by Rachel Rhys
Victor picks up the pickaxe.
‘You can’t do this!’ Eve is shouting at Mrs Finch, trying to swivel her head to look at her. If she can only make eye contact, surely she can get through to her. ‘My husband and my mother will be here any minute. This is the first place they’ll look if they can’t find me.’
‘Not if you’re well hidden.’
Eve follows Victor’s gaze. Through the jagged hole.
‘We’ll put the shelves back and lean all these things against them to hide the hole,’ Victor is telling Mrs Finch, indicating the broken bike, and the old sink he has pushed up against the left-hand wall of the cellar. He holds the wooden handle of the axe in his left hand, with the blade resting on the palm of his right as if he is weighing it up.
Eve, her arms still being held from behind, fights back a wave of nausea. Surely Victor would not seriously harm her? But war, she knows only too well, does strange things to people. When there has been so much death and suffering, human life can lose its value. Her breath is coming out in short shallow bursts, her chest too tight to inhale properly. Please, she says inside her head. Please. Please. Please.
Victor raises his hands, and Eve closes her eyes, gulping in the sour air. There is a moment when time seems to stand still, the universe holding its breath. And then:
Bang.
Eve drops to the floor, wrapping her arms around her head, so convinced is she of having been struck.
It is some moments before she recovers sufficiently to become aware of several things – that she is not, after all, hurt; that Mrs Finch has let go of her arms; and that they are no longer alone.
26
‘I KNEW IT, you see. Just as soon as I saw him. Only it took a while to make the connections.’
Jack Collett, too agitated to sit, paces up and down the sitting room until Eve, curled up in a corner of the sofa, wrapped in a blanket despite the soggy heat, grows dizzy from watching him.
‘What connections? Who did you see?’ Eve wonders if her brain has simply stopped working, which is why she is finding it so hard to follow what Jack is saying.
‘Jack, darling, perhaps it might make more sense to Eve if you start from the beginning,’ says Ruth who, having ministered to Eve, helping her up from the cellar, fetching a blanket and a cup of sweet tea, now sits next to her as if on guard duty.
‘Him. Victor Meunier,’ says Jack, falling over his own words in his haste to get them out. ‘I knew I recognized him from somewhere and all night I was racking my brains, trying to remember. Wasn’t I?’ He appeals to his parents for corroboration. ‘I couldn’t even eat dinner. Not a crumb.’
‘Well, that’s not entirely accurate,’ says Rupert. ‘There was that egg sandwich, and that—’
‘So then I tried to think strategically. Where might I have come across him? I realized it was likely to have been in Paris, so I started running through all the different things I’d done there. And I remembered I was working on my dissertation one day in the library at the Sorbonne. One of my old professors is on sabbatical there as a guest lecturer. And there was this French art magazine filled with articles. All in French, which was a damned nuisance.’
‘The nerve of those French,’ says Rupert.
Jack makes a face at his father and continues. ‘Because I didn’t understand the words, I spent a long time studying the photos. So this morning I dragged my parents off to Nice and we trawled around every single shop until we found a copy of that magazine. And as soon as we made the connection, we came rushing straight over.’
‘Yes, but what is the connection?’
‘Yes, do get to the point, darling,’ chivvies Ruth.
‘Well, it’s about Victor Meunier, as I said. Except his real name is Gustave Borde. As he told you, he has a gallery down here in Nice, but what he didn’t tell you is that he is on the list of art experts suspected of being affiliated with the Galerie nationale du Jeu de Paume in Paris during the war. It’s where the Nazis brought works of art once owned by French Jews and others who’d been carted off to the camps. The art was assessed and catalogued by experts and then transported to Germany, for the private collections of high-ranking SS officials.’
‘And Victor worked for them?’ Eve cannot hide her dismay. ‘But surely not? He was himself imprisoned in Germany. His leg injury …’
Eve realizes how naive she sounds. As if she might be the first woman ever to have been lied to by a man.
‘He may well have been a prisoner of war for a time,’ suggests Rupert. ‘Before being released in exchange for a German POW. Or until the Nazis realized he could be useful to them – and vice versa. And the leg wound could have happened as he said. Or perhaps that too is a convenient story.’
Eve cannot, will not, believe it.
‘But he helped the Jews during the war,’ she remembers suddenly. ‘He was a local hero.’
Rupert shrugs. ‘I don’t know anything about that. Though it would be useful to know if he helped all Jews, regardless of where they came from, or whether those he rescued happened to be the more prosperous ones, who could pay for their escape in jewellery or property or even art.’
A worm of dread is wriggling at the base of Eve’s stomach. Could you really spend time chatting to someone, laughing with them, feeling happy to be in their company, and not suspect that until three years before they were on the side of the people who wanted to kill you and everyone you knew?
‘But if this was true he would be in prison,’ she says.
‘My dear girl, if all the people who behaved badly during the war were imprisoned, there would be more people in jail than out,’ says Rupert.
‘Nothing was ever proven,’ says Jack. ‘And the article just said he left Paris shortly before the end of the war, current whereabouts unknown. Look here, Eve, are you sure they can’t get out?’
‘Well, I certainly couldn’t.’
They have trapped Victor and Mrs Finch in the cellar while they wait for the police to arrive. It now seems nothing short of miraculous that, amid the panic and confusion of the Colletts’ arrival in the junk room, the memory should have come so clearly to Eve of how she herself had been incarcerated by the removal – accidental or not – of the outside door handle. And miraculous also that, having been rescued by the Colletts, she’d retained enough wits to slam shut the door and yank the handle so it came off in her hand, before bolting, leaving two people imprisoned in that place.
‘What would have happened if you hadn’t come?’ she asks, seemingly for the hundredth time. ‘Or had turned away when no one answered the door instead of coming down the side?’
It was Jack, so eager to share what he’d learned, who had insisted on going round the house in case Eve and Sully were outside on the bottom terrace. And that’s where they’d heard Eve shouting.
‘By heaven, Ruth, it’s a damned good thing we’ve raised a child with no manners whatsoever. Quite happy to barge into someone else’s home uninvited,’ says Rupert. ‘By the way, Eve, there was a boat at the jetty below when we arrived with a few chaps on board, but they pulled off sharpish when they saw us.’
Sully arrives home from his luncheon and they fill him in on the bizarre events of the last hour. Funny how their power decreases in the retelling, the choosing of words and the pausing for dramatic effect already beginning the process of turning the most nightmarish experience of Eve’s life into an entertaining story.
Sully, never usually short of conversation, listens in silence.
‘I always knew there was something not kosher about Victor Meunier,’ he says at last.
Eve gazes at him in disbelief. ‘What complete tosh. You were the one who told me he was a local hero.’
Sully looks pained. ‘My dear Eve, I’m a writer. What we say is usually diametrically opposed to what we actually think.’
‘Well, I wonder that you bother saying anything at all, in that case.’
‘The thing is,’ continues Sully, as if she hasn’t spoken, ‘nothi
ng about people surprises me any more. Particularly the sort who end up round here. The Riviera is full of folk who’d prefer you not to question them too closely about what they got up to during the war. Take the grand hotels that the Nazis holed up in after the fascists left. Some of those places were used as holding pens for Jews rounded up after being ratted out by the fine upstanding citizens of Nice and Cannes in return for money or even food. People were tortured there. Yet ask yourself how many of the same staff that cooked for the SS and cleaned and brought them fresh towels and wished them good morning are still there, performing the same tasks for holidaymakers, as if there is no difference at all.’
Eve remembers how Marie refused to acknowledge the concierge at the Appleton hotel.
‘But I’ve seen photographs – of women collaborators being paraded through the streets.’
‘Oh, sure. When it comes to poor people, principles are always very strictly applied. Strange thing, but there seems to be a link between the amount of money involved and the corresponding haziness of people’s memories.’
‘But Marie and Bernard …’
‘Of course there was heroism as well, people like the Gaillards risking their lives, often for perfect strangers. But self-interest can usually be relied upon to command greater loyalty than honour. I must say, though, I’m surprised at Caroline Finch.’
Eve moves to put her head in her hands, wincing with pain as she remembers her sprained wrist. What a mess she has made of everything. She remembers how she’d felt that first day in the Appleton hotel, lying on that bed with the sun slanting warm across her face, and feeling light as air, sure that this would turn out to be the start of her proper life.
‘But what exactly were they doing?’ asks Ruth.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ says Sully. ‘We know this house was occupied during the war. We now know also that Victor Meunier was advising the Nazis on stolen art.’
‘Suspected of,’ says Eve.
Sully raises an eyebrow.
‘All I’m saying is it’s not so much of a leap to imagine he helped them stash things here, in the basement, once they realized the war wasn’t going their way.’
‘But I thought the Germans were meticulous about logging the things they looted,’ says Rupert. ‘Wasn’t it all earmarked for Hitler’s museum or the SS high command’s private collections?’
‘Apart from the degenerate stuff.’
They all stare at Jack, who is suffused in a pink glow of excitement.
‘The Nazis had long lists of work they considered degenerate. Anything too modern, or painted by Jews or communists or, heaven forbid, homosexuals, was either sold off or destroyed.’
Sully nods to himself. ‘So they could have passed them on to Victor to get rid of, and instead he hid them here in the cellar at some point between the Nazis leaving and the Lesters returning?’
‘Yes, but that still doesn’t explain Mrs Finch,’ says Eve.
Their conversation is interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. For a moment she and Sully remain in position, before remembering that Mrs Finch is currently confined to the cellar, whereupon the American hurries off to open the door.
He returns with two policemen and Bernard, closely followed by Eve’s husband and mother. The latter’s pursed lips leave no doubt about what she thinks of arriving on the doorstep at the same time as the local constabulary.
‘What in blazes is going on, Eve?’ asks Clifford. ‘Really, must there always be some drama?’
Before Eve can reply, there is another furore at the door and in troop the Lesters en masse. Libby, in front, is seemingly unfazed by finding the sitting room of her old home filled with strangers.
‘Eve! Oh, how lovely that you’re here and how lovely you look and now I must, must, must go up to my room to see if I can find my bear. I’ve had him since I was born and I miss him to distraction.’ The girl flings herself at Eve before darting away up the stairs, leaving the air behind her throbbing with motion.
So now Eve must explain what has happened. There is no small amount of ‘I knew it’ when Victor’s wartime history is revealed. Several people announce that they have always suspected the Frenchman to be not what he seemed. Clemmie declares she has a nose for auras and that his always did smell fishy.
Noel, who has been silently leaning against the wall, now straightens up.
‘Why didn’t you go straight to fetch help rather than spying on Meunier, trying to play the big heroine?’ he asks, chin jutting.
‘I wasn’t doing any such thing.’ Eve feels her cheeks burning. ‘I was merely observing.’
But is that what she was doing? She tries to think back to those fevered moments in that dank passage. She could have slipped back up the stairs, but she had wanted to know what was happening. Hadn’t she? Or was she merely trying to insert herself into the drama, unwilling even now to let go of her fantasy that this would turn out to be the time when everything fell into place, her life spluttering into forward motion like a stalled motor car engine?
The older of the two policemen looks alarmed once Bernard has finished translating Eve’s version of events. He has a square face, the symmetry of which is thrown out by a nose that bends slightly to the left as if it has been broken and badly set. He goes to the hall, standing in the doorway at the top of the stairs that lead down to the cellar. Opens the door. Waits. Listens.
The younger man, sensing perhaps the scent of glory, urges action.
They confer in urgent whispers before deciding to go down the stairs to confront the imprisoned pair, taking Bernard with them as an independent witness. The others are instructed to wait in the living room.
‘I don’t understand,’ Diana says. ‘What is Caroline Finch thinking of, getting mixed up in something like this? Are you completely sure it happened just the way you said?’
She is glaring at Eve as if she might have invented the whole thing just to make herself more interesting in some way. And now Eve is doubting herself. Might there yet turn out to be some perfectly reasonable explanation?
Clifford has listened to the whole story with an expression of shocked concentration. He must love me, thinks Eve, seeing how worry has scored vertical lines into his face.
But when her husband speaks, it is of practicalities.
‘Does this mean,’ he wants to know, ‘that there will be no sale?’
Duncan groans. ‘I’m as good as a dead man. Or as bad as.’
He is collapsed at one end of the sofa, wearing a white shirt with a stain on the sleeve, and Eve has the strong impression that he has not gone to bed since yesterday. Eve thinks about the various people he owes money to, thinks about Laurent Martin’s compressed fury, and, though all his problems are self-inflicted, she feels a pang of pity for him.
There is a noise out in the passageway. The low murmur of voices. Doors being opened and closed.
Bernard reappears in the doorway, followed by the two policemen, each escorting one of the two recently liberated captives.
The older policeman, whose meaty fingers are closed around the sleeve of Victor Meunier’s jacket, says something quickly to Bernard in French that Eve does not catch.
‘He asks that you all remain here for the next two or three hours. They will need to return to question you.’
Clifford raises his arm and frowns at his watch.
‘As long as he bears in mind that my wife and mother-in-law and I will be needing to catch our train later. We were very much hoping to tie up the business side of things before we leave.’
He means the money, Eve realizes. In the end, it is all about the money.
‘Obviously there will not now be any question of a sale in principle,’ says Bernard slowly.
‘Je suis désolé,’ says Victor, who is pale but composed, as if being under arrest is an eventuality he has prepared for. His eyes fix on Eve and he gives the slightest of nods. ‘It has been a pleasure,’ he tells her, as if they are saying goodbye after a dance or some other social
event.
‘No,’ says Diana suddenly. ‘No, this cannot be supported.’
She gets to her feet from the chaise on which she has been perched and positions herself in front of Mrs Finch. The housekeeper, her eyes pink from weeping, is standing towards the back of the group, her elbow firmly in the grip of the younger policeman.
‘I need to know why,’ Diana says to the wretched-looking woman. ‘Wasn’t Guy always good to you? Heaven knows you wouldn’t have been my choice, especially once I found out about your history together, but Guy insisted on showing you loyalty after all the years you’d been with him. Why would you collaborate with someone like him?’ She gestures with her head in the direction of Victor. ‘Involving this house and this family in such a sordid business? Think of the sacrifices Noel and Duncan made fighting the Germans. All those missions Noel flew, one after the other, watching his friends getting shot down all around him.’
‘We all know what drove him,’ mutters Mrs Finch.
‘Then think of Guy,’ continues Diana. ‘Is this how you show your appreciation for everything he did for you?’
And now something changes in the housekeeper, as if a switch is being thrown inside her, causing her to stand upright, looking round, eyes blazing.
‘Everything he did for me?’ She spits out the words like apple pips. ‘I was young when I first came here. Attractive. I see you smirking, but you didn’t know me then. I could have had a husband, a family. But instead there was Guy Lester letting me believe he’d leave his wife, just as soon as the children were a little older, or his wife a little stronger. So I waited and I waited. I took care of his boys, spoilt though they were. I looked after his house. And when she died, I thought, now it will come. Now is my time. I’d been so patient. I’d proved myself as a wife and a mother. But then you came along. And only then did I realize that, of course, before you there’d been others and I was just too blind to see. “Don’t worry,” he said. “There’ll always be a job for you. I’ll always make sure you’re all right.” He wanted me to absolve him of guilt. You know how he always had to feel himself to be in the right?’