Birth Marks

by Sarah Dunant

  I suppose I could have gone for the wheel. At the end of the gradient the gates were already open. If I had grabbed it I could probably have brought us off the road, maybe done some serious damage to the car. But even if I had managed to concuss him and not myself there was nowhere to run to. And anyway, just for that second, I was too distracted by the slide show in my head: a quick succession of tableaux vivants from recent history. Number one: the half hour spent at Belmont reception while someone studied me on the security-screen scanners. Number two: a man called David sitting in a bar trying to look as if he was trying not to look at me. Number three: that same man allowing me to take him to dinner so that he could tell me everything he wanted me to know and then sliding his way out of what could have been a compromising situation. And number four, the unkindest cut of all, the return of the conquering hero when his prey proved a little more stubborn than anticipated. The show ended on a close up: a woman with newly applied mascara standing in a village square, her mind momentarily muddied by carnal desire. How would I ever tell Frank?

  The car glided to a halt outside the château. From the house a man was already running towards us, light on his feet despite his size. I kept my hands clasped tightly in my lap.

  In the car the ex-pilot clicked off the automatic lock. Then he turned to me. He registered my hands welded together, and also the fury they controlled. You could see he was grateful I had decided against violence. ‘Look at it from my point of view, OK? You wanted to see Jules, Jules wants to see you. This was the quickest way to arrange it. But you would never have come if I’d told you.’

  It was one of those times when one is thankful for small mercies. As a woman who you already know not to be a blusher, I used what I’d got. ‘On the contrary, David, or should I call you Daniel Devieux, I’m grateful for the lift. Especially considering how shattered you must be. Tokyo and back in less than thirty hours. For a man of no personality it must have been a superhuman effort. Or maybe it’s just another miracle of Belmont Aviation.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  They put me in the stables, in her room. Deliberate, of course. Across the bed someone had laid out a towel and on the chest there was a small vase of fresh flowers. I imagined thin lips arranging them, checking all the surfaces for dust, humming a little melody under her breath as she prepared for my imprisonment. I thought about picking up the vase and smashing it against the door, but didn’t want to give them the pleasure of my anger. They would expect me to be upset: I would be calm.

  Practicalities first. Now I was in here, how could I get out. Start with the obvious then improvise. Outside the bedroom shutters a tiny balcony gave way to a drop of twelve, maybe fifteen, feet on to concrete below. If I was willing to risk a chipped bone I might make it; a pregnant woman, it struck me, would not. In the bathroom the opening was smaller and just as high. Both doors were, of course, locked. I called out, just to be sure. A voice grunted: Mr Muscle Man, no doubt. Maybe when he came in to deliver my cocoa I could tickle his biceps and escape when he was laughing.

  I sat down on the bed and waited. It was just after 10.00 p.m. What now? Could they really be planning to leave me for the night? In their shoes I might have been tempted. Let me fret a bit, stew in my own helplessness, so that by the morning I would be softened up for whatever was to come. OK, I would play it their way. If I had to wait until the morning I would sleep.

  I moved myself into a crosslegged position on the bed and focused on the wild flowers in their cutesy little vase. Stop the mind and the body will stop itself. I took some long deep breaths. But images of Modesty Blaise kept seeping into my mind and distracting me. I’ve always been suspicious of women who keep weapons hidden in their hair and who manage to get through rape by meditation. By now she would probably have picked the lock, incapacitated the guard and scaled her way up into Devieux’s bedroom to castrate him and leave his balls on Belmont’s breakfast plate. I rather liked that idea. It was somehow more soothing than flowers. I lay back on the bed and watched the ceiling. I thought briefly of Kate who had no number for me and of the white-haired landlady who I had paid in advance and who would, presumably, not even know I had gone. Then I closed my eyes and thought of England.

  It must have been after midnight when the key turned in the lock and the door opened. To be honest I was surprised to see him. If it had been me I would have given the job to somebody else. As it was he didn’t look happy. I have this theory about baddies. That they are, in fact, troubled by conscience, but that like toothache it makes them bad-tempered rather than repentant. I got up to meet him. Through the open door I saw the bodyguard take up a position behind him. Protection for whom? He walked towards me. Despite myself I took a step back. He stopped. ‘Well now, Hannah, you surprise me,’ he said in English. ‘I thought you told me you didn’t get scared.’

  ‘I lied. But then I was in good company.’

  He moved his body slightly to one side, as if to let the jibe slide past him. ‘Jules is ready to see you.’

  ‘Jules,’ I echoed, marvelling at our first-name terms so soon into a relationship. ‘I’m surprised he’s still upright. But then, of course, he may not be quite as ill as he looked.’

  ‘I thought you and I should have a talk before you met him.’

  ‘Why? Is there some other piece of whitewash you forgot to tell me? A few orphanages or hospitals he’s endowed, third-world children he’s sponsored?’

  He shook his head. ‘I didn’t lie to you, Hannah. Any business journalist would have told you the same story.’

  ‘Really. A dull man with no personality at all,’ I said in French so that Muscles could hear us from the back of the room. ‘And certainly not a ladies’ man. Come on, Daniel, you probably get into the gossip columns on your dress sense alone. Maybe I should ask the ladies about you. Except, of course, there’s one who isn’t around to answer. Was getting her pregnant a present for your uncle? Strange. Given your place in the family tree I would have thought you might have preferred to see him remain childless.’

  ‘Don’t be snide, Hannah, it doesn’t suit you.’ But you could see he didn’t like it. On the other hand neither did I. He was right. It was snide. It was also cheap and showed how angry I was. So much for meditation. I sat down on the bed.

  ‘So. What would you like to talk about? I should tell you now I don’t have them. But since I assume you’ve already been through my bag you probably know that already.’

  ‘I know you’re angry, Hannah,’ he said, moving back into English. ‘If it had happened to me I would be too. But I’d also be smart enough not to let it affect my judgement. We needed to know more about you. You could have been anyone. I had to find out.’ He paused. ‘I didn’t expect to enjoy your company as much as I did. You’d feel worse if I’d accepted, you know,’ he said quietly. ‘I al-’

  ‘Save me the confessional, Daniel, please. Every Catholic I ever knew lied anyway. Let’s just call it business and leave it at that, OK?’

  ‘OK. Then if you’re ready I’ll take you to Jules. You can hear the rest from him.’

  ‘And what guarantee do I have that he’ll tell me the truth this time?’

  ‘None at all. Does that make you feel better? If it’s any consolation, Hannah, I warned him not to underestimate you. We could have all saved ourselves a lot of trouble. Shall we go?’

  It was, of course, not the kind of offer one could refuse. I stood up. He was standing between me and the door. I would have to walk around him to get out. I stayed deliberately close, just so he would know I didn’t care. So close that I could smell him, feel him. Why not? The world is full of men that you’re glad you didn’t sleep with. Since when was it a problem? Fuck you mate, I thought, as I walked past him. And as I did so he shot out a hand and grasped my wrist. I whirled round to face him and we stood for a second, both of us rigid in confrontation. Behind me I felt the Muscle Man take a step forward.

  ‘Let me go,’ I said between my teeth, but even I could hear the tremor i
n my voice. He didn’t move. My skin began to whimper with the pain of his grasp. He must have seen it in my face. He lessened his grip, though not enough to free me, and it was then, underneath the anger, I recognized something else. It hit me so fast I didn’t have time to protect myself from it. It ignited like a line of petrol between us, my stomach turning over with it, sweet and sour at the same time. I felt fury and shame. But I also felt excitement. Mind and body, best friends and arch betrayers. By the time I smashed it down the damage was done. Only this time the confession had been mutual. And he knew I knew it. He dropped his hand, and his voice when it came, was almost as shaky as my own. ‘I want you to remember that we’re both just doing our jobs, Hannah. And you were the one who said you could handle it behind enemy lines.’

  Without looking at him, I moved towards the door. The guard blocked my path. ‘It’s all right, Maurice, let her go.’ The big man moved aside, and I strode past him, down the stairs, and out of the door.

  Outside it was suddenly cold. The three of us walked in crocodile formation as far as a side door in the main house. There the faithful retainer left us, no doubt scurrying to the kitchen to get his mess of potage and mug of ale. A corridor stretched ahead. He waited. I walked, then he followed. At a staircase I stopped. I was already lost. He took over and led the way. We went up two flights, and along more corridor. Then outside a door he stopped and knocked. A voice grunted from within. We went in.

  Restored to its former glory, that had been the landlady’s phrase. I was standing in a library, high windows looking out, presumably, over the formal gardens towards the back. But now the shutters were drawn, and the room was bathed in quiet concealed lighting. The books made up the walls, stacked floor to ceiling, their spines cracking like skin from old age and bad ventilation. Good company for the owner of the house. He was sitting in a winged armchair near a fireplace which had a huge arrangement of dried flowers where the flames would once have been. After office hours he was out of his suit, dressed in a pair of corduroy pants a little too large for him and an open-necked shirt with a cravat. Last year’s clothes and a body that had lost too much weight. He looked like a frail old man. I wondered how many Germans he had killed in the war. Holy warriors against the infidels. Except everyone knows that not all the crusaders were good guys.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Wolfe, I hope you had a pleasant journey. Won’t you sit down?’

  Someone had done some strategic furniture planning. There was one chair to the side of him and one opposite. I kept my distance and picked the one with a view. Among the things in vision was a table with my bag sitting open on it. And lying next to it a small collection of Degas postcards. I had an image of an attic room caught up in a snowstorm of feathers, and a figure bending over the bed. But who? And how had they talked their way in there? Or maybe it was simply droit du seigneur, a feudal leftover by which the lord of the château was also the lord of the people. No doubt I would find out eventually.

  ‘My secretary informed me that you wanted to see me. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I mislaid something that belonged to me and had to get it back.’ He paused. I kept my eyes off the postcards and said nothing. ‘Can I offer you a drink? I have some excellent Cognac. I, alas, am no longer allowed but it gives me pleasure to see others enjoy it.’

  I would like to have said yes, just for the myth of it all. But it was late and I was tired. I was also a little scared and I needed my wits more than I needed a drink. ‘No. Thank you.’

  ‘Fine. Daniel, would you ask Mathilde to join us now?’ We both watched him go. Then we sat and watched each other. After a moment he said, ‘I think it’s important for you and me to start by clearing the air, don’t you? So I must tell you I don’t respond well to being bullied, Miss Wolfe. Neither do I like people trespassing on my property and stealing my possessions.’

  I swallowed. ‘And I’m not crazy about being conned and lied to either, so maybe we should call it quits.’

  He stared at me and I held the gaze. Then he nodded. I registered a ghost of a smile. ‘Very well. I can see I should have listened to Daniel. He advised me to tell you the truth yesterday, suggested that you wouldn’t be fobbed off with stories.’ He moved his body slightly in the chair, as if already he had sat for too long and bedsores were developing. ‘So. Where shall we start? I have decided to ask my wife to be here because it would be insulting to you to pretend any more that she is too ill to talk. Also I thought you might take what I am about to say more seriously if there was another source to corroborate it.

  ‘However, before she comes I will say one thing. I would prefer even now not to have to tell you the truth. As a public man my private life is very important to me, and since this matter is most certainly a private one I would under most circumstances not disclose it. However, you have forced my hand. You and your client. She is, I gather, an old woman with no children of her own. I can see how Carolyn’s death must have affected her. In that respect, at least, we share something. Now, if you don’t mind, we shall wait until Mathilde arrives.’

  He sat back in his chair and laid his arms on the long leather armrests. He reminded me of a Giacometti sculpture. Did he know about Miss Patrick or was it just an educated guess? It wouldn’t have taken a genius to work out that she was the one who would need to know more, just to help her to sleep at night. I thought of her: the bone china tea service and that tough, stoical grace. He was wrong. They had more in common than he thought. But sexual politics divided them. Rich old men can buy beautiful young wives. Old women have to see it through alone. The silence grew around us. He did not seem uncomfortable with it. On the mantelpiece a large ornate clock counted off the seconds. I consoled myself with the thought that I was younger than him, and could afford to let them go. Assuming that is, I still had a long life in front of me. I decided to be optimistic. The truth would have to be pretty spectacular to warrant killing people.

  A few moments later she made her entrance. She was wearing a long silk dressing-gown and satin slippers. On her it looked like evening wear. She nodded towards me, a half smile, then bent over her husband and kissed him on the forehead. It felt like the gesture of a daughter rather than a wife, obedience rather than love. She settled herself in the seat beside him and, after a brief glance at me, kept her eyes firmly on the floor. It was a pose which didn’t suit her. But I didn’t have time to give it much thought. When he started to speak his voice was strong, that of a man used to being listened to.

  ‘I should begin by correcting the lies. Of which, I suspect, there are fewer than you think. As you already know, Carolyn Hamilton did not leave here in June as I first told you. She left in mid January. Secondly we did not ask her to go. She went of her own accord. Indeed it would be fairer to say that she went against our wishes. Those are the two central discrepancies. The rest is more a case of things you were not told.

  ‘As must be clear to you, Miss Wolfe, I am not a well man. In fact, although I fully intend to outlast the expectations of my doctors, it is common knowledge that I have only a limited time to live. As you also know I have no children. I believe Daniel has told you the facts of my son’s death, and we have already spoken of my present marriage. It is a grave sadness to us both. My wife and I had both wanted a child very much. For me, of course, it could never replace the son I lost, but I had allowed myself to believe it might in some way make sense of the tragedy. I wonder if you can have any sympathy or understanding of what that means: the desire—or maybe even the need—to leave a little of yourself behind, to give life to something when you are so near to death. Maybe not. You are young and still have it all in front of you. I, however, have not.

  ‘Of course, there were things we could have done. Adoption was a possibility, although my age would have counted against us. No doubt influence could have been brought to bear but it would still have meant an inevitable amount of bureaucracy and publicity. And more than that, it would have meant a child that was not biologically my own. I am an old-fashione
d man, Miss Wolfe. I’m afraid notions of paternity mean a lot to me. I wanted a child to carry on the family line. My child. I would have given everything I had to make that child also Mathilde’s, but there are some things that even my money cannot buy, and for us time was running out. However, there was one alternative, albeit a somewhat complicated one. I am talking, of course, of surrogacy.’

  The word exploded into the air like a bunch of trick flowers, so colourful, so damn obvious that the audience can only marvel at how it could ever have been concealed. For the audience read me, me and my dull, stubborn imagination. Surrogacy. Old him and young her. I had been betrayed by my own sense of aesthetics. I tried not to show it.

  ‘You have an admirably impassive face, Miss Wolfe. It is impossible to tell whether what I am saying is a revelation or simply the confirmation of your suspicions. Anyway, now you know. Of course, surrogacy is a delicate business. It needs careful thought and preparation. It is not every woman who is willing to rent out their womb and then walk away from the baby they have created and carried for nine months. It is also not every woman who is allowed to. That, as you may have realized, is why we went to England. Here in France they are in the process of drafting laws to make surrogacy illegal. By finding an English woman we, at least technically, avoided some of the problems. It was also a way of trying to guarantee secrecy. Had a similar advertisement appeared in a French newspaper something would almost certainly eventually have leaked its way into the press. Here I am a national figure. In England I am unknown. Nevertheless we were still very circumspect. As you know the question of surrogacy was not even suggested in the original advertisement. All applications went through an agency (who knew nothing either) and once they had screened the replies we picked a few, and only a very few, women to interview. It was only when we felt we had found the right girl that the word surrogacy was even mentioned at all.