“Merci, Madame.”
“Come in, Clarissa, she’ll take care of it. It’s lovely in the garden at this hour—the last roses are still blooming. But perhaps you’d like to freshen up first?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Are you? Really?”
“I think I will be. Though you’re right—when you reached me in Paris, I was at something of a low point. I was actually thinking about going back and facing the music. But you convinced me that old and grey though I am, it may not yet be time to fade away. So I came.”
“And I am so pleased. I hope the train was not too distressing?”
“It was perfectly comfortable. I’m glad you suggested the Train Bleu—not only convenient, but filled with the most entertaining people.”
“Americans, yes? Quite mad, all of them, but they can be charming. Here, take this chair, the view will soothe your spirits.”
“My spirits are already much soothed by being here.”
“How long have we been anticipating this day?”
“Do you know, I think we talked about living in Monaco the very first winter I knew you. Forty-nine years ago.”
“Forty-nine? Impossible! I refuse to believe it was longer ago than last summer.”
“Says the white-haired lady.”
“And you, Clarissa—you had your hair cut off!”
“I’m not used to it yet, I keep reaching up to adjust my pins. I haven’t had short hair since I was a child.”
“It’s terribly chic. That’s from Paris, too?”
“I had to convince the coiffeur that I wanted the same cut as the young woman beside me. He tried to talk me into a Marcel wave, and couldn’t believe I wanted it bobbed.”
“It’s just as well you didn’t ask for an Eton crop, he’d have fainted dead away.”
“No doubt. As it was, he charged me a ridiculous amount. In fact, I went through a great deal of money in Paris, altogether.”
“New hair, new frock—a totally new you.”
“I even replaced all my undergarments.”
“A solid investment. There’s nothing like new lingerie to boost a woman’s self-esteem. And you’re here now, so your room, my kitchen, Mathilde’s car—my clothes, even, should any of them fit you—are yours for as long as you like.”
“Thank you, dear, but I mustn’t abuse your hospitality. I’d like to set up on my own, as soon as possible.”
“I’ve been asking around, as you suggested on the telephone—though what you said was very mysterious.”
“One doesn’t like to go into detail with the Exchange listening in.”
“I know—it’s so bad here in little Monaco, no sooner do you hang up the earpiece than the doorbell rings with someone who’s heard the news.”
“I figured that would be the case. And I’ll go into details later, when you and I are quite alone.”
“We’re alone here. There’s only Mathilde, and she’s well accustomed to secrets.”
“There’s no hurry, merely something I wanted you to think about, in case you have a friend who knows something about money. Not a banker, necessarily, but someone who—”
“Ah, tea! Mathilde, I see you managed to get some of those adorable little macarons from Madame Renault—clever girl.”
“My, look at that spectacular tea-tray. Mathilde, you are an artist. How did you guess that I haven’t had a decent cup of English tea since I left Sussex eight days ago?”
“Thank you, Mathilde, we’ll pour, you go on and hang up Clarissa’s things before they are crushed beyond salvation. Clara, dear, is anything locked? Do you want to give her the keys?”
“Oh, there’s just the one little valise that’s locked, never mind that, it’s mostly papers and a book. Nothing that needs hanging. Thank you, Mathilde.”
“Here, I’ll be mother—I hope you don’t mind India tea. What were we talking about? Oh, yes, bankers. I may have just the man.”
“Another time. Let me just enjoy sitting still and being with you.”
“Indeed, plenty of time to talk business when you’ve had a rest. But you’re not needing to arrange a loan, are you? You did say you had a little money, yes?”
“I have plenty to get me started, thanks. Just not enough to keep me going—not in Monaco.”
“It is an expensive sort of place.”
“There’s a rather intriguing possibility that I want to talk to you about—or I suppose, four of them. But that’s terribly complicated and we both need to have our wits about us when I explain.”
“Sounds exciting—but yes. Take some days to catch your breath. I have set up a few appointments and introductions. People you might find useful—a few of those charming Americans, and a local boy who is not only highly decorative, but terribly useful. He’s new since your last visit. You’ll just adore him.”
“I knew I could count on you.”
“Now, do take one of those pretty little macarons. They’re absolutely to die for.”
It was fortunate I hadn’t drunk more than a glass of the Murphys’ wine. As it was, I staggered to my feet in astonishment—but had enough of my wits about me to spot the warning in Mrs Hudson’s eyes and the sharp little shake of her head. My exclamation made it no further than my front teeth, and though I swayed with reaction, I managed to stop myself from leaping across the bamboo mats to throw my arms around her.
But the others were staring at me in astonishment. Seconds passed before realisation flooded in and I looked down at my sodden front. “Bite,” I managed to choke out. “Or sting—something. Not sure—anyway sorry. Um. Maybe a refill?”
Gerald laughed as he reached for the bottle. “A body sure does feel the booze fast in hot weather,” he remarked, retrieving my glass and filling it again.
Talk resumed. Mrs Hudson ate a biscuit. Sara went back into one of the picnic bags and came out with a basket of luscious purple grapes, passing them around. I drank my wine and surreptitiously studied the woman in the blue dress.
Had it not been for that warning shake of the head, I might have wondered if this was Mrs Hudson’s well-groomed twin sister, but no: behind the plucked and darkened eyebrows and the touch of colour on her lips, it was her profile, her lifted chin, the straight line of her back and the age spot beneath her left ear—all were precisely what I had last seen driving away from our home at the end of May.
I reminded myself that, in May, she had been in disguise—brown of hair and unsuitable of dress. And at various times over the years, Mrs Hudson had helped Holmes by playing rôles such as housekeeper for a German spy, or shop-attendant in a blackmail case. But the truth was, Mrs Hudson—my Mrs Hudson—had been in a kind of disguise all the years I knew her. She had carried out the rôle of landlady on Baker Street, and later that of Sussex housekeeper, not as a natural thing, but as a necessary act of contrition.
I will admit that in the weeks since that revelation, my acceptance of it was merely intellectual. My heart had no idea what to do with it.
Could today’s appearance be another disguise? If so, why? Had she come here deliberately, leaving a track of crumbs for me to follow? Or—an even more appalling thought—was this a collaboration with Holmes? Was my own husband and partner deceiving me? Was there some case too sensitive to trust me with? Or perhaps I should say, too top-secret?
Even taking into account my distaste for any task performed in the service of Mycroft Holmes—my spymaster brother-in-law, a man of enormous power and troubling ethics—I could not imagine Holmes accepting a case that required lying to my face.
But if this was not another disguise, did that mean I was now looking at the real Mrs Hudson? She’d lost a stone, gained a sense of fashion, and submitted to a great deal of pampering in order to become this attractively groomed woman who sat on the beach and drank wine with wealthy expatriates. Was s
he the Murphy children’s governess? The parents were treating her more like a guest than an employee. Perhaps that was something Americans did now—at least, these Americans. But surely that blue frock was too simple and well cut to be cheap, that grey hair too expensively styled?
My interest was not as well hidden as I’d thought. Sara Murphy noticed the way my gaze kept creeping over to the woman in the chair, and she made a little noise of irritation. “Oh, sorry—I forgot to introduce you two. Mary, this is our saviour, Miss Hudson. She’s such a love—our nanny had to be away for a few days and dear Miss H volunteered to step into the breach and keep us from madness. Miss H, our new friend Mrs Russell.”
I stretched my arm across a couple of supine bodies to take the hand of my all-but-grandmother, looking into her eyes and seeing nothing there but polite acknowledgment. We shook. Her skin felt considerably softer than mine, after my three weeks spent hauling ropes.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs Russell. Have you been here long?”
Very well: two could play this game. I settled back onto my knees. “We just arrived. My friend Terry and I hitched a ride on the sailing yacht of a friend of his, and I’ve barely got my land legs back under me.”
“Welcome to the Côte d’Azur.”
“Thank you. And you, Miss Hudson—have you lived here long?” My voice was innocent, though she must have seen both curiosity and amusement in my eyes.
“Not very long, no, although I’ve visited on and off over much of my life. I decided to retire here. Well, I say retire…”
She glanced across at Sara Murphy, who laughed aloud. “Miss Hudson here is no more retired than…well, she’s less retired than any of us are, that’s for sure.”
“What is it that you do?” I asked.
“For lack of a better term, I call it consulting.”
I couldn’t stifle a cough of laughter—but then cleared my throat to make it sound like a simple cough. Sherlock Holmes billed himself as a consulting detective. “About what do you ‘consult,’ Miss Hudson?”
“Whatever is required, Mrs Russell. For example, do you know Monte Carlo?”
“I’ve not yet been there, although an old friend seemed to have some considerable affection for the place.” She was good. Her face betrayed no sign that she might know who this old friend was. “I’m aware that Monte Carlo is the part of Monaco where Grandpapa goes to lose the family estate and White Russians hide out from the Bolsheviks.”
“And there is the problem in a nutshell,” she responded. “The Casino was once magnificent and world-famous, the gardens are still lovely, the harbour is first-rate, but as you say, the place has gone out of fashion. The Crown Prince, and especially his daughter the Princess Charlotte, realise this, and wish to expand its potential audience beyond the roulette wheels and card tables.”
“And you understand this sort of…consulting?”
“I understand it very well, Mrs Russell.”
At this last, rather emphatic statement, Sara Murphy picked up the odd flavour to the exchange. Not that she could begin to understand the thread of tension, but she instinctively moved to deflate it. “The Casino’s trying to develop a plan for the future,” she explained to me. “As a way of dusting off the cobwebs and moving a little more into the Jazz Age. One of the things Miss Hudson was considering is: how can the Casino and baths appeal to people more like, well, Gerald and me? People who want to have a good time, but don’t care to spend all day indoors, or to leave our families behind. It was a happy coincidence that, as I said, our nanny was called away for a few days just when Miss Hudson needed some children to experiment on.”
“Happy timing, indeed.”
“Oh, it really has been! She comes up with the most extraordinary means of combining entertainment with education. Patrick’s a bit young, but Baoth and Honoria have adored the past week. The lives of starfishes, how the moon links to tides, invisible ink—all sorts of things that keep them happy and busy.”
“Quite the little Baker Street Irregulars,” I said drily.
“Funny you should say that,” Sara said. “She had all three of them tracking us through Juan-les-Pins the other day. We’d look up and there they’d be, peeping around a corner.”
“How very amusing. Miss Hudson, you and I must talk about your little project.”
“I look forward to it,” she replied.
And with that, just before she turned away, there was a brief flash of herself, an all but imperceptible lowering of one eyelid. Then she pulled a pair of tinted sun-glasses over her made-up eyes and disappeared into the obscurity of a woman of sixty-nine years.
* * *
—
After a time, the young nanny, who seemed to be attached to the other three children, walked down to the shore to retrieve those still in the water. They ignored her for a time, then realised their own hunger and pounded out of the water and across the sand to demand food, drink, and adult attention.
The abrupt influx caused the dozen adults to pull in, shift their interests, and settle into a new configuration. Sara and Gerald, who had been on separate mats, now came together with the children. Terry watched the tableau with his usual good humour. The others looked on with something close to bemusement, as if wondering why an adult would actively choose the company of small children. Only one betrayed open exasperation: the young man not dressed for the beach, whom Gerald had introduced as “Rafe, a brilliant sculptor.” Rafe had been talking about his work, and made little effort to hide his irritation. He stood, brushing sand off his trousers, and said he had to get back to the studio.
If he was hoping for us to beg him to reconsider, it did not happen. Indeed, our hosts were oblivious. Instead of turning their offspring over to the nannies, they had given themselves wholeheartedly to a discussion of the walking patterns of crabs, showing neither embarrassed impatience nor exaggerated solemnity. It was clear that both parents considered their three children at least as interesting as any of the adults within earshot.
I looked at Sara’s bent head, at Gerald’s intent focus, and felt my heart twist.
I might have been watching my own mother and father, when I was young and filled with innocent enthusiasms.
* * *
—
The sun went lower, the party dispersed. To my surprise, Sara’s mention of dinner turned out to be not a vague and future suggestion, but a firm and definite invitation: tonight, at the Murphys’ villa, with the absent Luca, Patrice, and Solange. And informal, not evening wear. Terry and I accepted, with thanks—Terry because he was always eager for a party, and I because it would give me a chance to drag Mrs Hudson aside and find out what was going on.
Back at the hotel, I inflicted my sweat-soaked, wine-stained, sand-caked person on the desk personnel long enough to write out a handful of brief telegrams, addressed to places that Holmes might see, such as The Times, The Telegraph, and Le Figaro. I then retreated to my room for refreshment both internal (many glasses of cool water) and immersive (a bath that was pleasingly tepid but fragrant with bath-side unguents). When I was no longer an offence to humanity, I phoned down to the desk in hopes of an emergency hair-dresser—and such was the hotel that they had one available, instantly. She did not even blink (well, at least she did not run down the hall screaming) at the state of the head that confronted her: frazzled by sun, desiccated by salt, and untouched by scissors for longer than I could remember. When she was finished, I looked in the glass and dug out a hefty tip, every centime of which she had earned.
I felt somewhat less like a piece of leather by the time I met up in the bar with the others. When the sun was near the horizon, we climbed into the tram that plied up and down from the centre of Antibes, and rattled along the ridge.
There was no trouble finding Villa America from the tram stop: just follow the noise. Shiny cars lay parked along the verge, and the gate stood o
pen, welcoming us into a garden with lanterns hanging from the trees and music coming from the gramophone. Voices rose in a score of conversations, as what seemed like half the current population of Cap d’Antibes gathered on the Murphys’ harlequin-tiled terrace, to drink and laugh and occasionally dance to the music.
Unfortunately, Mrs Hudson was not one of them.
“Oh, too bad,” I told Sara Murphy, hoping my disappointment was not too obvious. “I’d hoped to have a talk with her. She’s not staying with you, then?”
“Heavens no, she has a place in Monte. She leaves early—she doesn’t like to drive along the cliff road after dark.”
That was the second time in one day I found myself gawping in stupefaction. Mrs Hudson in couture I could manage. Mrs Hudson in lip-stick, with a bob in place of her tidy bun? Perhaps. But Mrs Hudson—at the wheel of a car?
Mrs Hudson?
That thunderbolt took some getting over, but after a couple of gin fizzes—maybe three—I had managed to lock the image of my aged housekeeper motoring the cliffs of the Côte d’Azur into the portion of my brain devoted to honest politicians, winged pigs, and other unlikely but remote possibilities awaiting verification.
The gathering at Villa America grew into a well-behaved riot. Thirty or so sleek individuals stood around shouting at each other over the music, glasses in hand. Few stopped to admire the glorious sunset framed by palms and cypresses, merely shifting over to stand beneath the lamps hanging from the branches of a well-kept and remarkably mature garden, with the occasional scent of mimosa pushing aside the women’s perfumes. The actress had brought some friends, Zelda had brought a writer husband, and Terry had spotted some old chums, and was introducing them to Solange and Patrick.
However, a dinner it was not. There was food of a sort, in the form of hastily improvised canapés laden on trays, which were instantly reduced to crumbs. But there was plenty of alcohol, from cold wine to the cocktails that Gerald was energetically shaking up at a table to one side.
Riviera Gold Page 4
