My arm was gripped by a strong male hand, and I was hauled back onto the pavement. I turned to protest and found I was face to face with Gervaise Duvillard. He was out of breath, as if he’d been walking much too fast, and beads of sweat were running down his forehead.
“Ha ... hallo, Tess. I noticed you back in Duke Street... but you walk so quickly Where is the fire, as they say.”
“Sorry, but I can’t stop and talk now.” I glanced round again, frantically searching for Luke Webster among the crowds, and thought I could pick him out further along by the Clock Tower. “There’s somebody over there that I’ve just got to talk to,” I explained, trying to break free. But Gervaise held on even tighter.
“Do not be foolish, my child. It is madness to dash across a busy road in this excited state. You must wait for the lights to change. What can be of such vital importance, in any case?”
“It’s just... oh, nothing. It doesn’t matter.” I knew that by now I’d lost any chance of catching up with Webster; there were several different directions he could have taken. “I’ve just popped out for a few minutes to do some shopping in Churchill Square,” I added, with a smile to cover my fury.
“Then, I shall accompany you. Now, you observe, we may cross in perfect safety.” He gave a shrug of amusement. “One needs only a soupçon of patience, but you young people have none whatever.”
As we crossed the road Gervaise still held my arm, but lightly now as if to guide me, and I was struck again by his agility.
Then, with a sudden flurry of unease, I wondered if he had been deliberately following me to keep an eye on me. And had he spotted Luke Webster on the opposite side of the road (Pearl knew him, so why not Gervaise, too?) and made it his business to prevent me from going after him?
There was definitely something about Gervaise that I didn’t trust. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I realised now that from his first visit, two days ago, I’d had this feeling. It seemed as if his outward show of friendliness was only a mask, from behind which he watched me impassively, testing my reactions.
My mind began to run riot, stitching a fantastic embroidery. Was Gervaise Duvillard’s antagonism towards Pearl only pretended? And the approval he’d expressed about me taking over my uncle’s shop, was that another false face? Could it even be that he was the mysterious bidder for Pennicott’s Emporium?
Giving his bland profile a sidelong glance, I decided that Gervaise could well be a devious man. Uncle Maynard’s loyal and devoted friend? Had he truly been that? I wondered, just as I wondered about the genuineness of Pearl’s devotion. Had my uncle’s sudden death truly come as a grievous blow to each of them, or had it in fact been very convenient-until I appeared on the scene? And Miss Willoughby’s fata! accident, and the disappearance from her cottage of what was almost certainly the October Cabaret... where did they fit in?
Gervaise Duvillard, Pearl Ratcliffe, Luke Webster. Even Peter Kemp. Was the connection between them closer than I had imagined? I felt encircled by these people in my uncle’s life; I felt menaced by them.
When we reached the far kerb Gervaise released my arm and placed his hand on my back in a protective gesture. Yet the pressure of those strong splayed fingers took my thoughts winging back forty-eight hours to when I’d been sent sprawling into the path of an approaching car.
With a little shudder I moved away from Gervaise, and I kept my distance as we climbed the steps to the shopping precinct.
Gervaise said conversationally, “May I hope that over the weekend you will accept my invitation to dine at the bistro?”
“I... I’m not sure about tonight or tomorrow,” I told him. “I’m not at all sure of my plans.”
“But you will come soon?”
“Yes, of course.” Anything to be rid of him. “Gervaise, I’m afraid I’m in a tearing hurry. The Emporium is closed until I get back. So if you don’t mind ...”
“You wish not to be hampered by a fat old man?” He chuckled. “I understand, my child. I will leave you to proceed with your shopping.”
But when, after a hurried dash from shelf to shelf at the supermarket, I emerged into the sunshine again, I noticed his dumpy figure on one of the seats, half-concealed by the column of Aztec-style sculpture. He was nicely positioned to keep the supermarket’s doors in view. I didn’t acknowledge that I’d seen him, nor he me, but I had an uneasy feeling—though I couldn’t be certain when I glanced round to check—that he kept me under observation until I was back at Pennicott’s.
+++
Pearl and her husband lived at Rottingdean, in a fold of the Downs three miles or so from Brighton. Ben took the high coast road, driving past Roedean School, where the daughters of the rich, Uncle Maynard had once scoffed, were battle-trained for the tough life of the privileged classes.
In the past hour or so the fine weather had broken. Heavy dark clouds now masked the sky, bringing an early dusk, and a steady drizzle of rain was keeping people indoors. The village, when we reached it, seemed deserted, doors and windows firmly closed and in many instances curtains already drawn.
Ben quoted, “Five and twenty ponies, trotting through the dark. Brandy for the parson, baccy for the clerk.”
“What prompted that?”
“Kipling had a house in Rottingdean at one time. Smuggling was the chief trade hereabouts in the old days, and on a murky evening like this you can easily imagine all sorts of wicked goings on, with no questions asked.”
I shivered into the softness of my crochet-lace shawl. “What questions are we going to ask Pearl? We haven’t really talked about it.”
He turned left at the crossroads. “From what you say, she sounds a tricky sort. I suggest you drop Luke Webster’s name into the conversation and we’ll see if it makes waves.”
“I saw him this afternoon.” My voice was the merest whisper, but Ben heard me all right. He braked so fiercely that the rear wheels slid on the wet surface. Swearing, he pulled up at the side of the road.
“What did you say, Tess?”
“I saw Luke Webster. Or at least, I believe it was him ... crossing the road by the Clock Tower when I was out shopping.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me before? Did he see you? Did you go after him? What happened?”
I looked at him miserably, shrinking inside. “Nothing happened, really. I don’t think that he saw me... I’m fairly sure he didn’t. I ought to have told you, Ben, only ... oh, I don’t know, it all sounds so crazy now. But this afternoon I got myself worked up into a right old panic, and I thought you’d tell me off for being stupid.”
His hands shot out and gripped me by the shoulders, but more gently than I deserved. He drew me close, and I was comforted by the warm feel of him.
“Come on, Tess ... out with it.”
“I have been stupid, I realise that.” I told him everything then, all my fancies and my fears, trying to be succinct, though it must have come out as a disjointed babble. Ben listened without interrupting. “So now you know,” I finished, “what an emotional, neurotic sort of person I am.”
“Emotional, I agree. Neurotic you are emphatically not.” He mused for a moment or two. “Gervaise Duvillard? I wonder.” I felt his shrug. “Well, anything’s possible. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea for us to eat at his bistro later on. Agreed?”
I couldn’t help the shudder I gave. “What are we up against, Ben?”
“We won’t know if we don’t do some digging. Maybe the Frenchman is as innocent as he pretends, well-intentioned and a good friend of your uncle’s. And then again, maybe he isn’t.”
“I’m sorry about letting Luke get away, Ben.”
“You couldn’t help it, love. There’s some gain to chalk up if the incident gave you a clue about Gervaise Duvillard.”
“It’s not based on anything, really, only just my intuition,” I said uneasily.
“Maybe—but I wouldn’t knock a woman’s intuition.” He gave me a feather-light kiss on the cheek. “Shall we go now, and se
e where we get with Pearl?”
The Ratcliffe residence wasn’t new, wasn’t old ... solid, double-fronted, the curving gravelled drive flanked by a hedge of laurel which, unimaginatively, gave the house its name. Brass carriage lamps on either side of the front door beamed out a generous light that Ben and I could hardly interpret as a welcome. The rain was falling more heavily now, but we were sheltered by the canopied porch as he rang the bell.
“You’re not nervous, are you, Tess?”
“Not nervous,” I said, “Scared stiff.”
“Don’t be. I’m here.”
The front door was opened by an elderly man in a well-tailored dark suit. Thin, grey-haired, with a small clipped beard, he’d have been tall if he hadn’t been stoop-shouldered. His eyes too were grey, a pale cold grey.
Ben prodded me, and I sprang into action. “Oh, good evening. I expect you’re Mr. Ratcliffe?”
He inclined his head courteously, conceding nothing more.
“I’m Tess Pennicott,” I dashed on. “No doubt your wife has told you about me ... the antique shop?”
“Indeed she has, Miss Pennicott. Did you wish to see her?”
“Well, it’s just... we were in Rottingdean—this is Ben Wyland, by the way-and I realised we were passing right by your home. So we thought we’d just drop in to say hallo.”
Ben bounced forward, his hand outstretched. It was accepted with a reluctance barely concealed. Thin lips curved in a humorless smile. “Come in, won’t you, and I’ll tell Pearl you’re here. She’s busy in the kitchen at the moment.”
The coward in me grasped at this straw. “If it isn’t a convenient time...”
“Not at all. I won’t be a moment.”
Nothing so vulgar as giving her a shout. He crossed the large and well-appointed hall at a measured pace, opened a door and disappeared, closing it carefully behind him. There was no sound of voices.
“I wonder how she’s taking the news,” said Ben, his mouth twitching.
“I wonder.” But I didn’t want to talk. I needed to concentrate on gathering the courage to face Pearl.
I glanced around the hall. No antiques here, I noted, but good, solid, traditional sort of furniture that belonged to no particular period nor region. Not Pearl’s style at all—her choice would be more individual and elegant, a touch flamboyant. So it was his home, come to Pearl through marrying him. Sacred, maybe, to his first wife’s memory.
She emerged so silently that she caught me unawares.
“Well, Tess, this is a surprise.” Not a pleasant surprise she made clear with an exactitude of bitchiness in that mellow voice, which was her forte. If she had been cooking, there was no sign of it about her. She wore a cocktail-hour dress of emerald silk that perfectly contrasted with her dark-chestnut hair. The amber-coloured eyes were watchful.
“I don’t think you know Ben Wyland,” I said brightly.
“No, we’ve not met. How do you do?”
Ben launched into the spiel again as they shook hands. “We were just passing, Mrs. Ratcliffe, and Tess thought...”
“So Charles explained.” She cast a glance at her husband, and when she added to us, “Perhaps we can offer you something to drink?” It sounded almost as if she was asking his permission.
We all trooped into the lounge, a wide room with a big curving window curtained with floor-length damask in a design of cream and green. It echoed the hall in being tasteful without taste. Charles Ratcliffe crossed several yards of beige carpet to the drinks cabinet and enquired what we would like.
It was very apparent that Pearl did not queen it at home, as she tried to do at the shop. She had to watch her step a little. I guessed she must be on tenterhooks now that I’d let slip something indiscreet about her relationship with Uncle Maynard. If Charles Ratcliffe, respectable and respected pillar of society, got wind of that, there’d no doubt be ructions.
What precisely would he do, I wondered, and then my thoughts went flying helter-skelter to a situation where a jealous husband had stumbled upon the truth just before my uncle’s death ... no, this was crazy! I was ready to see dark menace from every unlikely direction. Pillars of society didn’t act like that. Charles Ratcliffe looked a cold, wintry sort of man, devoid of passion, devoid of anything as undisciplined as a gut reaction.
Yet a cold man might be more dangerous than a hot-tempered one. A cold man might be capable of a crime which called for ruthless planning and meticulous execution. At once I tried to make nonsense of these wild lunges of imagination by taking into account the old lady of Malt House Cottage. Where could Ruth Willoughby be fitted in? And the October Cabaret?
I became aware of a hiatus in the room. They were all looking in my direction. Ben gave a little cough as a hint that the conversational leads had better come from me rather than from him.
I stammered, “When we get back to Brighton, Ben and I thought we’d eat at L’Oiseau Bistro.”
Charles Ratcliffe nodded. “You’ve been there, haven’t you, Pearl?”
“Have I?”
“Several times, surely, for lunch? You mentioned that the food is above average.”
“Oh, yes.”
It was obvious that she didn’t want to talk about L’Oiseau, so that’s what I did.
“I understand they go in for good, unpretentious French provincial cooking,” I said, avoiding Ben’s eye. “I’m looking forward to it. The owner, Gervaise Duvillard, was a close friend of my uncle’s.”
“Yes, I believe so,” said Pearl, and wrenched us away on a different tack. “Tell me, how did you two come to meet one another?”
“Quite literally,” said Ben, “I ran into Tess-or almost. She was waiting to cross the road at the lights, and some clumsy oaf sent her sprawling under the wheels of my car. But no harm was done, thank heaven, and it was a happy reunion. We knew each other when she was in Brighton six years ago.”
There were the expected noises of horror, of surprise, of polite interest, but I could detect no significant reaction from either of the Ratcliffes. Perhaps, though, there was a slight fraying in Pearl’s voice as she enquired, “When did this occur?”
“The morning after I arrived,” I told her. “You remember... when you called in to see me you suggested that I took the chance to slip out and see to a few odds and ends while you stayed and looked after the shop. It was just after I left Vera Catchpole’s house that it happened.”
“You mentioned nothing of this to me,” she said, with narrowed eyes.
I seized the cue she’d unwittingly handed me. “That was because when I got back you were deep in argument with that chap with the Afro hairstyle.” I paused fractionally. “Luke Webster.”
Watching the shockwave pass through her, I felt a sense of triumph. Her husband had observed it too.
“Who was this, Pearl?” he asked, and there was deep suspicion in his voice.
“I have no idea, Charles.” She creased her forehead, as if making an effort to recall an entirely trivial incident. “Oh yes, I seem to remember him now. He wanted to be shown everything in the shop, yet it was patently obvious that he had no intention of buying. I told him to clear out.”
“But Miss Pennicott knows this fellow’s name.”
“He works at the Regency Wine Stores,” I put in. “He’s their delivery man.”
“Really? Then one would have thought he had something better to do with his time than waste mine.” Pearl slid her glass onto a low wine table, and rose to her feet. “I’m so sorry, but I left things at rather a vital moment in the kitchen. If you’ll excuse me ...”
Ben finished his drink and rose too, and I followed suit.
“We must apologise for interrupting you, Mrs. Ratcliffe,” he said, with his most winning, smile. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you both, and perhaps another time we might...”
Husband and wife both made unconvincing noises of assent. Within thirty seconds Ben and I were outside in the falling rain. Charles Ratcliffe remained at the front door until we wer
e in the car, but he didn’t wait there to see us drive off. Questions to put to Pearl? I’d dearly have liked to be a fly on her kitchen wall.
“Well, have we got ourselves any answers?” I asked Ben. “Pearl jumped nearly a foot in the air when I mentioned Luke Webster’s name, but are we really any further forward?”
We were driving past the Rottingdean pond, and reflections shivered on the dark surface of the water.
“I’ve got a feeling,” he said thoughtfully, “that the next move will come from the Ratcliffes. One or other of them.”
Chapter Eleven
L’Oiseau Bistro had been revamped since I’d last been here six years ago. The decor still aimed at a sort of upmarket French peasant style ... half curtains at the windows hung from poles on big brass rings, scrubbed tables with hand-woven chequered place mats, and the obligatory candles stuck into wine bottles. But now there was an extra gloss, to justify, I saw when I glanced at the two square feet of menu, the new-look price range.
Ben and I had ordered before we saw any sign of Gervaise. He appeared from the kitchen, a rotund figure in chef’s regalia, to do the round of his customers. When he spotted me, he came over at once, the permanent smile stretched into a welcoming beam.
“Tess, chèrie, how charming that you come this evening. But you should have sent word through that you were here, and I would have prepared one of my spécialtiés for you.” His podgy hands wove extravagant gestures in the air. Here in the restaurant Gervaise played the Frenchman with gusto, his usual command of English gone and his accent decidedly thicker. “But I shall do so anyway. Zelie, ma petite,” he called over to our waitress, “cancel this order and I will personally attend. And vite, bring a bottle of my special champagne.”
“Please no, Gervaise,” I protested, embarrassed. “It’s just that Ben and I thought...”
“Pff! The two of you will be my honoured guests. Now, ma chère, introduce me to your friend, s’il vous plaît look at Ben, “But your face, Mr. Wyland, it seems familiar to me.”
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