A Grave Man (23 page)

‘But no one seems to care down here. The hotels are full. All the rich and famous are still coming to Cannes and Monte Carlo.’

‘That is so,’ she agreed.

Verity thought for a moment. ‘Natalie, are you sure there is nothing odd going on at the Institute? I mean, apart from the new operation, or whatever it is, to remove wrinkles?’

Natalie looked worried. ‘Maybe, I do not know but . . . perhaps at the hospital . . . There is a private clinic . . . it belongs to the Institute. Very sick people go there . . . to die, I think. They lie in chairs in the sun and wait to die. I have seen them.’

‘I see . . . a sanatorium for the terminally ill?’

‘And they look after people who have deformities. I think I have heard Simon say people who have been burned . . . who have scars or who are born with seven fingers . . . that sort of thing.’

‘That sounds very good.’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘But what, Natalie?’

‘I do not know but sometimes the operations . . . I used to know a nurse who worked there for a little and she left because she did not like the operations.’

‘What sort of operations?’ Verity demanded.

Natalie looked frightened. ‘I know nothing. Please forget what I have said. It is nothing.’

‘Can I speak to the nurse . . . your friend?’

‘No, she died.’

‘She died?’

‘In a car accident. It was very sad.’ Natalie wiped her eyes.

‘Are you crying?’

‘No, the bright lights when I am filming . . . they hurt the eyes. Jean says I am to marry a rich man before I go blind.’

‘And will you?’ Verity inquired.

‘No, I will marry Henri and stop making films and have babies.’

Verity wondered what Natalie would make of her decision to do exactly the opposite.

The Institute of Beauty was a long low building of white stone with a superb view of the Golfe de St Tropez. Edward had hired a car from the hotel and was glad that he had left immediately after breakfast as the road proved slow – narrow and twisting but certainly picturesque. It seemed odd to site the Institute here rather than in Cannes or Nice because it was hard to reach, even by train. There was only a light railway from Hyères. Further-more, the
mistral
which blew down from the Esterels would, he thought, make it unbearable for winter visitors.

However, all was explained when he arrived. He found the place without too much difficulty although the Institute clearly did not feel the need to advertise itself. There was a simple brass plate at the entrance with the name in three languages. This was a retreat – a secret place for rich women to get away from their husbands and lovers and rejuvenate themselves in private. Out of sight of prying eyes, they could be waxed, manicured, caked in mud, exfoliated and injected with excretions from exotic plants and unfortunate animals sacrificed in the cause of female vanity. The receptionist asked him to wait but confirmed that he was expected. He took a brochure – which featured a photograph of a wise but youthful-looking Dominic Montillo – and began to read. It laid out in detail the many treatments available. He was particularly interested in the courses of injections for which great claims were made. These seemed to involve introducing into the bloodstream a nightmare concoction of liquids derived from exotic animals including baboons and turtles as well as pigs, cats and even goats. His stomach revolted and he was glad to turn to the plant-based treatments which used a wide variety of oils and unguents from all over the world.

A door opened as he was reading a cheery little paragraph on varicose veins, and an efficient-looking woman in her late thirties came forward and grasped his hand.

‘I see you have been studying our brochure, Lord Edward. I hope you found it interesting?’

She introduced herself as Monique Guillet, the Institute’s chief administrator. He was sure she was French but her English was faultless and must have been learnt in England. In her crisp, starched uniform one would have taken her for the matron at some smart London hospital. She had obviously been briefed by Sir Simon to give him a guided tour and she was determined he would see everything. Rather to his embarrassment, he was urged to look into every hot room, cold room and water massage room as well as the sauna, the ‘dip’ pools, the indoor and outdoor pools, and the solarium. Everwhere he went, he met ladies in white gowns with towels round their heads, usually accompanied by a ‘nurse’ – or at least a member of staff dressed as a nurse – who ignored him. He dreaded running into someone he knew although most of the women were unrecognizable in their ‘half-cooked’ state, as he described it later to Verity.

There were a few areas into which, to his relief but Mme Guillet’s regret, he was not permitted to venture. He had no wish to be caught peering at women naked except for an olive oil dressing or disturb those being scraped and kneaded in the massage rooms. It was all so transparently ‘above board’ that the hairs on the back of his neck bristled. Edward chided himself for his cynicism. He must not jump to conclusions just because he knew Montillo and did not like him. What was it to him if these women were being relieved of their money with amazing rapidity? There was nothing illegal in that if they or their husbands thought it money well spent.

Mme Guillet seemed not in the least surprised that Edward should be so interested in the Institute. Perhaps she thought that – as a friend of Sir Simon’s – he was being asked to invest in the business or perhaps she was simply not interested in what was not her affair. At the end of the tour when they were sitting in her cool office at the back of the building, Edward congratulated her. ‘It is all very impressive and spotlessly clean. I am most impressed. By the way, are your staff medically qualified or is that not necessary?’

‘They are all qualified for the work they do – massages and beauty treatments – but they are not
medically
qualified.’ Edward thought he detected a hint of
froideur
in her voice.

‘I see that of course, but I gather you also offer courses of rejuvenation treatments which involve injections and so on. Are these overseen by a doctor?’

‘Yes, Mr Montillo, or an associate doctor, would be present when any injection is given.’

‘But he spends a lot of time in England?’

‘There are two doctors in Nice and one in Cannes who visit the Institute on a regular basis.’

‘But Mr Montillo is the head of the Institute?’ Edward smiled, trying to look genial but failing.

‘That is correct.’ She seemed about to say something else but in the end kept her lips firmly closed.

‘Some of these courses use monkey glands . . .’ He was looking at the brochure, ‘beeswax, civet – that’s cat, isn’t it? They must be tested and approved by some medical authority, surely?’

‘I am afraid, if you have medical questions, you must address them to Mr Montillo. I am not qualified to answer them but every treatment we give is proven to be safe and effective.’

‘Oh, so you are not a nurse? I thought in that uniform . . .’

‘I am not a nurse and do not pretend to be medically trained. I wear this uniform because cleanliness is a priority here, as you have observed. It would not do for me, or any of the staff, to wear their ordinary clothes in the Institute.’

‘No, of course. May I ask – your English is so good, Mme Guillet – have you lived in England?’

‘I have. The Institute is international. Our clientele come from all over Europe and America. Most of the staff speak at least one other language. I also speak German and Italian.’

‘I see. Well, I must not take up any more of your valuable time. You have been very kind. I am most grateful to you for showing me round. It is all – as I say – most impressive.’

She allowed a smile to unfreeze her face. ‘I am glad to be of help, Lord Edward. I will show you out.’

As he was shaking her hand at the main entrance, Edward said casually, ‘I think Sir Simon mentioned that Mr Montillo also ran a laboratory near here?’

‘There is a laboratory attached to a small private hospital – we call it the Clinic – a few miles away in the hills above St Tropez. It is where Mr Montillo carries out complicated medical procedures and where some of the beauty preparations we use are made. You know, of course, that he is a respected plastic surgeon. He has done much to pioneer treatment for physical deformities. His work in the field is, I understand, very much admired.’

‘Would he carry out surgery to improve a person’s appearance?’ he asked innocently.

‘Cosmetic surgery?’

‘That’s right. You see, I have a friend who has a bad burn scar which has spoilt her looks. Would he be able to help her, do you think?’

‘I could not possibly say, Lord Edward, but Mr Montillo is a very remarkable man. If anyone can help your friend, I am sure he can.’

Mme Guillet sounded a little too enthusiastic, he thought, but it was understandable that she should want to speak well of her employer. She might suspect that anything she said would get back to him. She was obviously relieved when Edward said, ‘Next time I come, I must ask Mr Montillo to show me round the Clinic. Not today though as I am returning to London.’

She gave him a look which he could not quite interpret. It was not that she appeared apprehensive but she was certainly not quite at her ease and she closed the door after him with almost tangible relief.

9

As they recrossed the Channel, which this time was choppy and uncomfortable, Verity seemed more than usually agitated. Edward asked her what the matter was and she confessed that she was unhappy at having to conceal from Virginia that her husband had a mistress in Cannes. She had nothing against Natalie herself – in fact, she liked her – but she had naively thought Sir Simon was happily married to her friend. Mrs Cardew had hinted that he had an ‘eye for the girls’ and she should have known when he put his hand on her knee at dinner that he was not to be trusted, but it still came as a shock. She herself did not believe in marriage but she expected those who did to abide by the rules.

‘I agree,’ Edward said, glad to find something they could agree on. ‘And what’s more he and Montillo have this Beauty Institute which I think is a cover for something else.’

‘But you looked round it and saw nothing except a gaggle of women with more money than sense being pampered.’

‘Yes, but I did not go to the Clinic. I’m beginning to think I ought to have stayed another night in Cannes and paid it a visit.’

‘We promised Jebb we would be back in England today.’

‘I’m not worried about Jebb. Any detective work we can do in France will benefit him. Still, you are right. I did want to get back.’

‘To report to Joe – or is it Churchill?’ Verity said sourly. ‘What were you talking to the Duke of Windsor about in the conservatory?’

‘Ah well . . .’ Edward wondered if he could tell her the truth

‘Don’t tell me if it’s embarrassing. I know you were running an errand for that man but don’t feel you have to tell me about it.’

He bit his lip. ‘Churchill did give me a letter to deliver to the Duke. It was advice on how to comport himself – who to talk to and who not to.’

‘Like Hitler, you mean?’

‘Yes, well . . .’ Edward surrendered. ‘It would be a public relations disaster if he went to see him in Berlin. The King and the Government would wash their hands of him. He would never be allowed back into England.’

‘Go and see Hitler? He wouldn’t be that silly, would he?’

‘He might.’

Verity thought about it as she looked over the waves towards the white cliffs. She was a good sailor but it would be a relief to be back on dry land.

Suddenly she said, ‘By the way, while we are talking of secrets I suppose I had better tell you that I am going to Vienna with Adam . . . Joe wants me to report from there and then Prague . . . but,’ she added bitterly, ‘I expect he has already told you.’

‘He didn’t tell me about Adam,’ Edward said calmly.

‘No, that’s our idea. He’s going to show me around. You can see what a help he’ll be. He knows everyone and my German isn’t very good yet.’

‘Are you going as . . .’ the wind whipped across his face as though trying to blow the words away over the white cliffs, ‘his lover?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ Verity turned to face him. ‘You see, we think the same way. I shouldn’t have . . . You and I don’t belong together . . . I’m sorry.’

‘I’m sorry too. I thought we did belong together.’

‘I told you, I need to be free.’

‘To sleep with anyone you fancy,’ he said, allowing bitterness to salt his words for the first time.

‘Edward . . . I don’t just fancy him. I love and admire him.’

‘But you have only known him a few days.’ He heard the pleading in his voice and hated himself.

‘What does that matter?’ she said defiantly. ‘Please, I don’t want to discuss it. I just thought I should tell you . . . so that there were no . . . misunderstandings.’

‘I understand.’ He hesitated and then contradicted himself. ‘No I don’t. I thought we loved each other.’

‘We do, but it has to be as loving friends. Can we still be friends?’

‘I can,’ Edward said with an effort, ‘if you can, though I . . . ’ He paused again. What was the point of bleating about his love for her? Why was it that, however badly she treated him, he still loved her? He grinned wryly. She saw his grin and seemed relieved. Perhaps she had been expecting a ‘scene’.

‘After all, we have a murder to solve – two murders – and not much time.’

He knew she was trying to tell him that she still wanted to be partners and he smiled again, more warmly.

She said, ‘I may not have time to finish it . . . If it takes longer . . .’ She looked at him appealingly. ‘You must finish it. Please, Edward, don’t look at me like that. I
have
to go to Vienna. It’s . . . It’s my destiny.’

‘I know,’ he said simply.

She took his cold hand in hers. ‘You must solve it . . . for me . . . for us.’ She smiled and for a moment they were ‘together’ again.

‘Shall we go over it all again?’ he asked.

‘When we get off this bloody boat.’

At the breakfast table the next day Edward found, alongside his kippers, a pile of letters. He quickly set aside what were obviously bills and turned to the three remaining envelopes. The first was from Mrs Cardew. She said that, on returning from Swifts Hill, she had immediately come down with pneumonia. ‘At this time of year! Too ridiculous,’ she wrote in a shaky hand. ‘I am recovering but I’m as weak as a kitten, so forgive my writing! I not only bore myself but poor Maggie who is looking after me. What did I do to deserve such good children?’