A series of six, obviously, and one photograph had been carefully chosen and passed into the hands of a newspaper. The photograph that best portrayed Belle Forsyth in the way it was wanted to portray her—as a cheaply provocative woman for whom the distinguished Alexis Karel had abandoned his invalid wife.
I picked up the pictures, one by one, examined them, and turned them over. There was no identification, nothing to show where they had come from. I looked again at the envelope, but it was empty.
The postmark was my only clue. It was smudgy, and at first glance I couldn’t make it out. I went over to the window, tilting the envelope to catch the sunlight. Against the blue postage stamp I could hardly decipher anything, except, at the bottom, the word Sussex. So it had been mailed locally.
The date was completely unreadable, but concentrating on one letter at a time, I decided that the name of the town began with S and ended ... ven. I felt triumphant. There was only one place in Sussex that could possibly fit. Seahaven. Someone in Seahaven— the photographer presumably—had sent Belle these prints.
With a sudden rush of excitement I slipped the photos back in the envelope and ran along the corridor to my bedroom. I didn’t want to waste time changing. I pulled on a belted raincoat over my slacks and hastily checked my face in the mirror.
Downstairs there was no one around. I collected the spare car keys from the hook by the door and went straight through to the Warrenders’ side of the house. Since I didn’t know what I hoped to discover in Seahaven, I was glad not to have to explain things to Rudi for the moment.
Caterina happened to be in the staircase hall, arranging early daffodils in a bowl that stood upon the antique marble table.
“Gail, my dear, how are you this morning? You managed to get some rest, I hope?”
“Yes, thank you, Caterina. I—”
“Good morning, Gail.”
Sir Ralph’s voice came from behind me. Turning, I saw him standing in the open doorway of the library.
“I gather from my son that he’s planning to finish that film of his about Alexis. The Lord knows why. It seems to me the quicker it’s all forgotten, the better for everyone. Do you understand what’s in Brett’s mind, Gail?”
He spoke with a kind of suppressed anger, and I guessed there had been sharp disagreement between Brett and his father. I determined to ask Brett, the first moment I could, whether it wasn’t time for Sir Ralph and Caterina to be told the truth as we believed it. With the evidence I’d just found of the photographs, and what I hoped to get from the man who had taken them, there was surely enough to convince them we were right.
Perhaps, I thought with wildly flaring hope, it was already enough to convince other people, too.
I restrained my mood of optimism and said quietly, “We don’t know the whole story about Alexis yet, Sir Ralph. Brett wants to be ready when the time comes.”
“Ready for what?” he asked brusquely. “I’m sorry, my dear—the last thing I want is to upset you, but when I think of Alexis driving your poor aunt to such desperation that she took her own life.”
“The person who left the newspaper in her room is responsible for that,” I said.
“Madeleine would have found out sooner or later. It was only a question of time. And it goes to prove what I’ve maintained all along—that she ought to have been told the truth at the start.”
Caterina put out her hand and touched my arm. It was an eloquent gesture, begging me to forbear with her husband.
I bit my lip, swallowing back my anger. “I came to ask you to excuse me from joining you for lunch. It was kind of you to suggest it, but something has cropped up.”
Sir Ralph moved forward quickly, his hand groping for me. He found my shoulder and gripped it hard.
“Gail, my dear girl, you must forgive me. I speak my mind too plainly. Please don’t take offense. Caterina and I will be delighted to have you lunch with us.”
“But it’s not that, Sir Ralph. I have to go out— really! I have to go to Seahaven.”
Caterina, serving as his eyes, said, “Yes, it is true, Ralph. She’s dressed ready to go out. Gail, may I drive you? You shouldn’t be on your own today.”
I shook my head. “Thanks, Caterina, but I’ll be okay. Honestly.”
I was actually halfway to Seahaven when the realization struck home with a sickening jolt that the car I was driving, Alexis’s ten-year-old Rover, was the one used by Belle and my uncle’s double to take them to the airport. And in the car had they also taken Alexis —his body—to wherever it was they had disposed of it?
My heart thudding, I pulled to the side of the road and stopped. For a moment I just sat there, breathing quickly. Perhaps by using the car today I might be destroying vital evidence—if not something obvious, then traces that forensic experts could detect. But I was not the first person to have driven the car since that night. A garageman had brought it back to Deer’s Leap from London Airport.
Careful to touch nothing I didn’t need to touch, I started to examine the interior—the floor, under the seats, the glove compartment. I found only the untidy paraphernalia Alexis kept—dog-eared maps, a tire pressure gauge, an odd leather glove—nothing with any special significance. I had to force myself to get out and look in the trunk, but it was empty. There were no suspicious looking marks.
Fingerprints? Belle’s, of course, would be on the car anyway, because she had been allowed to use it when she wanted to. But her accomplice’s prints would be a clue. To preserve any that might still be left, I handled the controls gingerly for the rest of the journey.
The familiar road, almost empty of other traffic, twisted its way to the crest of the downs, then dipped again on the gentler southern slope toward the coast.
Chapter Nineteen
I turned left by the pierhead and parked the car outside a boarded-up ice-cream parlor. Seahaven was battened down for the winter, its forlorn air of neglect emphasized by the bright sunshine.
I knew the post office was in a road at right angles to the seafront, and I went there to check through the classified directory. There were three photographers in the town, I found. I scribbled down their addresses on the back of a scrap of paper. The first was only two blocks away, in an arcade off the main shopping street. Arun Studio—Portraits. Weddings. Children a Speciality. I went in, a buzzer sounding as I trod on the doormat.
“I won’t keep you a moment,” a man’s voice called from the back.
There were specimen prints in several showcases, and I ran my eye over them hoping I might find Belle’s face among the dozens on display. But no luck.
The man appeared through a pair of green chenille curtains, slipping on his jacket as he came. He was about fifty, short and fussy, with heavy-framed spectacles.
“I’ve got some photographs here,” I began, “and I wondered if by chance you had taken them. I’m pretty sure it was someone in Seahaven.” I slipped the prints from the envelope and held one out to him.
Looking faintly surprised, he gave Belle’s picture one glance, then wrinkled his nose in distaste.
“Oh no, I can tell you straight away that it’s not one of ours. We don’t do ... well, poses quite like that— it would damage our high-class reputation.” He turned the photograph in my hand to show me the reverse side. “Anyway, we always stamp our name and address on the back. We aren’t ashamed to acknowledge our work. I suggest you try Claude Mason in Ash Street—just along by the station.”
That was the third name on my list. Murmuring thanks, I left and headed in the direction of the railway station.
The entrance to Claude Mason’s studio was a doorway sandwiched between two shops, with stairs leading up. On the second floor, I entered a bright and cheerful waiting room. A woman was in there, ordering some enlargements, and Claude Mason—it had to be him—gave me a smile and waved me to a chair.
“Be with you in a second.”
He was pushing forty, an ordinary-looking man who had tried to add a touch of arti
stic distinction with collar-length hair, a Vandyke beard, a floppy bow tie, and a velvet smoking jacket in dusty purple.
He jotted down the woman’s order and told her with a radiant smile that it would be ready to collect in three days’ time. As she went out he turned and came toward me, his head tilted, his hands held up to frame my face judicially.
“What had you in mind, love? It’s for your boyfriend, I dare say? I can do you a nice six-by-eight mounted in a gilt presentation frame so he can prop you up in his bedroom.”
“No ... I’m sorry, but I just wanted some information.” Again I drew the photographs from the envelope. “I was wondering if by chance you took these?”
His look of disappointment swiftly changed when he saw what I was holding out. He glanced at me closely, slyly, sizing me up.
“You know who this is, don’t you? Well, of course you must, or you wouldn’t be asking. I suppose you’re from the press, is that it?”
“Well...”
Fortunately, he liked the sound of his own voice too much to wait for any more. “It shook me rigid, I can tell you, when I saw that picture of her in the paper. She’s got her head screwed on all right, that one. Mind you, though, nasty business about his wife. I was reading about it this morning.”
“Do you happen to know anything about her—Belle Forsyth, I mean?”
“No, love. I never set eyes on her until she walked in one morning and asked for a set of six. She said she was hoping to get some modeling work, and of course she’s got the figure for it. She had everything worked out in her mind, exactly what she wanted. Not pinups, but something to turn a man on a bit, if you know what I mean.” He glanced again at the prints, admiring his own professionalism. “Looks as if she won’t be needing these now, though, doesn’t it? Found herself a sugar daddy—that’s what they used to call them. Oh well, let’s hope her luck lasts through the summer.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about her? Anything at all?”
He shook his head. “I only wish there was. Be a few quid in it for me, I bet, eh? She paid cash on the nail and asked me to send her the prints in a plain envelope—very insistent about that, she was.”
“Er ... when was this, exactly?”
“Oh, it wasn’t long ago. Hang on, I can tell you for sure.” He nicked through the pages of his order book. “Here we are. Just four weeks yesterday.”
That was all the information he could give me. I came down the steep staircase and out into the street with curiously mixed feelings. Though I’d got nothing definite, it was a step forward, I told myself. It was just one more indication that Brett and I were on the right track.
* * * *
I arrived back at Deer’s Leap in the middle of the afternoon and drove straight to the stable to garage the Rover. As I walked around to the house, I saw there was a bright orange sports car parked by the Warrenders’ entrance. Not still the press, surely?
Rudi came to the front door to meet me. He was frowning and sounded hurt.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were going out, Gail? Lady Caterina said something about Seahaven.”
“Yes, I did go there,” I said vaguely. “Rudi, who’s that calling on the Warrenders?”
He glanced at the orange car. “Oh, that looks like Elspeth Vane’s.”
Surprised, I said, “Brett must have come in her car, then!”
I couldn’t wait to tell Brett my news about the photographs of Belle. Just as I was, I went straight through to the staircase hall. Sir Ralph was standing in the telephone lobby, with the door open. He broke off his conversation and turned in my direction.
“Is that you, Gail? You’ll find them in the Ivory Room.”
I tapped on the door, and Caterina called to come in. “Hello, Gail dear. Did you get what you wanted in Seahaven?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Come in and sit down. Take your coat off. You do know Elspeth, don’t you? I’m sure you must have met.”
“Yes, we’ve met,” said Elspeth, giving me a cool stare.
Completely at home, she was reclining gracefully on one of the settees, her long legs crossed. I saw she was fingering a small ivory carving she had taken from its place on the mantel—a twelfth-century figure of Hercules, one of Sir Ralph’s most treasured pieces.
As always, Elspeth had the power to make me feel gauche and insignificant. She looked stunning in a scarlet pants suit, perfectly set off by the unobtrusive dove-gray velvet of the upholstery. Her raven hair was taken back smoothly from her forehead in a chignon. On her wrist she wore a cluster of silver bangles.
“Where’s Brett?” I asked. “Did he come with you?”
Her laugh tinkled, unamused. “I thought you hadn’t come bursting in just to say hello to me. No, Brett’s not coming down until later. He said there was some footage he wanted to check through first. He’s suddenly in a fever to start work on the Karel film again, though heaven knows why.”
“It’s his decision,” I retorted sharply.
Behind me, Sir Ralph had come into the room. He said, “Elspeth shares my opinion that completing the film is a waste of time and money. If it ever gets a television showing, which I doubt, it can only injure the career of everyone connected with it.”
“I’m sure Brett knows what he’s doing,” I said doggedly.
“I wonder.” Elspeth’s viridian green eyes held a glint of mockery, added to the cool calculation that was always there. “Brett does some very peculiar things at times. He can be an impetuous man, with sudden wild enthusiasms. Short-lived enthusiasms.”
Caterina glanced unhappily from one to the other of us, sensing the electric tension but not fully understanding the cause of it.
“We must leave it to Brett,” she said, in an attempt at peacemaking.
* * * *
It was seven in the evening before Brett arrived. Waiting for him, never far from a window that faced the front, I heard the low snarl of his Lancia as it stormed up the last rise before Deer’s Leap, then clicked down a gear to swing in at the entrance gates. His headlights sent a stream of light skittering across the hall as he came racing up the drive and slid to a stop on the sweep of gravel fronting the house. The motor was cut, the headlights snapped off, the door slammed shut, all in the space of a moment. Brett was obviously in a tearing hurry.
I opened our front door to intercept him, but he was coming to the west wing anyway, striding briskly toward me. In his hand he gripped a small tube of cardboard.
“Gail, I’ve got to talk to you. I’ve discovered something.”
Behind me, the door of the Oak Room opened, and Rudi came out. He spent most of his time there now, brooding. Uselessly heaping blame on himself.
“I heard your car, Brett,” he said. “Er ... have you some news?”
“I just want a word with Gail, that’s all,” Brett said brusquely. He pointed to the door of the Winter Parlor. “Can we go in here, Gail?”
“Yes.” Before closing the door, I glimpsed the puzzled, anxious expression on Rudi’s face as he stood motionless in the hall, staring after us.
Brett dragged off his sheepskin jacket and tossed it on a chair. He began easing out the contents of the cardboard tube, all the while talking fast.
“I was planning to come back earlier, but then I decided to stay in town and have a second look at all the material we’d chucked out, in the hope that some of it might be usable after all. As it stands, the film is much too patchy, and the whole concept of the thing needs rethinking. I did find a few extra bits we could use. However, that’s beside the point. What interested me was a series of stills that Eddie Fox had taken by the lake here. They’re wretchedly indistinct, because there was so little light. But look at this one.”
He had unrolled a blown-up photograph and flattened it out on top of the bureau. Standing beside him, I looked at it, puzzled. Possibly, even if Brett hadn’t told me, I might have recognized the lake at Deer’s Leap, the conifers fringing the far bank. But I could make
out little else, for the picture was foggy and blurred.
I glanced up at Brett. “I don’t understand. What’s so special about it?”
“It was Eddie’s first attempt at photography by moonlight. He’d always felt that as the house is called Deer’s Leap, it would be a pity not to include some shots of deer taken in the grounds, and Elspeth and I agreed with him. But all the time we were filming down here we never saw a sign of deer. So in the end Eddie decided he’d surprise us with some stills taken at night. He waited for the full moon, and set up an automatic camera on that ridge above the lake, timing it to take a short shot every five minutes. But when the film was processed, Eddie shoved the prints away in disgust. They were hopeless, with nothing recognizable as a deer in any of them.”
The night of the full moon, Brett had said. I had a sudden memory of the silent moonlit landscape at the mas in Provence. It had been a half moon then, low in the sky, and on the wane.
“When were these pictures taken?” I asked him urgently. “Was it... ?”
He nodded. “Yes, Gail, the night Alexis disappeared. I want you to have another look. Look carefully. What do you think that is out on the lake?”
I could see only a vague gray blur. But with my eyes half closed I began to form an image that grew clearer, more definite.
“It looks like the dinghy, Brett.”
“Yes, and what’s in it? Or rather, who?”
It was all so indistinct. Shadowy figures with no clear outline. I said doubtfully, “That could be a woman ... long hair ... and the other ... I don’t know—it could be a man.”
“What else do you see, Gail?”
“There seems to be a dark shape between them. It... it looks as if they’re trying to lift it ...” I broke off and stared at Brett, fear suddenly surging through me.
“As if they’re trying to lift it over the side?” he suggested, holding my gaze intently.
Quest for Alexis Page 17
