'Cecile?' His head turned in surprise at the familiarity. 'You speak of my wife?'
'That's correct.' Bernard was concentrating on getting out of town. He did not wish to be seen by anyone who knew him. 'Has she mentioned me?'
'Why should she?' There was a coolness in Picard's voice. He didn't care to have his wife's name bandied about.
'Because we are old friends, she and I.'
There was a silence while the Frenchman digested this surprising piece of information. Then he said stiffly, 'I regret I cannot accept that.'
So she'd said nothing. Bernard felt a spurt of irritation. Really, she was over-protective. It was as well he'd taken matters into his own hands: the time for procrastination was past.
'I assure you it's true. In fact, we were more than friends, we were lovers.'
Picard jerked as though stung. 'Monsieur, I protest. You lied to bring me here, now you slander my wife. I demand you return to the hotel.'
'She'll confirm it, if you ask her. She's been trying to spare you pain.'
'You presume too much. Kindly stop the car. I will find my own way back.'
'We must talk, my friend. There's been too much secrecy. Cecile and I are to be married.'
The man stared fixedly at Bernard's profile. 'You are mad!' he whispered. 'You don't know what you're saying.'
Bernard had turned off the road and was following that taken, ten days earlier, by Nigel Morgan. It was not by chance. He didn't reply till he had reached the nearest point to the place where Arlette had fallen. Then he switched off the ignition and turned to his distraught passenger.
'Now, monsieur,' he said softly, 'we shall have our discussion.'
So this was Dave's blue-eyed boy. Or brown-eyed, to be accurate. A smart lad, Ledbetter conceded to himself, alert and capable, by the look of him. He'd delivered his report clearly and concisely, standing to attention with his eyes fixed on the wall above Ledbetter's head. Now he awaited a reaction and possible further orders.
'Your mother hadn't told you she knew of the connection?'
'No, sir, but I haven't seen her for some time. It's not a thing she'd mention on the phone.'
'Did Warwick strike you this morning as unbalanced?'
'Not at all. He seemed happier than I've ever seen him.'
'But he's genuinely convinced this marriage will take place?'
'No doubt of that, sir.'
Ledbetter tapped his pen on his desk. 'So who do we believe? A respected English professor, or an hysterical Frenchwoman who's just lost her daughter? She could be playing the men off against each other. At her age, she might need to feel she's still attractive.'
A sexist remark if ever he'd heard one. 'Or he might,' Simon said, straight-faced.
Ledbetter laughed at the implied rebuke. 'You have a point, young Marshbanks. Well, we've got a face in the hotel lobby, checking everyone going up or down, and another outside, who's phoned to report following Madame to a hairdresser's. No one tried to approach her, and she'll be discreetly escorted back again.'
'Have you anyone watching the Professor, sir?'
'No point. As long as he keeps away from those two, he can do what the hell he likes.'
'And phone calls?'
'That's a bit more tricky. We don't want to make a song and dance by having them intercepted. In any case, she can always hang up. It's only a question of marking time till they leave the country, and the clearance should come through any day now.' 'What if he follows them?'
'That, I'm glad to say, will be a French pigeon.'
'Anything else you'd like me to do, sir?'
Ledbetter shook his head. 'Warwick had to be sussed out informally, and you were the obvious choice, but we'll take it from there. Thanks for your help, Constable.'
'Sorry I'm so late, Sally. It's been rather a fraught morning.'
'That's all right. Things are pretty quiet here.' Sally eyed Claire with interest. 'You
do
look a bit ragged, old thing. What's up?'
There seemed little point in secrecy. It would be out soon enough. 'It's Beryl. She's left Bernard.'
Sally stared at her open-mouthed.
'Beryl
has left
Bernard?
But she thought the sun shone out of him!'
Claire sighed and sat down at her desk. 'It was pretty much at his request.'
'Ah. That's different. A cold fish, he looks to me. I can't think what she ever saw in him.'
'Nevertheless, she's very upset.'
'She would be, poor love. And you being on the doorstep, so to speak, landed right in it. Poor old Claire, no wonder you're rough round the edges.'
'I promised to keep an eye on him. I was steeling myself to call round when Simon arrived, and I cravenly let him go instead. He came back with the report that he's all smiles and happy as a sandboy.'
'More than she is, I'll bet. Don't waste your sympathy on him.'
'Not sympathy, exactly.' But Claire couldn't elaborate. Sally, while good-hearted, was known to gossip. 'You think she's gone for good?' Claire shrugged. 'Who knows?'
'What I mean is, I'm quite happy to help out on a long-term basis. Till she sorts herself out, at least.'
That's kind of you, Sally,' Claire said gratefully. 'Thanks.'
Bernard was becoming increasingly agitated and the snakes, which had been dormant this morning, were slithering round in his head. He could hear their dry rustling with his inner ear, and shook his head irritably to clear it. The pig-headed Frenchman was stronger-minded than he looked, and despite half-an-hour's reasoning and explaining, refused even to contemplate the idea of divorce. 'I shall not believe a word till I hear it from my wife,' he kept repeating.
He'd been shaken, though, when Bernard cited the times of his meetings with Cecile. For the last ten minutes he'd not spoken at all, and Bernard stared at him in exasperation. Couldn't the fool see he
had
to have Cecile, not only because he loved her, but for the sake of sanity? She alone could steer him across the seething snakepit of his mind.
Abruptly, he opened the car door and got out. 'We're just by the place where Arlette fell,' he said. 'Would you like to see it?'
A tremor went over the thin, ascetic face. 'That is true? You're sure?'
'I'm sure. Everyone in town knows the spot. I thought you might like to say a prayer there.'
Picard looked at him disbelievingly, but he eased himself out of the car. Slowly, with Bernard impatiently curbing his pace to match his companion's, they began to climb over the rough ground. Last night's storm had left the day newly minted, the sky clear-washed and brilliant blue. The sun hadn't reached this side of the hill, and it was still wet underfoot.
'You knew my daughter?' Picard asked suddenly.
'Only by sight. I'd no idea who she was.'
The Frenchman, shying from the implied reference to his wife, brought the conversation back to Arlette. 'Was she happy here, do you think?'
'Very, from what people say. She was a popular girl.'
'Yes,' her father answered softly, 'she had the gift, from a child, of making people love her. So full of life always.' He reached for a handkerchief and dabbed his eyes. 'It is impossible to accept.'
Bernard felt a wave of pity. 'You have other children, though; they'll be a comfort to you. I've no one but Cecile.'
Picard said crisply, 'You should not have dismissed your wife. I assure you, monsieur, you shall not have mine.'
'Look, I know it's hard, coming so soon after Arlette's death. But we're
meant
for each other, Cecile and I. Except for a misunderstanding, we'd have been together all these years.' He hesitated. 'Surely she mentioned me, when you first met?'
'She said there'd been someone,' Picard admitted unwillingly, 'an Englishman. But she'd found after all he hadn't loved her.'
'That,' Bernard said tensely, 'was the misunderstanding. There hasn't been a day in thirty years when I've not longed for her. And it's been the same for her.'
'You are mistaken, monsieur. Our marriage has been entirely happy, until this tragedy.'
'Then you've much to be thankful for, is that not so? Now it's our turn for happiness.'
Picard shook his head helplessly and continued the climb. He moved only slowly, with frequent pauses for breath, and the walk was taking longer than Bernard had expected. Not that there was any hurry; it
would be late afternoon before C
laire returned from Melbray, and with his driveway hidden from the road, no one else would notice if his car was missing. And as the thought came to him, he realized what he'd subconsciously been planning all along, holding it as a last resort if all else failed.
The hope of amicable divorce, he saw now, was pure fantasy, and in accepting that, he faced a new danger. For Cecile was tender-hearted and, if her husband broke down and begged her to stay, she was quite capable of doing so. Which was a risk Bernard couldn't take. Not now. Not this time.
On the other hand, if Picard could be convinced that she was leaving him, he might well attempt suicide. And what better place than the spot where his beloved daughter had died? Systematically, Bernard began to play on his raw emotions.
'She must have climbed up here, just where we are now. I wonder if her lover was with her.'
'My daughter had no lovers,' Picard said tremulously. 'She was a virtuous girl.'
'She'd come with a man, anyway; the police have established that. And why else would he bring her out here?' The man's eyes were full of tears. So far, so good.
But Gaston, exhausted and distressed though he was, continued to defend his daughter. 'Then it was because she refused him that he drove off without her.'
'Perhaps,' Bernard conceded indifferently. 'But you can picture her, can't you, desperate to get back to town, and with no means of transport? She must have stood just here, seen that busy road, and decided to climb down and hitch a lift. Isn't that how the police think it happened?'
He glanced sideways, saw the tears raining down the Frenchman's face. He was suffering, all right. If he didn't take the obvious way out of his misery, Bernard must do it for him. It would be a kindness, really, like stamping on an injured butterfly. The
coup de grace.
'This, monsieur,' he repeated softly, 'is where your daughter spent her last minutes on earth. Can you feel her close? Perhaps she's lonely, out there in infinity. Perhaps she calls to you to join her.' He lowered his voice, mesmerized by his own words. 'It would end all your sufferings,
n'est-ce-pas, mon ami?
And after the initial shock, Cecile would be free.
I'd take good care of her, I promise you, and of your other children. You need have no fear.'
'Que vous etes diabolique!'
Picard's voice was clogged with tears.
'Satan lui-meme.'
'If I were to drive off and leave you, what then? Would you, too, attempt to climb down the hillside? You arc weaker than your daughter, monsieur. If she slipped and fell, what chance have you? Shall we find out?'
Picard turned a startled face towards him and saw, too late, the intent in Bernard's deranged eyes. He gave a choked cry, flailed his arms wildly for a moment, and then, as Bernard pushed firmly against his chest, went over the edge with a nerve-chilling scream. The echo of it resounded in Bernard's ears for several minutes after the sound had died. Cautiously, he looked over the edge. Sure enough, Picard lay on his back on the rocky ledge where his daughter had died. On the gorse bush, the first, yellow buds were starting to appear.
Bernard turned and made his way, alone, back to his car.
CHAPTER 14
The hotel receptionist smiled brightly. 'Good afternoon. Can I help you?'
'If you please.' The woman in front of her spoke slowly, with a strong accent. 'Could you tell me, please, if my husband left a message for me?'
'What is your room number, madam?'
Cecile told her, and watched as she turned and scanned the relevant pigeonhole. 'No, madam, there's no message.'
Cecile nodded her thanks and turned away. There'd been no sign of Gaston when she returned from the hairdresser's, though she'd looked in all the public rooms. He'd been feeling better when she left, so perhaps he'd followed her suggestion of a stroll to the river. That would be why he'd not bothered with a note. But it was now after one, and people were going in for lunch.
She turned back to the desk. 'Do you know at what hour he went out?'