“Nothing’s changed,” I said, shaking my head. “You’re still a rebel at heart.”
“Am I?” He threw me a swift glance then laughed lightly. “I like to think of myself as being merely practical and efficient, a good businessman, Vivi, even when doing my charity work. I want to get things done the easiest way, the fastest way, but then you know that.”
The waiter came and Sebastian ordered a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, which is what he usually drank, and then he went on, “But enough of me. What’s been happening with you since you came back? The last time we spoke was in July, when you were still at Vieux Moulin”
“Not much really. Work mostly. I’ve just completed a story on the shift to the right in American politics, for the London Sunday Times, and I’ve almost finished my book on the Brontë sisters. I was in Yorkshire in early August, visiting Haworth, where they lived, and then I made my way here, as I always do in summer. To escape the—”
“Tourists in Provence and to reacquaint myself with my roots,” he finished for me, his eyes crinkling at the corners with hidden laughter.
“You do know me well,” I murmured, thinking how accurately he had quoted me. But then how often had I said those words to him.
“Don’t I just, darling. Your patterns don’t change much, Vivienne.”
“Neither do yours.”
“I suppose not.”
The champagne was brought to the table, the bottle shown to him, opened, and poured.
We clinked our glasses and Sebastian said, “Where are you going to be spending Christmas?”
“Provence, I think.”
“Oh, that’s a pity.”
“Why?”
“It would have been nice to see you over the holidays. I’m planning to be at the farm in Connecticut.”
“That’s a change, you’re usually traveling the world, doing good somewhere, not celebrating,” I exclaimed, taken by surprise at his announcement.
“I felt like an old-fashioned Christmas,” he said, smiling at me. “The kind we used to have years ago, when you and Jack and Luciana were still children.” He shrugged his shoulders lightly, and went on, “Don’t ask me why.”
“Nostalgia, perhaps,” I suggested, eyeing him thoughtfully. “We all suffer from that at different times.”
“True. Let’s order, shall we? Before we forget to do so. As we so often have in the past.”
I laughed, remembering the times we had been so busy talking we had forgotten all about eating. After looking at the menus we both decided to have grilled sole, and once the food had been ordered, Sebastian started to talk to me about India and at great length. I had been there with him many years ago to visit Mother Teresa, but we had only stayed in Calcutta briefly.
As I listened to him, as usual intrigued by everything he had to say, I realized there was something different about him today. It came to me after a moment or two. He was lighthearted. In the past few years, since our divorce, he had always seemed morose and gloomy whenever we met. It had often struck me that he was burdened down with worry—about the state of the world, his charity work, the Locke Foundation, Locke Industries, his problematical children. Heavyhearted. Today he was exactly the opposite.
Without thinking twice and before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “You’re happy! That’s what it is, Sebastian. You’re happier than I’ve seen you for years and years.”
He sat back in the chair and gave me an appraising look. “You always were the most perceptive, Vivienne.
“And yes, I am happy. Very happy. Like I’ve never been—”
He broke off, and glanced away.
“What’s the reason?” I asked.
He was silent for a few seconds and then he slowly turned his head and gave me the most penetrating of looks.
It was then he told me.
Slowly, he said, “I think I can explain without hurting you, or upsetting you, Vivi. I just said you are perceptive, you’re also intelligent, understanding, and a compassionate woman. Yes . . . I know I can tell you this without causing you pain.”
“We’ve always been able to tell each other anything and everything,” I reminded him. “How often you used to say that to me when I was growing up. And afterward.”
“You know, Vivi, when you were a child you touched my heart. And when you were twenty-one you captivated me . . . I was entranced by you. That’s why I married you.”
“I thought you married me because you loved me,” I said so quietly my voice was hardly audible.
“I did love you, I do love you, Vivi, and I always will. You are the most special person to me. But when we married I think I was simply entranced by that child who had touched my heart and who had grown up to be the most lovely young woman. And who so adored me. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons our marriage was always so explosive . . . you were too young really, far too inexperienced, and so very vulnerable. I was too old for you. But I wanted it to work, God knows I did.”
“So did I. And although our marriage was fraught, it was very passionate, you can’t deny that, can you?” I challenged.
“I don’t! My God, of course I don’t, you should know better than that.”
“What are you trying to tell me, Sebastian? That you’ve fallen in love again?”
He leaned across the table and his face was suddenly so glowing, so alive, so youthful even, I was momentarily thrown off balance.
He said, “Yes, I’ve fallen in love, Vivi. With someone who totally amazes me, astounds me. And I love her in a way I’ve never loved any other woman, or anyone, for that matter.” There was a slight hesitation, and he added gently, “I loved you in a different way. The love I feel for this woman is something . . . something of another world, something that I can’t explain. It’s the most extraordinary experience of my life. I’ve never felt quite like this ever before and I know I won’t feel this way ever again.”
“She overwhelms you sexually,” I murmured, believing this might well be the truth. He was a very sensual man.
“She does. Very much so. But it’s more than that. Much more. I feel absolutely complete and whole when I’m with her. It’s as if part of me was missing until she came into my life. She seems to balance me in so many ways.” He paused and gazed at me, reached for my hand. “I’m sorry, Vivi, I don’t mean to hurt you.”
“You’re not,” I reassured him and I meant what I said. “I know you loved me, well, love me, in a certain way, I understand that. You love her differently, that’s all. Nothing’s ever the same with other people. I know I was married to Michael and it was quite a different marriage than ours. I know our marriage didn’t work out for many, many reasons. But at least we had those five years. On the other hand, your marriage to Betsy Bethune blew up in no time at all. Relationships are always different.”
“That was no marriage! It was not like ours!” he exclaimed. “Betsy was no wife to me.”
“I realize that.”
“Have I upset you?”
I shook my head and asked, “Who is she?”
He smiled, and it was such a beatific smile I was startled again; his demeanor was so out of character today. And I couldn’t help thinking that whomever she was she must be someone very unique.
“You’ll meet her,” he ventured. “And you’ll like her, love her even. And she’ll love you, I know that. You’ll be great friends.”
“But who is she?” I pressed.
“She’s a doctor. A scientist, actually. Very brilliant.”
“How old is she?”
“About your age. No, a bit younger, by a couple of years.”
“American?”
“No . . . I met her in Africa.”
“Is she African?” I asked.
“No, she’s European. I’m going to be meeting her in Africa quite soon, she’s working on a project there. We’re going to India together, then we’re coming here for Christmas. That’s why I hoped you’d be here, to meet her. However, I hope we can get together in France in th
e new year. Can I bring her to meet you at Vieux Moulin?”
“Of course.”
“And if it’s not too much to ask of you, I hope you’ll be present at our wedding. We want to be married in the spring. You will be there, won’t you, darling? I want you there.”
Flabbergasted though I was, I found myself agreeing. “Of course, Sebastian. You know I’ll be there, if that’s what you want.”
“I do, Vivi, I do.”
I sat up, blinking in the sunlight and pushing my hair out of my eyes. And I asked myself the most potent of questions: Why would Sebastian Locke commit suicide when he was about to marry the love of his life?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Half an hour later I was sitting with my friend Marie-Laure on the terrace of her home, Château de Beauvais, telling her about the autopsy report.
She listened patiently, as attentive as she always was to my words, and when I had finished she said nothing, simply sat there, digesting what I had told her.
Finally, after a few minutes, she murmured softly, “Mon Dieu, how terribly sad. What a waste.”
“Yes, it is. And I can’t help wondering why Sebastian would commit suicide when he was about to marry the love of his life.”
She stared at me in surprise. “He was? How do you know?”
“He told me,” I answered, and proceeded to repeat the conversation Sebastian and I had the day we lunched together in New York.
“You say he was euphoric that Monday,” Marie-Laure murmured thoughtfully, “Yet five days later, on Saturday night, he killed himself. It is obvious, is it not, Vivienne? Something must have happened during the course of that week, and whatever it was caused him to do this most terrible thing to himself.”
“Or he was murdered,” I said.
“You don’t mean that, do you?” She looked at me askance.
“Well, it’s a possibility, isn’t it? According to the autopsy report he was full of barbiturates and alcohol. But someone could have doctored his drinks—the way they make a Mickey Finn.”
“What is that? A Mickey Finn?” she asked, sounding puzzled.
“It is a combination of alcohol and chloral hydrate, and it usually knocks people out, makes them unconscious. It can also be poisonous.”
“So, you think Sebastian was given this . . . Mickey Finn?”
“No, no, you’re misunderstanding me, Marie-Laure,” I said quickly, and explained, “A Mickey Finn is not necessarily lethal, and anyway I was just using that as an example. What I’m trying to say is that he might have consumed a quantity of alcohol that had been tampered with, you know, laced with barbiturates.”
“Now I see what you are getting at. But who would want to do that? Who would want to murder Sebastian?”
“That’s the problem, I don’t really know,” I answered glumly. “Although he has antagonized a lot of people over the years, and even quite recently. He told me that himself the last time I saw him.”
“Who did he antagonize?” she asked.
“Mainly foreign governments. Or rather, members of foreign governments, people whom he suspected of being overly bureaucratic, who were slowing down his aid programs with what he considered to be their unnecessary red tape. Or those whom he believed to be corrupt. He just swept them to one side in that imperious way of his and plunged ahead, doing his own thing. In the process he performed innumerable miracles, of course. He may have been a bit of a maverick, and stubborn, independent, willful, and domineering, but he did get things done. And unlike anyone else ever has.”
“I understand what you’re saying, chérie. But surely you don’t really believe a foreign government would send somebody to kill Sebastian, do you?”
“I don’t know . . . Maybe. More peculiar things happen every day of the week. We certainly read about them in the papers, see a variety of bizarre incidents on the television news.”
“It would be a bit risky, I think,” Marie-Laure replied, nodding to herself. “After all, he was the world’s greatest philanthropist. One of the most prominent men alive today. His killer, or killers, would be condemned by the entire world.”
“Terrorists are condemned, but that doesn’t stop terrorism,” I pointed out. “And besides, killers have to be caught to be condemned.”
“Very true,” Marie-Laure agreed, and rose. She walked up and down the terrace at the back of the château, deep in thought.
I sat watching her, thinking what a truly good friend she had always been to me. When I had phoned her earlier, to say I wanted to come over to discuss a problem, she had dropped everything she was doing in order to receive me, to listen to me.
She was a small woman, diminutive really, and although she was forty she was like a young girl with her slender figure, dark, bobbed hair with bangs, and an exceptionally pretty face. She was also one of the most capable people I knew, running the château and its lands, which she had inherited from her father, being a supportive wife to Alexandre and a devoted mother to her two children, François and Chloe.
She and I had met thirteen years ago, when Sebastian and I were first working on the old mill, and we had taken to each other at once. And there had been times, over the years, when I had wondered what I would have done without her friendship.
Marie-Laure stopped pacing finally, came and sat down on the garden seat next to me. Staring into my face, she took hold of my hand, and said carefully, “I don’t believe Sebastian was murdered. I think you must accept the facts, accept the autopsy report, accept that he took his own life.”
“But he didn’t have any reason to do that,” I persisted quietly.
“Perhaps he did. How do you or I know? How does anyone know about another person, Vivienne? How do we know what goes on in someone else’s mind?” She shook her head, and went on, “We have no conception. There is one thing, Vivienne . . .”
“Yes?”
“Could it have had something to do with the woman he was in love with?”
“What do you mean exactly?”
“Maybe she broke off her engagement to him,” Marie-Laure suggested, her dark-brown eyes intent and alert as they fastened on mine.
“That’s a possibility, I suppose anything can happen in a relationship. But I don’t think she did that, no, no, no,” I answered.
“Don’t be so emphatic, chérie. Women have been known to change their minds. They do it all the time.”
“No woman in her right mind would dump Sebastian Locke!” I exclaimed.
“You did, Vivienne,” she retorted, throwing me a wise and knowing look.
“No I didn’t. We separated by mutual agreement . . . we loved each other, we just couldn’t live together. We were tempermentally unsuited.”
“Let us consider this,” Marie-Laure began. “The woman, who was younger than you, apparently, finds herself growing more and more nervous about the age difference between them. She gets . . . how do you say it . . . the cold feet, no? And so she ends their relationship.”
“All right, it could happen, I’ll grant you that. But even if she did break it off with him, he wouldn’t kill himself over it. Not Sebastian. I just know he wouldn’t. Honestly, it’s not a good enough reason for me, Marie-Laure, it really isn’t. Sebastian was tough and resilient. He had a strong character, and he had many things in his life which were of vital importance to him. His work at Locke Industries, the Locke Foundation, and all of the charities he was involved with. He was constantly traveling the world, dispensing aid. So many people depended on him, and he knew they did.”
“I was always aware that he took his responsibilities seriously. It was one of the things I’ve always admired about him,” she said.
I bit my lip, pondering, then endeavored to explain more fully to her. “Listen to me, Sebastian would never kill himself over a woman, no matter how much he loved her. He was far too sophisticated, too strong a man for that. Don’t forget, he never had any problems getting a woman. He had five wives altogether, including me. My mother was his mistress, and G
od knows how many other mistresses he had over the years. Furthermore, there’s no doubt in my mind that women were falling at his feet right up to the time of his death. That’s the kind of man he was. Women couldn’t resist him. And I can’t begin to tell you how fantastic he looked the day we had lunch earlier this month, better than ever. He was full of vitality and that fatal charm of his was wholly intact. He was irresistible, in fact.”
Marie-Laure nodded slowly. “What you say about him is true, I remember his charisma, his great sex appeal, and certainly you knew him better than anyone. So, I cannot argue, your reasoning is valid. Therefore it must have been something else which caused him to take that most fateful step.”
“Correct. But what could have pushed him over the edge?” I asked.
“I cannot even attempt to make a guess,” she answered. “I just do not know. However, what we both know is that it wasn’t a health problem, because the autopsy would have revealed any fatal disease. The police have done a thorough investigation and ruled out foul play, so we know that it was not murder. Anyway, chérie, that is too far-fetched an idea for me to even contemplate.”
“What you’re saying is that you believe he actually did kill himself. Am I correct, Marie-Laure?”
“Yes, you are. What other conclusion is there? We just don’t know why he did it, that’s all.”
Marie-Laure and I stared at each other. We were both at a loss.
Eventually, she said, “Let us admit it, chérie, we will never know the reason. The only person who could tell us is . . . dead.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Driving back to Vieux Moulin from the château, I replayed everything Marie-Laure had said, and as I did I began to feel much calmer.
My dear old friend usually made great sense and this afternoon had been no exception. I realized she had helped me to adjust to the fact that Sebastian must have killed himself. Very simply, there was no other explanation for his death. In the beginning, murder had crossed my mind but only fleetingly really; I had attributed his fatal collapse to natural causes, either a heart attack or a stroke. This was the reason I had been so shocked by Jack’s phone call. Suicide had been the farthest thing from my mind.
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