Authors: Lynda Wilcox
"You permit, ma'm'selle?"
The old man stood at my table indicating one of the empty chairs.
Surprised, I nodded.
"Of course."
"If you do not mind, I should like to join you for coffee and, perhaps a liqueur, a
digestif
?"
He smiled, seating himself with precision, pulling at his trouser legs so that they did not crease at the knees. He carried a pair of leather gloves and rested his hands on the top of a cane. He reminded me so much of Maurice Chevalier I expected him to break into 'Thank 'Eavens for Leetle Girls' at any moment. Instead he offered an aged hand.
"Henri Broissard."
"Verity Long. You are the owner?"
I indicated the restaurant with a sweep of my hand. It was, I felt, a reasonable assumption after the deference paid him by the waitress.
He bowed his head in acknowledgement.
"Once I was chef patron, now I am only patron."
A regretful tone sounded in his voice to match the sad grey eyes.
"Time passes," I agreed.
The waitress, he called her Jenny, brought my coffee and an espresso for M. Broissard, then scurried behind the small bar to pour a cognac and a Benedictine for me.
"I have not seen you in here before, Ma'm'selle Long."
Did he come in every night, I wondered, with nothing better to do than recognise and observe his customers. Maybe. There had been few enough of them that evening, certainly.
"I am a visitor," I told him. "I've not been to the town before."
"Ah," he nodded, as if this explained everything. "What brings you, may I ask, to Northworthy?"
"My research. I work for a writer and help her find the background to her novels."
"Ah, bon. That is interesting."
He swirled the brandy in his glass. I wondered how long he had lived in England. The Gallic accent was still pronounced and he retained the speech patterns of his mother tongue - far more so that Val or Jacques. Being the inquisitive sort, I asked him.
"A long time. Thirty years or more. I still miss Paree."
"Me too."
The long buried memory of Laurent, my flamboyant Parisian lover, resurfaced from the silt-covered depths where I had left it, along with that of the bastard's undisclosed wife. I hate Paris in the Springtime.
"You worked in Paree?"
I dragged my mind back to my current companion and his question.
"No. Just a holiday."
It hadn't been - I'd had a job of sorts - but it was too involved and too complicated to talk about, so I left it at that. It was still, I discovered, a painful subject.
We sat in silence for a while, both wrapped in our own reminiscences, sipping the drinks.
"Where is it that you stay?"
M. Broissard finally broke the hiatus in in our conversation. I couldn't see any harm in telling him.
"I'm at the Geogian Hotel, just up the road."
"Ah, yes. I know it. It is a very comfortable, very friendly place,
n'est-ce pas
?"
"Yes, As long as they don't lock me out."
I looked at my watch, nearly an hour yet before that happened.
"I remember. It is like '
Cendrillon
', yes?" He used the French name for Cinderella. "If you do not return from the ball before midnight …
"I turn into a pumpkin."
He laughed.
"But no, ma'm'selle. You are the wrong shape for a
citrouille
."
I joined in his laughter.
"For the moment."
Give me twenty years of good food like tonight's and I might well come to resemble a pumpkin.
The mention of Cinderella brought to mind my conversation with Greg Ferrari on Tuesday evening. Mentally I shook my head, trying to clear away the vision of a red suited Buttons dancing about the stage of the Royal Theatre in Crofterton around some necessarily static and wooden C-list celebrity with big boobs.
Jenny flitted to the table to ask if we wanted more coffee or brandies.
"No, thank you. It's about time I was going. I'd like the bill, please."
I paid the modest amount—KD would be pleased—with my card and then pushed back my chair.
"Jenny, my coat,
s'il vous plait
." The old man rose. "You permit that I walk you to your hotel, ma'm'selle?"
I paused. The waitress, returning with a camel coloured coat, gave me a reassuring nod as she helped him into it to let me know that my companion was unlikely to attack me on the way. Well, why not, I thought. It wasn't far.
Wrapping a white woollen scarf around his neck Mr Broissard looked remarkably dapper with his gloves and cane. He opened the door for me and muttered his goodbyes to the waitress before offering me his arm. I felt as if I'd been transported back to the turn of the century as we ambled along the Old Upchester road.
"I am pleased to have met you, Ma'm'selle Long and I have enjoyed your company this evening. Will your stay in Northworthy be a long one?"
"No. All being well, if I can find what I need, I shall go home tomorrow night."
"Tchah!
C'est domage
."
A pity? Well, perhaps. I really hadn't seen enough of the town to be able to agree, or disagree, with that.
"Who knows," I said, smiling at him in the glow of the street lights, "I may come back another time."
"And if you do, you will return to my restaurant, yes?"
"Yes, of course. I enjoyed my meal very much."
I had too. The price hadn't been bad either, at under twenty five quid for two courses, a half bottle of wine, coffee and a Benedictine.
"Good. I am glad."
He watched me go in, standing at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the front door, before raising his hand in an elegant '
adieu
'. I said goodnight and closed the door.
Once again, I found myself in the house on Willow Drive. Inexorably, my footsteps led down the landing towards the bedroom door.
"It's behind that door," I said to some unseen companion. I faltered, afraid of what lay ahead.
"You must go on. You must open it and enter." A voice urged me onwards.
I reached out with a white, lifeless hand.
"Push it. Push it. Don't be scared. Discover the truth," came the insistent voice. I looked around trying to find the speaker, but I was alone in the dark and dingy corridor. A heavy, cloying fragrance filled the air as the door in front of me shimmered and shook. A face appeared through the panelling and I opened my mouth to scream.
The shrill ring of the telephone on my bedside table roused me from the nightmare. Covered in perspiration I shook myself awake. I hadn't been asleep long—my alarm clock showed 12.10 as I picked up the phone.
"Hello?" I mumbled. "Verity Long."
"Good evening, Verity. Sorry to call so late."
Jerry Farish? For a moment I thought I must still be dreaming. Struggling to wipe the last whispers of sleep from my brain, I eased myself into a more comfortable position in the unfamiliar bed.
"Verity? Are you still there? I'm sorry, did I wake you?"
"Hmm? Yes, sorry. How did you find me?"
"Don't sound so suspicious," his voice sounded relaxed, friendly, even. "Mrs Davenport told me where you were."
"Oh? And why did you call my employer?" I was fully awake now and prepared to be difficult. "To check up on me?"
I heard an exasperated sigh from the other end of the phone.
"Actually, she phoned me."
"Oh."
"Yes. She's concerned about you, Verity. So am I since she's spoken to me. Why didn't you tell me about the attacks on you?"
"Oh," I said again.
"Is that all you have to say? 'Oh'? If someone is trying to kill you, don't you think the police ought to know about it?"
"I can take care of myself," was all I could think of to say. I was still busy wondering why he'd called and what else KD might have told him.
"What, by learning to swim, perhaps? Taking diving lessons, are we?"
I laughed, despite myself, then wished I hadn't. I could love a man who makes me laugh.
"It's no laughing matter, Verity."
"I know. Jerry, I'm sorry."
"That's all well and good …"
"No. I meant, I'm sorry about what I said on Monday. The way I spoke to you. It was unforgivable."
I gulped, though it came out more like a sob, after offering this olive branch. The line went very quiet and for a dreadful moment I thought I'd lost him again. After what seemed like an age I heard him say, "Well, you're forgiven on the condition that you let me take you out to dinner again."
And breathe, I told myself, exhaling the air I'd been holding as I'd waited for his reply.
"I'd like that very much. Thank you," I said, relieved at this second chance.
"Good, then that's settled. Now, tell me about these attacks."
I kept my account of the assaults as brief and undramatic as I could, trying not to make more of them than they warranted.
"So, both attacks happened after leaving the ABC?"
Jerry's voice was matter-of-fact but I hurried to Valentino's defence.