'Yes.' Beryl paused. 'I can't really think now. I'll stay with Marjorie for a while, till I decide what to do.'
'Give me her phone number, then.' Claire handed her a pad. 'God, Beryl, I just can't take this in.'
'How do you think I feel?' Beryl wrote down the number. 'Keep an eye on Bernard for me, will you? He'll be alone for a week or two, till she gets back. Although a lot of things are explained, I still think he's ill.' His comment about snakes returned to her, and, pushing it hastily from her mind, she rose to her feet. 'I'd better go.'
'Would you like me to come with you?'
'That's sweet of you, but I'll be all right. Sorry to let you down about Melbray. Sally Polsom would stand in, if you asked her. Oh, and I've just remembered: I promised Sarah I'd babysit tomorrow. Will you explain?'
'Of course. Oh, Beryl, I wish you weren't going.'
'So do I.' Beryl gave her a quick hug. 'I'll phone you and we can meet for lunch. Now I really must go, before it starts to sink in.'
'I'll ring this evening, to make sure you're all right.'
Beryl nodded and walked back to her car. Claire stood at the door watching as she reversed into the road, raised a hand in farewell, and drove out of sight. Then she slowly closed it. Poor, poor Beryl. .
Needing suddenly to hear Tom's voice, she went quickly to the telephone.
CHAPTER 12
Hannah stepped out of the shower and towelled herself vigorously. It had been a sticky, overcast day, with intermittent growls of thunder. On her return from school she'd flung open the windows, but the air was sluggish and no welcome breeze came in.
The bathroom lit momentarily as another crash rolled threateningly across the sky. Odd, Hannah thought, reaching for her clothes, how affected one was by weather. Problems which hung heavily in the rain, dispersed with the sunshine, while storms held an underlying sense of menace and approaching climax.
She smiled to herself. Too much melodrama at an early age, she thought, hanging up the towel and emerging from the bathroom. A sulphury light filled the flat, and the first heavy raindrops splashed portentously on the sill beyond the sitting-room window. Hannah paused, looking down on the landscaped gardens. On the far side of the lawn was the wild patch, an area left uncultivated to attract insects and small animals. Beyond that again lay the protecting band of trees—oaks, elms and chestnuts, all heavy now with summer foliage. Above their tops the sky hung loweringly as another peal, closer than the others, echoed overhead, setting some dogs barking.
'"On such a night as this",' Hannah thought, and shivered without knowing why. The rain, slow in reaching its decision, now began in earnest, falling in a heavy curtain behind which the garden shimmered as if seen through a waterfall. She moved back as it bounced on the inside sill, and reluctantly closed the window. At least she wasn't going out this evening. There was no likelihood of Charles ringing to suggest dinner.
And as the thought, half-rueful, half-relieved, formed in her head, the phone did ring. Hannah jumped, looking at it interrogatively. He'd said he'd try again, but surely not so soon? She lifted the phone. 'Hello?'
'Mademoiselle James? I am sorry to disturb you.' The voice spoke in quick, agitated French, introducing itself even as Hannah identified it. 'This is Cecile Picard. I must thank you for your kind letter. My husband and I were deeply touched.'
Hannah, mystified, murmured some reply. Her letter had called for no answer, least of all a telephoned one. 'I hope you will forgive my troubling you,' Madame continued, 'but I have a problem—a serious one, I think, and I have no one else to turn to. You were so sympathique when we met that I persuaded myself you might help me.'
'If I can, of course.'
'We must meet, mademoiselle. What I have to say cannot be discussed by telephone. May I see you this evening?'
Hannah hesitated, looking at the streaming windows. It was a fifty-minute drive to Steeple Bayliss. 'Well, I—'
'Perhaps if I come to Shillingham, you will have dinner as my guest?'
Despite herself, Hannah said, 'Surely it's easier if I—?'
'But no.' The Frenchwoman was adamant. 'I have checked the trains. If I catch the six-forty, I can be with you by seven-twenty. Would you be so kind as to book a table somewhere?'
Hannah said tentatively, 'Your husband?'
'No, my husband knows nothing of this. I shall explain when I see you.'
'Very well, madame. I'll meet you at the station. A bientot.'
Hannah put the phone down and frowned. What problem could be urgent enough to bring the Frenchwoman twenty-seven miles on a wet evening, and without her husband's knowledge? She would have to wait and see. She opened the directory and flicked through it for the number of the King's Head. Better to go for the solid, old-fashioned ambiance of an hotel than a more ephemeral restaurant and, situated as it was on Gloucester Circus, it was only two minutes' drive from the station.
When the train came in, Hannah was waiting, protected from the weather by her full poplin raincoat and an umbrella. Madame looked as chic as ever in a riding mac with exaggerated collar and tightly pulled-in belt. She was pale, but she smiled as she shook Hannah's hand. 'I am most grateful. I hope you had nothing planned?'
'Nothing,' Hannah assured her, leading the way to the car. They spoke little as they drove down the busy wet thoroughfare of Station Road and round to the hotel car park. Sheltered by Hannah's umbrella, they hurried into the building, handing over their dripping coats and the umbrella to a solicitous cloakroom attendant.
'I booked the table for eight o'clock,' Hannah said. 'I thought perhaps you'd like a drink first?' 'Yes. Thank you.'
They settled themselves in the cocktail lounge. A chromium bar ran down one side of the room, and there were plush bench seats along the other, behind a row of glass-topped tables. Hannah brought the drinks over.
'Sante", she said, and Cecile Picard raised her glass. Hannah's eyes went over the attractive face with its high cheekbones and huge brown eyes, and the dark, silver-streaked hair which framed it. 'I'm so very sorry about your daughter,' she said.
'Thank you.' Cecile toyed with her glass. 'The police spoke with us today. It seems likely after all that it was an accident. I thank God for that. It hurts no less, but it is at least a clean pain. What tortured us was the thought that someone wished her harm. To know that was not so is comfort of a sort. You understand?'
Hannah nodded. 'You have other children?' she asked gently.
'Oh yes. Another daughter and two sons. I miss them all so much.' The French construction of the sentence gave it an added poignancy: not 'I miss them', as in English, but, literally, 'they are lacking to me'. It seemed more expressive of what the woman felt.
'Tell me about them.'
'Arlette is—was—the eldest. Then Xavier, who studies law. He will join his father's firm. Jean-Baptiste does his army service and Sylvie is still at school. They are so distressed about their sister and I should be with them, but I must stay until—' She spread her hands helplessly, and Hannah nodded.
'It won't be long now.'
'No. I had thought I could manage, hold out until we return home, but now I don't think so.' 'Hold out?'
'Forgive me, I should explain. But it is not easy, mademoiselle. It started so long ago. Thirty years. I was young—not yet twenty—and I fell deeply in love.' She paused, still fingering her glass. 'With a young Englishman. He was in Paris for a year, at the Sorbonne. It was all—' she gave a very Gallic shrug—'romantic, exciting, passionate, as perhaps only first love can be.'
'Then he had to come home?'
'Not exactly. We quarrelled. I don't remember why. Nothing important, I'm sure. But I have a quick temper, and I indulged it to the full, enjoying the drama. "It is over between us! Go and never return!" I expected him to respond, to shout back, then we would fall into each other's arms, more in love than ever. But he just stood there, looking pale and hurt, and I didn't know what to do. I ran out of the room, thinking he'd follow, but he did not. And th
e next day I heard he'd left Paris. I was—desolee. It seemed he hadn't loved me after all. I raged and cried for two solid days, then my mother, in despair, sent me to my aunt and cousins in Angers. And shortly afterwards I met my husband.'
A waiter materialized in front of them. 'Your table is ready, ladies, if you'd care to come through.'
Hannah bit back her irritation. She couldn't see the relevance of what Madame was telling her, but the interruption had broken the flow. And in the dining-room there would be more distractions, studying the menu, ordering wine, the food being served. However, Cecile Picard, having finished her drink, was waiting for her. It was ten minutes later, when some of these distractions had been dealt with, that Hannah prompted, 'And the young man? You never heard of him again?'
'Not for thirty years. Then I learned he'd caught the next boat back to France and searched for me everywhere. But my friends didn't know where I was, and my parents refused to tell him. They said I wanted no more to do with him. After all my tantrums, no doubt they believed that. And six months later, I married Gaston.' Her face softened. 'My husband is not a strong man, mademoiselle. He is gentle and sensitive, and his family is the centre of his life. He has grieved for Arlette even more than I, so much so it has made him ill. He has been forced to stay in his room ever since we arrived.' She smiled sadly, meeting Hannah's eye. 'You wonder why I bore you with this so long and ancient story. I will tell you. That young Englishman whom I loved so much, and who, despite what I thought, also loved me: his name was Bernard Warwick.'
Hannah said blankly, 'Professor Warwick? From the university?'
'Exactement.'
'But you must have known? Surely Arlette mentioned—?'
'Never. She seldom referred to him at all, and then only as "le prof’ And for his part, the name Picard meant nothing. He knew me as Cecile Devereux.'
'So when did you both realize?'
'At the station, when he met our train.'
'My God!' Hannah said softly. And David had been there. Had he noticed anything? 'What did you do?'
'I was stunned. In the first seconds I took my lead from him, and since he continued to stare at me blankly, I gave no sign of recognition. He'd agreed to act as interpreter, but was too shocked to do so. He made his excuses and left, and Monsieur Webb found you to take his place.'
'I see.' She remembered David's anger at the Professor's unaccountable behaviour. Unaccountable till now. 'But you have seen him since?'
'Oh yes.' There was a quiet bitterness in her voice. 'Many times. He will not leave me alone. He—seems to think it is still thirty years ago.'
'He still loves you?'
'Worse. He's convinced I still love him. Nothing I say will shake that belief. He maintains I'm just being loyal to my husband, whom he regards as weak. The day after our arrival, I went to the university. Gaston had a migraine, so I was alone. I see now that was a mistake, but to be truthful, I was glad of the chance to see Bernard privately. What woman is not curious about a former lover? I was totally unprepared for the—the tenderness and passion with which he greeted me. It was as though we'd been lovers the week before, and nothing had changed. As though, when he came back to look for me, I'd been waiting.'
'But he must understand you're married now, and have your own life, your family—'
'He understands nothing]' Madame's small palm slapped the table, sloshing the wine in the glasses so that a drop spilt on the cloth. Absentmindedly she dabbed at it with her napkin.
'He phones repeatedly to the hotel. Somehow I've kept the calls from Gaston, who has often been in bed. I told you, mademoiselle, he is not strong; another shock on top of Arlette's death would be too much for him. It is for that reason alone that I excuse myself again and again to meet Bernard, to try to reason with him. But now a crisis has occurred.' 'What's happened?'
Cecile waited till they'd been served with paper-thin slices of veal, tiny new potatoes, mange-touts and broccoli. Then she said, as though there'd been no break in the conversation, 'His wife has left him. He came to tell me this afternoon. He's becoming careless, not minding if we're seen together, and that is dangerous—for myself, for Gaston. He said he'd told her we are to marry, and she must go.' Cecile looked up, holding Hannah's eyes. 'And that was when, mademoiselle, for the first time, I was afraid. So I returned to my room and telephoned you.'
'I see you're upset, madame, but why afraid?'
'Because he is no longer rational. He will accept nothing I say, brushes it aside and continues with his plans. Even to sending his wife away! It's—bizarre.'' She sampled the veal appreciatively. 'You know what I dreamt last night? That I was locked in a room with only a tiny, barred window. Through that window I could see a garden with a high gate and a wall all round it. And I could see Gaston and the children—Arlette was with them—' there was a break in her voice—'and they were trying to get in, to rescue me, but they could not. I woke with tears on my face.'
'Then tell him,' Hannah said. 'Tell your husband the whole story. Then nothing Bernard says can harm you.'
Slowly Cecile shook her head. 'It is too late. I behaved foolishly at the beginning, not saying who Bernard was. But I did not think it important, God help me. Our thoughts were of Arlette, and that first evening as we reached our room, Gaston began to vomit. It was a story which needed careful telling. I was not capable, then, of embarking on it, nor he fit to listen. And as the days passed and I continued to reason with Bernard, it became impossible to speak. My silence gave it added importance. You see that?'
'Then go back to France, tomorrow, with your husband. Arlette will be flown back as soon as things are settled.'
'No.' Again Cecile shook her head. 'I will not leave her alone, in a strange country. Look what happened last time.' It was illogical—what could harm Arlette now?—but Hannah understood.
'Then how can I help you?'
Cecile looked up and her face was suddenly haggard. In that moment, Hannah could imagine her as a very old woman. 'I do not know. Perhaps you cannot. But I needed to tell someone, and no one else speaks French.'
'He could be ordered to stop pestering you,' Hannah said after a moment's thought.
'There's no time to go to court.'
'Would you like someone to speak to him? Chief Inspector Webb, perhaps?'
'Ah!' Cecile smiled slightly. 'Forgive me, I received the impression you know Monsieur Webb. Socially, that is.'
Not much escaped the French, Hannah reflected. 'Yes,' she acknowledged.
'Then perhaps if you spoke with him, he might suggest something. You understand I want nothing public. I have no wish to humiliate Bernard, and it must not touch Gaston. He has enough to bear.'
'I'll speak to Mr Webb, certainly.'
'This evening?'
'If he's available.'
'I understand he is based in this town.'
'Yes, and we live in the same block of flats.'
‘Parfait. I am sorry, mademoiselle, to burden you with my problems, but there is no one else. Now, let us speak of more pleasant topics. You own a school, I believe?'
'Not exactly,' Hannah answered with a smile, and explained her position. The rest of the meal passed pleasantly enough in comparing the educational systems of England and France. But beneath the surface, Hannah's mind was still on the strange love story she'd heard. She hadn't met Professor Warwick; what kind of man could remain so passionately involved with a woman he hadn't seen or heard from in thirty years? And dismiss his wife, as though she were a servant he no longer required? More importantly, what would happen when his plans were thwarted, as they were bound to be?
Having determinedly put her troubles aside, Cecile Picard reverted to her vivacious self. Her face was mobile and expressive, given to quick, radiant smiles, and she used her hands repeatedly to convey her meaning. As a young girl, bubbling with joie de vivre, she must have been captivating.
Later, as they shook hands at the station, Hannah briefly reverted to the point of their meeting. 'Try no
t to worry, madame. I'm sure things will work out for you. And I'll speak to Mr Webb as soon as I get home.'
As she came out of the forecourt, the thunderstorm, threatening for so long, finally broke. A deafening succession of crashes rolled across the sky, brilliantly illuminated by lightning, and the downpour of rain began with a roaring swoosh, rattling on to the paving stones and half-blinding her as she struggled to open the car door. The pavements of Station Road, quite busy when she drove up minutes before, were deserted as pedestrians huddled in shop doorways till the worst of the storm had passed. Slowly, her windscreen wipers struggling even on double speed, Hannah drove along what seemed like a raging riverbed. The few cars she saw moving slowly along could have been empty, since the occupants were hidden behind the streaming windows. She felt alone and vulnerable, like a creature left behind by Noah's Ark.
Above the noise of the car's engine and the rattling rain, another ear-numbing crash sounded. Grimly she continued along Duke Street and up the hill towards home. In the time it took her to garage the car and run into the building, her umbrella blew inside out and her hair was plastered to her head. It was with an atavistic sense of reaching shelter that she closed the front door behind her, leaning against it panting for a minute before, avoiding the lift in this electrical storm, she hurried up the stairs to her flat.
There, she changed out of her wet clothes, hung the mac on the shower rail to drip in the bath, and rubbed the worst of the water off her hair. But she was not yet free to creep into bed, pulling the clothes over her head as she had as a child during thunderstorms. The evening was still not over; she had promised to contact David. Pulling the door shut behind her, she went up the stairs to his flat.
'Hannah! Come in!' Seeing her damp hair, he added, 'You've surely not been out in this?'
'Oh, but I have.'
'Then come and dry off. I'll light the gas fire—the rain's made it cooler. Can I get you a drink?'
'Coffee would be lovely, David. I've had enough alcohol this evening.'
Death Speaks Softly Page 14
