by Myers, Amy
Auguste considered. ‘I doubt it. She might well, as she claims, have made a wonderful wife. And to think I nearly—’ He bit back his words, remembering Edith’s presence. But memory of the night that he had nearly held a murderess in his arms was vivid. And he too had considered her as a wife.
‘What will you do now, Auguste? Continue with the school?’ asked Rose.
‘I shall return. My pupils wish to finish the course. We shall not give up. And when it is over I shall take a holiday. Not at the seaside,’ Auguste added, almost able to smile at himself. ‘There are too many lovely temptations. The sun distorts one’s usual judgement.’ It might have been an excuse.
‘Why did you first suspect Alice Fenwick, Auguste?’ asked Edith.
‘It was something your Mr Dickens said. “Always suspect everybody.” But I realised there were two people I had never suspected. Perhaps it was Emily? Perhaps we should suspect the least likely person to have committed murder. And so she was, so timid, so shy. But then suddenly I thought, no, not her, but Alice. Alice, so calm and comforting, so reliable. She was so reliable, she was always there, and somehow above suspicion, for we thought of her as ill-treated by Lord Wittisham, not as a murderess of Sir Thomas. And so . . .’ He could not finish.
‘I have to thank you, Auguste, once more,’ said Egbert Rose quickly, seeing his distress.
‘Thank Mr Dickens,’ said Auguste with a smile.
‘Araminta,’ Auguste asked, seeing her alone, lovely, desirable, by the dance floor, the band playing a gentle melody of love, ‘may I have this dance?’
‘Oh, Mr Didier.’ She was upset to have to refuse. ‘I am engaged—’
As she spoke, her partner came to claim her, looking somewhat embarrassed. It was Sid.
‘He’s more my age,’ Araminta explained kindly as she floated away in his arms.
Auguste walked slowly home along the deserted seafront. Everyone it seemed had their partner. All save him. He stood gazing out over the dark ocean, and wondered about himself. What did life hold for him? He had been wrong about Araminta; he had been wrong about Alice. No more should dreams of women fill his thoughts; only perhaps those of the one he could not have. But what instead? What remained for him in life?
He listened to the splashing of the waves on the sands. Out there were all the wondrous fishes of the sea, waiting for the Williams and Josephs of this world. And for the Auguste Didiers. Tomorrow before they departed he would show his pupils how to cook a true bourride of Provence. In art there was refuge, there was peace. Not murder.
