She Fell Among Thieves (2 page)

The last words that he had spoken came into my mind.

‘Remember, my son, no compunction. You must take it from me, that emotion would be out of place. Vanity Fair respects neither God nor man, and the only way to get her is by using the sort of weapons she uses herself. And so, be natural, William. When in doubt, be natural: and always tell her the truth.’

And there I had a rise which I did not deserve, and a moment later I landed a very fine trout.

For a moment I stared at the fish. Then I put a hand to my head. The thing was absurd, yet true. Mansel was a beautiful angler, and I was the worst in the world. But there on the sward was lying ‘Vanity Fair’.

Three weeks and one day had gone by, July had come in in splendour, and I was sitting, smoking, by the side of a country road six miles from Jezreel. The Rolls was berthed in the shade on the opposite side of the way, and Bell was thirty yards off at a bend in the road.

As I heard a car coming, I got to my feet.

With my eyes upon Bell I waited, for he could see the car which was out of my sight. But Bell made no sign.

The car came nearer and nearer… Then at last it whipped round the blind bend – to find the Rolls full in its way.

Its chauffeur applied his brakes and did what he could, but the wings of the two cars met with a hollow crash.

Bell came running, and I stepped into the road.

As the chauffeur got out of his car –

‘It wasn’t my fault, sir,’ he said. He pushed back his cap. ‘You’re on your wrong side, you know: and you shouldn’t leave a car on a bend.’

‘You’re perfectly right,’ said I. ‘The fault was mine. I don’t know what possessed me to do such a stupid thing.’

The three of us examined the damage. Except that the wings were buckled, there seemed to be no harm done.

When I said as much –

‘I touched your wheel, sir,’ said Mansel. ‘My steering’ll have to come down, and I think you’d be well advised to do the same.’

‘Oh, hell,’ said I. And then, ‘I don’t see any mark.’

‘I hit your tire with my hub-cap. Look out. Here’s another car coming. We don’t want another smash.’

He sounded his horn like fury, and Bell ran round the corner with outstretched arms. A moment later a small van crawled into view. As it made its way by, its occupants were minding our business with bulging eyes.

‘Could I have your name, sir,’ said Mansel. ‘I’m sure I don’t want to make trouble, but I’ve only been here two weeks and I don’t want to lose my job. Madame de —’s my lady, of the Château Jezreel. I don’t know what she’ll say. I oughtn’t to be driving really – I haven’t a French licence yet.’

‘Where is the château?’ I said. ‘I’d better come up myself and tell her the truth.’

‘Very kind if you would, sir. It’s only about six miles.’

‘I can’t do much less,’ said I, and got into the Rolls. ‘You’d better lead the way.’

‘I shall go dead slow, sir,’ said Mansel. ‘If I’ve got a wheel out of truth, I don’t want to make matters worse.’

As he turned the light car about, I started the Rolls: then Bell took his seat beside me, and, feeling much more than nervous, I drew into Mansel’s wake.

Jezreel stood among the mountains, retired from the great highways. The single road that approached it served also the tiny village that clung to the castle’s skirts – and served it uncommon well, for the road had been remade at the charge of Vanity Fair. Neither castle nor village was hidden, for the mountains stood back on all sides, but both belonged to the lap of a mighty valley which came to a sudden end. Where it ended, the ground fell steeply for three or four hundred feet, so that such as came up from the north could see no sign of building unless or until they climbed the smart by-road, and except from the north the valley could not be approached. As you breasted the lip of the valley, the castle burst upon you in a most astonishing way, for one moment you could see nothing but the tilted meadows about you and the mountains and forests beyond, and the next you found yourself standing before the gates of Jezreel. Except for those that go on foot in the mountains, the belvedere of the castle belonged to the Col de Fer. Using that infamous pass, you could from one spot, if you pleased, command the most of the valley and all the superb domain. From there you could consider Jezreel: from there you could mark her bulwarks and tell her towers and marvel how men and beasts had dragged the stones for her building to such a place.

Following Mansel’s lead, I threaded the pocket village, entered a towering gateway of stone and iron, stole up a very short drive, under a low-pitched archway and into a closed courtyard.

As a servant descended some steps, I took out a card. Very shortly I told him my business. The man took the card and withdrew, and I sat awaiting the pleasure of Vanity Fair.

The afternoon was most hot, but the courtyard was pleasantly cool. From what I could see, the castle was old and curious, belonging to no one age, but raised by more than one hand and more to the will of its masters than to that of an architect. All was most spick and span: the walls were as white as snow, and the shutters might have been painted the day before.

The manservant reappeared and came to my side.

‘Madame will receive Monsieur.’

He opened the door of the car and bowed.

At the head of the steps a powdered footman received me and led me through a great hall to one of the finest salons I ever saw. Gigantic Persian carpets covered the floor: tapestries glowed upon the walls: a glorious ceiling presented the death of Actaeon. The furniture these were guarding was of the same magnificence – treasure of gilt and brocade, of inlay and precious stone.

Another footman stood by an open window that gave to the terrace without, and the two of them bowed me into the hands of a butler who received me very gravely and then preceded me over the sunlit flags.

The terrace commanded the valley and faced full south: a flight of steps led down to the blowing meadows, and a fountain was dancing in the sunshine and the grey of the long balustrade was alight with flowers. To one side chairs had been set on a carpet spread upon the stone, and above them a pleasant awning rendered a grateful shade.

The butler’s bearing suggested that the terrace was holy ground: the canopy confirmed this suggestion: I only hoped I should make a good sacrifice, for there, like any idol, was sitting Vanity Fair.

So still she sat that she might have been carved out of stone. She was dressed in black, and a little hood of black silk was framing her lovely face. Such hoods were worn in England in Hollar’s day, and if they demanded beauty, I can only say that they gave as good as they got. The silk lay close to her temples, which might have belonged to marble – they seemed so smooth and so cold, but lower, on either side, a curl of gold and silver declared her magnificent hair. Her nose and her mouth were very finely chiselled, and her skin might well have been envied by women one half her age: but though her face was lovely, it was not young, and I think that she made no attempt to conceal her years. But all this I noticed later. For the moment I could see nothing except her eyes. Large and grey and steady, these glowed like jewels in her head. Dignity, power and charm sat in that level gaze which, though it was not unkindly, yet gave the impression of looking into my heart. And then as I met that gaze, it slid into a stare…

To save my life, I could not have looked away, but I know that I quailed in spirit, for now I seemed to be facing something that was not decent, but should have been draped – a bare personality, that had all the libertine’s daring and the brilliance of naked steel. And so I was, for though I did not know it, something that was not human was looking me down…something that learned in heaven to live in hell…a highly dangerous ‘make-up’. There were times when a fallen angel looked out of the steady, grey eyes of Vanity Fair.

I bowed, and Vanity Fair inclined her head.

‘I understand,’ she said, ‘that you have a confession to make.’

‘That’s quite right,’ said I. ‘I’m sorry,’ and with that I told her my tale.

‘Why are you here?’ she said.

‘Partly to apologise,’ I said, ‘and partly to tell you your chauffeur was not to blame.’

‘How came you to be so careless?’

‘There you have me,’ said I. ‘I suppose for the moment I forgot the rule of the road. I can’t explain my action. I just went and asked for trouble, and trouble came.’

Vanity Fair smiled.

‘And your chauffeur, too?’ she said. ‘Blind leading the blind?’

‘He isn’t a chauffeur,’ I said. ‘He’s a body-servant: if need be, he can handle the car and he keeps her clean.’

‘Sit down,’ said Vanity Fair. I took my seat. ‘And now please tell me the damage.’

‘Our wings were buckled,’ said I. ‘So much can be seen. But your chauffeur hit my wheel, and that means that both our front axles ought to come down. I’m very sorry,’ I added. ‘It’s at least a two-day job.’

Vanity Fair shrugged her shoulders.

‘I’ve more than one car,’ she said, ‘but what about you?’

‘I shall go back to Perin,’ I said. ‘They’ll be able to do it there.’

‘Where were you bound for?’

‘I was making for Lally by way of the Col de Fer. But I can’t do a pass like that till I’ve had my steering down.’

‘Are you meeting friends at Lally?’

‘Oh, no,’ said I. ‘I’ve nothing much to do, so I’m wandering round.’

‘I don’t think you’ll care for Lally – unless you have come to see the nakedness of the land. Lally parades the truth that she’s seen better days. I always find that depressing. Where were you going from there?’

‘I don’t know. I had thought about Spain.’

Vanity Fair inspected a shapely hand.

‘You were very careless,’ she said. ‘My chauffeur – my nice, new chauffeur might have been spoiled.’

‘I’m afraid that’s true,’ said I.

‘I think you should be punished for that. Jezreel is extremely dull: I think you might well be confined here for two or three days – until your car has been mended. What do you think?’

‘I–’

‘Your fellow-prisoners will be my daughter and her fiancé, a most unattractive pair, my secretary and my chaplain, neither of whom has a brain, and myself, who was presented at Court before you were born.’

I got to my feet and bowed.

‘Madam,’ I said, ‘you put a premium upon crime.’

Vanity Fair laughed.

‘Wait till you’ve served your sentence. I tell you, Jezreel is dull.’ She touched a bell by her side. ‘I’ve six men in all in the garage: if your wing is sent to Perin, I should think they might manage between them to take your axle down.’

The butler appeared.

‘Mr Chandos will stay at Jezreel – in “the corner suite”. Inform his servant and send Wright here.’

Two minutes later Jonathan Mansel appeared.

‘Mr Chandos has told me what happened this afternoon. He says you were not to blame. The wings, of course, must go to the town to be done: can the rest of the work be done here?’

Mansel hesitated. Then –

‘We can take down the axles, madam, and if there’s no damage done, we can put them back. But if they’re out of alignment, they’ll have to go to a forge.’

‘Then take them down and see. And look after Mr Chandos’ servant.’ She turned to me. ‘I don’t suppose he speaks French.’

‘Not a word that I know of,’ said I.

‘Then he and Wright will get on. Would you like to put your car in the garage, or will you leave it to Wright?’

‘I think perhaps I’ll do it.’

‘Then do. And then ask for your room. Tea will be served here at five o’clock.’

‘Thank you very much,’ I said feebly.

She smiled and nodded, and I left by the way I had come, with Mansel behind.

As I took my seat in the Rolls, I saw that my baggage was gone.

‘You’ll be staying here, sir?’ said Mansel.

‘It seems so,’ said I. ‘How long will they take with that wing?’

‘Four or five days, sir, at least. You’ll only get it rough-painted.’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ said I, and started the car.

Mansel took his stand on the step.

‘Back through the archway, sir, and then turn sharp to the left.’

Ten minutes later I entered ‘the corner suite’, to find a luxury which I had never known. All the appointments were royal. I have been led through state bed-chambers in King’s houses, but I never saw one that was finer than that in which I was to lie. Poppaea, I think, would have approved my bathroom. The bath was sunk in the floor. It was also full of warm water, and Bell was laying some clothes on the lovely bed.

Thanks to Mansel’s most careful preparation, it had proved extremely easy to enter the enemy’s camp.

To the Count of Rachel I took an instant dislike.

Had I been in some hotel, I should have supposed him a waiter, but he had not the presence of the servants attached to Jezreel. What hair he had was sandy: his lips were loose: the rims of his eyes were red. So much for his appearance. His manner also betrayed him, as I shall show. The man was offensive, because unsure of himself. So was his flesh. Gaston, Count of Rachel, was highly perfumed.

At a quarter to eight that evening, I entered the gorgeous salon adjoining the dining-room, to find him holding an envelope up to the light. This was a bad beginning, for the letter was plainly not his, but had been laid in the salon with the rest of the evening post. (It was not till later that I learned that the whole of the mail went first to Vanity Fair, who inspected everyone’s letters before they were laid in the salon for their owners to claim.)

The fellow started and pitched the letter down. Then, as though to defy the opinion which he knew very well I must hold, he thrust his hands into his pockets, looked me up and down, and actually let out a snort.

I could have burst with laughter. Instead –

‘Good evening,’ I said gravely. ‘My name is Chandos. I expect you’re Monsieur de Rachel. When I arrived, I think you were out in your car.’

The man was gravelled. His hands came out of his pockets and the blood came into his face.

‘I – I did not know,’ he stammered. ‘Why are you here?’