The Mermaid Garden (4 page)

lovely, they’re both out at a meeting this morning. We have the office

to ourselves. Be a darling and get me a latte.” She lifted her scarlet

talons and laughed throatily into the telephone. “Now, Freddie, you’re

a naughty, naughty boy. You better behave or I’ll have to smack you

again.” Clementine wandered off to the Black Bean Coffee Shop.

When she returned, Sylvia was still talking, the receiver clamped be-

tween her chin and shoulder, busy filing her nails. Clementine plonked

the coffee carton in front of her and threw her bag onto the floor. “Bad morning?” Sylvia asked, hanging up.

“Submarine is interviewing artists.”

“Ah, the artist-in-residence. Very posh.”

“But that’s just it. It’s not posh at all. It’s pretentious.”

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“Does it matter, if he’s handsome?”

“Handsome? Some chance. You should have seen the pirate that

rocked up at dawn. Old, smelly, and clearly mad. All that was missing

was his ship.”

Sylvia sipped her latte cautiously so as not to ruin her lipstick. “You know, she’s either brave or foolish inviting a total stranger into her

home.”

“It’s not a home, it’s a hotel. Anyway, that’s the business for you—

total strangers traipsing in and out all day, every day. Ghastly!”

“No, I mean with the robberies. They’ve started calling him Baffles,

the gentleman thief. He targets hotels like your father’s, as well as big houses. Haven’t you read the paper this morning?”

“I don’t read the
Dawcomb-Devlish Gazette
.”

“You’re missing out. It’s a veritable mine of local information. It’s

all getting rather bizarre. He descended on a big house just outside

Thurlestone, crept in while they were all asleep, and left with loads of cash and a serious work of art. The weird thing is he seemed to know

where everything was, as if he’d been there and checked it out first.”

“How do they know he’s a he?”

Sylvia shrugged. “Well, he signs his name Raffles, after the fictional

character, and
he
was a man. That’s why they’ve nicknamed him Baffles.” She laughed through her nose. “Typical journalists, they’re loving it! Get this, though: he didn’t leave a single clue except for a little note saying ‘thank you’ in neat and tidy writing.”

“You’re joking!”

“Would I make light of such a serious matter?” She sucked in her

cheeks. “I tease you not, Clemmie dear. The robber has good manners.

To think, only a week ago he targeted the Palace Hotel in Thurlestone.

Hope he doesn’t come down here.”

Clementine laughed and flopped into her chair. “Well, I don’t really

care if he targets the Polzanze and steals all Submarine’s precious

paintings. He’d be doing me a favor if he managed to carry
her
off with his loot.”

“I think you’re being unfair. I like her. She’s glamorous.”

“Cheap glamour.”

“Don’t be such a snob.”

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Santa Montefiore

“I’m not a snob. I don’t care where people come from if they’re nice.”

“She’s a local girl, like me.”

“Not that you’d know. She tries so hard to sound posh, there’s barely

any trace of her original country accent.” Clementine chuckled. “The

trouble is she’s ended up with a very strange accent that’s neither one thing nor the other—at times she even sounds foreign!”

“You’re very hard on her, Clemmie. So, she has the odd character

flaw. You should be more forgiving.”

“She’s pretentious. I don’t like people who pretend to be what they’re

not. She should stop trying to sound grand.”

Sylvia rounded on her crossly. “You say you’re not a snob, Clem-

entine, but you’re sounding just like one. What’s your posh education

done for you? Given you a plum to carry in your mouth and a sense of

superiority. You’re working in the same office as me, earning a lot less.

Your father would have done better to have saved his pennies.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you, Sylvia. She’s my stepmother. I don’t

think she’s good for my father, that’s all. He could have done better

for himself. You know he was a highly successful barrister in London.

What on earth inspired him to come down here and run a hotel?”

“His wife.”

“My point exactly. He’d be a judge by now if he’d hung in there.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to be a judge. Perhaps he’s happy with the

choice he made. Anyway, you’re not meant to love your stepmother.

Had she been born the daughter of a king you still wouldn’t think her

good enough.”

“I think she wanted the house because it was owned by the Duke of

Somerland. She sits in her study, which used to be the duchess’s, and

feels important. Dad was so far above her on the food chain I’m sur-

prised she managed to get him in her sights.”

“I think she’s beautiful. There’s something deep and sad in her

eyes.”

“Trust me, she has nothing to be sad about. She’s got everything she

ever wanted by sheer manipulation.”

“Then you should take a leaf out of her book and use your beauty

cleverly.”

“I’m not beautiful.”

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Sylvia shook her head and grinned at her kindly. “You are when you

smile.”

Marina watched with relief as Balthazar’s car finally spluttered its way out of the driveway. She found Grey up a ladder in the library next

door, looking for a book to lend the brigadier who had breakfasted on

eggs and fried bread at the Polzanze ever since his wife had died five

years ago.

“Oh dear,” he said. “So that didn’t go well.”

She raised her hands to heaven and inhaled theatrically. “I couldn’t

get rid of him. My office now smells like a hostel for the homeless, and I’m about to interview another one.”

“Why don’t you sit outside? It’s a beautiful day.”

“If Elizabeth Pembridge-Hughes is presentable, I will. However, if

she’s crazy, I’ll have to hide her away for fear of scaring our guests. I’ve lit a scented candle, but I fear it will take more than that.”

“I thought you’d like him. You love eccentrics.”

She smiled grudgingly. “Not eccentrics with blackened teeth and

bad breath, long greasy hair, and ridiculous clothes!”

“You surprise me.” He came down the ladder.

“I like
presentable
eccentrics. Ones who smell of lime, wear clean shirts, and brush their teeth.”

“Ah.” He raised an eyebrow.

He kissed her forehead. “This is meant to be fun, Marina. It’s your

idea, after all. Enjoy it.”

“But what if I don’t find someone suitable?”

“You don’t have to have an artist-in-residence.”

“Oh, but I do. We need something to make us different, to draw

people in. I don’t have to remind you of the trouble we’re in. We have

to think of new ways of attracting business, or we’ll be another credit-crunch tragedy. We’re not making money, Grey. In fact, we’re hemor-

rhaging money. Think about it: half the guests who come here in the

summer come to paint. My London ladies have booked in for their

week in June simply because they want to repeat the fun of last year. I’m building a reputation that will bring people back year after year.”

“Then if the right person doesn’t appear, we’ll hunt him down.”

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Santa Montefiore

She knitted her fingers. “Clementine thinks it’s in poor taste.”

“She’s young.”

“She’s rude.”

“Ignore her. She wants to get a rise out of you.”

“Then I am not going to be a soufflé. She should show me some re-

spect. I’m her stepmother.” She turned away sharply, the word “mother”

lingering on her lips like an affront.

“Do you want me to talk to her?”

“No. Leave her alone. Perhaps I’m just not very good at it.”

“You have tried, darling. I know how hard you’ve tried, and I’m very

grateful. It’s an impossible situation.” The air was suddenly heavy with words too painful to articulate.

When she spoke, Marina’s voice was quiet. “Let’s not talk about it,

Grey. Elizabeth whatever-she’s-called will be here any minute, and

I don’t want to look strained.”

“You look beautiful.”

“Only to you.”

“Who else matters?”

Her expression softened. “You’re my champion, Grey.”

“Always, my darling.”

Shane shuffled awkwardly by the door, pretending not to hear. He

wiped his large nose with the back of his hand, then stood to attention as he heard a car draw up on the gravel outside. Jennifer left Rose at

the reception desk and pressed her nose to the window to see what
this
candidate was like.

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2.

Elizabeth Pembridge-Hughes was extremely presentable. Tall and

willowy, with fine, aristocratic features, porcelain skin, and sensitive blue eyes, she was the epitome of what an artist of refinement
should
look like. Marina shook her hand and noticed at once how cold it was.

She led her through the hotel to the terrace, stopping in the conser-

vatory on the way to admire the lemon trees in urns and the grapevines

that climbed the trellising, spreading their tentacles across the glass ceiling like pretty octopuses. Elizabeth was highly complimentary,

missing nothing, and Marina’s heart swelled with relief that she had

found her artist-in-residence at last.

They sat outside at one of the small round tables, surrounded by

big terra-cotta pots of rosemary and lavender yet to flower. Elizabeth

crossed her legs, wrapping her pale lilac pashmina around her shoul-

ders, for there was a cold edge to the wind. Her naturally blond hair was streaked with gray, and the wisps that had escaped her ponytail were

caught by the breeze and blew about playfully. She was not blessed

with beauty, but her face possessed a certain haughtiness that was ar-

resting.

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

Marina hated cigarettes and was a little disappointed. But Eliza-

beth had asked so politely, her educated accent clipping the words so

efficiently, that Marina decided not to hold it against her. No one was perfect.

Elizabeth reached into her bag and burrowed about in search of

cigarettes and lighter. This took a while, during which time Marina

ordered herbal tea for her guest and a fruit juice for herself. At last Elizabeth’s long fingers appeared with a packet of Marlboro Lights,

and she popped one between her thin lips and lit it, turning her back

to the wind.

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“You have a beautiful place, Marina,” she said, blowing smoke out of

the corner of her mouth. “It’s jolly inspiring to see the sea.”

“I have to be near the sea,” Marina replied, resting her heavy gaze

on the glittering water. “It has always been the most consistent thing

in my life.”

“I agree with you. It’s good for the soul. I once traveled with a famous actor—who discretion prevents me from naming—who meditates by

the sea. I suppose I was his artist-on-tour. He was an inspiration to me.

I’ve tried to meditate, but my mind is too busy. I can’t shut it up.”

“Do you travel a lot with your work?”

“All the time. I’ve accompanied kings, queens, and princes all over

the world. Jolly lucky, really.”

Marina felt uneasy. Even she was realistic enough to appreciate that

the position of artist-in-residence at the Polzanze was not a highly

covetable one. Surely, if Elizabeth Pembridge-Hughes was used to

painting for kings, she would not consider spending the summer in

Dawcomb-Devlish, teaching old ladies for her board and lodging.

“How fascinating, Elizabeth. Tell me, which kings and queens and

princes? I would love to hear your stories.”

Elizabeth pursed her lips. “Well, that’s the thing. You see, if one is

privileged enough to be invited on their foreign tours, one has to keep shtoom. I’m sure you understand.” She laughed a smoky little snort

through her nostrils. “Perhaps when we know each other better I’ll

share some gems.”

“Of course.” But Marina doubted she had any gems to share.

Just as Marina’s spirit began to plummet, Grey walked out onto the

terrace. “Ah, my husband,” she said, smiling at him gratefully.

Elizabeth took in his stature, his broad shoulders, his thick, curly

hair and genial face, and thought how incredibly attractive he was. An

intellectual, clearly, and noble, too, one could always tell. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she gushed, giving him her hand.

“I thought I’d come and join you,” he replied, shaking it. He noticed

her weak grip and the cold, thin feel of her fingers. “Are you warm

enough out here?”

“Perfectly,” she replied. He pulled out a chair and sat down. A waiter

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hurried to the kitchens to fetch him some coffee. “We were just saying

how lovely it is to see the sea.”

“I agree, the view is spectacular.”

“I’d love to paint it.”

“Well, perhaps you shall,” he said. Then he caught his wife’s eye