A Grave Man (32 page)

Virginia had given Edward the address of the Clinic. She had – rather surprisingly, Edward thought – never visited either the Institute or the Clinic, explaining that she disliked the Riviera and disapproved of sunbathing. ‘My mother always said it was bad for the skin – dried it up. In any case – as she put it – “the peasants are brown because they have to work outside, poor dears, but ladies are able to keep their skin soft and white, with the help of a nightly application of Nivea Creme”.’

Edward thought there was probably more to it than that. Virginia must know that her husband had his mistresses – she probably knew about Natalie – but, as long as he kept them out of sight and preferably in another country, she could ignore them. She certainly wasn’t going to compete with them in what was, for her, an alien environment.

He borrowed a car from the hotel and, with the aid of a map, found his way to the small town of Beauville. There was hardly anyone about but he asked directions from a man walking his dog who knew exactly what he was looking for. Probably, Edward thought, the Clinic was Beauville’s main employer. Half a mile beyond the town he saw a gate and turned into a gravelled driveway. A wooden noticeboard informed him in three languages that this was the Clinic. Director: Dominic Montillo. A string of impressive-looking letters followed his name. A uniformed guard emerged from a small hut where he had been sheltering from the sun and directed him to the visitors’ car park.

Edward drew up in front of the building which – like the Institute – was long, low and white and set in pleasant gardens. He switched off the engine and studied it closely. There was nothing in the slightest degree suspicious about it and he was relieved that he had a bona fide reason for his visit. He did not fancy airing his suspicions that the Clinic was not exactly what it seemed without some evidence.

He put on the wide-brimmed straw hat which he had purchased on a whim the previous evening and pulled at his collar. It was damnably hot and his tie was strangling him. He climbed the white steps, noticing what he thought was a jacaranda among the bougainvillea in the gardens to his left. A hose sprayed a patch of grass to his right. Everything was neat and tidy. The inside was blessedly cool. No one was at the desk but a woman appeared before he had time to ring the bell. He made the little speech he had prepared – that he had been in the neighbourhood and had remembered that his friend, Miss Cardew, was a patient in the Clinic. He added that he was a friend of Mr Montillo’s.

The woman heard him out with a fixed smile which revealed gleaming white teeth. Edward found himself wondering whether they were a gift from the Clinic’s talented director but told himself not to indulge in cheap cynicism. No, Mr Montillo was not expected at the Clinic today. Yes, Miss Cardew was recovering from her operation. She would see whether she was well enough to receive visitors. Five minutes later, Edward was ushered into a cool room, painted white with two or three paintings of exotic flowers on the walls. Maggie was sitting up in bed with several books lying on the table beside her next to a bowl of fruit and a photograph of her mother. He suddenly realized that he had never thought to bring a gift and began at once to apologize.

‘Edward! How very kind of you to come and see me.’ She was finding it difficult to speak because her face was swathed in bandages but she seemed genuinely pleased to see him.

‘Please – don’t try to talk. You must be very uncomfortable.’

‘I’m not too bad. This looks much worse than it is. Dominic says most of the bandages can come off the day after tomorrow and then . . . and then we will be able to see how my face looks.’

‘He thinks the operation has been a success?’

‘He says so. He says it went well but he won’t know for another few days yet whether the new skin he grafted on will be rejected.’

‘So when will you be able to go home?’

‘At the end of next week, I hope. It’s all taking a bit longer than I expected. It turned out to be a bigger job than he thought. But, tell me, what are you doing here? I mean, I am so pleased to see you. To tell the truth, I get very bored.’

‘But you have visitors?’

‘A few. My brother . . . but of course he gets bored too. Can I confess something to you? It’s been rather preying on my mind.’

‘Of course!’

‘I’m worried that Teddy spends too much time at the gaming tables. You see, he has never had quite enough money and, I am sorry to say, when he first came here five years ago, he had beginner’s luck and made a large sum of money at the tables.’

‘You are sorry to say?’

‘Yes, because he has been back several times and on each occasion lost money. He is always hoping for another big win but I think he may ruin himself before it happens.’

‘But I thought he had money from his firm – the stockbrokers . . . Thalberg and May, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but he has been working there less and less – he has to be in the House of Commons so much. Although he hasn’t said so, I think the other partners in the firm have asked him to leave and politics is such an expensive profession.’

‘I see. Well, I really don’t know what I can do. I can’t think he will welcome interference from me.’

‘Perhaps you could go to the casino tonight and see if he is there?’

‘Which one? There are several.’

‘I think he favours the one on La Croisette in Cannes. I can’t remember what it’s called.’

‘I will call in, of course, and I’ll come and tell you if there is any need to worry. I’m sure there isn’t.’

‘Thank you. You are very kind. I don’t know anyone else I could ask.’

‘He’s not got any other sources of income?’

‘He invested in the Institute. Sir Simon persuaded Dominic to give him a share.’

‘Yes, Virginia told me.’ Edward looked grave.

‘Why? Do you think there is anything wrong?’

‘I’ve told you what I think . . . what I suspect.’

‘But you have no evidence.’

‘No. Not yet. I’m sorry, Maggie, I ought not to have mentioned it. Please forgive me.’

‘No, you ought not,’ she said, her anger muffled by the bandages. ‘What you are implying is slander. I’m tired now. I think it would be best if you went.’

Edward left, glad to be outside in the sunlight after the shadowy cool of the Clinic. He had wanted to ask Maggie if she could do some detective work for him but that was clearly out of the question. He was relieved he had not said anything and been snubbed for his pains. After all, she owed so much to Montillo. She would see it – rightly – as a gross betrayal if she helped gather evidence against him. Still, the fact remained, short of a police investigation – which the French police would never initiate unless they had to – only someone inside the Clinic would be able to find evidence of anything illegal going on there. A casual visitor could never gain access to the records. There must be records – Montillo was too well organized not to keep detailed files on the operations he carried out. Without a shred of evidence to back up his hunch, Edward was more certain than ever that something bad was happening in this clean, cool building and he would not rest until he had found what it was.

Verity decided it was better not to telephone Natalie as she might refuse to see her and might warn Simon that something was up. She went first to her apartment but, if there was anyone in, they were not answering the bell. She told the taxi driver to take her to the film studio where, using all her charm, she persuaded the guard at the gates to ring through to Miss Sarrault’s dressing-room. A woman answered and said Natalie was on set. Was she expected? No, but Miss Sarrault was a friend and had told her to stop by if she were passing. Could she wait until Natalie was free to see her?

She waited for the best part of an hour in Natalie’s dressing-room. When, at last, she did appear she seemed tired and depressed. She greeted Verity with a kiss but was clearly suspicious. She asked if she had come alone and Verity mentiond Edward. Natalie became a little more cheerful and talked about ‘Milord Corinth’ and inquired if it were true – what Simon had told her – that his father was a duke. Verity – had she chanced to see her face in the mirror – might have seen the corners of her mouth go down and a scowl cross her face. The French are such snobs, she thought scornfully, but she supposed the English were just as bad.

Disappointingly, Natalie had not heard of, or seen, anyone resembling Graham Harvey but she was expecting Simon who had been delayed in Paris.

‘He comes on the night train. He said he will come to the apartment to wash and rest and then collect me at the studio for lunch. But why do you want to know? Could you not have talked to him in England?’

‘He may be in some danger,’ Verity explained disingenuously.

‘From this man – what do you say his name is? – Graham Harvey? Why would he want to hurt Simon? He’s a good man.’

‘I don’t know for sure. Perhaps this is a false alarm but if you see or hear anything suspicious . . . someone hanging about the apartment or here at the studio for instance, telephone us. We are staying at the Carlton.’

‘I would like to meet Lord Edward Corinth properly. He seemed a charming man.’ Natalie’s smile was almost a smirk.

‘Yes, well’ – Verity tried to suppress her irritation – ‘perhaps we can all meet. He has gone to see a friend who is a patient at the Clinic. Mr Montillo has operated to remove a scar on her face.’

‘He is a very clever man.’ Natalie was suddenly suspicious again. ‘But I do not understand what you want to talk to Simon about. Is there anything wrong?’

‘No, I hope not.’ Verity hesitated. ‘I think Sir Simon has some bad friends – Nazis, criminals. The Castlewood Foundation – has he told you about that?’

‘Yes, a little. It’s a charity.’

‘Indeed, but it gives support to some unworthy causes – experiments to improve the race. You know what I mean?’

Nathalie looked pale and bit her lip. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about. I think you should go now. I tell you, Simon is a good man.’

‘You will ask him to telephone us?’

‘I will tell him you have been looking for him.’ She gave a Gallic shrug of her shoulders. ‘He may not wish to talk to you. I cannot tell.’

And with that Verity had to be satisfied.

There was a message waiting for her back at the hotel. It was from Simon Castlewood. He was sorry to have missed her but he was having dinner that evening at the villa of friends of his, Audrey and Freddy Lewisohn. Would Lord Edward and she care to join them? About six and they should bring their swimming costumes.

At first, Edward saw this as a distraction and was reluctant to go but Verity argued that they had nothing to lose and anyway, she rather liked the idea of gaining a glimpse of the Riviera’s much advertised sybaritism.

‘It’ll be fun to watch the rich doing what they do best: making fools of themselves. Oh God! I’m already beginning to hate the Riviera. The stink of capitalism bathed in honey! How are these people able to idle away their lives while most people are sweating away at dirty jobs and earning a pittance. And all these ex-kings – they ought to be starving in a gutter or dead. The doorman at the hotel told me that in the last three months he had been tipped by the ex-kings of Spain, Portugal, Yugoslavia and Egypt.’

‘Not to mention the ex-king of England,’ Edward added.

‘I wonder if they know there’s a war coming?’

The villa was everything a Riviera villa ought to be and the scale and luxury of it put Verity into a worse temper than ever al-though, perversely, she enjoyed having her prejudices reinforced. Edward had his fingers crossed that she would not say something rude and get them thrown out. The villa – white with red shutters – rambled across the sun-scorched hill. Inside it was cool – stone and marble but with huge fireplaces, at this time of year ablaze with flowers rather than burning logs. The biggest and bluest swimming pool either of them had ever seen lay in front of the house, designed so that, from the vantage point of a long chair beside it, the water seemed to merge with the Mediterranean in reality several miles away and far below them. The sun was already low in the sky – orange and pink like some exotic flower, preparing for its nightly dip into blue velvet water.

They were warmly welcomed by the Lewisohns and their guests, who seemed delighted to see new faces and hear gossip from London. They were offered cocktails on a silver tray by two young men dressed like ship’s stewards in white jackets, black trousers and white gloves. It was quite unreal. The Lewisohns wanted to hear that England was cold and dowdy but neither they nor their guests wanted to know about the political crisis that was brewing. As Mrs Gabriel – a glamorous widow in beach pyjamas with a pale consumptive daughter – said, ‘There’s always time for a little drinkie before the storm breaks.’ However, she did admit to Verity, after several cocktails, that she had been shocked when someone had shouted
‘sale Juif’
at her on La Croisette the previous day. Edward found one friend, or at least acquaintance – the beautiful and sophisticated Daisy Fellowes. She had what
Vogue
called
La Présence
. She was a friend of the Windsors and remarked darkly that the Duke was spending far too much time in the casinos that proliferated along the coast. She showed Edward a local newspaper, published in English for the tourists, whose front page was headlined ‘International Friendliness Established Through Tourism.’ He laughed hollowly.

There was a slide into the pool and, since no one seemed interested in dressing for dinner, Verity and Edward were persuaded to don their swimming costumes and slip into the milky warm water. He thought her exquisite in her tight-fitting bathing suit and rubber helmet – her figure boyish but essentially feminine.

Verity caught his glance and snapped, ‘What are you looking at?’

‘Nothing. You have to admit,’ he said as he swam lazily over to the far side, ‘this is heaven.’

She lay on her back in the water, gazing up at a sky so blue it was almost black.

‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.

‘Just that, when the sun has ceased to shine and the bombs are laying waste to London, I shall always remember this moment.’