The Sibyl in Her Grave (18 page)

That is to say, the kitchen, where I found my aunt doing interesting and complicated things to various kinds of pastry. Though rigorously forbidden to assist directly in these activities, I was entrusted with a plateful of hot mince pies to take into the drawing room, where Griselda and Mrs. Tyrrell were putting up the Christmas decorations, and told to make sure that they had enough wine to sustain them in their labours. I performed these tasks without misadventure, and lingered for a while to share the wine and mince pies and to exchange gossip.

Having no hope of equalling Mrs. Tyrrell’s dexterity with silver paper and drawing pins, or her agility on a stepladder, I did not offer to help with putting up the decorations: decorations which I put up never seem to hang with much symmetry or elegance, or indeed for very long at all. I did suggest that I could stand beside the stepladder and catch her if she happened to fall; but Griselda claimed that responsibility as hers, and would not by any means relinquish it. (I should mention that Mrs. Tyrrell is rather attractive and has very prettily shaped legs.)

When I mentioned having seen Maurice, they both expressed anxiety about him. They seemed to think that he has financial problems, and that it is these that are affecting his health. I found this a rather surprising idea; but apparently Daphne made some remark to Mrs. Tyrrell a few months ago
about Maurice being very short of money and terribly worried about it. Then she realised she was being rather indiscreet, and asked Mrs. Tyrrell not to repeat it to anyone; but if it’s what’s making him ill, Mrs. Tyrrell feels it isn’t right to keep it a secret from his friends.

I also told them, of course, about the appalling scene with Daphne, which I have already—or, no, I see that I haven’t yet told you about it, and shall therefore proceed to do so forthwith.

By the time Maurice and I walked back from the George and Dragon, it was almost midday, and I was beginning to feel slightly hungry. Having told Reg that I would fend for myself as far as lunch was concerned, I decided that the time was ripe for a glass of wine and a toasted sandwich in the Newt and Ninepence. Maurice declined to join me, saying he must return to the Vicarage and deal with a number of things which he had neglected.

Having browsed for a few minutes in the High Street bookshop, I was soon afterwards comfortably settled in the saloon bar of the Newt and Ninepence with all that a reasonable woman could require for absolute contentment—that is to say, a glass of wine, a toasted sandwich, and a detective story I had never read before. This happy state continued for about ten minutes, at the end of which I suddenly realized that a small, indignant-looking person was leaning over me and accusing me of being Reg’s niece, Julia.

Resisting a natural impulse to denial, I admitted that I was. “And I think,” I said, “that you must be Daphne?”

I recognised her without difficulty from the
description my aunt had given, though the expression “not at all a pretty girl” was something of an understatement: she was one of the most unattractive girls I have ever met, and I felt it optimistic to hope that lipstick or mascara could make a significant difference. Nor did it seem to me that what she lacked was animation, precisely, though what she was chiefly animated by was rage towards myself.

She stood with both hands planted firmly on my table, barring any possible escape route, and said that she wanted to talk to me.

“I just want you to know,” she said, “that I’ve spent the whole morning looking for Maurice and not finding him and going simply frantic with worry about him. I rang and rang at his door and he didn’t answer, and then I went round the back and looked through all the windows and I still couldn’t see him, and I thought he must have been taken ill and be just lying there helpless. And he keeps forgetting to get a key made for me, so I couldn’t get in to find out. I was nearly out of my mind with worry. And now he says he was just out for a walk. With you.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “He didn’t say anything about having an appointment.”

“It wasn’t an appointment, we don’t need stupid appointments, he knew I’d be coming, I go round every morning to put his rubbish out for him and see if he wants any shopping done before I give him his lunch. He said you walked to the George and Dragon—is that true?”

“Yes,” I said.

“To the George and Dragon?” she said again, with apparent incredulity.

“Yes,” I said.

“You walked? To the George and Dragon?”

Her incredulity appeared to increase.

“Yes,” I said.

“To the George and Dragon? You walked?”

“Yes,” I said again, wondering whether there was any limit to the number of times she could ask the question. “Do you have something against the George and Dragon? I’ve always thought it a rather agreeable place.”

This answer seemed to enrage her further.

“Don’t you know how far it is? Don’t you know we’re in the middle of winter? Don’t you know how old Maurice is?”

“Well, not exactly,” I said, “but—”

“Can’t you see he’s not a well person? Don’t you care at all what happens to him? Don’t you care if he gets pneumonia? No, I don’t suppose you do, it won’t be you who has to nurse him, you’re much too clever and successful for anything like that—I’ve heard all about how clever and successful you are. Well, don’t worry, I’ll nurse him, he’s a wonderful person and I’ll be proud and honoured to nurse him, I’ll stay with him day and night if he needs me. And you can just go on drinking wine and reading trashy paperbacks.”

At this point she burst into tears and walked out of the pub, to the accompaniment of a certain amount of applause from several interested spectators, grateful for something to enliven what otherwise might have been an uneventful lunch
hour. Shortly afterwards, finding myself now unable to give my detective story the attention it deserved, I also left, and returned to my aunt’s house.

I feel that I must somehow have managed things extremely badly. It seems remarkably careless of me to have upset poor Daphne before even meeting her and at such an early stage in the season of peace and goodwill: we are bound to keep running into each other over the next ten days or so and not being on speaking terms is likely to prove a considerable embarrassment.

And I suppose she was right about my being irresponsible to have persuaded Maurice to walk so far; having always known him as notably fit and active, I never considered the possibility that in his present state of health a two-mile walk might be more than was good for him. I do hope that it hasn’t really done him any harm.

What worries me most, however, is what I said to him about insider dealing. Can it be, do you think, that he regards himself, having profited by Isabella’s predictions, as sharing in the guilt of the man in the black Mercedes? Does he believe that his subsequent misfortunes are a punishment for it? Is that why he wanted to know whether the crime was a serious one? If so, I have given him the worst possible answer.

I know nothing of the complexities of the clerical conscience—is there anything I can do to repair the damage? Would it be possible to persuade him that insider dealing, having been a criminal offence only since 1980, cannot in fact be a
sin? Or, if it is, venial rather than mortal? Or, if mortal, still not beyond redemption?

In the hope of receiving your advice as soon as possible, I shall conclude and post this immediately. I am instructed by my aunt to add her Christmas greetings to my own. Please also give mine to Benjamin, and to the enchanting Terry.

I remain, as always, my dear Ragwort,

Your respectfully devoted
Julia

Résidence Belplaisir
Cannes

20th December

Dear Julia,

Painful as it is to be obliged to say such a thing, particularly to a dear and valued friend, I can see nothing at all to censure in your behaviour, either towards the Reverend Maurice or towards the girl Daphne.

Unless there is some very material omission in the account you have given me, you did not, when you called on the Vicar, take a pistol with you; or, if you did, you did not threaten to shoot him with it if he declined to accompany you to the hostelry of your choice. In short, his decision to do so was an exercise of what theologians call free will: the consequences are his responsibility, not yours. Moreover, it is not for you to advise him
on whether insider dealing is a mortal or a venial sin: if he is troubled about the question, he should speak to his Bishop.

So please stop worrying about the Reverend Maurice and give me your undivided attention—I have things to tell you which I think you will find of interest, relating, as it happens, to Selena’s merchant bankers.

I have been here for two days and extremely busy, having promised Benjamin that I would arrive early and make sure everything was properly organised: it is several months since he was last here himself and, in spite of being a brilliant economist, he has no more idea of practical housekeeping than—well, than you have, if you will forgive my so expressing it. He seemed to have only a vague idea of how many people he had invited, when they were likely to get here and where they were all going to sleep: he said oh, that things would sort themselves out. Which things, in my experience, very seldom do without active encouragement from someone.

Still, I have now got the flat in reasonable order and feel entitled to relax a little. I am at present sitting on the drawing-room balcony, which has an exceptionally fine view across the bay. Immediately below there is a small
place
, with shops which include a good bakery, a passable delicatessen, and a disgracefully overpriced greengrocer, as well as two pleasant cafés and a slightly disreputable bar.

Beyond that, I can see the upper portion of a large and very grand-looking villa, built, I imagine, towards the end of the last century, in what would then have seemed an idyllically tranquil and private
position. Its tranquillity must now be as sadly impaired by the noise of the traffic along the Corniche as its privacy has been by the subsequent building of residential blocks of flats, such as this one, on the hillside above.

For example, I have from here a clear view of the whole of the extensive roof terrace. And sitting on the roof terrace, even as I write, is Sir Robert Renfrew—I recognised him at once, having seen him several times on his visits to Chambers for conferences with Selena. Though I knew, of course, when she described his villa to us, that it must be in the same general area as Benjamin’s flat, I had no idea that they were in such immediate proximity.

Sir Robert, I suspect, does not fully realise how open the terrace is to observation and regards himself as enjoying there the same degree of privacy as if he were indoors. I first saw him two days ago, the morning after I arrived here, when I was having my coffee and croissant on the balcony and he was performing his exercises, dressed only in shorts and a vest—an activity, I think, which an elderly gentleman with a tendency to plumpness would normally wish to engage in, if at all, without an audience.

He seems to spend a good deal of time on the terrace, not only doing exercises but also apparently working. He is from time to time attended on by three ladies, none, I am relieved to say, of scandalously youthful or seductive appearance: one in a black dress and apron, presumably the housekeeper, who brings him occasional refreshments; one in a well-tailored linen trouser suit, obviously Miss Tavistock, whom he summons
by means of an old-fashioned handbell to take dictation; one of fairly advanced years and a somewhat equine countenance, no doubt his wife, who favours him with her company for the customary aperitif before dinner.

Today, however, there has been an interruption in this tranquil mode of existence.

The first sign of it was just after midday, when the post and the English newspapers arrive here. I had collected your letter and a copy of today’s
Times
from the concierge and settled down out here on the balcony to read them. Glancing at the terrace, I saw Sir Robert sitting peacefully in his chair and apparently similarly occupied. Your letter, I need hardly say, engaged my entire attention for several minutes, after which I again looked across at the terrace, just in time to observe a remarkable transformation in his demeanour. I thought at first that something in his newspaper or his correspondence had provoked him to a sudden rage, but decided after a few moments that his mood was one of excitement rather than anger.

He had leapt up from his chair and was brandishing his handbell with such vigour that I almost expected to hear the sound of it all the way across the
place
. Miss Tavistock came running and seemed to receive instructions, of a brisk and urgent nature, after which she disappeared again. Sir Robert did a few exercises, as if suddenly needing to work off surplus energy, and then also left the terrace.

I too went indoors, with the intention of making myself lunch—a task more difficult than I had envisaged. All the cooking appliances in the flat
depend for their operation on a supply of gas, not from the mains but from a replaceable cylinder: I was halfway through cooking myself what might have been a rather delicious omelette with fines herbes when I discovered that the cylinder was empty, and must indeed have been nearly so when I arrived.

There was a note pinned up on the wall beside the stove giving directions on where to find the replacement cylinder: having followed them, I discovered that there was no replacement cylinder. I reminded myself with some effort that Benjamin was my friend and host and it would be unseemly to think unkind thoughts of him.

He had advised me, if I should have any unexpected problems, to seek the assistance of his next-door neighbour—a physiotherapist of some sort, who studied art in her spare time and painted quite interesting watercolours. She was, he said, a very helpful and competent sort of person, and he was on friendly terms with her. Feeling that the difficulty with the gas cylinder was one of the unexpected problems which Benjamin had been expecting me to encounter, I went out and rang on her doorbell.

The appearance of the young woman who answered was something of a surprise to me. For some reason I had pictured Mademoiselle Natasha as middle-aged and rather plain, wearing a sensible suit and perhaps a crisp white overall. In fact she was in her twenties and strikingly handsome, tall, dark eyed, black haired, with a splendidly aquiline profile—the product, one would guess, of a series of exotic alliances between different races and
nationalities. She was dressed—well, her clothing is difficult to describe: it consisted largely of items of cream-coloured leather, including a pair of knee-high boots, which somehow left a number of areas uncovered—not at all the sort of garment which one associates with the medical profession.

But when I asked her, rather apprehensively, whether she was Mademoiselle Natasha, she confirmed that she was, albeit in a tone which somewhat suggested that her name was none of my business. On hearing, however, that I was a friend and guest of Benjamin’s, she became quite cordial and proved extremely helpful in the matter of the cylinders. She was about to drive into town for lunch and intended to pass the garage from which replacements were obtained: she said that she would purchase two on my behalf and bring them back after lunch.

The least I could do was make sure of being at hand to unload them. I therefore decided to take lunch in the nearest café, which is only a few yards away from the entrance to our block of flats. Having consoled myself for my ruined omelette with a
croque-monsieur
and a chocolate ice cream, I remained there, reading my guidebook and glancing frequently out of the window to be sure of seeing her as soon as she returned.

And that was how I happened to see Miss Tavistock, driving through the
place
—a Bentley, as it happens, not a Mercedes—in the direction of Nice; she was alone in the car.

Natasha not only remembered to buy the cylinders but helped me to carry them up to the flat and to install one of them in its proper place
beside the stove. After this, naturally, I offered her a drink, which she accepted, and we came and sat out here on the balcony.

Her English, like my French, is serviceable rather than fluent; but between the two we managed to have quite a pleasant and interesting conversation, mostly about painting. I did try asking her about her work as a physiotherapist—she tells me that she specialises in pains of the lower back; but she seemed to be far more interested in her artistic studies—she has promised to show me some of her watercolours. Her work has occasionally been exhibited in one of the small art galleries in the neighbourhood and sold sufficiently well to give her hopes of someday making her living by it.

As she was telling me this, she suddenly pointed towards the
place
and said, “Oh, there is one of my patrons. Madame Tavistock—she has bought several of my things. She is English, but very intelligent, very artistic—you should meet her, Desmond. Poor Madame Tavistock—she works for a bank and meets only imbeciles who talk about money and motorcars.”

I looked in the direction she was pointing and saw the Bentley on its way back towards the villa. Miss Tavistock was still at the wheel, but no longer alone—she had two passengers. Her journey had taken about the time one would expect if she had been collecting someone from Nice airport: although I was too far away to see them clearly, I somehow at once felt sure that I knew who they were.

Natasha left soon afterwards, saying unenthusiastically that she had a patient arriving for treatment: “Another imbecile, but one must live.”

Her treatments are evidently on the vigorous side—she said that her patients sometimes became rather noisy, and she hoped I would not be disturbed.

Having become rather curious about what was going on at the villa, and hoping to confirm my speculation as to the identity of the two passengers, I remained on the balcony.

Just as I was beginning to write this letter, Sir Robert reappeared on the roof terrace, where he was joined soon afterwards by his wife and Miss Tavistock. And then, a few minutes ago, the party was further augmented by two men in City suits, as if they had come straight from their offices, who I have no doubt at all are Edgar Albany and Geoffrey Bolton. It’s true I’ve only seen them once before, when Sir Robert brought them to see Selena in Chambers, but I’m quite sure I’m not mistaken.

I’m equally sure that their visit was not planned in advance—that they were summoned here by Sir Robert only a few hours ago, as a result of something he received in the post or read in the newspaper this morning. I suppose there may have been something in the financial pages which would provide a reason to convene an urgent directors’ meeting. But is it the real reason or merely a pretext? I strongly suspect, given the similarity of the conditions, that he is trying again to set a trap for the insider dealer, in the same way that he did when Selena was here in the summer. I can’t help feeling that this may be rather dangerous—another attack of food poisoning might have serious consequences.

Well, I shall keep as close an eye on the situation as circumstances permit. I have already,
I’m afraid, spent more time on observing what is happening at the villa than is entirely consistent with my other obligations: Terry has rung to say that he is arriving this evening, and I haven’t the faintest idea what to give him for supper—we shall probably have to go out somewhere. If he complains, I shall talk meaningfully of pots, kettles, and unfinished bookcases.

21st December

Do please forgive me if the rest of this letter is somewhat disjointed: there are some rather strange noises coming from the flat next door—if Natasha had not warned me, I should think them very strange indeed—which make it slightly difficult to concentrate.

Although it is after ten A.M., I have only just finished breakfast, having risen disgracefully late and with a slight hangover. For this I entirely blame Terry, of whose disgraceful behaviour I am about to give full particulars: really, I don’t know what carpenters are coming to nowadays.

He arrived yesterday evening at about seven and readily agreed to go out to dinner rather than eat at the flat. What I had envisaged was a modest meal at one of the cafés in the
place;
but he persuaded me that we should go instead to a Moroccan restaurant, known to him from previous visits.

It was in a narrow side street a few minutes’ walk away, behind the sort of unassuming frontage which in France so often conceals a restaurant of some distinction. Inside, it was quite luxuriously furnished and decorated, in a quasi-Moorish style: thick carpets and silky draperies; divans round low
circular tables in alcoves divided by carved wooden screens; brass lamps of the kind one might rub if one hoped to be given three wishes. At the end of the room, a piano and a small dais suggested that later in the evening some form of musical entertainment might be provided.