Rose, Rose Where Are You?

by Nicola Thorne

  “I’m glad you stayed.” He came and sat beside me, putting his hand lightly on mine. “You don’t mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Something always stops our being romantic, doesn’t it?”

  “It seems to.”

  “We can’t do anything, Clare, until this problem is solved. I’m going to get a very high – up Parisian policeman on the job, someone from the Surete.”

  “You’re as convinced as all that?”

  “I want to know, dammit. Burgundian curse, bullshit. My wife’s car was tampered with.”

  “Laurent!”

  “I found out only by chance. You know the car was a write-off after the accident and was towed away by a local garage, which kept it for scrap. Yesterday morning I called at this garage for petrol. It is on the way into Paris from the north, near where Elizabeth had the crash. The owner recognised me and he said he’d wanted to talk to me. They’d stripped the car, as they do with wrecks, to salvage any valuable parts, and he thought the brakes could have been tampered with. It was hard to prove and, under the circumstances, didn’t seem likely. But he said he couldn’t get it out of his mind and was glad he’d told me. I said ‘thank you’ and that was it. The wreck was disposed of ages ago.”

  “You think someone wanted to kill Elizabeth?”

  “Or me. We both drove the car. In fact, I usually drove it; except that when she had the accident I was out of Paris. Anyway, as soon as we know what has happened to Noelle I’m calling the Surete. Oh, Clare, you don’t think she ...” He pressed my hand and we stared at each other.

  “What can I say, Laurent?”

  “You had a premonition about all this, didn’t you?”

  “Something like that. Only I don’t think Jeanne is involved. I think she’s strange, but she’s not bad. Let’s say that, in the old days, she might have been burned or canonised. She is not of this century. Now, Lisa ...”

  Suddenly there was a banging at the back door and we both jumped up. The kitchen was closed and dark, but Laurent raced through it and flung open the back door. Two figures stood outside, one tall and one small. The tall one stepped forward.

  “Pardon, Monsieur, for the disturbance, but I bring you your daughter.”

  Noelle, weeping and dishevelled, fell into her father’s arms.

  The deliverer was Gustav Schroeder. As he stepped into the light, a sort of mental cogwheel slid into place. I should have known it would be Schroeder. We’d seen his car.

  But before the introductions were made, Laurent took Noelle inside, hugging and kissing her, weeping too. I followed them, close to tears myself. We led them through the dark kitchen into the salon, where Laurent forced some brandy between Noelle’s cold lips.

  “How? Where?” I began. “It’s so late.”

  “It is a long walk back,” Schroeder said, frowning. “I am very tired too. The girl had gone way beyond the bird reserve and it was difficult to persuade her to stop looking for her dog.”

  “Goofy is lost,” Noelle sniffed.

  “Goofy will turn up,” Laurent said gently. “Didn’t you think about us? Weren’t you frightened?”

  “No. I was only frightened of this man when I realised he was following me, and then I ran even faster.”

  “She didn’t know who I was,” Schroeder said apologetically. “I must have frightened her badly, I’m afraid.”

  “We’ve net Mr. Schroeder before,” I explained to Laurent. “He’s a writer.” Still, I looked at him suspiciously.

  Jeanne, having heard the commotion, appeared in the doorway in her gown and took Noelle into her arms, sobbing over her.

  “Jeanne, take her upstairs,” Laurent said. “Make her warm. We’ll bring up some hot milk. Clare, is there any food left? I suddenly realise I’m starving. Sir, Monsieur Schroeder, may I tempt you to food?”

  “There’s plenty,” I said. “Nobody could eat a thing at dinner.”

  “I’ll fetch some wine,” Laurent said. I went into the kitchen and put game pie, cold meats, salad and cheeses onto a tray.

  Schroeder was standing by the fireplace when I went in and Laurent was uncorking a bottle of Burgundy from its basket. I noticed Schroeder staring at Laurent, and an extraordinary feeling came over me, so that I almost anticipated what Schroeder next said.

  “Laurent.”

  Laurent turned round in surprise at his name, which was said without any intonation, merely as a statement.

  “Laurent,” Schroeder repeated.

  Laurent stopped uncorking the wine and as though summoned by a power outside himself went over to Schroeder and looked at him.

  “Yes?”

  “I am your brother, Laurent. I am your eldest brother, Jean.”

  Laurent stared at Schroeder, his face registering a variety of emotions, none of them pleasurable, and stepped back.

  “My brother Jean is dead.”

  “I am Jean. I did not die. I was captured and tortured so badly that I lost all memory of who I was. But I did not die.”

  “Then why” – Laurent’s voice was a mixture of disbelief and hostility – “why did you wait until now?”

  “I didn’t know for sure until recently. The trauma of my sufferings in the war completely changed my personality, and I was brought up as a German boy, yet speaking perfect French. All the years of my childhood were blotted out for me. I was smuggled out of the camp by a good man who adopted me with his wife, and I became a sort of artisan, a furniture maker. But always I wanted to know who I was. I became good at my trade and made money. Then I studied and began specialising in antiques, writing books. I married and had two children, got divorced. Then, three years ago, I started treatment with a psychiatrist who specialised in hypnosis. Gradually the truth, all the awful things became clear to me. When I knew I was a de Frigecourt I came to live near here, to explore my surroundings. Yes, I remembered. I saw your children. I saw you once or twice, but I couldn’t approach you; I didn’t know how. Then today God brought my little niece to me, and thus to you.”

  God had indeed been very busy today, I thought, listening to this incredible story. Laurent listened too, pale and, I sensed, incredulous. When it was finished I got up, shaking with fatigue.

  “Laurent, would you mind?”

  “I’d be glad if you would leave us alone,” Laurent said tersely. “I have a lot to ask this man. Would you kiss Noelle for me and make sure she’s all right?”

  Closing the door I left the two ... brothers?

  I woke up late; the sun was streaming into my room through the unshuttered windows. I lay for a long time listening to the sounds of the house, knowing that it was very late.

  It was after ten. The door opened and Noelle tiptoed in; she was still in her dressing gown. I opened the bedclothes and she snuggled in beside me.

  “Something so exciting ...” she began.

  “I know,” I said. “When did Papa tell you?”

  “At breakfast. He didn’t go to bed all night and had just come from a walk. He was still looking for Goofy. Monsieur Schroeder is our uncle Jean. Papa said he wasn’t sure at first, but now he is convinced. Oh, isn’t it exciting?”

  “Very,” I said, squeezing her. “Is he still here?”

  “No, he went home; he’s coming later, maybe for lunch. He didn’t sleep all night either but stayed up with Papa, talking.”

  “Come on, let’s get up. I want to hear it from Papa.”

  Laurent was in the garden when I finally found him, clearing the dead flowers of summer.

  “I had to do some work,” he said when he saw me. “I can’t concentrate on anything else except hard physical labour.”

  “I know. Do you really think he’s your brother?”

  “I am convinced; the things he said, what he knew that only we knew.”

  “Don’t you think it’s funny he remembers so much if he’d lost his memory for all those years?”

  “Oh, no. He explained it all. Once he began to remember, it was like
a floodgate, and he had total recall.”

  I felt the need to talk to Tom. Tom would know about amnesia and total recall.

  “It’s very odd, isn’t it, Laurent? He has a wife, children. He will be the Marquis de Frigecourt.”

  “Oh, but that doesn’t matter! Clare, don’t you realise what it’s like to find my brother again, after thirty-two years? He can have everything. Just to have him alive! But you liked him, didn’t you, Clare? He said you went to his house. He wanted to tell you then.”

  “I can’t understand why he waited until now. You’d think once his memory was restored he’d have come straight to see you, not hovered around the place for a year.”

  I’d begun to displease Laurent again. One could always tell. He didn’t really want to know anything but good about his brother. But I was far from satisfied. I wanted to know a lot more. I wanted to know why someone with a clear conscience and so much to gain had held back so long.

  And that was the point. If his conscience was clear why had he?

  CHAPTER 18

  The ears of my dear Tom were willingly bent to my story. Yes – dear Tom – so robust and sturdy after those volatile de Frigecourts. Back at the house in the Rue du Chateau I found Tom working in my study, puffing away at his pipe, oblivious to the goings on in the outside world.

  “I’ve heard about the brother,” Tom said. “It’s most remarkable. I was on my way up to the chateau when I stopped for the paper. When I heard about the brother I decided to come home. You don’t think it is his brother?”

  “How do I know? I suppose after thirty-two years it’s difficult to recognise anyone, especially with a beard. On the other hand, is it a likely story? Think what he has to inherit. Can one be an amnesiac for all those years?”

  Tom screwed up his eyes, exhaling clouds of smoke. “I would have thought the older you got the less likely you were to experience amnesia. It’s a neurologist you want, not a psychologist. No, I’d find it hard to believe that all this time elapsed.”

  “Then why does Laurent believe it?”

  “Because he wants to. He wants a brother. We know how affected he was by what happened to his family. Maybe he feels guilty that he alone was saved.”

  “Yes, that’s it,” I said, “that’s Laurent.” I looked around. It was cosy here with both of us talking in the civilised way we liked so much, surrounded by books.“Coffee, Tom?”

  “Why, darling, shouldn’t I ...?”

  I smiled and went into the kitchen. When I returned with the tray, I noticed the contented look on Tom’s face as he puffed away at his pipe, making notes – or pretending to make them. I couldn’t believe he was oblivious to the highly charged atmosphere between us.

  “You can make the coffee next time,” I said.

  Tom put the cup on his desk and tentatively put a hand round my waist.

  “Next time?”

  “We’re going to try to understand each other, aren’t we, Tom? That’s what you wanted Michelle to tell me. We’re going to give more, share things more.”

  Tom gently pulled me onto his lap and put both arms around me. He was trembling.

  “I’ve been awfully thick.”

  “But Tom, I shall never change completely. Warm the slippers, that bit.”

  “I don’t want you to. I’d be bored to death.”

  “Michelle would make an awfully good wife She is clever, caring and she can cook something lovely.”

  “And Laurent de Frigecourt could give you everything you ever wanted.”

  “Like jewels and big houses,” I said. “All the things that, in fact, I’ve never wanted. Laurent is like a gorgeous butterfly, a fairy prince – he’s not for me.”

  “Just prosaic old Tom?”

  “Clever, dear old Tom,” I said kissing the top of his head.

  “Shall we go to bed?” he said.

  “But, darling, it’s only noon.”

  “Whatever’s wrong with noon? You can do it any time, you know.”

  “So you can.”

  “And we are married.”

  “Better and better,” I said.

  Tom kissed my neck. “For such a trendy thing, you’re horribly square.”

  “Try me,” I said.

  Tom and I spent the rest of the day in bed. I’ll pass over the bit where the earth moves, waves crash in from the sea, or the sun is seen glinting through the leaves, as they do so delicately in the cinema, because this story is only incidentally about love or whatever you call that peculiarly complex emotion.

  “I’m very hungry,” Tom said. “We had no lunch.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.”

  Tom sat on the edge of the bed and smiled at me.

  “I’m too befuddled to smack you. Let’s go and get something to eat.”

  I hope no one saw us in the dining room of the Hotel du Port. We sat close together like a pair of adolescent lovers, and although Tom, naturally, did justice to his meal, we did a lot of gazing into each other’s eyes and murmuring sweet nothings, while I pecked at my food.

  “We must go up to the chateau to get my things,” I said.

  “Do we have to?”

  “They’ll wonder what’s happened.”

  “They’ll guess. Laurent’s got his brother, and I’ve got you. Get the things tomorrow.”

  I didn’t need very much persuading. One has so few idyllic moments in one’s life, and this rediscovery of our love was one of them.

  When we went up to the chateau at noon the next day, a party was in progress, or rather the town had called to pay its respects to the new Marquis. I can’t say it seemed like a festive occasion; everyone stared mutely, as stunned by the whole thing as we were. Laurent and Jean stood next to each other, and as people came up Laurent introduced them to his brother. From the way Jean seemed to recognise them and chatted, there was no doubt he was who he said he was. Dr Bourdin wandered amiably over to talk to us.

  “It’s miraculous,” he said.

  “Did you talk to him, Doctor?”

  “Yes, for a long time.”

  “And you’re sure he is who he says he is?”

  “Oh, no doubt. I deliberately talked a lot about his boyhood, when he broke his nose, that sort of thing. He fell out of a tree once. Those boys were always climbing trees. Ah, Madame Gilbert ...”

  Madame Gilbert came through the door accompanied by Martine and looked bewilderedly into the crowded salon. We waved to her and, relieved to see us, she came up to us.

  “Oh, la, la, la, la, I never hoped to see this day. Where is he, the beautiful Jean?”

  “There, Madame, next to Laurent. He’s not quite so beautiful now and a lot older.”

  Madame Gilbert frowned. “Mais non, my eyes are poor. Voila!” She put on her pince-nez and regarded the man whom Laurent was bringing towards her.

  “You remember Jean?”

  “Bien sur.”

  Jean held out his arms. “Madame Gilbert.”

  But Madame Gilbert was still bent on studying him through her pince-nez; she stepped back looking up at him, small and frail compared to him. I felt my heart quicken and I seized Tom’s hand beside mine. Jean looked at her quizzically, but smiling, still confident; after all, he had recognised her.

  “Mail qu’est-ce que c’est?” cried Madame Gilbert. “It is not Jean, it is your brother Henri! Mais oui.” She turned to the flustered Dr Bourdin, who was also gazing at the brother. “Don’t you remember, Claude, it was Henri who fell down the tree and broke his nose. Not Jean.”

  Now the brother’s smile had vanished. Laurent looked concerned and, sensing something, everyone in the room seemed to stop talking.

  “Yes,” Dr Bourdin said slowly. “It was Henri who broke his nose; it was the middle boy, Henri, not Jean.”

  I looked at the brother, who had a large nose that bent sideways and had at one time been broken. I remembered that at the lunch at Dr Bourdin’s house they’d discussed Henri’s nose. This was unmistakably Henri, wit
h a lot of other disagreeable characteristics besides.

  “I am Henri?” he said incredulously. “Then this completes my treatment, don’t you see, dear brother, now I know who I am!” And he clasped Laurent in his arms.

  Now even I wasn’t sure whether or not he was acting. I looked at Tom, but it was impossible to read his face.

  “But why should you have thought you were Jean?” Tom asked quietly. “Wouldn’t. your analysis have revealed your identity?”

  “I didn’t know my name for a long time,” Henri explained. “I wasn’t sure. Oh, thank you, dear Madame Gilbert.” He tried to embrace her, but the old lady backed away. She looked confused and suspicious, and her hands were fluttering at her sides.

  “Viens, Martine,” she said nervously.

  “We’ll come with you,” Tom said, adding when Laurent protested, “No, no, it really is time we were going.”

  Laurent smiled sadly at me. His eyes told me that he knew.

  “I’ll be back later, for my things,” I murmured, “when the crowd has gone. We can have a word then.”

  He pressed my arm and kissed my cheek.

  “I’m so happy about my brother,” he said.

  “I know,” I whispered back. “I’m happy for you too.”

  Dr Bourdin joined us and we all walked back in silence to Madame Gilbert’s, deeply preoccupied with our thoughts.

  Without being invited, we went inside with her and Martine produced a bottle of vermouth while we made ourselves comfortable in chairs, the doctor as well. Madame Gilbert sat at her desk, looking formidable.

  “C’est un conseil de guerre, n’est-ce pas?” she said.

  “I think we know what you’re going to suggest, Madame,” Tom said quietly in his halting French. “Council of war it is.”

  “Henri was the traitor,” I said. “He betrayed his brother and father.”

  “And friends,” Madame added menacingly. “One of whom was my cousin Auguste. That’s why I refused to let him embrace me.”

  “We have no proof at all,” Dr Bourdin insisted.

  “This is the sort of thing Henri would do, not Jean; that is why he wanted to pretend he was the elder brother.”