Hand in Glove (45 page)

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aunt, Colin. And her niece has been kidnapped. None of this was her fault.”

“Nor mine.” Colin sat back in his chair and cocked his head. “You haven’t taken a shine to the girl, have you?”

“Of course not. I’d just like to be able to repay her generosity.”

“By riding out on a white charger and rescuing her niece?”

Derek stared hard at his brother. “Imprisonment hasn’t blunted your sarcasm, I see.”

Colin raised his hands in mock surrender. “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry. If you and she . . . Well, what
can
you do to help?”

“Nothing.”

“Hence the gloomy physog?”

“I suppose so. Besides . . .” Derek leant forward and lowered his voice. “It hasn’t been made public, but the kidnappers have said they’ll kill the girl if they don’t have what they want by the eleventh of October.”

Colin whistled. “And today’s the first.”

“Exactly. Time’s running out. All too quickly.”

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THREE

Charlotte had just begun to take stock of what needed to be removed from Jackdaw Cottage when Mrs Mentiply arrived, intent on discharging her housekeeping duties to the bitter end.

Well-intentioned though the dear soul undoubtedly was, Charlotte had hoped to avoid her, since they had not met since Maurice’s death and Mrs Mentiply could be relied upon to be as curious as she was sympathetic. In the end, it seemed easier to surrender to her eagerness for information, to let her make coffee for both of them, then answer her innumerable questions as best she could.

“Mr Mentiply and I were terribly shocked to hear about your brother, my dear. And your niece as well, of course. How is Mrs Abberley bearing up under such an awful strain?”

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“Remarkably well in the circumstances.”

“Is there still no news of the girl?”

“None, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps it’s a blessing dear old Miss Abberley isn’t alive to witness such sad times for her family.”

“Perhaps it is.”

“Whether she’d approve of the people who’ll be living here I don’t know. Have you met them?”

“No. But the estate agent said—”

“Stuck-up lot. None of Miss Abberley’s refinement. I shouldn’t care to work for them even if they asked me.”

“Well, that’s for you to decide, of course. But they made a good offer. I couldn’t—”

“Oh, I didn’t mean you should have turned them down. Not on my account. You have more than enough to worry about without pan-dering to my likes and dislikes.”

“It
is
a worrying time.”

“Of course it is. And if there’s anything I can do—or Mr Mentiply—anything at all, you’ve only to say the word.”

“It’s kind of you, but—”

“Haven’t the police any clues as to what’s become of the poor girl?”

“Precious few.”

“Or why she was kidnapped?”

“They’re trying to find a recipient of a letter Beatrix sent. A woman in France whose surname begins with V. They think she may know something.”

Mrs Mentiply clicked her tongue. “Sounds like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“It is, rather.”

“I mean, whereabouts in France?”

“Oh, in or near Paris. It doesn’t narrow the field very much, does it? If Beatrix had ever mentioned knowing somebody in Paris, it might be different, but she never did. I don’t suppose she ever said anything to you about Madame V?”

“No. I’m afraid she didn’t. V, you say?”

“Beginning with V.”

“In Paris?”

“Yes.”

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Mrs Mentiply shook her head dolefully. “It means nothing to me.” Then she summoned a smile. “Would you like another cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t bring any biscuits. If I’d known you were coming . . .”

“It really doesn’t matter.”

“Only it’s always nice to have a biscuit with coffee, isn’t it, or a choc—” Mrs Mentiply broke off. Her face slowly compressed into a frown.

“What’s wrong?”

“Or a chocolate,” she said slowly.

“Are you all right, Mrs Mentiply?”

“What?” She looked across at Charlotte, then down at her empty coffee-cup. “Why, I’ve just had the strangest thought.”

“About what?”

“Miss Abberley used to give me these chocolates, you see, Christmas and Easter, regular as clockwork. ‘You have them,’ she’d say. ‘They’re from a friend. I haven’t the heart to tell her I don’t like them.’ Well, as you know, she didn’t have a sweet tooth, not her, but I— They were sent to her twice a year for as long as I can remember. A gift from a friend.”

“I don’t quite—”

“They were French chocolates, Miss Ladram. From a shop in Paris. And the name of the shop began with a V. I’m sure it did.”

Charlotte felt the sudden acceleration of her thoughts almost as a physical sensation. She sat forward and clasped Mrs Mentiply by the wrist. “What was the name?”

“Vac . . . Val . . . Vass . . . Something like that.”

“You must remember. For God’s sake!”

“I don’t think I can.”

Charlotte clamped her eyes shut for an instant to stave off frustration. “Please try,” she said as she re-opened them. “It’s absolutely—”

Then she stopped. Mrs Mentiply was smiling.

“There’s no need for me to remember. They came in smart green tins with a label inside the lid showing the name and address of the shop.”

“Quite possibly. But—”

“They were too good to throw away when the chocolates had been eaten!” Mrs Mentiply’s smile broadened.

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“You mean . . .”

“I’ve got several at home. I use them to store all sorts of bibs and bobs in. And I’m sure the labels are still on them.”

Mr Mentiply had already departed for his lunchtime imbibition at the Greyhound Inn when they reached the bungalow. Without pausing even to take her coat off, Mrs Mentiply bustled into the sitting room, yanked down the flap of the bureau and pulled out a round tin about six inches in diameter. It was dark green, edged in gold. In her eagerness to remove the lid, she spilt most of the contents—pens, pencils, rubbers and paper-clips—on to the floor. But she paid them no heed as she held out the lid for Charlotte to see. On the inside, as promised, was a label, printed black on gold, scratched and ink-stained but clearly legible.

CONFISERIE VASSOIR

17 RUE DE TIVOLI

75008 PARIS

Visiting Colin had left Derek more uncertain than ever how to bridge the gap ten days of contrasting fortune had opened between him and Charlotte Ladram. He wanted to give her help and support, but in practical terms there was none he could offer. Nor could he avoid reminding Charlotte of the hopeful turn Colin’s case had taken—a turn to which she had made a significant contribution—while her niece’s plight seemed only to worsen by the day.

Yet he was also reluctant to let events stifle their friendship before it had properly begun. It was the sort of mistake he had made too often in the past and accounted for him standing on the brink of a lonely middle age. Driving back from Newhaven to Tunbridge Wells that afternoon, he had only to think of the empty house and the solitary evening awaiting him at Farriers to rebel against caution and risk a diversion to Ockham House.

But his small rebellion did not bring him even a modest reward.

Charlotte was out. Where she might be he could not imagine and the gap between them seemed perceptibly to widen as he sat waiting in his car for a doleful hour of encroaching twilight. When he eventually gave up and drove away, he was weighed down by a leaden conviction that he would never return.

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FOUR

Charlotte’s response to her discovery had been so instinctive, and the action it had prompted her to take so urgent, that it was not until late afternoon, aboard a train drawing ever closer to Paris, that she began to consider the difficulties and possible consequences of the task she had set herself. She had, after all, promised Chief Inspector Golding she would pass any information she obtained on to him immediately. In the event, however, she had not even thought of doing so. Instead, she had sworn Mrs Mentiply to secrecy, driven back to Tunbridge Wells to collect her passport, then raced to Dover just in time to catch an early afternoon hovercraft to Boulogne.

She had justified her behaviour to herself on the basis that the police would have been much slower and more painstaking. Their heavy-handed approach might also have deterred Madame Vassoir—if there was such a person—from co-operating, whereas Charlotte was uniquely well placed as Beatrix’s niece and Samantha’s aunt to appeal to her on behalf of the whole family. But there was, as she had realized, another less worthy motive driving her on. She wanted to find the solution to the mystery on her own and to flourish it beneath the noses of those who had doubted her ability—or her right—to do so. She wanted to finish what Maurice had begun.

Wanting and achieving, however, were not the same. She had looked no further till now than finding Confiserie Vassoir, trusting to luck and French shopping hours that it would still be open when she arrived. The train reached Paris at half past six. A drizzly dusk was settling on the city and the imminence of nightfall had an instantly erosive effect on her confidence. But she succeeded in holding it at bay. From the Gare du Nord she took a taxi, stating her destination as

“
Dix-sept, Rue de Tivoli.
” Fortunately, it was not far. She was set down in a quiet side-street near the Madeleine. Most of the shops seemed already to be closed and her heart sank as she identified the unlit frontage of number seventeen. All she could do was stare glumly at the sign hanging inside the door—CONFISERIE VASSOIR: 326

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Ouvert
9.30–18.30
Mardi à Samedi
—then glance at her watch, which confirmed she was fifteen minutes too late.

Suddenly, there was the hint of a reprieve. It took the form of a blaze of light at the back of the shop. A stocky male figure entered from a room at the rear and began looking for something beneath the counter. Charlotte rapped on the window with her knuckles. He looked up, made a shooing gesture with his hand, then returned to his search. She rapped again and shouted
“Monsieur Vassoir!”
praying he was indeed Monsieur Vassoir and could hear her. But, having found what he evidently wanted, he only frowned and waved her away once more.
“Monsieur Vassoir!”
she bellowed, striking the glass so hard she thought it might break.
“S’il vous plaît! Très important!”

He stared, then, with an enormous shrug of reluctance, he walked to the door, unbolted it and edged it open.

“
Nous sommes fermés, madame!
” He was a short balding man of late middle age, with a bristling black moustache and a gruff voice.

He was clearly annoyed.

“Monsieur Vassoir?”

“Oui, mais—”

“I hope you speak English. I’m looking for Madame Vassoir. Your wife, perhaps? It’s vital I find her. A matter of life and death.” His frown deepened. “My name’s Charlotte Ladram. I—”

“My wife does not know you,” he retorted.

“No. But I think she knows—knew—my aunt.”

“Please go away.” He made to close the door. Desperately, Charlotte thrust her shoulder into the gap.

“Beatrix Abberley!” she shouted. “My aunt was Beatrix Abberley.”

He pulled back and squinted at her, pushing out his lower lip in a gesture combining pugnacity and deliberation.

“She sent a letter to a Frenchwoman in June. Arranged to have it sent, I should say, immediately after her death. The Frenchwoman’s name began with V. If your wife was the recipient, then I must speak to her. There was an appeal in the papers here, I know, for Madame V

to come forward. But they won’t have explained why it’s so urgent.

My niece has been kidnapped and the letter may hold the key to her freedom. To her very life!”

“What makes you think my wife is this . . . Madame V?”

“She sent Beatrix chocolates every Christmas and Easter. She was a friend. Beatrix said so. The label on one of the tins is what brought me here.”

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He hesitated a moment longer, then grunted and opened the door sufficiently for Charlotte to enter. As he closed it behind her, the lingering aroma of rich chocolate emerged from the gloom around them. The counters and display cabinets were empty, save for a few of the distinctive green and gold
Confiserie Vassoir
tins.

“What has the letter—if there is a letter—to do with your niece’s . . .
enlèvement
?”

“It’s the letter her kidnappers want.”

“They have said so?”

“Not exactly. But when I spoke to them—”

“You have spoken to them?”

“Yes.”

“What do you know about them?”

“Nothing—except that they’re Spanish.”

“Espagnol?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

“
Espagnol
,” he repeated in a disbelieving murmur. “Wait here,
madame
. I will telephone my wife.” He hurried into the back room.

Charlotte heard him dial, then, a moment later, announce himself.

“Ma chérie? C’est moi. Oui. Au magasin. Écoute bien.”
His speech accelerated beyond Charlotte’s comprehension, though she caught her own name—and Beatrix’s—on several occasions. Vassoir said less—and listened more—as the call proceeded. It drew to a close with expressions such as
“Oui, oui”
and
“Immédiatement.”
Then he put the telephone down and rejoined her in the shop, frowning solemnly.

“My wife wants me to take you to her,
madame
. She is at our home in Suresnes. It is not far. Will you let me drive you there?”

“She is the Madame V Beatrix wrote to?”

“Oui.”

“Then, yes, please take me to her. Straightaway.”

“My car is parked at the back. Come this way.”

“One thing,
monsieur
. When I mentioned Spain, it seemed to make a big difference. Why?”

“Because my wife is Spanish.”

“I see.” Guesswork prompted her to add: “What was her maiden name?”

“Pardon?”

“Her surname—before you married.”

“Ah, je comprends.”
For the first time, he smiled. “Ortiz. Isabel Ortiz.”

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