‘In Navise?’
‘No.’
‘Where then?’
‘I don’t know. In the south perhaps.’
‘But what would you both do?’
‘I don’t know about Tim. But I could teach English.’
May was silent. Then she said, ‘Well – on your own head be it. Naturally I pray he’s alive. But I still feel you’re behaving – very brutally to Peter and Martin. I don’t think Tim would approve.’
He probably wouldn’t, thought Lucy. ‘I’ve always felt excluded and Peter and Martin were patronizing, don’t you think?’
May’s lips were compressed again. ‘We always wanted to help. Martin has been deeply concerned for Tim over a long period of years. Their experiences brought the men together quite naturally. We were never a part of that.’
‘The three musketeers?’ Lucy couldn’t prevent herself from being destructive. ‘All for one and one for all?’
May was determined to plod on. ‘If you like – although I know you’re being cynical. I don’t think I should say any more at a time like this. I’m sorry if mistakes have been made and I’m even more sorry that you feel the way you do. Please continue to call on us if we’re needed.’
May was close to tears but Lucy was determined to bring the intimate chat, the ‘private word’, to an abrupt conclusion.
She kissed her on the cheek and received a watery smile. May was a good sort. But Lucy knew that having sought protection for so long she actually needed protection from good sorts.
When they had gone, she ransacked the refrigerator and, with apologies, made herself and Metand eggs Florentine followed by unripe camembert washed down with whisky.
Then she confronted him, still nettled by his surprise disclosure. ‘Why did you bring up Baverstock? And you didn’t tell me you’d spoken to Frasier.’
‘That’s because I’m conducting the investigation, Lucy.’
‘Ouch!’
‘I’m sorry. But we are very far from getting anywhere. And you are not a privileged confidante, despite the fact that I’m staying in your delightful home.’
‘Ouch again.’
Metand gave her a slow smile. ‘As to Baverstock, I just wanted to gauge their reaction.’
‘And did you?’
‘They didn’t give much away. And I find it difficult to believe that Solange went to all that trouble to take such a revenge.’
‘Yes,’ said Lucy, ‘but you did agree she was suicidal.’ For the first time she wondered if it might be possible to take the men’s theory seriously. ‘Peter and Martin said she was attracted to Tim. The fact that he came to see her, after all these years, might have pushed her over the edge literally. She played her games with me and then threw herself off the roof, trying to incriminate Tim.’
Metand didn’t reply directly. ‘There are two essential questions unanswered. Why did he go to see her – if he did go to see her – and where is he now?’
Lucy was determined to hang on to the men’s scenario for just a little longer, however unlikely it sounded. ‘Maybe he’s still wandering or even hiding, in some kind of state of shock –’
Metand took a long pull on his whisky and shrugged. ‘I see no point in this speculation.’ He sounded so final that she hurriedly changed the subject.
‘What did you think of the men?’
‘They were afraid.’
Lucy felt a new sense of shock. Was he acting on a hunch again. ‘What of?’
‘Something they won’t tell me about. That they can’t tell me about.’ Metand closed his eyes.
‘How do you know?’
‘They both try too hard. It’s so glib, so obvious. But I can’t undermine them. Not yet. Lucy –’ he continued, blinking his eyes to keep awake – ‘you have to appreciate that going to France was your only course of action. But Tim may well have taken the opportunity to put something right.’
‘I don’t understand –’
‘Suppose, just suppose we revert to your theory on the ferry which, as I told you, is very interesting. The men, as you call them, weren’t protecting Tim at all; he was protecting them. All the time, all these years, they could have been dependent on him.’
‘But how?’
‘That I don’t know. But we must look at each possibility. Could your husband have had his breakdown because of the burden of protecting the others?’
‘That’s just another theory. First we have Solange’s revenge suicide. Now we have Tim protecting Peter and Martin. Then there’s other scenarios – Solange’s, for instance. The one I don’t want to believe in.’ She paused. ‘And of course you’ve raised this mysterious Baverstock connection.’
‘We have to eliminate each one. I shall increase the scale of the hunt. Tim’s our first priority.’
‘Would it be better if the men did come?’
‘No,’ said Metand. ‘I don’t want them in France, and neither do you. The situation is complicated enough.’
10
30–31 July
Lucy lay in the double bed and failed to sleep. Instead, her mind raced, the images coming and going like steel grinding across the inside of her head. The warm night now seemed to have become humid, enclosing her in a moist cocoon from which she couldn’t escape.
Sleep had never been a problem to her in the past. Before they had set off for France, despite all her worries about Tim, she had been able to drop off almost immediately, often finding release from the building tensions at Gables.
She got up and went to the window, drawing the curtains aside and gazing out into a dense blackness that, as her eyes became accustomed to it, revealed the chestnut trees rustling in a darting night breeze.
Where are you, Tim? Are you dead? Or are you hiding? Did I force you into something you couldn’t stop?
Lucy closed her eyes against the self-interrogation. She wandered around the bedroom, not sure what to do, wondering if she should quietly slip downstairs and pour herself a Scotch.
In the end she gave in, blundering into the sitting room, almost knocking over a vase. It was ludicrous. She had always been able to find her way about the house in the dark, yet after her three traumatic days in France, it had become alien territory.
Eventually she turned on a small lamp by the sofa, poured herself a huge Scotch from the cocktail cabinet, and then went into the kitchen. Lucy giggled foolishly at May’s outrage, indignation and sense of injustice. Restlessly, she returned to the sitting room and let her eyes rove around the familiar/unfamiliar room until she came to what she had always termed ‘Tim’s side of the bookcase’.
They had always had very different reading habits. She preferred ‘literature’, he detective fiction, both gently scoffing at the other’s taste. Now the memory made her wince and Lucy sat down on the sofa, feeling vaguely sick as despair gripped her.
To compensate she drank more Scotch, rose, topped up her glass and returned to the sofa. Feeling comforted, Lucy resumed her scanning of the room, noting each object as if she had not seen it before.
Restlessly, she got up again and walked over to Tim’s books. She had never examined them in such detail before. Peter Cheyney, Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers. Idly she picked up The Nine Tailors and flicked through its pages. As she put it back she saw the envelope behind the books, next to Agatha Christie’s The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Inside the envelope were photographs and she took them out, flicking over prints of their wedding and a few that were taken earlier in Swanage and Canterbury. The last one was instantly familiar.
The three men. On bicycles. Riding down a road with poplars on each side. A traditional French view. It was the same photograph she had seen in the Hotel des Arbres. Lucy went to the sofa with it and sat down, gazing at Peter, Martin and Tim. Why hadn’t he told her he’d got this? Had he hidden it from her? To discover the photograph now was discomforting, as if the house had been invaded. Why hadn’t Tim shown it to her? Why hadn’t Metand admitted to contacting Frasier? Why were secrets
kept? From her?
All three men were smiling. They’re saying cheese, she thought and giggled again, realizing with some satisfaction she was now drunk.
‘He loved me,’ she could hear Solange saying. ‘We had an affair. He was jealous. He killed my husband. He was jealous. He killed my husband.’ The statements became a rhythm and she filled up her glass yet again.
At last oblivion was coming. It was like a dark cloak, wrapping itself around her, taking away the pain.
Lucy lay back on the sofa, her empty glass falling on to the Axminster.
‘Bonjour.’
Lucy jerked awake, her mouth dry and her head aching. A stooped man she didn’t recognize at first was standing rather self-consciously beside her. He had a cup of black coffee in his hand.
‘Tim?’
‘Metand.’ He passed her the coffee and the present abruptly returned.
‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered.
‘What for?’
‘I got drunk.’
‘You probably couldn’t sleep. I’ll leave you to –’
‘No. I’ve got something to show you.’ Lucy held up the photograph of the three men on their bicycles.
Metand took it, squinting slightly. ‘This is the same as the picture at the hotel.’
‘I found it behind a book.’
‘Last night?’
‘Before I got drunk – or while I got drunk. You know Solange took it? Tim told me.’
Metand passed the photograph back to her without comment.
‘We must leave soon. If you are still returning with me?’
‘You know I am.’ Lucy was immediately alarmed, like a child threatened with being abandoned.
‘I’m afraid I don’t take much breakfast.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t.’
They smiled uneasily at each other.
‘What could Tim have meant by saying “Don’t make me do it”?’ asked Metand as they drove back to Newhaven.
Lucy’s headache was better. She was glad to be returning to France, leaving Shrub Lane behind. She knew that she didn’t belong there any more.
‘And the angels are dying. Maybe they were just a nightmare.’
‘Even fragments of dreams can have significance, particularly as we already know the angels were painted on the ceiling of the chapel at Pavilly.’
‘Do you think Villet would have phoned if anything had happened?’
‘Of course.’
‘So I’m meant to go back to the hotel and start waiting all over again? I just can’t do that.’
‘I’ve got to be briefed on what’s been happening in my absence. I’m sorry.’
‘Then I’d like to go to the château and apologize to Anna Ribault.’
Metand shrugged ungraciously. ‘If you would prefer.’
‘I do prefer,’ said Lucy gratefully. ‘Thank you.’ She realized now how heavily dependent she had become on him.
The Channel crossing was rough and Metand spent all his time in a deckchair on the aft deck with his eyes closed, opening them only to light another cigarette.
Lucy, who was not in the least afraid of the sea, was concerned for him as spray came over the side and the ferry rolled in the dips between the waves.
‘Wouldn’t you be better below?’ she asked, but Metand merely shook his head mournfully.
‘I don’t want to go down,’ he mumbled. ‘I want to get to the lifeboats first.’
Eventually Lucy went to the rail, watching the grey waves of the English Channel lash and foam, the swell running towards the French coast, seagulls mewing in the face of the wind. This is an adventure, she thought. A wild, wet adventure on the sea, and Lucy wanted to share it with Tim. The old Tim. The one who was lost in France.
She gazed at the dim outline of the French coastline through the rain mist. Please, Tim. Whatever happened. Come back to me. If you love me.
François Metand seemed to undergo a miracle recovery as they sped along the long, straight roads that she and Tim had taken until they came to the secret, hedged-in countryside that surrounded Navise. Lucy was forcibly reminded of how he had begun to haltingly confide in her.
‘I can guess how painful this journey is for you. Returning without him.’ Metand was as perceptive as ever and Lucy was grateful.
‘He’s here. Somewhere,’ she said resolutely. ‘Are you feeling better?’
‘From mal de mer? I am always thankful to be returning. It’s travelling that makes me ill. Not just the sea.’
‘And that is the only time you smoke?’
‘The only time. I expect I more than make up for my abstinence.’ There was silence as fine rain spread gently on the windscreen, broken by the sudden hum of the wipers. ‘And you still wish to go to Pavilly?’ He sounded uncertain.
‘You think I’ll create a scene?’
‘Anna is not easy.’
‘I’ve got to do something.’
He sighed.
Metand dropped Lucy at the Hotel des Arbres. It was comforting to be back in the quiet, grey square, to push open the by now familiar door and to stand for a moment where she and Tim had stood on the worn tree-patterned tiles.
Louis came out almost immediately when she pressed the bell on the reception desk. For once he was without his bloodied apron, and wore instead a voluminous boiler suit.
‘How was the journey?’
‘Tiring.’ She suddenly kissed him on his unshaven cheek. He was an old friend now. A friend who made no demands. The best kind of friend.
He looked slightly abashed. ‘And the interview?’
‘I don’t think Metand got very far.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No news?’
Louis shook his head and then said, ‘Navise is buzzing – at least as much as it will ever buzz. Solange’s death is on everyone’s lips.’
‘And what is the popular vote? Suicide or murder?’
‘If your husband had not gone missing it would be suicide while the balance of mind was disturbed.’
‘But as it is?’
‘The missing Englishman? The fall? They add up to –’
‘Murder?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Have they mentioned the shirt?’
‘The police have kept that quiet.’
‘What have you been doing?’ Lucy asked, desperate now to change the subject, gazing curiously at his boiler suit.
‘Working in my garden. The antidote to boredom.’
‘Where’s Monique?’
‘She is not so well this morning. I’m afraid the whole business has started her up again. But she’ll recover.’
‘I didn’t realize –’
‘That she had a drink problem? Don’t be polite, madame. It’s a little obvious, isn’t it?’
Lucy nodded, ashamed of herself.
‘What are you going to do? Take a rest? Is there anything I can get you?’
‘No. I don’t want a rest. I’m going up to the château to see Anna Ribault. I owe her an apology.’
‘I wonder if that’s wise?’
‘You sound like Metand. I need to fill my time. I can’t keep waiting.’
‘Would you like to help me in the garden? There’s a lot to do.’
‘I’m sorry. I need to get away.’
‘Anna may not be pleased to see you.’ Clearly Louis wasn’t going to give up as quickly as Metand. ‘She will be devastated.’
‘I really do need to apologize,’ Lucy said briskly. ‘I’ll take the Riley.’
This was the first time she had driven the car since Tim’s disappearance. Lucy condemned herself for being a coward. She should have been using the Riley to search for him, but she also knew – had always known – that she would soon get lost in the lanes. Or was that just a cheap excuse?
As Lucy drove towards Pavilly she could feel Tim’s presence in the passenger seat and she had the strange impression she was nearer to him than she had ever been over the last few days. She kept glancing d
own beside her.
‘Tim,’ she whispered. ‘Find me, Tim.’
Very soon, perhaps too soon, she arrived at the château gates. When she told the police officer who she was he let her through at once.
‘You were distraught, Mrs Groves,’ replied Anna Ribault after Lucy had made her apology. She was calm and completely detached, her boyish face expressionless. It was difficult to work out whether she was hostile or merely neutral. She looked exhausted and her pale skin was waxy and slightly discoloured. Lucy wondered if she was ill.
‘I was out of control.’
‘I’ve felt much the same myself.’
Lucy gazed around her. The summerhouse was a much more substantial building inside than she had imagined, with long windows overlooking the lake.
‘Am I in your way?’
‘You’re welcome to stay and take a look at the archives.’ There was marginal warmth in Anna’s voice. ‘You must be tired of counting the hours.’
The large room was on two well-lit levels, with trestle tables running down each side and a large circular one in the middle on which was heaped a pile of singed and in some cases burnt paper.
Labelled boxes were distributed along the side tables, and for a moment Lucy was reminded of the cricket pavilion at Esher, seeing ghostly May making sandwiches, Sally pushing her blonde hair out of her eyes and little old invalid Tim dozing in a deckchair outside.
‘Would you like a drink?’ Anna was watching her curiously, as if she was calculating something.
Lucy shook her head. ‘I got drunk last night in England and fell asleep on the sofa. Metand found me and I felt a fool.’
‘Do you want to talk?’ She sat down on a stool at one of the tables. ‘Would that help?’
Lucy was surprised at her generosity, wondering how intrusive she was being.
‘I was wrong to come here. I’m just being selfish. I’m not even thinking about how you feel.’
‘I also got drunk last night.’ Anna smiled ironically. ‘So we are both hung over. Sit down and let’s talk for a while. It would probably do us good. Then I shall start work but you’re very welcome to stay until – until you’ve had enough. The archive is interesting, and although it won’t enlighten you about your husband’s brief stay here, it will give you a picture of an ancient French aristocratic family.’
The Men Page 17
