The Mermaid Garden

by Santa Montefiore

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve been asked.” Jane’s blush deepened.

  “I’d like to marry you, Jane.”

  “Marry me?”

  “Well, of course. We haven’t got all the time in the world, why beat about the bush? I like you very much. Very much indeed, and I think you like me, too.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “So how about it?”

  Jane looked around her, embarrassed to be the center of attention. Marina put her hand to her mouth, stunned by the brigadier’s sudden proposal. They had known each other only a week. Rafa was smiling broadly. Veronica, Pat, and Grace were practically hanging out of the car in their eagerness to hear her response. Jane bit her bottom lip to stop it wobbling. “Well, yes,” she replied timidly. “Why not? Yes, please.”

  “Sue McCain would be very proud of you,” said the brigadier, winking at Pat. “Her motto must be something like ‘seize the day.’”

  Pat chuckled and shook her head. “Very funny, Brigadier. I’m not sure what her motto is, to tell you the truth. I’ll remember to ask her.” She climbed down to join them.

  “Well, young man,” Grace barked to the driver, “don’t dillydally, take Jane’s suitcase off the bus! She’s staying right here.”

  “Oh, lucky, lucky girl! She gets to stay in Devon!” gushed Veronica, dabbing her eye with a hanky. “Oh dear, now we have to say good-bye all over again.”

  Finally, the people carrier disappeared up the drive. The brigadier carried Jane’s case into the hall as she looked on anxiously. “What do we do now?” she asked. “I’m going to have to go home at some stage to sort myself out and tell my family.”

  The brigadier took her hand. “Don’t worry, my dear, you have all the time in the world for that. Right now, we’ll go and have a jolly good breakfast.”

  “That would be nice.” Jane had hardly eaten anything earlier.

  “It’s on the house,” said Marina. “So is the champagne.”

  “Champagne?” Jane repeated in surprise.

  “Of course. A champagne breakfast is the only way to celebrate an engagement.”

  “A champagne breakfast, at our great age.” Jane laughed.

  “Which is why we’re getting on with it,” said the brigadier heartily. “I suggest we tie the knot as soon as possible. Where would you like to go on honeymoon?” he asked.

  “I’d like to stay right here,” she replied.

  “Really? Right here, at the Polzanze?”

  “Yes, Brigadier. I’m very happy here.”

  “Then we’ll come back after the wedding. But this afternoon I’m taking you home.” He raised his fluffy eyebrows. “And I think it’s time to call me Geoffrey, don’t you?”

  “Geoffrey,” she said softly. “It suits you.”

  “Geoffrey and Jane. That’s got a nice ring to it.”

  “Do you mind if I move you into a prettier room for your honeymoon, Mrs. Meister?” said Marina, thinking of the room Grace had just vacated.

  “I’m very content where I am,” Jane protested.

  “Well, I’m not,” Marina replied. “I’d be happier if you and the brigadier spent the first days of your marriage in our best suite.”

  “All right, if you insist.”

  “Then that’s settled. Now, let’s open the champagne.”

  Mr. Atwood pulled the tights over his head. They were thick enough to mask his face, but thin enough for him to see through. He wore black trousers, a black polo neck, and black shoes, soft soled so as not to make any noise when he crept into the house. He tiptoed round the building where a ladder had been placed in the garden against the back wall. It was dark enough for him to blend in with the night, but the neighbor’s window threw a shaft of light onto the lawn, which he was careful to avoid. He felt like a cat, treading softly over the dew.

  Slowly, he mounted the ladder. One rung at a time. It wouldn’t do to fall and hurt himself—his wife thought he was out at a business dinner. Being driven to hospital in a burglar’s outfit might give the game away. He grinned with satisfaction, pleased that he was able to keep so many different strands of his life together. It was entertaining to assume diverse personalities. He was a father, a husband, a businessman, a lover—and now a robber. He reached the window, which had been left ajar, and slid his fingers through the crack. Quietly, he lifted the bar and pulled it open wide enough for him to climb through.

  As he rather clumsily scrambled in, not quite the cat burglar he was trying so hard to emulate, he heard a sharp intake of breath and an excited squeak. His heart pounded with anticipation, for there, lying naked and spread-eagled on the bed, was Jennifer. Her arms and legs were tied to the four posts, her pale skin, sporran of golden pubic hair, and round breasts loomed out of the darkness, and she shivered expectantly.

  “What do I see here?” he said in his coldest voice.

  “Don’t hurt me,” she wailed.

  “Hurt you? I’m going to pleasure you to death.”

  “Ooooooh, no!”

  “Yes, I’m going to have fun, my little plaything.”

  “Please, leave me be!”

  “And you’re all tied up and ready for me.”

  She pulled her arms and tried to wriggle her legs, but to no avail. She was well and truly bound. He stood beside her and ran a gloved finger down her neck, over the mound of her breast, around her nipple, which grew hard with desire, down her stomach, through the sporran and between her legs, where it lingered.

  So great was their focus on their game that they didn’t hear the rustle in the garden below or the loud whispers of the police, who now surrounded the house. The neighbor watched enthralled from her bathroom window. Hastily, an officer climbed the ladder. When he reached the window, he peered in to see the burglar about to descend onto his victim with a very large erection.

  With the swift, nimble movements of the cat that Mr. Atwood could never be, the officer leaped into the room and wrestled him to the floor. Before Mr. Atwood knew what was happening he was cuffed and helpless on the ground, the tights ripped off his head with such force they bruised his nose. The lights were turned on, and the room filled with the familiar faces of the Dawcomb-Devlish police force, gawping at them in astonishment. They looked from Mr. Atwood to Jennifer, bound and displayed like a pig at the butcher’s, but only one or two had the decency to avert their eyes. At last one of the officers threw a towel over her exposed body and set about untying the ropes.

  “This is a terrible mistake,” gasped Mr. Atwood.

  “… Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  “I’m not robbing the house, I’m role-playing with my mistress. For God’s sake, this is ludicrous.”

  “Come on!” said PC Dillon, lifting him to his feet.

  Mr. Atwood looked down to see his once proud erection shriveled like a little pink worm. “Well, if you insist I come with you, can you please do up my trousers!”

  The following morning word had got out and Dawcomb-Devlish could talk of nothing else.

  Mr. Atwood did not come into the office, which was just as well, for a group of photographers had gathered outside with the nation’s press. The crowd of onlookers grew until PC Dillon had to put up barricades to keep the traffic moving.

  “They thought they’d caught Baffles,” said Sylvia, her eyes brimming with mirth. “Can you imagine, Mr. Atwood of all people!”

  “It’s beyond the powers of my imagination,” agreed Clementine, watching the heaving throng outside the window.

  “Fancy him dressing up and pretending to break into your receptionist’s house.”

  “I knew he was having an affair with her. The silly fool took me with him to buy her a bracelet. Didn’t it occur to him that I’d recognize it on her wrist and put two and two together?”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t think you’re very good at maths!”

  “Maybe he is Baffles and this is a double bluff,” Clementine suggested.

  “He’s not that clever.�
�

  “I wonder whether we’ll see Jennifer today?”

  “Or ever!”

  “I’d leave the country if that happened to me.”

  Sylvia giggled. “I think it’s quite an inspired idea. I could get rather turned on with the right man.”

  “Not Mr. Atwood, then?”

  They both laughed. “Not Mr. Atwood! Say we close up shop for the day and go and have a nice lunch?”

  “Now that’s inspired,” Clementine agreed, picking up her handbag. “The goldfish bowl is not a life for me!”

  “So, how’s it all going with Rafa?” Sylvia asked, sipping a glass of Pinot Noir on the terrace of the brasserie.

  “Oh, nothing to report.”

  “But it’s only been a week!”

  “I know. I shouldn’t expect things to move so swiftly. I just feel I’ve known him forever.” She shrugged, not wanting Sylvia to know how much she cared.

  “You need to go away so that he misses you.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until September.”

  “That’s too late. You need to go away now.”

  “And where do you think I should disappear to?”

  “Anywhere, down the road—so long as he thinks you’ve gone away.”

  “I don’t have enough money—or time off.”

  “Shame. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

  “Or it makes the heart forget altogether.”

  “Not likely, lovely. Trust me, I know. I’m a master at playing hard to get.” Clementine laughed, assuming she was being ironic, but Sylvia was looking at her very seriously.

  She coughed. “I’m sure you’re right,” she said hastily. “If anyone can play it cool, you can.”

  Rafa watched Marina disappear up the drive in her car before wandering furtively into the stable block. Grey was out in his boat, the painters were busy in the vegetable garden, and Harvey was on the roof mending one of the chimney pots with glue, baler twine, and Agritape. Mr. Potter was having his tea and digestives in the greenhouse with Biscuit, and Bertha was making up Rafa’s room, taking as long as possible to fold and hang his clothes from the night before.

  He climbed the stairs and walked across the landing to Marina and Grey’s bedroom. The smell of her perfume wafted into the corridor, and it clung to his nostrils as if she were right there with him. He glanced around anxiously before entering. But he needn’t have worried; he was quite alone. Inside, the bed was unmade, awaiting the arrival of Bertha, and the window wide open, boasting a magnificent view of the sea. With his heart pounding loudly, he began carefully to lift things up. She didn’t keep many trinkets, and as far as he could tell there was nothing out of the ordinary.

  He began to open her drawers and run his hands along the bottom and across the back to check for hidden items. But there was nothing squeezed behind the clothes, and he felt ashamed for having invaded her privacy. When he reached her cupboard, his heart lurched at the sight of a pretty floral box file that lay partially hidden beneath her shoes. He delved within, removed the shoes, and pulled it out. With trembling hands he opened it. Inside, it was stuffed full of letters. The paper was yellowed, indicating that they were old. He caught his breath. He lifted the one at the top. But his heart deflated for it was a love letter from Grey, dated 1988. He burrowed deeper, but they were all either letters from Grey or childish pictures from Jake and Clementine.

  He found her marriage certificate and a couple of photographs of their wedding day. He dug his hand into the very bottom and pulled out the final letter, hoping for something revelatory. What he found was a poem torn out of a book, entitled “My Marine Marina,” dated 1968, by John Edgerton. He read it, and his eyes watered; it could have been written about her.

  Oh mournful soul that craves the sea,

  Restless will forever be,

  What relics of your dreams lie there,

  Beneath the waves of your despair …

  It was a poem about love, but also about loss. He wondered if she had known the poet and whether he had written it for her.

  Suddenly, he heard the front door open and slam shut. Hastily, he thrust the box back into the cupboard and replaced the shoes on top. He hurried out of the bedroom. As he stepped onto the landing the floorboards creaked loudly into the silence. Jake heard him and peered up from the hall below. “Rafa! What are you doing here?” he demanded, staring at him suspiciously.

  “I’m looking for Biscuit,” Rafa replied, trying to sound casual. He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. “He sometimes likes to come in here and lie on your father’s bed.”

  “Does he?” Jake wasn’t convinced.

  “He’s not here.”

  “Why do you want him?”

  “I want my students to paint him.”

  “Really?” Jake watched him come down the stairs. “Tell me, didn’t Harvey take you to Edward and Anya Powell’s house not so long ago?”

  Rafa nodded. “Yes, we went to paint the dovecote.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Why?”

  “No reason,” Jake replied, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

  He watched the artist leave the house and walk across to the hotel. He had a sudden, uncomfortable feeling that Rafa was not all that he seemed.

  32.

  That evening Jake took Clementine aside. “I need to talk to you,” he said seriously.

  She followed him into the library. “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s Rafa.”

  “What about him?”

  “I caught him snooping around the stable block this morning.”

  “What do you classify as ‘snooping’?”

  “Well, he wasn’t in the kitchen making a cup of tea.” Clementine shot him a withering look. “He was upstairs on the landing.”

  “Did you ask him what he was doing?”

  “He said he was looking for Biscuit.”

  “Perhaps he was.”

  “Rubbish! He wasn’t looking for Biscuit. He was looking around.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. He looked really shifty.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “You know Harvey took him to the Powells’ house before it was robbed.”

  Clementine gasped. “You’re not suggesting he’s Baffles?”

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit of a coincidence that the very house he visits is later robbed?”

  Clementine was too shocked to answer.

  “He did a recce to see if it would be a good place to take his painters. He must have gone into the kitchen and seen the ring on the windowsill.”

  “I can’t believe you’re even suggesting such a thing! It’s not in his nature to be dishonest,” Clementine said, horrified.

  “Do you really believe he’s an artist happy to spend the summer teaching old ladies how to paint for his board and lodging? Think about it. What was he doing down here in the first place? Robbing big houses and hotels. Then he sees Marina’s ad in the local paper and thinks: Aha, I’ll go undercover for the summer and no one will suspect me.”

  Clementine narrowed her eyes incredulously, but Jake continued, pleased with the way his hypothesis was snowballing. “Look, he’s right in the middle of Devon, surrounded by big, expensive houses, most of which he has access to because Marina insists on showing him off to all her friends. This is the perfect decoy. No one is going to point the finger at him, are they?”

  “I’m not sure about this, Jake.” But Clementine was ashamed to sense a little seed of doubt taking root.

  “I’ve always thought him dodgy. Right from the start, he was too good to be true.”

  “Well, you have no proof.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  “He’s a very good painter.”

  “Coincidence.”

  “If he was a robber, wouldn’t he wear an expensive watch, drive a snazzy car?”

  “Only if he was a very stupid robber, which he clearly isn’t.” He grinned at her. “And you�
�ve fallen for him, haven’t you?”

  Clementine was infuriated. “You know, if he was the lowlife you think he is, he would have seduced me weeks ago.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. That would distract him from his purpose.”

  “I don’t believe you, Jake. You’ve never liked him because you’re jealous. He’s more handsome than you, cleverer than you—which, I might add, isn’t hard—and he’s a great deal more charming. It’s no surprise that you can’t bear him.”

  “I’ve got a good nose for disingenuous people.”

  “So, are you going to tell Marina?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Good, because she won’t believe you.”

  “I’ll get proof.”

  “The Ruebens are coming this weekend. Don’t give her something else to worry about.”

  “Ah, the Ruebens.” He pulled a face. “They’ve got their sights on this place, for sure.”

  “If they make an offer Dad can’t refuse, Marina will throw herself off the cliff.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic. She’ll be fine. They’ll buy somewhere else.”

  “You just don’t get it, do you?” She rounded on him crossly. “This is more than a home to Marina. This is her child.” Jake had the decency to look a little ashamed. “Don’t think she’ll be fine, because she won’t. She’ll be destroyed and broken, and nothing will ever be able to put her back together again.”

  Jake watched in astonishment as she stalked out into the hall.

  Clementine sat in her bedroom mulling over what Jake had told her. Her instincts reassured her that he was wrong. Rafa wasn’t a burglar. He was gentle and kind and compassionate. If he was a burglar, he’d be ruthless and duplicitous, which she was sure he was not. However, she couldn’t ignore the niggling feeling that he was hiding something. Jake had brought that doubt into the open, and she now admitted that it had always been there, lying at the bottom of her happiness like clay. Was he too good to be true? And if he wasn’t the burglar, what was he?

  More worrying than Jake’s suspicions about Rafa was the threat to the Polzanze and what such a loss would do to Marina. She found, to her surprise, that the thought of Marina being forced to give up what she treasured most gave her a sharp pain in the middle of her chest. She put her hand there. If only she could help, but there was nothing she could do. If her father really was in financial trouble and the Ruebens made a generous offer, he’d sell. Poor Marina would be devastated. She’d never get over it.