Rachel Lindsay - Designing Man

  "I want some information from you. It's extremely important that you tell me who fed you the gossip about the Duvals."

  "No can do, honey. I've already told you I can't divulge my sources. If people thought I did that, my contacts would dry up immediately."

  "I know all that," she said impatiently, "but I've still got to know the answer. There could be a big story in this for you, Jamie." She lowered her voice. "Confidentially, it might help us to find who murdered Henri Duval."

  "Holy Moses!" Jamie Hunter's eyes grew round with astonishment.

  "It was a woman, wasn't it?" Alix persisted.

  "Yes."

  "Lady Brandon?"

  Momentarily the man hesitated, then nodded.

  "How long has she been on your payroll?"

  "A couple of years."

  "Did she ever offer you any sketches of designs?"

  "She talked about it but I told her it wasn't my line of country."

  Alix nodded; the last piece of the jigsaw had fallen into place. There was no doubt Lady Brandon had used her friendship with the Duvals to glean as much information as she could from them, apart from learning a lot more from her daughter who had, innocently or otherwise, heard a great deal from Peter.

  She considered the possibility that Henri Duval had discovered Lady Brandon's guilt. Though he might not have minded her selling gossip about him, he would have been furious to have discovered she had sold his designs. Certainly furious enough to have threatened her with exposure. The scandal would have ruined Fleur's chance of marrying Jack Beecham, but would that have been sufficient motive for murder? Alix wanted to think so but couldn't. Ivy Brandon must have had an additional reason.

  Had she discovered something in Henri's past and been blackmailing him? No, that didn't make sense, either, for blackmailers rarely killed the goose that laid the golden eggs. Yet there must be something…

  "Tell me, Jamie, would it be possible for me to have a look at the files in your newspaper library?"

  "Sure."

  He led the way to the long rectangular room at the top of the building where, before leaving her, he introduced her to the middle-aged woman in charge.

  Within a short time Alix found what she was looking for: a thin file on the Brandon family. It included cuttings on the marriage of the last Lord Brandon to Ivy Brooke, which had surprised everyone by being an unusually quiet event and held in a small church outside London. The bride had been given away by a relative though her father was reported as being a major in the British Army. There were a few more sparse items: the birth of a daughter; the sale of Brandon Park and its contents to an Arab, and the death, ten years ago, of Lord Brandon, leaving the title to be inherited by some unknown young man in New Zealand, who had declined it. The last cutting was the longest and featured Fleur's engagement to Jack Beecham, an item Alix hardly bothered to read. What she was looking for was something farther back in the past than that: much farther.

  After making a few notes, Alix returned home and called a friend at the War Office. A couple of hours later she received the information she wanted. Major Brooke and his wife were now dead, but he had been stationed on the Seychelle Islands from 1930 to 1939.

  The Seychelles… The land of sunshine and spices where Henri Duval was born and which he had left as a young man never to return! It was a strange coincidence and Alix wondered whether it held the key to the mystery.

  She toyed with the idea of talking it over with Paul but decided against it. She did not want to raise his hopes with false encouragement. Even as she thought this, she felt a lightening of her mood. Her growing suspicions of Ivy Brandon had eradicated her suspicions of Paul. There was no logical reason why it should, yet it had! If only she could prove him innocent.

  For a day or two nothing suggested itself to her, and her final decision to go to Croxham Manor and see Amy Duval was born out of desperation. Henri's widow might know something of her husband's early life that would provide her with the key she was seeking. The woman might even know something more about Ivy Brandon.

  So it was that an afternoon in late autumn found Alix strolling around the gardens of the manor as the setting sun slanted through the boughs of ancient trees and dappled the emerald lawns with muted gold.

  "I'm glad you came to see me," Amy Duval said as she snipped off a large bronze chrysanthemum and added it to the pile in the basket over her arm. "Since Henri's death, people seem to be avoiding me."

  "Have you ever thought of moving to London?"

  "Never. I'm a country woman and I wouldn't be happy without my garden. Besides, this is Paul's home, and when he marries he will want to bring up his children here."

  Alix felt a pang of yearning at the thought of Paul and Dina living in this beautiful place. She looked at the house, glad that Henri's death had not left its mark. Yet why should it, when in life he had not even managed to impinge his personality on it.

  "Paul's often spoken of you," the older woman continued. "He and I are very close. Too close perhaps. If we hadn't been, he might have made a life for himself much earlier. It was because of me that he stayed with Henri, even though they quarreled most of the time."

  Alix did not know what to say and remained silent.

  "I don't blame Henri, though," Amy Duval said unexpectedly. "He didn't have the temperament to accept anyone else's talent—even his own son's."

  "That's frequently the case," Alix replied.

  "With Henri it was intensified through jealousy—not only of Paul's ability but of his youth." Mrs. Duval touched a chrysanthemum with her hand, then shook her head as if deciding not to cut it.

  "Did your husband ever talk to you about his own early life?" Alix asked, using the word youth as a lead in to this question. "I mean about the years before he came to England."

  "Not very much. He was born in the Seychelles, you know. His father had a spice plantation there and Henri's brother Georges took it over after my father-in- law died."

  "I didn't know there was a brother."

  "There still is. He came to England a few years ago and stayed with us for a while. He had just sold the plantation and was on his way to France. He wanted to spend his last years in the old country. He lives outside Nice."

  "Do you have his address?"

  "Of course." Mrs. Duval looked up at the sky. "It's getting dark now, so we might as well go indoors and I'll get it for you."

  They returned to the house and the woman went straight to a Queen Anne desk and took" a red book from a drawer. She opened it, wrote something on a sheet of paper and handed it to Alix.

  "Here it is, my dear. Georges Duval's address. Can you tell my why you want it? You've been rather… mysterious and I wonder if it has anything to do with Paul?"

  "I'm not sure," Alix said slowly. "Would you mind if I didn't tell you for the moment? I promise to do so as soon as I can."

  The woman shrugged, then half smiled. "Do you see much of my son?"

  "Only when business makes it necessary." Alix hesitated, but before she could say more, a maid wheeled in a tea trolley.

  After this Mrs. Duval changed the conversation and no further mention was made of her husband or son.

  Alix was back in London by six o'clock. She was dining with Mark and, on an impulse, told him of her visit to Amy Duval and the reasons for it. To her disappointment he did not seem to regard her suspicions of Lady Brandon as gravely as she did.

  "The only mystery you've cleared up is who leaked those items to Jamie Hunter's column. But that doesn't make the old girl guilty of murder! In fact," he said with a slight smile, "I can see why Henri Duval might have wanted to kill her, but I can't for the life of me see why she'd want to kill him!"

  "I still think there's something in it," Alix said stubbornly. "I'm going to see Georges Duval."

  "What for? He never lived in England and he wouldn't know Lady B. from a hole in the wall."

  "Her parents were stationed on the Seychelles. Doesn't that strike you as a coincid
ence?"

  "A coincidence, yes, but nothing more. Honestly, darling, you're becoming obsessed by all this." He looked down at his plate and then, as if he found the food unappetizing, pushed it away. "I suppose this explains your behavior over the past few weeks. All this business has been on your mind, hasn't it?"

  "I've thought of nothing else," she admitted. "I believed Paul was the murderer and—"

  "Paul! Why should he—"

  "Because of Dina. He's in love with her and he was furious at the way Henri was treating her."

  "So he bumped off his old man?" Mark was deliberately being facetious, as if he saw this as the only way to bring logic into Alix's reasoning. "I can't see Paul Duval doing that, no matter how much he loved a woman. From what I know of him, he's the type to retreat into a corner and chew his nails down to the bone—not reach for a gun." Mark eyed her narrowly. "That's why you've been so moody lately, isn't it? You suspected Paul and hated yourself for it?"

  She nodded. Mark was getting dangerously close to her real feelings for Paul but she could see no way of warding him off. Perhaps it was better for him to realize how she felt.

  She looked up to speak and at the same time he started to talk. Their words mingled and they both stopped. Mark grinned.

  "Ladies first. Go on."

  "I wanted to talk about us. I don't think we should go on seeing each other."

  He thought for a moment. "Because of Paul?"

  She half nodded, then said quickly, "He has no idea. You must never tell him."

  There was a short silence. "I think I've known for a long time," Mark continued. "From the moment I saw you together in his office." He saw the fear in her eyes and shook his head. "Don't worry. It was only apparent to me. When you love someone, you become sensitive to their feelings."

  "Oh Mark, I'm sorry. I wish—"

  "Don't waste time wishing!" He caught her hand tightly in his.

  At that precise moment the man they had been discussing stopped at their table. Only then did he see their clasped hands and make an attempt to walk on. But Mark was already loosening his hold of Alix's hand and smiling up at him.

  "Paul! I didn't know you came here."

  "It used to be a haunt of mine."

  Mark glanced behind Paul. "Are you alone?"

  "Yes."

  "Then join us."

  There was a momentary hesitation before Paul sat down. His proximity made Alix lose what little appetite she had and she toyed with the food on her plate. Mark seemed perfectly at ease though, and she marveled at his ability to be so warmly disposed toward a man he must obviously regard as his rival.

  Surreptitiously she glanced at Paul. He was sipping some wine and toying with a Sole Bonne Femme as if he had no appetite, either. He was thinner than when she had last seen him, and there were blue shadows on his lids. But his features were composed and only the fine- cut mouth—more tightly held than she had remembered—spoke of the mental strain he was undergoing. But then she wasn't the only person who regarded him with suspicion and Paul, being the man he was, must be aware of it.

  "You should relax a bit more, Paul." Mark had taken the dying conversation into his own hands and Alix looked at him gratefully. But it was a gratitude that died fast as he continued, "Why don't you and Dina join us for the weekend?"

  "The weekend?" Paul's voice was cool.

  "That's right. I'm taking Alix to Nice for a few days."

  Paul carefully set down his fork. "Wouldn't you prefer to be alone?"

  "We'd tell you when we did," Mark grinned. "What about it?"

  Paul shook his head. "Dina's busy at the theater. She only has Sunday free." Sherry-brown eyes rested on Alix for an instant. "I'm sure you'll both have more fun on your own!"

  "Maybe you're right," Mark said in the same agreeable way, and pushed back his chair. "Would you excuse me a moment? I promised to drop some drawings in to a client and I forgot all about it. I'd better ring him and apologize."

  He walked away from the table and Alix made a pretense of eating. She was furious with Mark and could hardly wait until she was alone with him to find out what game he was playing. But for the moment she was with Paul and had to pretend indifference to his cold- eyed look. Unexpectedly his attitude began to annoy her. What right did he have to judge her? She was a free agent and if she wanted to go away with a man for the weekend it was no concern of his!

  "You're looking tired," Paul said unexpectedly.

  "That's why I'm going away for the weekend," she said flatly. "It's a pity you and Dina can't join us."

  "I wouldn't go with you even if Dina were free. It's always better to be on your own with someone you love."

  The words were like a knife in Alix's heart and she marveled that nothing of what she felt showed in her face. Not caring what she said, she spoke at random.

  "I'm surprised you haven't married yet, Paul. I can't see any reason for your waiting."

  "Can't you?" he said harshly, then leaned forward, his thin face white with rage. "How cruel you are, Alix. How can I ask anyone to marry me when I'm suspected of murder?"

  She stared at him aghast. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

  "Then why say what you did? You aren't stupid. You know damn well I'm at the top of Truscott's list."

  "Yes," she said miserably and wished she were a million miles away.

  Mark came back to find them both silent. He glanced at Alix and raised an eyebrow, but she shook her head imperceptibly and he sat down and began to chat about nothing in particular.

  Almost at once Paul stood up. "I must be getting to the theater to collect Dina." He smiled briefly at Alix, touched Mark on the shoulder and walked over to get his bill. He did not turn to look at them and Alix watched his slim figure and his well-shaped head with its soft brown hair.

  Only as he vanished from her sight did she turn to Mark, her voice low and angry.

  "I suppose you had a reason for wanting Paul to think you're coming to Nice with me? Do you want him to believe we're lovers?"

  "Sure I did. There's nothing like jealousy for making a man realize what he's missing."

  "Nothing I do would make Paul jealous," she flared. "You'd have done better to tell him you were going off with Dina!"

  Mark favored her with a long stare. "Okay, then. So it didn't work the way I had hoped. But at least it's shown you he doesn't give a single damn about you!"

  "I knew that before," she said huskily and pushed away her plate. "Do you mind if we go? I have a headache."

  It was only as he left her outside the door of her apartment that Mark told her he had meant what he had said about going to Nice with her.

  "Not for a weekend of love," he assured her with the faintest of smiles, "but because I could do with a break and I don't fancy letting you go off alone."

  She wanted to tell him she preferred to be alone but, remembering Paul, decided to accept Mark's offer.

  "I'll tell Willie to get the tickets," she said. "Is early Friday afternoon all right for you?"

  "Any time." He caught her hand. "Don't bank too much on this meeting with Georges Duval. It's probably a wild-goose chase."

  Alix told herself this repeatedly for the rest of the week but could not quite still the hope that bubbled inside her. It was only when she thought of what Paul would do if she cleared his name that her sense of anticipation dimmed. He would be free to marry Dina. The incongruity of this almost made her laugh. Why should she help the man she loved marry someone else?

  Because she was a fool, she admitted to herself. Because she wanted him to be happy regardless of the fact that he wouldn't be happy with her. It was a bleak acknowledgment yet it made her better able to face her own future, no matter how empty it would be.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Alix telephoned Georges Duval from London. There was no point going to Nice if, by some mischance, the Frenchman wasn't there or would not see her. But he seemed delighted by the prospect of a visit from someone who had known his brot
her and suggested she come and see him as soon as she had checked in at her hotel.

  Alix was only too happy to comply and late afternoon Friday found her and Mark walking up a narrow path to a modest, white-washed house with a wooden porch and shutters painted a powdery blue. An elderly man was seated on a wicker chair, a faded panama hat tilted over his eyes. He made no movement at their approach and Alix paused a few steps away from him and listened to his even breathing.

  "Bonjour, Monsieur Duval," she said quietly.

  The man in the chair sat up sharply and pushed the panama onto the back of his head, uncovering a tanned face with a straggling gray mustache. There were laughter lines at the corners of his eyes and the eyes themselves were the same deep blue as those of his late brother.

  "Mademoiselle Smith!" He rose to his feet with surprising alertness and bent low over Alix's hand. "Please forgive me for this unseemly welcome. But I am an old man and cannot do without the siesta in the afternoon!"

  He looked from her to Mark, and after she had introduced them he led them into the soft twilight of the house to a small salon stiffly furnished in Empire style.

  Alix sat on a mahogany and gold chair and looked with interest at the glass-fronted cabinets with their array of knick-knacks and the tall, enameled vase filled with silver grass that stood in the corner. The scent of faded rose petals mingled with the dusty smell of upholstery.

  An elderly housekeeper brought jasmine tea and a plate of macaroons, and as they sipped, Alix wondered how best to broach the subject of her visit.

  In the end it was Georges Duval who did it for her.

  "I understand from the newspapers that you worked for my brother, Henri. He always chose women who were clever as well as beautiful." His eyes twinkled for a second and then grew sad. "His death was a great shock to me. It is only two years since I visited him in England and he was so strong and handsome, so full of life! It is difficult to believe I shall never see him again."

  "His death was a terrible shock," Alix said.

  "Death one can understand," the old man said. "But murder is more difficult to comprehend. I still cannot believe anyone would wish to harm him. He had such charm."