Devil and the Deep Sea (22 page)

suppose I should be—grateful . . .

She pulled her dress back into place, fastened it, found her shoes,

and was past him and at the door of the office almost before he

seemed aware of her presence.

She heard him say her name sharply, but she didn't even pause,

running down the corridor towards the lift.

She had a breathing space. Apart from his conversation with his

mistress, Roche would hardly be likely to pursue her through the

casino next door to naked.

As the lift reached the ground floor, she forced herself to walk

without hurrying to the main entrance.

The uniformed commissionaire touched his cap respectfully.

Bonsoir, m 'dame.
Can I help you?'

'I would like a cab,' she said. 'Is that possible?'

'But of course.' He put his fingers to his lips and whistled, and one

of the local taxis appeared as if from nowhere.

'On Mist' Roche's account, boy,' the commissionaire instructed as

he opened the door and helped Samma into the car. He paused.

'Where are you going,
m 'dame?'

There was nowhere. No sanctuary—no safe refuge. No escape.

She said wearily, 'Take me to Belmanoir.'

All the lights seemed to be pouring out of the house as the cab drew

up outside.

Samma hurried up the steps. She'd hoped to make her return under

the cover and privacy of darkness, but even that was being denied

her, she thought bitterly.

As she walked in through the door, Elvire came to meet her, her

face strained.

'So you have come—thank God!' She stared past Samma. 'But

where is Roche?'

Samma shrugged. 'At the casino, I suppose. You spoke to him last.'

'You mean, he has not come with you to search?' Elvire looked

shaken—almost appalled.

'Search for what?'

'He did not tell you?
Mon Dieu,
it is beyond belief.' Elvire ran

distracted fingers through her hair. 'Solange is not in her room. She

has vanished—God alone knows where.'

'Vanished?' Samma echoed dazedly. 'But that's impossible. She's

playing one of her tricks—hiding somewhere to wind us all up.'

'We have searched the house, all of us, and Hippolyte has been

through the grounds three times.'

Samma felt sick suddenly. 'The pool?'

Elvire put a hand on her arm. 'He looked there first.'

'Could she have gone to Les Arbres to see Madame Duvalle?'

'I have been telephoning the house, but there is no answer.' There

was a silence, then Elvire said with a little wail, 'Oh, why should

she do such a thing?'

Samma felt heat burn into her face. 'She may be feeling guilty. My

new dress was cut to pieces earlier, and I let her know I thought she

was to blame. She swore she wasn't responsible, but perhaps . . .'

Elvire gave her an astonished look. 'Your dress? But that is

impossible! She has no reason . . .'

'Except that she hates me—that she wants me gone from here.'

'Are you so sure? I had thought things were better between you,'

Elvire paused. 'Show me this dress.'

In Samma's room, she stood staring at the deep slashes which

mutilated the fabric from neckline to hem. At last, she said

positively, 'Solange did not do that. Physically, it is not possible.

The rail is high, and she could not have reached to make cuts as

long as these.'

'Yet someone did.' Samma's voice shook. 'Someone else who hates

me. Was it you, Elvire?' She saw a look of blank amazement enter

the other girl's eyes, and hurried on, 'I wouldn't blame you, if it was.

You think I'm a rival, don't you? But I'm not. Roche doesn't really

want me. I threatened to leave him, you see, and he thought if he

was—nice to me, I could be persuaded to stay.' She bit her lip. 'But

that's all—sorted now. So there's no reason for you to leave. I'm just

staying here to—look after Solange. Roche and I—there's nothing,'

she added on a pitiful little rush of words.

There was a long, tense silence. Elvire stood, staring at Samma, as

taut as a bowstring, a small muscle moving in her throat.

Finally, she said, her voice breaking, 'Ah,
Dieu—
you little fool!

You think then that Roche and I . . .?' She groaned. 'But it is

impossible. You said you knew—that you understood. I thought

that when Solange spoke about the portraits of the Delacroix

women you must have guessed—seen the resemblance, somehow. I

told Roche that you knew the truth—and all the time you thought

that we . . .' She gave a strained laugh. 'Blame my pride, Samantha.

The devilish Delacroix pride. I sometimes think that is the real

curse
Le Diable
bestowed on our family.'

Samma said shakily, 'Delacroix—you're a Delacroix?'

Elvire nodded. 'Roche's—half-sister. His father was mine,

too—something I have always hated—resented. Something I have

always tried to conceal.'

'But why?' Samma's head was reeling. 'There's no real stigma these

days . . .'

'You think not? Well,
peut-etre
in a more open society—but this is

a small island. My mother came to Belmanoir as a nurse to care for

Madame Delacroix after her accident. Antoine Delacroix was

lonely— desperate. He loved his wife, and had been warned that

because of her injuries they might never again enjoy a normal

relationship. My mother was beautiful, and they were much in each

other's company. It was inevitable, I suppose, that they should

become lovers. At the very time my mother became pregnant,

Mathilde Delacroix began to recover, and Maman was sent away.

Antoine provided money, of course, but he never saw Maman

again. He never acknowledged me, although before he died he told

Roche of my existence. Roche sought me out, and befriended me.

He wanted to claim me openly as his sister, but I would not allow

it. I told him I wanted no part of the Delacroix name—that no one

must ever know, unless I gave permission.' She gave Samma a

rueful look. 'Not even you,
madame, ma belle-soeur.'

'Did you never tell anyone?' Samma shook her head in disbelief.

'Only one—the man who wished to marry me. He comes from an

old and distinguished family—and had an important career in front

of him. He needed a wife with advantages, not from a background

as questionable as mine, so I refused him, and left Grand Cay. I

threw myself into my own work—did too much, and suffered a

mental crisis. Roche brought me back here to recuperate and rest.

As I recovered, Marie-Christine arrived, and I agreed to stay and

nurse her back to some kind of sanity and sobriety.' She paused,

with a sigh. 'As you know, I failed.'

Samma stared at her. 'It was Jean-Paul Giraud, wasn't it—the man

you loved?'

Elvire gave a constricted smile. 'This time you have guessed

correctly. Bravo.'

'It was no guess. It was something he said himself.' Samma

swallowed. 'He—he's still in love with you. Do you know that?'

Elvire was very still for a moment. Then she said, very quietly, 'But

nothing has changed. I am still Antoine Delacroix's bastard

daughter—and of mixed race, besides. He would be mad to take

me. I would be cruel to allow it.'

Samma said with a catch in her voice, 'That's something open to

debate, I suspect. But what we have to do now is find Solange.' She

looked at the slashes in the dress, and dropped the garment to the

floor with an open shudder. 'And quickly.'

They searched the house again, calling the child's name, coaxing

and cajoling her to come out of hiding, but there was no reply. Then

they went out into the gardens with torches, and hunted again.

'Where's Mist' Roche?' Hippolyte asked Samma, as they made yet

another fruitless circuit of the pool. 'Why's he not here,
m'dame?'

Samma stifled a sigh. 'I wish I knew, Hippolyte.' She had rarely felt

so frightened and so helpless. Solange seemed to have vanished into

thin air, and she didn't know where to look next. Could Solange

have set off on foot for St Laurent to find them, in defiance of her

father's ban?

Surely not, Samma thought. Yet—she was frightened. She said she

didn't want to be left here.

She stood staring into the darkness, realising with a start just what

had attracted her attention.

'Hippolyte—I can see lights in the distance. What are they?'

'Oh, that's Les Arbres,
m'dame.'

Samma said slowly, 'Is it so close? I didn't realise.' But if there were

lights at Les Arbres it meant that Liliane Duvalle had returned. She

and Solange were close. Maybe she would have some idea what

had happened to the child . . . She stopped suddenly as a thought,

totally unwelcome in its novelty, occurred to her.

She said, 'How do I get to Les Arbres, Hippolyte? Isn't there a

short-cut through the gardens?'

'Oui, m'dame.'
He pointed. 'Along the edge of the old plantation,

where the slave cabins used to be.' He gave her a doubtful glance.

'Shall I come too?'

'No,' she said steadily. 'I'll find it. You concentrate on looking closer

to home, Hippolyte. This is a long shot.'

Her torch was powerful, and lit the way well enough. Samma ran at

a steady jog-trot, her brain teeming as it examined a new and

frightening possibility.

Liliane Duvalle, she thought, the close neighbour, and family friend,

whose obsession with
Le Diable
equalled Solange's. Who came and

went at Belmanoir pretty much as she pleased. Whose presence

would probably not even be remarked upon, if noticed. Who had

been, on her own admission, a constant visitor to Marie-Christine,

and knew of her predilection for vodka.

Oh God, she thought. Tell me I'm wrong. I
must
be wrong!

But, the more she thought about it, the more hideously possible it

seemed. She had allowed herself to become so obsessed with Elvire

that it had not occurred to her there was another young, attractive

woman nearby with whom Roche might have been involved. A

woman who might feel injured when supplanted by a younger rival.

She was breathless by the time she reached the house. The light

she'd noticed was coming from one of the ground-floor rooms. She

made herself slow down, and move quietly.

There was no point, after all, in barging in, making wild accusations

which she could not substantiate.

Hearing the murmur of voices, Samma flattened herself against the

wall before allowing herself a cautious peep through the open

window.

The first person she saw was Solange, crouching, in a big chair. Her

eyes were like saucers, her small face pinched and sallow.

She could not see Liliane Duvalle, but she could hear her voice, soft

and terrifyingly normal. 'But we are friends,
mon enfant.
That girl is

not your friend. She is your enemy.'

Solange swallowed. 'She talks like my friend. She is kind to me.

She says she will not send me away.'

'That is what she tells you now, but I know. Tante Liliane has

always been right about the women your papa has brought to

Belmanoir. They want him—they want his money, but they do not

want you,
petite
Solange. Trust me,
cherie.
We will get rid of this

woman, as we have the others. She has been clever. She has defied

us, but we will win in the end.'

Solange shook her head. 'I do not want to win,' she said defiantly. 'I

do not want Samma to go. I like her.'

Liliane Duvalle chuckled quietly. 'So much the worse for both of

you,' she said. 'If she stays, she will be sorry. Her dress is only the

beginning.'

As Madame Duvalle moved into sight, Samma bit back a cry. The

older woman was holding Solange's doll in one hand, and a pair of

sharp, long-bladed scissors in the other.

As Samma watched in horror, the scissors slashed at the doll until

the long blonde hair fell to the floor in ragged chunks.

'How beautiful will you be then, Madame Delacroix?' Liliane

Duvalle said, and laughed.

From somewhere, Samma found the energy to move. She was

through the half-open front door, and into the room before she'd

even had a chance to consider what strategy she could employ. All

she could think of was Solange's safety.

Solange screamed her name, and Liliane Duvalle swung round, her

murderous scissors poised above the doll's face.

She smiled gaily. 'All the better,' she said. 'The pretty doll in reality.'

And came towards Samma, the blades upraised.

Samma felt frozen. She put out her hands to block the other