sudden feeling of panic, and Vera Catchpole glanced at me oddly.
“Aren’t you going to answer it, dearie?”
“Yes, I...”
“Want me out of the way, is that it?” She made for the stairs, grinning. “Oh well, I know when I’m de troppy, as they say.”
It must have been the tenth ring before I found the courage to pick up the receiver. A woman’s voice was on the line, clipped, efficient, and impatient.
“Is that Miss Tess Pennicott?”
“Yes, who’s this?”
“The Royal Sussex County Hospital. I’m speaking on behalf of Mr. Gervaise Duvillard. He was brought into Casualty here last night, and he asked me to inform you. He’s hoping that you’ll come to see him.”
“Casualty?” I gasped. “An accident, you mean? Is he badly hurt?”
“Not seriously. But he seems concerned about something, and I think it would calm him if you could come. May I tell him you will?”
“Of course. I’ll be there right away.”
* * * *
Gervaise had been put in a small room on his own. He looked ghastly, I thought, grey-faced, with a plaster on his forehead and an ugly bruise on his right cheek. His body made a mountain under the bedclothes.
“Tess?” The permanently smiling lips stretched into a painful grimace of welcome. “Thank you for coming, ma chère.”
“I’m terribly sorry to find you like this, Gervaise. What happened?”
“I surprised a burglar,” he explained. “When I arrived back at the bistro last night after my usual stroll, he was in my rooms upstairs. I tried to prevent him getting away, but although he was not a big man he was so quick and lithe.” Gervaise flinched at the memory. “I was no match for him, as you can see. He knocked me insensible.”
“But that’s dreadful. Who found you? Who got you to hospital?”
“When I recovered consciousness I was dazed, but after a while I managed to get to the telephone and summon help.”
“You should have called me, too,” I reproached him.
Gervaise shook his head. “It was very late, and I did not want to trouble you. Besides...”
“Besides?” When he didn’t answer, I went on, “What do the police have to say about it? Would you be able to identify the man?”
“I fear not. There was just the landing light, and I saw only this shadowy figure as he sprang at me. It all happened so quickly, tu comprends?”
I sat down beside the bed, and looked at him with concern. Tangling with a burglar was no joke, especially for a man of his age and weight.
“The Sister or whoever it was called me said that you weren’t seriously hurt. I hope that’s true.”
He nodded morosely. “My injuries in themselves are not much, a few bruises only, but the shock seems to have caused a flare-up of an old kidney complaint. I shall be here for several days at least.”
“Oh dear. And the bistro?”
He waved that problem aside. “My staff can continue with a simplified menu. I have already spoken on the telephone to Marcel, the assistant chef. He’s a reliable fellow.”
“Well, that’s a relief. Poor Gervaise, what a wretched business. You haven’t told me yet if the burglar got away with anything.”
“Rien!” He glanced away from me. “That, at least, is what I told the police. They think it must have been a sneak-thief who knew my habits and had counted on the place being empty. But last night, you see, I did not stay out for so long on my walk, because I felt rather tired.”
A. flutter of some ungraspable fear touched me. “You’re saying, aren’t you, that it’s not true nothing is missing? What are you trying to hide from the police, Gervaise?”
He g
ave a sigh that seemed to shudder right through his huge body. “It is a long story, Tess. For you to understand, I must tell you everything.”
A. nurse looked in at the door and warned me not to stay too long. Gervaise waved her away impatiently. “I have important things to say. She must remain. Leave us, s’il vous plait.”
The nurse gave me an amused What-can-I-do-with-him glance, and backed out.
Gervaise began, “The evening before your uncle died, he came round to the bistro while I was busy with the preparations for dinner. He was in a very excited mood. I had, in fact, noticed this excitement about him for several days previously, but he had refused to reveal the cause. He said he did not wish to tempt fate by talking about something that might well come to nothing. But that Saturday evening he explained he was engaged in some very delicate negotiations which could result in great benefit to him ... he was not thinking so much of money, as of fame and credit. But just for the time being the situation was very ... very ticklish, you understand, and it was necessary to take great care that a certain object vital to the deal should not fall into the wrong hands. At the Emporium it was too vulnerable, he said, even in the safe, so he handed me this object to take care of for him.”
“Gervaise, I think I know what it was,” I burst out. “A small porcelain container, with a lid. Pink and gold, with little paintings of autumn scenes in the panels. Am I right?”
He stared at me blankly. “But you have described it precisely. How is that possible?”
“Because I’ve seen photographs of it.” With a heavy feeling of sadness I went on, “I suppose what you’re getting round to telling me, Gervaise, is that this little piece of porcelain was stolen?”
He nodded slowly and started to say something, but I cut across him urgently. “I want to know everything Uncle Maynard told you, Gervaise. Everything, every single word. It’s very important. Did he explain why the porcelain wouldn’t be safe at his place? Did he give any hint of who might try to steal it from him?”
“Alas, I can tell you so little, ma chère. He was in a hurry and I was busy. All he said was that he had to see someone that evening to make certain arrangements. He would collect the porcelain next day, and explain everything then. In the meantime I was just to put the thing away in a cupboard and forget about it.” Gervaise released a heavy sigh. “That was the last I ever heard from Maynard. He did not telephone me, as I had been hoping, and on Sunday afternoon when I had finished the lunch trade I walked round to the Emporium to see him. But he was not there. I was disappointed, but not surprised or worried, because he often spent most of Sunday out. Then in the evening the police called on me—knowing that I was a friend of Maynard’s—to say that his body had been discovered on the Downs.”
“I see. And you kept the porcelain? You said nothing about it to anyone?”
“I... I thought it was for the best,” he stammered, and the look on his face was a giveaway. “Believe me, Tess, if I had realised that you already knew about this object, I would have spoken to you and discussed our best plan of action. As if was ...”
“As it was,” I said bitterly, “you thought you’d keep your mouth shut and see if there might be anything in it for you?”
Gervaise looked so wretched that my heart softened. I added more gently, “Now, I suppose, you’re afraid of admitting to the police that it was stolen from you?”
He nodded mutely.
I felt a curious lightness of spirit that the situation didn’t warrant, but I knew what caused it. I had hated having doubts about Gervaise Duvillard, my uncle’s close friend, and now I had an explanation for his oddly suspicious manner each time we’d met—the wariness behind his benevolence towards me.
I hesitated only a moment, then said bluntly, “There are things you had better know, Gervaise. There’s a lot more to this affair than you could possibly guess.”
I found it difficult to put the story together with any kind of cohesion. I told him about my “accident” that first day when I’d met up again with Ben, about the photographs of the sugar box which led to Ben identifying what it was. I told him about the scrap of paper which had taken us to Malt House Cottage, and the discovery that Ruth Willoughby was dead, and the October Cabaret vanished from her cabinet. And then I related how Ben and I had gone to London to see Ruth’s twin sister, and the amazing story she’d had to tell. Even though I kept it as brief as possible, Gervaise looked so white and ill that I felt a compunction about throwing all this at him.
“What I cannot understand,” he said, his usually smooth forehead creased into a frown, “is how this sugar box came to be separated from the rest of the … what did you call it? … cabaret, and end up in your uncle’s hands.”
“I think I know the answer to that.” I paused, then threw the name down like a challenge. “Luke Webster.”
He reacted slowly, stunned, I guess. Obviously, the suggestion that Luke Webster was involved came as a total surprise to him.
“How is he concerned in this, Tess?”
“I’ll explain. But in return you must tell me what you know about him. You were very evasive when I asked you before.”
Gervaise made a gesture, whether in acquiescence I wasn’t sure. But willing or not, he was going to tell me about Luke.
“Luke Webster worked for Regency Wines,” I began, “and Miss Willoughby was one of the customers on his delivery round. I can’t be certain, but I strongly suspect that he stole that sugar box. Usually her china cabinet was kept locked, but if he noticed one time he called that the key had been left in the lock, it wouldn’t have been difficult to coax her to leave the room for a minute so he could whip out a small item and pocket it. He’d know that, with any sort of luck, days or even weeks would go by before she realised anything was missing, and the chances were that she’d never link him with the theft. Exactly how it came into Uncle Maynard’s possession can only be guesswork, but I believe it was because of some connection between Luke Webster and Pearl. I want to know what that connection is.”
“I can tell you very simply,” Gervaise said. “Luke Webster is Pearl’s son—her illegitimate son.”
It was my turn to be stunned. The possibility had never once crossed my mind-though maybe it should have. Now that I knew, wasn’t there a certain resemblance between those two ... something about the eyes?
“I did not tell you when you asked before,” Gervaise continued, “because I regarded it as Pearl’s secret. And much as I have cause to dislike the woman, I feel almost sorry for her on this score. Luke was the result of an indiscretion when she was only about seventeen, and the child was adopted at birth. Pearl made a new life for herself, and eventually she married Charles Ratcliffe. But a few months ago this son of hers turned up out of the blue. He had managed to trace her because apparently an adopted child now has legal access to the details of his birth, and he started to cause trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“Charles Ratcliffe knew nothing whatever about the boy’s existence. And Pearl was afraid that her marriage would be wrecked by the discovery of a bastard son ... an old-fashioned word, Tess, but Ratcliffe is an old-fashioned man.”
“You mean Luke threatened to tell him?”
Gervaise nodded. “He saw his chance of extorting money as the price of his silence.”
“My God.”
“One might perhaps have some sympathy for the fellow if there was any question of his having had a deprived childhood, but from what I gather his adoptive parents were perfectly decent people and did their best for him. But this was not good enough for Luke. He decided that his real mother should be made to pay for the sins of her youth, and pay heavily. He was constantly making new demands on Pearl.”
“What a truly awful position to be in,” I said, stirred by reluctant pity. “And Uncle Maynard knew all about this setup?”
“Certainement, and he confided a little of it to me. He was very concerned about Pearl, and in the end he suggested that she should divor
ce Charles Ratcliffe and marry him.”
“What?”
“He saw it as the best solution for Pearl. Luke Webster could then do his damndest, but he would no longer have any hold over her.”
It put an entirely new slant on things, and would take some adjusting to. I said slowly, “So when my uncle died, he and Pearl were engaged to be married—so to speak?”
“The matter had not been settled.” Gervaise’s expression, ill and worried though he was, held a certain satisfaction. “Pearl could not make up her mind, and she delayed giving Maynard his answer until it was too late. I imagine she was considering all she would be giving up ... not only the monied way of life, but social position, too.”
“Was Uncle Maynard in love with her?” I asked.
Gervaise considered the point, but finally shook his head. “I think not. He was ... very attached to her. Their relationship had lasted for several years, but the situation suited him as it was. The suggestion of marriage was made on the spur of the moment, out of gallantry and a certain sense of obligation. But I believe he hoped that Pearl would refuse. As the days went by and Pearl still kept him waiting for his answer, I sensed this more and more. Maynard would have gone through with it, though, if Pearl had wanted to, because he was a man of honour and integrity.”
“Honour and integrity,” I echoed cynically. “I’m beginning to wonder now, with this business of the Sèvres sugar box. He was up to his neck in something very peculiar, to say the least. And considering that Luke Webster was involved, too, the odds are that it was something crooked.”
Gervaise pushed himself up from the pillow in his agitation. “You misjudge your uncle, ma chère.”
“Do I? Do I really?”
“I knew Maynard for many years, and I trusted him absolutely. Your uncle despised Luke Webster. He could not have joined with such a person in anything criminal.”
“But he must have. It’s obvious that Luke brought him the sugar box, and that Uncle Maynard recognised it. Whatever story Luke told him, he must have realised it was stolen property.”
“What can I say to convince you, Tess? Maynard was my friend, and I know I am right about him.” Gervaise laid a hand against his heart in a fervent gesture. “I feel it here. I wish now... oh, how I wish it … that I had told you about the porcelain days ago. Now it is too late.”
The October Cabaret Page 14
