“And does he know how to prove Angus innocent?”
Ralph did not answer.
“Angus has to go to France.”
He spoke angrily. “For God’s sake, stop talking nonsense. Angus can’t go anywhere because his passport’s been impounded.”
“The two of you look so alike that when you’re not together you’re sometimes mistaken for each other.”
He stared at her, shocked. “You’re suggesting…”
“Angus can travel to France on your passport. It’s eight years old so the photo of you was taken near enough at the age he is now.”
They’d been married for six years, but this was the first time Ralph had begun to realise that she valued something more highly than her family and reputation.
Ralph paced the bedroom. “Are you sure you understand the implications of what you’re suggesting?”
“I think so,” Angela replied from the bed.
“You’re not forgetting how upset you were at the thought of the publicity that would follow if it was discovered that Angus had been attempting a tax fraud? Or how sick it’s made you to read in the national press that Angus is accused of drug-running?”
“Of course I haven’t forgotten. How could I when I’ve wanted to crawl away to somewhere where no one’s ever heard the name of Sterne?”
He came to a stop by the foot of the bed. “What you’re suggesting now could have far more serious and direct consequences for both of us. I’d be actively helping to break the law and if this was discovered I’d be taken to court. If found guilty — and the verdict couldn’t be anything else — I’d almost certainly end up by being struck off the Rolls.”
“All that doesn’t change a thing. We have to help Angus prove his innocence.”
He walked round to her side of the bed. “You know, you’re asking me to deny all the precepts by which I’ve lived and worked and to jeopardise things I hold most dear. Yet I love you for it.” He kissed her.
Chapter 13
There was a small queue waiting to pass through emigration and Sterne joined it. The man behind the desk, looking tired, took a passport from a middle-aged woman, thumbed quickly through the first few pages, handed it back. Perhaps, Sterne thought, he’d struck lucky and found someone who was content to do his job with the minimum degree of efficiency… But somewhere on the other’s desk there must be a list of names and his was probably one of them. And the man might recognise the name of Sterne and look more closely at the photograph in the passport and then at him and he might notice the subtle differences that would be apparent to the trained eye: ears set slightly lower, thicker eyebrows, a different curve to the mouth…
Sterne straightened his tie, worn because Ralph would never have travelled in an open neck. Whatever happened, he must remember to answer questions with Ralph’s statistics, not his own. Occupation solicitor, not footloose wanderer: place of birth Folkestone, not Maidstone: date of birth May 3rd, not September 17th…
“May I have your passport, please.”
He handed it over. The emigration officer glanced through it, handed it back. “Next,” he said impatiently.
Sterne walked into the departure lounge. He discovered he’d been sweating heavily.
*
He left the train at Poitiers. In one corner of the rambling station there was an Avis desk, manned by a woman in the company’s neat uniform. She gave him a professional smile and told him he could hire a Renault 5, a Renault 11, a Citroën GS, or a Talbot Alpine. He chose the Renault 11. She asked for passport, driving licence, and credit card.
“I’m paying cash.”
She frowned. “It becomes difficult,” she said. “If we have credit cards, we are sure…”
Plastic money had really come of age, he thought: it was presumed that only persons of proven creditworthiness would be granted credit cards so someone with one could be more trusted to return the hired car than someone who paid in cash. He opened one of the pockets of his wallet and produced an Access card. “I’d still rather pay in cash.”
She was satisfied that now everything was in order. She noted the credit card number and then worked out what he owed for a seven-day hire.
*
It had all seemed so straightforward and simple when he’d spoken to Young. Belinda must live within a local telephone call of Vertagne and so all that was needed was to ask around about a family where the husband was French, the mother English, and the twenty-three-year-old daughter of the mother’s first marriage was tall and fairly slim and had chestnut, curly hair and dark brown eyes…
The small boulangerie and pâtisserie in the square at Vertagne was still filled with the heady scent of bread baked for the midday meal. He bought a ficelle and two éclairs and then tried to ask the woman about Belinda. But because he was no longer buying, she no longer understood his fractured French.
He walked down the street to find, a hundred metres along, an old-fashioned general store which sold food, wine, vegetables, and many kinds of kitchen dry goods. There were three kinds of pâté in a small chilled unit and he chose the pepper one. The woman, middle-aged, plump, and garrulous, cut him a generous slice and wrapped it up with great care. He added a two-hundred-gram pack of butter, a bottle of vin ordinaire, and a kitchen knife, to his purchases and paid. As he pocketed the change, he said that his fiancée was staying with friends near the village, but he’d suddenly discovered that he’d lost her address: did she know of a family where the husband was French and the wife and her daughter were both English? In halting French the story sounded weaker than ever, but the woman was a romantic and not prepared to be critical. She rested her plump elbows on the counter by the side of a bowl of cooked chick-peas and began to list all the families in which there were foreigners. Unfortunately, it became clear that a foreigner was someone who came from beyond the district.
He returned to the car, left the village, and turned down the first lane. He picnicked by a circle of poplars, enjoying the view over rolling, wooded countryside and the pâté which was nearly as good as the woman in the shop had claimed.
Twenty minutes later he drove into Bardineaux and parked outside the town hall, marked by the Tricolour hanging over the pretentious, columned entrance to the tall, square building. He talked to one man who suggested he spoke to another, who suggested he spoke to a third. The third man was tall and long-faced, with a small moustache and he looked not unlike de Gaulle: however, his manner was gracious and helpful and he spoke a reasonable form of English. If Monsieur Sterne would like to wait, he would see what he could find out…
When he returned, he regretfully said that the records he’d consulted failed to list any family living in the district where the husband was French, the mother and daughter English.
*
By seven-thirty, Sterne finally admitted that there was no point in continuing the search that day. Few shops were still open, public offices had long since closed, and the last person to whom he’d spoken had made it perfectly clear that the state of her cooking was far more important than the extent of his troubles. He parked in front of the Auberge du Mail in Recour and went inside to ask if there was a room free. The woman he spoke to wanted to know if he’d be eating dinner there and when he said he would she decided there was a room free. She led him up a staircase — split down the centre so one hopped from side to side to ascend it — and along a crooked corridor to a large room, scrupulously clean, filled with furniture that would have delighted the heart of any collector of rural antiques. He said the room was fine, she said that dinner would be served at eight-thirty and the bisque d’homard was a dream. She showed him where the bathroom was, then left, presumably to return to the kitchen and complete the preparation of the dream soup.
He washed away the day’s travelling grime, returned to the bedroom, sat on the bed, and spread out a map. He’d dropped Belinda at Vertagne. If his theory was right, she lived somewhere near there. But how near was near? He’d searched the map for the secret
gorge and, after some difficulty, had finally decided where it was and had marked it with a cross. Because this position was south of Vertagne, he’d so far concentrated his inquiries to the south. But as Young had pointed out, if Belinda had travelled to the gorge by car, it could virtually be in any direction and at any distance… Yet she’d first been taken there when she was sixteen. She wouldn’t have held a driving licence at that age. So wasn’t it reasonable to accept that to begin with she’d reached it either on a bicycle or moped? He was convinced she lived within 15 kilometres of the gorge, however arbitrary that figure was. He measured 15 kilometres and, the gorge as the centre, drew a rough circle of that radius. He was disheartened to note how many towns and villages lay within it.
*
By Thursday afternoon, his feeling was more one of despair than disheartenment. Mostly his inquiries had met a blank, but occasionally he’d been given information which had sent him hurrying on, certain that this time he’d finally found Belinda. In this way, he’d met an American couple who were soon returning to Rockford, Illinois, and hoped he’d visit them there; a Dutchman married to a doe-eyed Indonesian who’d looked at him with an expression in her soft brown eyes which had disturbed him even though he couldn’t translate it; and two Englishwomen who lived in a tumbledown cottage and who were, so the elder of them assured him, artists of genius, awaiting the recognition which must one day be accorded them: and would he like to buy one of their paintings for only five hundred francs?
He backed down the potholed dirt track to the metalled road and retraced his route to the crossroads. Looking for a needle in a haystack was child’s play by comparison with what he was trying to do, he thought bitterly. He’d made certain assumptions, based on little more than guesswork, and these could be hopelessly wrong. Even if they were only slightly wrong — for instance, if Belinda lived within 20 kilometres of the gorge, not 15, then the area became so great that it was ridiculous to imagine he had any chance of success…
He passed a signpost marked Brillant and he remembered that this was the village beyond which they’d turned off to go to the gorge. Abruptly, he decided to visit it and see if it’s quiet, contemplative beauty could chase away his bitter sense of failure.
At the crossroads past the small village, he turned into the dead straight, rising lane which became lost in the distant trees. He breasted the hill and reached the T-junction, turned into the very narrow lane with its high earth banks. Further on he made a sharp left turn, passed beyond the trees, and continued up to the final right-hand bend which brought him on to the very small plateau. A car was already parked there. He swore. He’d come seeking peace and what he’d found was, like as not, a family outing with a horde of screaming children. Secret gorge? It might as well have been listed in Michelin with a little red arrows.
The Citroën CX was parked in the centre of the plateau so that it left him insufficient room to turn. Then to leave, he had to find the driver and ask him to move the Citroën. He climbed out, slammed the door shut with unnecessary force.
Despite his sense of annoyance, the peace began to wash over him. Birds resumed singing and amongst them there were the crystal clear notes of a nightingale. The distant murmur of water on rocks was a lullaby. And no screaming children as yet. He started down the natural path. A humming-bird hawk-moth, its wings thrumming, hovered in front of a cowslip bell: a large grasshopper launched itself forward just before his right foot would have crushed it: a dragonfly soared away with a banking turn.
He saw movement to his left. Wearing a red blouse and a cotton skirt, a woman was making her way up to where he stood. When she drew nearer, he recognised Belinda.
Chapter 14
He stood and stared at her round, piquant, character-filled face. “I’ve been scouring the countryside for days for you.”
She came to a stop a few feet from him, beyond a ragged clump of cistus.
“I’ve asked in every town and village in the area, but no one had ever heard of you. So I came here to try and restore my shattered morale.”
“And found me. If you were a man of any faith, you’d have known this would happen. This isn’t just a secret gorge, it’s a magic one as well.” She came forward a couple of paces, then sat. He settled by her. “I heard a car arrive and the door slam and I cursed the intruder,” she continued. “I called on the gods of the gorge to make him trip over his feet, fall, and break his neck. I’m glad they weren’t listening.”
“And I saw the Citroën and cursed and imagined a stout, puffing father, a harassed mother, and a horde of screaming children. I didn’t call on the gods to rid me of them because I didn’t know about the gods then, but I would have done if I had.”
She reached out and picked a long stalk of grass. “I’ve been here a lot recently. I just couldn’t decide what to do.” She nibbled the grass. Then she said, in a distant dreamy voice: “When I got back home both my mother and Jean were so pleased to see me that it made me feel quite humble — and that’s not something I’m used to feeling. I told them what had happened with the two Italians and Jean… I’ve always thought he could be a hard, even cruel man, but I’ll swear that if he’d got hold of those two he’d have killed them… Neither of them so much as hinted at the fact that if I’d stayed at home instead of being a fool and going off with Michel, none of it would ever have happened… They only reproached me when I said how I’d made you drop me at Vertagne and that was why Jean had had to pick me up there. They were angry because I hadn’t brought you home for them to thank you for all you’d done for me… But you understood, didn’t you?”
“I’m not sure that I did.”
“Or was it your masculine ego that was hurt?” Her smile robbed the words of any malice. “Shall I tell you what it was I couldn’t decide? Whether or not to get in touch with you again. And minutes before you arrived here, I came to a decision.”
“Which was?”
“What’s it matter now?”
“Maybe masculine ego would like to know that we’d have met again a bit later on, if not by pure chance now.”
“Pure chance? We meet here, in my secret gorge, and you can call it pure chance? That’s sacrilege. If you don’t apologise right away, something terrible will happen.”
“Apologise to whom?”
“The gods of the gorge, of course. After all, they arranged for us to come here at the same time. Come on, apologise.”
“I have.”
“At the top of your voice, so they can hear you.”
“Deaf — that sounds ungodlike?”
“Please, Angus.”
Feeling somewhat foolish, he begged the gods’ pardon for having doubted their responsibility for this meeting.
“That’s better.”
The quality of the light altered and she looked up. “The sun’s just gone behind the other bank, so it’ll soon start to get a bit chilly — even at this time of the year one can need a sweater. So we’d better move.”
He stood and held out his hand to help her to her feet. When they reached the small plateau and the cars, she said: “I’ll move so you can get round, then you lead the way down the lane. When we reach the main road, turn right and I’ll come past you and lead the way.”
“Where are we heading for?”
“Home.”
She moved the Citroën as far as she dared and this left him just enough room in which to manoeuvre. When he reached the main road he turned right and continued slowly in second, watching his rear-view mirror. The Citroën appeared, drew out, and passed him to the accompaniment of a quick bleep of the horn.
They continued on the main road for several kilometres, then carried on through a series of side roads until the Citroën began to slow, with left indicator flashing. He looked past the Citroën and saw a high brick wall in which was set a wide gateway with intricately designed and executed wrought-iron gates.
He’d often wondered about her background. She’d been too emotionally disturbed for him to judge from
her behaviour, her clothes had been those of a wanderer, she’d worn no jewellery, and had lost all her personal possessions, yet nevertheless he’d gained the definite impression that she came from a comfortable background. He had not imagined a luxurious one.
Beyond the gates was a parkland setting, with specimen trees, English in character. In contrast the house was wholly French. Beautifully proportioned, with two main floors and a third one set slightly back, and a small round tower at either end of the front façade, it was built of honey-coloured stone and had a slate roof. On either side of the bronze front door were stone statues of voluptuous females, bearing cornucopias on their shoulders. In the centre of the turning circle at the end of the drive was a lily pool, holding long, lazy golden carp.
Two borzois came round the far side of the house and barked until she’d left the Citroën to stroke them. Their barking recommenced when he climbed out of the Renault.
“Shut up! This is Angus Sterne and from now on he’s your friend. D’you understand?”
The borzois studied Sterne and barked more loudly.
“They’re just bad-mannered. Ignore them and eventually they’ll be quiet.” She came over to him and linked her arm with his. “Before we go in, you’ll answer one question. Why did you drive so slowly when you reached the main road?”
“To let you get by.”
“Was that the only reason? And you’re on your honour to confess the truth.”
“Well… maybe I was also making quite sure.”
“That I didn’t shoot off in the opposite direction and try to lose you? I thought so! Don’t you understand that since the gods of the gorge had decided we should meet again, I could never do a thing like that?”
She was speaking facetiously, yet he knew that at heart she was not being wholly facetious.
Her mother and stepfather were in the family sitting room, a small, pleasantly informal room which, as he learned later, was in sharp contrast to the drawing room. Evelyn was handsome in a mature, sophisticated manner and she was dressed in clothes which had all the elegant simplicity of expert design and dressmaking: her few pieces of jewellery were choice. Jean de Matour was of medium height thick in build, and like his wife’s, his clothes, though his were informal, had the unmistakable stamp of expensive quality. His face was round and regularly featured and he smiled a lot, showing two gold-capped teeth. He seemed a naturally charming man. Yet even on this first meeting, when he came under the scrutiny of the cool grey-green eyes, Sterne immediately remembered how Belinda had spoken of him as someone very kind and considerate, yet at the same time of very strong character and probably capable of cruelty.
Presumption of Guilt Page 10
