House of the Hanged (24 page)

Childish, petulant words. Worst of all, they were undone by a logic which made them sound more like a statement of the obvious than a threat.

‘I'm sorry,' she added quickly, ‘that was pathetic. I understand.'

‘No you don't,' he replied. ‘But one day you will.'

Tom felt terrible, torn between thinking he'd told her too much and feeling he should have said more. It was the same tension that sat at the heart of all his relationships: a benign duplicity, a fine balancing act of half-truths and white lies. Much harder to pull off now, though, after Lucy's moving tribute to him.

Distracted by his brief conversation with Olivier about the progress of Commissaire Roche's investigation, he had been caught completely off guard by her heartfelt eulogy when he'd returned outside to the terrace.

Lucy must have seen the tears pricking his eyes, and he hoped that was enough. It would have to do for now. He couldn't risk reciprocating the feelings she'd voiced. If he set off down that path he was liable to start coming apart at the seams.

Ideally, he would have forgone the jaunt on the
Albatross
. The sands were fast running out. The train from Paris pulled into Toulon station just after eleven o'clock, and in his mind he was only safe until about lunchtime at the latest. After that, anything could happen. Before that, he had a host of things to do which would determine how he proceeded. Chief among these was putting a call into Clive in London to see if he'd managed turn up anything which might corroborate what Leonard had told him last night.

He decided the call could wait, painfully aware, as with so many other things over the past couple of days, that this might be the last chance he ever got to sail a boat with Lucy.

It was the right decision.

The conditions were ideal, the wind firm but steady, and the
Albatross
rose effortlessly to the challenge, making five or six knots close-hauled on a starboard tack which carried them out towards the islands. Lucy insisted on Tom bringing them home, surrendering the helm to him.

They flew before the wind on a broad reach, gybing a few times to see them back to Le Rayol. It wasn't just exhilarating; there was something restorative about the sloop's poise and balance even in the heavier air. She was completely undaunted by the testing conditions, and he could feel some of her fearless spirit bleeding into him, up through the tiller and into his arm, filling his chest.

He didn't realize Lucy was watching him closely until she said, ‘That's the look of a man who's kicking himself for his generosity.'

‘You might have to let me play with her from time to time.'

‘That could be tough, what with you
going away
.'

The emphasis and the slight curl of her lips told him she wasn't being snide, she was ribbing him.

Good girl
, he thought.
So strong. So resilient. So completely unlike your mother
.

Some of Tom's own resilience deserted him as he eased the
Albatross
towards her mooring in the cove. He saw a figure standing on the terrace of the villa, observing their return from on high. It was a man, short, besuited, stoop-shouldered.

Commissaire Roche was readily identifiable even at a distance.

They rowed ashore to find Venetia and Barnaby already installed on the beach, still wet from a recent swim. Tom could tell from Venetia's body language, the way she lay sprawled on her raffia mat, that Barnaby had been working his charm on her. Or maybe, it occurred to him, they had been discussing their short-lived affair, building bridges, moving on.

Either way, Venetia chuckled when Barnaby declared, ‘Oh look, it's the merry buccaneers. Ahoy there, maties!'

‘Where's Leonard?' Lucy asked, possibly sensing something.

‘Where do you think?' replied Venetia. ‘On the telephone. Again.'

‘Anyone would think that a war had started,' sympathized Barnaby.

‘And one might well, if he doesn't learn that a holiday is a sacred thing.'

There was something overly eager in Barnaby's laugh that must have grated with Lucy, too.

‘He's not a milkman, he works for the Foreign Office. The world doesn't stop when he goes on holiday.'

‘We're a little tetchy this morning, aren't we?' purred Venetia. ‘Did we “heel over” or “broach to”, or whatever it is you sailors do?'

Don't react
, Tom urged silently, to no avail. ‘If you must know, we had a wonderful breakfast at La Réserve and then we went for a very fine sail in a very fine boat.'

It was the first time he had seen Lucy exploit the closeness of their relationship against Venetia.

‘I'm thrilled for you, darling. What's the world coming to if a girl can't go for a very fine sail in a very fine boat?'

Exquisitely and obliquely barbed, as was to be expected.

‘I think I've got a visitor,' Tom interjected, calling for a truce.

‘You do,' said Barnaby. ‘The same fellow as yesterday. Not your neighbour, as it turns out, but an officer of the law.'

‘A Commissaire, no less,' added Venetia with relish. ‘You must tell us what you've done.'

Tom opted for the truth, knowing they wouldn't believe it. ‘He thinks I murdered someone.'

Venetia laughed. ‘I do hope you've disposed of the evidence.'

‘It's very important to dispose of all the evidence,' parroted Barnaby.

‘Dorothy L. Sayers wouldn't have a thing to write about if people only disposed of all the evidence.'

Lucy couldn't take any more of the double act. ‘I'm off to change.'

‘I'll come with you.' Tom fell in beside her, waiting until he judged they were out of earshot before saying, ‘You have to learn not to react.'

‘Maybe I want to react. Maybe I'm sick of stepping on eggshells. Maybe things would be better if I'd learned to react a long time ago.'

An awkward silence settled on them as they passed by the boathouse and into the trees, Tom fully aware that he was to blame for a good part of her state of mind.

When the path divided, Lucy mumbled, ‘I'll see you later.'

‘Lucy . . .'

She turned back, her eyes hard, defiant.

Tom stepped towards her and took her in his arms. She didn't resist. She clung to him as if she would never release him.

‘Good morning, Commissaire.'

Commissaire Roche was seated at the table on the terrace, peering through pince-nez spectacles at a book.

‘Mr Nash.'

‘I see Paulette has made you a coffee.'

‘Not with any great enthusiasm.'

Tom was pleased to hear it.

‘I hope you don't mind,' added Roche, meaning the book. It was a weighty tome plucked from the shelves of the study: Montaigne's
Essays
, beautifully bound in half-vellum and marbled paper, a gift from Benoît.

‘Was there ever a wiser man? Or a more honest one? Who else was writing about their impotency back in the Renaissance? Who writes about such things now?' Roche closed the book and removed his spectacles. ‘He had great respect for the common man, great respect for Nature.'

Tom took a seat across the table, wondering where all this was leading. He didn't have to wait long.

‘He even suggests that true wisdom is a return to Nature. I imagine you would agree.'

‘Why do you say that?' asked Tom. ‘Well, that is what you have done here, is it not?' The sweep of Roche's arm took in the trees, the sky, the sea.

‘I'm not sure I'm any the wiser for it.'

Roche smiled, revealing his uneven teeth. ‘And I, unfortunately, am not much wiser than when I last visited you.'

‘Still no sign of the Italian?'

‘Nothing. Gone. Like dust in the wind.' Roche fluttered his fingers above the table, but his pebble eyes remained locked on Tom's, even when he reached for his coffee cup and took a surprisingly dainty sip. ‘You must be a very important man, Mr Nash.'

‘Excuse me?'

‘To have friends in such high places.'

‘I'm sorry, I don't understand.'

Roche scrutinized him closely before settling back into his chair. ‘No, you don't, do you. And yet you must have spoken to someone, or I wouldn't have received the telephone call.'

‘What call?'

‘The one suggesting that I leave you out of my investigation.'

‘I don't know anything about a telephone call. From whom?'

‘Someone I can't refuse. Someone at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.'

So Leonard had done it, as promised.

‘Ahhh,' said Roche, ‘I see you get my meaning now. Well, you needn't worry. I've never lived down my schoolboy bashfulness when it comes to my masters. I shan't be bothering you any more. Although I'd be lying if I said I wasn't extremely curious. For a simple policeman like me the idea that some international intrigue might be unfolding on his doorstep, right under his nose, well, you can imagine . . .'

‘I'm not sure a missing Italian hotel guest qualifies as an international intrigue.'

‘It does if his disappearance is somehow connected to another as yet unidentified foreigner found dead in a car just off the road to Hyères.'

You wily old fox
, thought Tom. Had Roche detected anything in his eyes? Possibly. But even if he hadn't, the moment for shaping an innocent-sounding response had passed.

‘I suppose you wouldn't know anything about that either?'

‘Nothing at all, I'm afraid.'

‘Well, somebody does. The evidence suggests there were two other men present at the incident, one of them wounded, bleeding.'

Tom got to his feet, ending the conversation. ‘I'm sorry I can't be of more help, Commissaire.'

Roche remained seated. ‘Well, maybe I can be.'

‘Excuse me?'

‘Take it any way you wish, Mr Nash, but I think you get my meaning.' Roche finally rose from his chair. ‘If my superiors believe you to be on the right side of whatever's happening here, that's good enough for me.'

He offered his hand, and there was something in the firmness of his grip that seemed to both reinforce his words and wish Tom well in whatever lay ahead.

‘Thank you for your time, Mr Nash, and please don't trouble yourself. I'll see myself out.'

Leonard's prompt intervention with Roche put a new complexion on things. A guilty man would be looking to limit and contain the situation, not flag its existence, along with his own involvement in it, to the French authorities. It proved nothing either way, but Tom took it as a pleasing development nonetheless. With any luck, Clive would have dug up enough to clarify the matter still further.

He hurried to the phone in his study, closing both doors for privacy.

This time, the woman with the drawling Home Counties accent who manned the reception at SIS headquarters didn't even attempt to put him through to Clive. ‘I'm afraid Mr Jopling is unavailable.'

‘Unavailable?'

‘I'm afraid so, sir. Would you like to leave a message?'

He hadn't revealed much to Clive, but he had certainly made clear the seriousness of the situation. If Clive had said he'd be at his desk at eleven o'clock, he would be at his desk. So why wasn't he?

‘No. Put me through to Quex.'

‘Quex' was the nickname of Sir Hugh Sinclair, Chief of SIS, also known as ‘C'.

Miss Home Counties faltered. ‘Quex, sir?'

‘Tell him it's Tom Nash.'

‘What happened to Reginald Meath-Butterworth?'

‘Just tell him it's Tom Nash. He knows me.'

There was a click, followed by silence, then Miss Home Counties came back on the line. ‘I'm sorry, sir, you'll have to call back later.'

‘I know you're only doing your job, but this is a matter of national security.'

‘I'm sorry, sir, you'll have to call back later.'

She had clearly gone into stuck-record mode, so Tom said, ‘Marry me.'

‘I'm sorry, sir –' came back the automatic reply, before she realized her mistake. ‘Goodbye.'

She hung up, unamused.

Why had they shut him out? He sat at his desk, pondering the possibilities. Then he took up the receiver once more.

Hélène had scribbled down the number for him before boarding the train in Toulon. The painter answered. Brigitte was older than he had imagined, judging from her voice, and she informed him that Hélène had arrived by taxi less than an hour ago, having been forced to spend a night in a hotel near the station in Brive-la-Gaillarde.

A sleepless night, it turned out, when Hélène came on the line. ‘It was the most awful place, dirtier than a hovel, and I was devoured by fleas all night.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘So you should be.'

He tried to detect something in her tone that suggested she was joking, but her anger at him had obviously erased all memories of what had passed between them in her bedroom. She could hardly hold him to blame for that. It was she who had called to him from the upstairs landing, requesting that he carry her suitcases down, she who had then led him gently by the hand to her bed and said, ‘I want you inside me.'

They had made love wordlessly, fully clothed, Hélène straddling him, reaching behind her to feel where they were conjoined, like a blind person building a picture through touch.

There had been little tenderness at the time, and there was certainly none in evidence now. He could hardly hold it against her – cast into sudden exile through no fault of her own – and he took what she hurled at him.

‘I'll call again tomorrow, when you're in a better mood.'

‘I wouldn't bank on it,' she replied, hanging up.

He stared at the mute receiver in his hand, wondering if the operator had been listening in, and if so, what she had made of the frosty exchange.

He lit a cigarette and strolled through the French windows on to the terrace.

Was that really it? Was Hélène to play no further part in his life? Was all of this to play no further part?

He turned, taking in his surroundings, looking up at the villa then down over the treetops towards the cove. His place of safety. His fool's paradise. The unearthly beauty of it all. Too good to be true: the whispering suspicion that had always taunted him, from the moment he'd first set eyes on the villa. Who would ever have believed it, the son of an Anglican vicar living such a life?