‘I think it’s cooling outside,’ said Edward, seeing Rosamund and Franz leaving the garden.
‘Yes,’ said Katerina in her quieter way. ‘And Boris Sergeyovich will have been taken away now, do you think?’
‘Yes, I’m sure he will,’ said Edward. She looked so sad that he wondered if they had loved each other, she and Dr Kandor. ‘Will he be given a Bulgarian or Russian funeral, Katerina?’
Katerina sighed.
‘Does poor Boris Sergeyovich make you think of Russia, then?’ she asked.
‘Russia, somehow, keeps creeping up on me.’
Katerina rose and turned her back.
‘Do you know any Russians?’ she asked.
‘I’ve come across one or two Russian émigrés in London,’ said Edward.
Her voice vibrating, Katerina said, ‘If Russia is ever on your doorstep, Edward, you must bolt your door. What do they say about Russia, the one or two émigrés you know?’
‘That Russia has always walked hand in hand with tragedy, that Russians enjoy sorrow more than laughter, and prefer funerals to weddings.’
‘Perhaps that’s right, even if a little cynical, although I’ve known—’ Katerina made one of her pauses. ‘I must go back to my room or Madame Michel will begin to disapprove of me. I shall take dinner privately.’
‘Yes, I understand,’ said Edward, ‘but later on, when you feel safely installed here—’
‘Installed?’ Katerina turned and smiled. ‘I am sad, yes, but I’m not a piano or a telephone.’
‘No. That was badly put. But when you feel less sad and much safer, you may like to show yourself and dine at my table.’
‘No, no,’ she said, ‘if I show myself and people talk about me, others may discover me.’
‘Others, Katerina?’
‘Those responsible for sending Boris Sergeyovich to his death,’ she said.
‘You believe what I believe, then?’ said Edward.
‘I knew it, Edward, before you did.’ She glided out, closing the door behind her.
Katerina retired early to her bed, but sleep was elusive, and Celeste, peeping in at ten thirty, found her awake. The girl sat with her for a while, then sought Edward, about to retire himself.
‘M’sieur, she’s still grieving and I think would so like to see you.’
‘She’s not asleep yet?’ Edward had sat up talking with Rosamund and Franz. He was unwilling to go to his own bed until he was sure Katerina was sleeping and the hotel secure. Two guests who had been out had returned, and Madame Michel had been able to bolt the front and back doors.
‘She’s in need of a little love,’ whispered Celeste. ‘I’m going to take a camp bed into her room and sleep there, and while I’m seeing to it, I think she would like it if you’d go and say goodnight to her. I wonder if Dr Bush has any medicine for making a sleeping draught?’
‘Ask him, you precious girl,’ said Edward. He went to Katerina’s room, knocked lightly and entered to the sound of her voice. He did not put the light on. The moon, though waning fast, filtered its own light through the shutters. Katerina lay in her bed, her hair a mass of darkness against the white pillows. ‘Katerina, why aren’t you asleep?’
‘Edward?’ Her hand reached out and curled around his. ‘How silly I am. I’m so tired, yet I can’t sleep.’
‘Well, I’m going to say goodnight to you and watch you close your eyes. And Celeste is going to be here with you.’
‘That sweet child. I’m ashamed, needing the comfort of her presence.’
He brought her hand to his lips.
‘Goodnight, Katerina.’
‘Edward, I—’ Her voice was a nervous vibrating murmur. ‘Edward, would you kiss me, please?’
He bent low to kiss her cheek. She turned her face and her warm lips unashamedly received the pressure of his own. His were firm, engaging in a moment of ardour, and hers were quivering, questing and enquiring, seeking a knowledge of love. Her vitality communicated itself to him, as it had once before, and his blood coursed and quickened.
‘That was very sweet,’ he said, and was not to know it was the first time she had experienced a kiss like that.
‘Now I shall sleep,’ she breathed. ‘Thank you, Edward.’
She looked up at him, waiting perhaps for him to say he loved her. He gave her a smile, seeing her eyes like pools of darkness. A long sigh escaped her, and her lashes fell. He thought again how like a girl she could be, for all her poise and elegance. It was as if she could not put her years of joyous youth behind her.
At the door, he said, ‘I’m going into Nice in the morning. I’ll see you when I get back. Sleep well, Katerina.’
‘Goodnight, dear Edward.’ Her voice was a dreamy, floating murmur.
The villa slumbered. The dog was asleep in its kennel. The quietness of the night seemed undisturbable, even when something was thrown high over the wall to hit the ground close to the kennel. It made only a slight plop as it landed. The dog, however, instinctively alerted, woke up. It came out of the kennel, ears stiff and hackles up, rumbling in its throat. It smelled meat, and padded forward, sniffing.
It reached the meat, which was impregnated with strychnine.
A boot came down hard on the juicy slab. The dog, interested but uneasy, found itself deprived. It barked, it snapped at the boot.
Sandro said nothing. He listened. He slapped the dog’s nose. The Alsatian whined. Sandro stayed still, listening. He heard the faintest of sounds. Someone outside the wall was in cautious retreat.
Sandro’s teeth glimmered, his booted foot crushing the meat. He had once been a Cossack cavalryman. Badly wounded in the stomach during a battle against the Austrians, his life had been saved by an Imperial Army surgeon, subsequently the Surgeon-General.
He stroked the dog’s ears.
‘They’re after you now,’ he whispered, ‘so be as quiet as the dead. They think she’s still here. They’ll come back – tomorrow, perhaps, or the next night. We’ll wait for them, my hungry one, and you shall have them. Boris Sergeyovich will expect it of us. Until they come, you shall stay out of sight, in the kitchen, and, as I say, be as quiet as the dead.’
He slung his rifle, picked up the poisoned meat and walked quietly away to dispose of it.
‘The dog, then?’
‘It took the meat, comrade. I heard it come from its kennel. I heard it whine in its hunger for it.’
‘Good. Tomorrow, then, break in. Search her room for every paper, letter and diary you can find. There will be some information that will point us to the others.’
‘The two servants—’
‘Quietly, comrade, you will do it quietly, without waking them. And remember to take a few valuables. It must look like a common burglary. Is the dog dead?’
‘One can’t see through a wall, and I made no attempt to climb it. The animal was noisy before it took the meat. That would have alerted the servants. I left immediately.’
‘I see. Well, you can go now.’
‘Comrade—’
‘Don’t harass me. Go.’
Edward, waking up early, found himself fighting for breath. Bitterly and fiercely, he got up to do his fighting on his feet. He stood at the casement doors, sucking air into his compressed lungs. The sun was up, covering the hotel garden with warm morning light. Gregory, the gardener, was already at work. An honest man, Sandro had said, and Edward believed him.
Over breakfast, his breathing still crippled him. He postponed his trip to Nice. Celeste was concerned. Clouds of autumn came to turn the morning cool, and Edward went to his room to work. Katerina slept late, for Celeste had managed to get Dr Bush to mix a sleeping draught. The retired American practitioner used them himself from time to time.
Katerina knocked on Edward’s door at mid-morning. She saw he was working. She asked if she might just sit by his windows, promising to keep him silent company. Edward, although he knew her presence would be a distraction, pulled up a chair for her. She sat down. She kept her pr
omise. She did not say a word. She watched him at his writing. He coughed frequently. It made her bite her lip. Celeste brought them coffee at eleven o’clock. Katerina got up and followed the girl out, closing the door and detaining her.
‘Celeste, is there nothing we can do for Edward’s cough? Or is there nothing he should be doing for it himself?’
‘Nothing, Madame,’ said Celeste. ‘It’s not the cough of a chest cold, it’s the cough of a man with poisoned lungs. The attack will pass – it always does.’
‘He has to live with such attacks?’
‘Yes, Madame. He does. You must take no notice. You see, he’s very aware of his disability as it is. It’s one thing to keep an eye on him, it’s a different thing to worry and fuss. Ask him to play dominoes. We French like to play dominoes, and it’s a favourite game with Edward.’
‘But he’s working, Celeste, he’s writing.’
‘Madame, you aren’t too sad to play dominoes?’
‘Dominoes is a game strange to me,’ said Katerina, ‘but no, I’m not too sad.’
‘If you’ll let Edward teach you, he’ll soon forget he needs to cough. He’ll be enchanted.’
‘Will he?’ said Katerina with a little smile.
‘Madame, can you doubt it?’ protested Celeste.
‘Oh, yes, I can doubt it. He looks very dark and unsociable.’
‘That’s because you are very beautiful and desirable—’
‘Celeste?’ Katerina was gently restraining.
‘A hundred pardons, Madame, for being so personal, but it’s true. And he, you see, in his own eyes, is a lesser man than many others.’
‘Celeste, that isn’t how he should think of himself. I’ve been sitting with him, and he’s been so silent, and I’ve been mourning Dr Kandor and thinking about him being so dead – and, oh, I need light and air and warmth and love. Celeste, dear child, I am a miserable creature, am I not?’
Celeste smiled.
‘Madame, ask him to teach you how to play dominoes,’ she said.
‘Very well, I will.’ Katerina went back into the room. Edward was just tearing up a sheet of paper. ‘Please, Edward,’ she said, ‘I should like to learn how to play dominoes.’
Edward looked at her in astonishment.
‘Dominoes?’ he said. He put a hand to his mouth and coughed. ‘Dominoes?’
‘Only if you can spare a little time from your writing.’
‘Willingly,’ said Edward. He thought her composed, her quietness the badge of her grief for her doctor. She had given in to no noisy tears, but her sadness was there, he felt. ‘You really wish to play dominoes?’ he said.
Katerina, aware that neither of them had been able to relax, said, ‘If you would like to, then so would I.’
Edward got up to fetch a box of dominoes that lay on the mantelshelf. He placed it on the table, clearing away his papers. Katerina brought up her chair and her coffee, and they sat down together. An extraordinary sensation of pleasure invested Katerina. It was extraordinary, for it came of such a little thing – simply the act of sitting down with Edward to play dominoes.
Edward, afflicted by a coughing bout, put his hand to his mouth. When it was over, he said, ‘I’ll go back to my writing after lunch.’
He showed her how to play threes and fives. The principle was so simple that she picked the game up at once. Little comments were exchanged, and Edward also offered advice on tactics. He stopped coughing and began to breathe more freely. Katerina, noting this, noting how his involvement with the simple game removed from him his awareness of his ailment, felt a warm glow of pleasure. They played for over an hour, she as competitive as he was, if less experienced.
‘How many games did I win?’ she asked at the end.
Edward, referring to the score sheet, said, ‘Three.’
‘As many as that? Already I’m so proficient? What is your score?’
‘I won seven games,’ said Edward.
‘Edward, are you sure?’ she asked.
Checking the figures, he said, ‘A miscalculation – we each won five.’
‘How gallant,’ said Katerina, and put her hand over his. ‘Edward, you are very good for me.’
‘Since I feel so much better, Katerina, I’d say you’re extremely good for me.’
‘Thank you, Edward.’
Celeste served lunch to them in Edward’s room, and the day passed quietly and companionably.
The man, slim and agile, came noiselessly over the wall, his jacket protectively covering the cemented ridge of broken glass. Pulling the garment after him, he dropped lightly to the ground. The night was dark, clouds smothering the moon. He put his jacket on and stood with his ears straining. Not a sound came from the unlighted villa. He made a slow, cautious advance over the lawn and ascended the steps to the terrace. He paused and listened again. There was neither sight nor sound of the dog. He walked silently up to the curtained French windows, and from his pocket took a glass-cutter and a rubber sucker. Carefully, he drew the glass-cutter down a side of a pane. A little frictional rasp resulted.
In the kitchen, the Alsatian’s ears stood up and it came to its feet. At the sound of an uneasy, rumbling growl, Sandro put his hand tightly around the dog’s jaws.
‘Quiet, little swine. Come with me, come silently.’
But when the dog reached the large room that opened out on to the terrace by its French windows, it broke free of Sandro’s restraining hand and barked ferociously. It leapt savagely towards the curtained windows.
Outside, the intruder froze, then turned and ran, taking the terrace steps recklessly. Sandro drew back the curtains and opened the doors.
‘Go, my hungry one. Pull him down. Go.’
The Alsatian leapt out. At the green gate, in the darkness, the man was tugging the bolt back. Hearing the rushing, snarling animal, he pushed the gate open in frenzied fear and went through, slamming it shut after him. The dog was there, its leap pushing the gate open again. The man fled. The dog caught him in his flight along the top of the cliff, jaws closing around his sleeved right arm and pulling him down. The man screamed.
Sandro arrived, gun in his hands. The Alsatian, teeth clamped around an arm, had the man grounded and palsied.
‘Get up,’ said Sandro in his mother tongue. He prodded the dog. ‘Leave him, my beauty.’
The Alsatian released the arm. The man, white-faced in the darkness, came to his feet.
‘No harm – I was doing no harm,’ he said in French.
Sandro’s teeth glittered.
‘You are a liar, a pig, a murderer,’ he said in Russian.
‘No – no—’
The dog was a bristling threat, and Sandro’s smile was icy. The man had understood Russian.
‘Walk,’ said Sandro.
‘I—’
‘Walk.’
The man, prodded by the rifle, obeyed. With Sandro at his back, he walked along the edge of the cliff in the darkness, the growling Alsatian a frightening escort. He tried to explain he was no more than a modest burglar. Sandro poked him with the rifle butt and told him to shut up. He made him walk four hundred metres from the villa, passing the Corniche that was a pale edifice on the left.
‘Stop,’ said Sandro. The man halted. ‘Turn,’ said Sandro.
‘Wait, let me—’
‘Turn. This is where we shall leave you.’
The man turned, facing the edge of the cliff and the dark sea. Sandro hit him violently between his shoulder blades. He screamed as he pitched forward and tumbled over the cliff top. Sandro heard the faint sounds of body striking the rocky, inclining cliff face. He did not hear the sound the man made as he struck the rocks below in bone-breaking finality.
‘One for one, my hungry wolf,’ said Sandro to the dog, ‘that is something to help Boris Sergeyovich rest in peace. Come.’
Chapter Fifteen
Edward was able to motor into Nice the next morning. He went through his breakfast healthily, making up his mind he was fit for t
he trip. Mademoiselle Dupont smiled at him from her table, though she looked as if her witnessing of Dr Kandor’s plunge to death had affected her sleep. But she was at least spared the unwanted smiles and importunities of Monsieur Valery, who had not yet appeared for breakfast.
Celeste wanted to go to Nice with Edward, but her mother could not do without her this time. Four guests were leaving and three winter guests were arriving. It meant busy work for the small staff, and Celeste must do her share.
‘But, Mama—’
‘Yes, yes, I know, you think Monsieur Somers shouldn’t drive to Nice by himself. You forget he drives all the way here from England. I know you like to be with him, but he’ll be here until April.’
‘Oh, but, Mama—’
‘But, but? Come, come, you mustn’t attach yourself to him so possessively. People will talk. Look how you’ve grown lately.’
‘Why should people talk about that?’ protested Celeste. ‘One does grow, Mama. It isn’t at all unusual. However, if you’re sure you can’t do without me, I’ll stay, of course.’
‘I’m gratified,’ said Madame Michel drily.
‘I just hope Monsieur Somers experiences no difficulties,’ said Celeste. ‘If calamity strikes, think of the remorse you’ll feel.’
‘Well, before he goes, have a brief word with him, child, and tell him, for my sake, that in no circumstances is he to let calamity strike.’
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