Scarlet in the Snow (27 page)

I opened the door to a big white room, an exhibition room. It was quite bare, with no furniture and no pictures hanging on the wall. And nobody there at all. But the feeling I had of being watched was stronger still.

‘Don’t you dare . . .’ came d’Louvat’s fretful voice behind me, but I took no notice. I walked through the room to a door at the far end, and tried it. It was locked.

‘Open it,’ I said.

‘What? You must be –’

‘Open it,’ I hissed, grabbing the art dealer by his lank hair and yanking so hard that he squealed. ‘Open it or I’ll show you what we do to crooks in my country.’

‘You wouldn’t dare,’ he said tremulously, but he took a key from his fob pocket and put it in the lock, turning it. ‘You’re a journalist, not dez Fomer’s floozy, aren’t you?’ he said, looking at me with an ingratiating expression. ‘Who told you? It was supposed to be a secret and . . .’

I ignored him and stepped through the open doorway into another room, another exhibition space, smaller than the first but also bare. Except for one thing. Halfway up the far wall was a set of golden brocade curtains, drawn closed. The feeling intensified in me. The watcher had to be hiding behind those curtains.

‘Look, I’ll give you an exclusive. But only if you keep quiet till tomorrow,’ said d’Louvat desperately, as I walked over, snatched the curtains aside and saw . . .

A painting. I’d never seen it before – not as a painting, that is. And yet I knew it. For it showed a sunny walled garden, where climbing white and pink roses rambled on the walls, as well as the more exotic blooms of mimosa and jasmine. There was a little white wrought-iron table and chair in the garden, and a young woman sat there with her back to me. She had a pretty, filmy summer hat on her head, her black hair in long loose ringlets down her back, and her dress was a flurry of pale pink ribbons and snow-white tulle of the same delicate shades as the roses.

It was the exact scene I’d seen in my dream, at the enchanted mansion. Only that had been taken from life, and this was a version in brushstroke and paint. Beautifully, even exquisitely rendered though it was, there was a quality to it that made me feel uneasy, even beyond the fact I’d seen it in a dream.

‘
Summer Morning
,’ said d’Louvat, and his voice had changed, softening into what could almost be called love. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

‘Mmm,’ I murmured.

‘He was always a competent painter, Felix Vivian. But this – well, who would have thought he had such genius in him? No-one expected him to win that prize, that’s for sure. Sebastien d’Roch or Gabriel Fontenoy or Gaetan Theodorus were much more likely contenders, in most people’s opinion, including mine. And theirs! But Vivian’s work came out of nowhere. He kept it under wraps till the big day and triumphed.’ Messir d’Louvat shook his head. ‘Hollow victory though, you might say.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, there are those who say madness enhances talent, but that’s sentimental tosh. Madness destroys talent. And he’s never done anything worthwhile since.’

‘Felix Vivian is mad?’

‘Let’s say he’s touched. Never been quite the same since his breakdown after the painting vanished. Though he had that spell in the asylum, which at least set him back on his feet. That’s where he started painting crows.’

‘Crows?’ I echoed, with a shiver.

‘Yes, it’s become his thing. Dull as ditchwater and no artistic merit whatever,’ the art dealer said scornfully, ‘but it keeps him calm, I suppose. Travels all over the place painting the wretched things. As if a crow in Faustina was any different to one in Palume.’ His gaze returned to the painting. ‘Anyway, what really matters is that this has returned to us at last. It may be Vivian’s only work of genius, but most artists would die happy knowing they’d created it!’

‘How – how did you get it back?’

‘It just turned up on the doorstep. Maybe the thieves had an attack of conscience. Who cares? It came back, that’s what matters.’ There was no enmity in his voice now. He seemed genuinely happy.

Shaken, I stared at the picture. When I’d told Ivan what I’d seen in the dream, when I’d asked him if it was his dream or memory, Ivan had put his head in his hands and said, ‘God forgive me. Yes, you are right.’ Why had he said that? I couldn’t understand it. Surely he hadn’t stolen the picture out of artistic spite? No. It had to have something to do with the girl. I remembered my feeling that something bad had happened to her. I remembered Rosette in my story. With an effort, I said, ‘The girl in the picture. Where is she now?’

‘Mam’selle Durant? Why, she’s at home with her father. There’s double cause for celebration at the Durant residence, of course.’

Durant. I’d heard that name before, and recently, too. Durant. Yes. Last night Claire had mentioned something about a Mam’selle Durant’s father being rescued from brigands and becoming very ill. ‘I hope he’s getting better. It must have been very worrying for her, to wait so long for news of him.’

To my astonishment, d’Louvat winked. ‘Makes a good story for the press, I agree. Truth is, she’d given him up for dead and got on with her life long ago. She’s a sensible girl.’

Sensible be damned. I thought she sounded cold-blooded.

‘Funny thing, isn’t it,’ he went on musingly, ‘that he turned up out of the blue pretty much at the same time as the painting. There was a rumour flying around at the time that he’d been involved in the theft, as revenge for Vivian winning the prize.’

‘Why would Messir Durant want to do that?’ I asked, confused.

‘Eh?’ He stared at me. ‘What’s Messir Durant got to do with it? I’m talking about Gabriel Fontenoy.’

All the blood rushed from my face. I gasped. ‘What? It’s him . . .?’

‘We don’t know yet if it was Fontenoy who took the painting or why it came back when he did,’ said d’Louvat, misunderstanding me. ‘And we can’t ask him any questions about it for quite a while, because he’s still unconscious. It’s lucky his care has been taken in hand by the most eminent brain physician in the land, Dr Golpech, the same man who cured Vivian, and who I understand from Durant has devised a revolutionary new treatment to try to cure Fontenoy.’

My knees buckled. ‘Oh my God.’

‘What on earth’s the matter?’ he said, alarmed.

‘Nothing. I just . . . The address,’ I managed to say. ‘Where is the Durant residence? I must . . . I must speak to them.’

‘They don’t like journalists,’ said d’Louvat. ‘You’d not get past the first . . .’ He saw my expression and shrugged. ‘It is in the Tricorn district, but if you think you . . .’

But I’d stopped listening, and fled.

I took a cab this time. ‘I’ll give you double the fare if you get me there quickly,’ I gasped to the driver.

‘It’s a fair trot from here, but I know a back way that’ll be quicker than the boulevards, which will be choked at this time of the evening,’ the cab-driver said unflappably. He was as good as his word, and as we sped through the backstreets I felt as though I were hovering in some strange nightmarish state of numbness, my mind repeating the same things over and over, my feelings fogged and frozen.

Ivan’s real name was Gabriel Fontenoy
. He was in the Durants’ house, where a girl he’d dreamed about during his long ordeal lived. A girl who, according to Claire’s newspaper article, had never given up hope, but who, according to d’Louvat, had long ago given him up for dead. A girl he’d probably been in love with. A girl who had a prior claim on him and who even now was probably at his bedside, hoping that he’d recover, while he lay insensible, at the mercy of a brain physician who had supposedly cured Felix Vivian. A brain physician.
The absolutely perfect cover for a sorcerer.

I had to warn them. Whatever it cost me, I had to tell them the truth. I had to make them understand that whatever lies the doctor was peddling, the young man was in the gravest danger from his attentions. At least he wasn’t in the asylum, like Vivian had been. So there was some hope. But I had to make the Durants realise that
they had to help him. I had to help defeat Dr Golpech, whatever it took, even if it broke my heart to think it might be Celeste Durant whom Ivan – no, Gabriel – would turn to afterwards.

Gabriel. He was still Ivan in my heart and in my memory. I saw him in those last moments, in the mirror, his lips murmuring my name, his eyes full of such love and grief. The memory tore at me. I could never stop loving him. But when he was safe, when he was recovered, who would he choose? Me or the girl he’d loved before, with whom he shared a history, a home, a language? If I really loved him, all I should want was his happiness, even if it didn’t include me.

The Durants’ house was huge, set behind tall, imposing gates in a distant part of the city, where houses with gardens were the norm. The cab-driver let me off outside the closed gates, and as I paid him, he said, ‘I hope you have an appointment. They don’t let just anyone in.’

‘I have an appointment,’ I said firmly. ‘I’m from Madame Ange, the milliner. I have to show Mam’selle Durant some new designs. It’s all been arranged.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘I see. Very well. But it’s a long walk back to the centre and cabs don’t often ply the streets here. Would you like me to wait for you, just in case?’

‘It’s quite all right,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

‘As you wish.’ He lifted his hat. ‘Goodbye, Mam’selle, and good luck.’ And with that the cab left at a brisk trot, the sound of the horse’s hooves ringing on the cobbled pavement till they had turned the corner and disappeared.

I glanced up and down the street. Nothing stirred. I looked up at the house and could see the lights were on. Taking a deep breath, I reached for the bell on the gate, and rang.

The peals of the bell had only just died on the air when a big burly man came striding out of the shadows towards me.

‘No-one admitted without appointment,’ he said. With his large frame, huge hands and small, watchful eyes, he looked like a formidable guard dog, even had I not glimpsed the knife at his belt. The Durants were clearly expecting some kind of trouble.

‘There was no time to make one,’ I said, trying to keep my voice calm. ‘I’m on an urgent errand.’

‘The doctor told us the fresh medicine supplies wouldn’t arrive till tomorrow morning,’ said the man sharply.

‘Oh, I’m not from the doctor,’ I said quickly, thinking that at least I knew now that the doctor wasn’t actually here. ‘I’ve come from Messir d’Louvat. From Lilac Gardens art gallery.’

‘Why didn’t Messir d’Louvat come himself?’

‘Because he’s had to go to the police. There was a break-in at the gallery.’

The small eyes widened. ‘What?’

‘Please, let’s not waste time. I must speak to the Durants at once.’

‘Wait here. I will fetch Messir Durant,’ the man said, and he strode off.

He returned shortly after, with another man. Tall, distinguished-looking, with light brown eyes in a tanned, strong face, thick pepper-and-salt hair and a neatly trimmed beard, he looked to be in his forties and wore a well-cut tweed suit. He surveyed me appraisingly. ‘I didn’t know d’Louvat had such a charming young assistant.’ His voice was mellow and deep.

I coloured. ‘I’m not his assistant, Messir. My name is ter Zhaber, Alexandra ter Zhaber, and I’m just hired help for the exhibition tomorrow.’