Eloping With Emmy

by Liz Fielding

  Then she turned towards the police station.

  CHAPTER NINE

  BRODIE was offered sincere apologies for any inconvenience he may have suffered, coffee and any possible assistance in that order. He accepted the apologies gracefully, assuring the officers that they had nothing to reproach themselves for.

  He declined the coffee, he had already had two cups while he was waiting for his bona fides to be confirmed. As for assistance, he wondered if it would be possible for the police to help him trace an Englishman residing somewhere in the region.

  It took no time at all to locate the whereabouts of Mr Christopher Fairfax, and furnish Brodie with his address. He was offered an escort to show him the way. He declined, assuring them that directions would be sufficient.

  He had managed to convince the police that the incident had been provoked by a lover’s quarrel that Emmy had taken a step too far. They had been amused, sympathetic and a donation to the police welfare fund had ensured that they would not pursue the matter. He didn’t want them present when he finally caught up with Emmy and Kit, or they might have cause to doubt his word.

  Then, as he turned away from the desk he was confronted by the most unexpected sight. Emerald Carlisle, her red curls glowing like a copper halo in the sunlight, walking up the steps of the police station.

  Some angel.

  Yet it was all he could do to prevent himself from going to her, wrapping her in his arm and telling her that it was all right. That he understood. Because he did understand. Not why she had done it, perhaps, but that she had been driven to it by desperation.

  ‘I thought you would be miles away by now,’ he said, keeping his distance.

  Emmy stopped uncertainly at the sound of his voice, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the change from the glare outside. Then she saw him, his face utterly without expression as he faced her. Relief flooded through her that he was free. She made a move towards him, wanting to fling her arms about him and beg him to forgive her. The rigidity of his posture stopped her. No. It would take more than a kiss this time to put things right.

  So she lifted her shoulders a touch awkwardly, attempted a wry smile. ‘Me too,’ she said. It would have been so easy to lie at that moment. To tell him that she had been so full of remorse about what she had done that she had turned back, unable to leave him to the terrible fate she had inflicted upon him. ‘And I would have been, but I had my pocket picked as I got off the bus.’

  ‘Really?’ He was cool. She could hardly blame him. ‘And have you come to report this heinous crime to the police? They are incredibly efficient. Believe me, I have first hand experience.’

  ‘Brodie—’ she began, then stopped. She would not plead with him to understand. ‘No.’ She pushed a damp curl back from her forehead. ‘No. I came to confess what I had done to the police and throw myself on your mercy but obviously you’ve managed to extricate yourself without my help—’

  ‘I have, with a little help from my friends. But I should warn you that I’m feeling a little short in the mercy department at the moment, Emerald.’ He regarded her with ill-disguised irritation. ‘Why didn’t you just phone Fairfax and ask him to come and fetch you?

  ‘The only number I have for him was in my diary. All that my youthful thief left me was my handkerchief.’

  ‘Perhaps he suspected that you would need it when I caught up with you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Brodie. Truly. I shouldn’t have done it.’ He made no move to meet her half way. ‘Was it dreadful?’

  ‘I’ve had better mornings,’ he said, moving towards the door, leaving her to choose whether to follow him or not. For a moment rebellion threatened, then Emmy turned and followed him. She had no choice. He glanced at her. ‘At least you had the sense to tell them the car was stolen. It took the police all of five minutes to call the rental agency and establish that was a lie. After that they were more inclined to believe me—’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  He stopped, turned and looked down at her. ‘That I am simply a hard-working solicitor trying his level best to keep a tiresome young woman out of trouble.’

  ‘Oh.’ And succeeding rather well, she thought. ‘Did they phone my father? To confirm your story,’ she added.

  ‘It wasn’t necessary. My office was able to reassure them that I wasn’t a kidnapper, or a stalker, or whatever story it was that you told them.’ Although how long it would take him to live it down when he got back did not bear thinking about. Jenny would have a field day. ‘And then, of course, Monsieur Girard was happy to confirm that he’d known me for at least ten years.’

  ‘I am sorry, Brodie. I just couldn’t think of any other way.’

  ‘Don’t keeping saying you’re sorry, Emerald. You’d do it again without a moment’s hesitation if you thought you could get away with the car.’

  She remembered the awful sick feeling as the police had closed in on him, as the bus pulled away from the scene when all she wanted to do was go to him. ‘No, Brodie, I wouldn’t—’

  ‘I realise that you’re getting desperate, Emerald. Perhaps it’s time you did me the courtesy of explaining what exactly you’re so desperate about? Over lunch?’ he offered. ‘Since you skipped breakfast.’

  His formality was chilling. The way he had started calling her Emerald. Well, what else had she expected? It could have been worse; it could have been Miss Carlisle. One thing was certain, he wasn’t about to hug her and tell her how glad he was to see her. Right now he was probably wishing he had never set eyes on her and she could hardly blame him.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but actually I’m not feeling very hungry.’

  ‘There’s no need to be pathetic, Emerald. I’m not going to beat you.’

  ‘I’m not being pathetic,’ she said, with a flash of fire. ‘I’m not hungry.’ And it was true. Her stomach was in knots of anguish. She climbed into the car and quickly wound down the window to let out the suffocatingly hot air. The musician on the other side of the square had stopped playing. He had packed away his violin and was picking the coins out of his hat. So much for her libation. Perhaps the gods had taken offence at the jetons, although surely even violinists must need to make phone calls. She turned to Brodie as he climbed in beside her. ‘And I never for a moment thought you would beat me.’ And then some tiny devil inside her prompted her to add, ‘Just put me over your knee.’ She tried the smallest of smiles. ‘Or something like that.’ No response. ‘Wasn’t that what you said?’

  His eyes darkened, dangerously. ‘Christ, Emmy—’ Then clearly regretting the outburst, said simply, ‘You would try the patience of a saint.’

  Satisfied that she had at least broken through the ice, she let loose her smile. ‘You’re no saint, Brodie, although I realise that you’ve been trying very hard to give that impression.’ Her reward was to see his fingers shaking, just a little, as he fitted the key to the ignition and started the engine. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘The police, in an effort to recompense me for the discomfort of the past hour or so, have gone out of their way to be helpful. Fortunately for both of us, they have managed to discover the whereabouts of Mr Fairfax. I think the sooner we go and talk to him, get this nonsense over with, the better. Don’t you?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to get to him ever since I climbed out of the nursery window, Brodie. But I promise you, it isn’t nonsense. If you’d only agreed to let me have a few minutes alone with him before you put my father’s proposition to him, I wouldn’t have run away this morning.’

  ‘Why?’ He turned briefly to look at her. ‘What are you going to promise him? Double whatever your father is prepared to pay to get rid of him?’

  Her face flamed. ‘Do you really think I’d do that?’ she exploded, angrily. ‘After Oliver?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’d do, Emmy. Whatever would most upset your father, I suspect.’

  ‘This isn’t anything to do with my father.’

  ‘Isn’t it? Aren’t you det
ermined to marry a man you know your father will disapprove of simply to spite him for the way he broke up your romance with Hayward?’

  ‘No!’ She was shocked that he could think such a thing. ‘It isn’t like that. Honestly.’

  ‘Honestly? Then why don’t you tell me what it is like?’ he suggested, rather more gently. ‘Maybe I can help.’

  ‘I can’t. And even if I did explain you wouldn’t be able to help. You couldn’t. Don’t you see, Brodie? I’m just trying to do my best for everybody.’

  ‘Then God help us all if you ever decided to do your worst.’

  She turned to face the road. ‘I really don’t want to talk about it any more.’

  He shrugged, swallowed a yawn. ‘Whatever you say.’ As they reached a crossroads he fished a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket and consulted it before turning left. ‘Are you any good at navigating?’ he asked, handing it to her.

  ‘You’d trust me?’

  ‘I’m simply assuming that you’re as tired of these games as I am.’ Another yawn crept up on him before he could catch it.

  ‘Are you all right, Brodie?’ Emmy asked, anxiously as she noticed the dark hollows beneath his eyes. ‘Do you want me to drive?’

  ‘No, I don’t want you to drive,’ he snapped, ‘I want you to navigate.’

  ‘Your halo is slipping,’ she said, but he didn’t pick up on the prompt to return to their easy relationship and giving up, she consulted the sheet of paper. ‘This is written in French.’

  ‘That’s because it was written by a Frenchman. Didn’t they teach the language at your school?’

  ‘They must have done. I just don’t seem to recall any of the lessons. I think we turn left just up here.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Left, definitely.’

  ‘So long as you’re sure,’ he said, with heavy irony.

  ‘There should be a signpost.’ There was. Vindicated she made a little bow.

  ‘Don’t get carried away, Emmy. We’ve miles to go yet.’

  ‘Kilometres,’ she corrected. ‘How many?’

  ‘You’ve got the directions, work it out for yourself.’ He glanced at her. ‘Are you beginning to wish you’d taken me up of my offer of lunch?’

  ‘We could stop in the village,’ she said, hopefully. ‘I know there’s a café there. It’s where I leave messages for Kit.’

  ‘Did you leave one the night we stayed at my flat?’

  ‘Only to say that I was on my way. He won’t have got it unless he’s gone into the village for supplies. Perhaps we should stop there anyway and check whether he’s left a message for me.’

  ‘He seems a somewhat tepid lover.’ She didn’t reply. ‘Don’t worry, Emmy, I won’t let you starve. I didn’t have much breakfast myself. And I could do with something long and cold.’ He wiped his sleeve across his forehead and peered up at the sky. It had lost that clear deep blue and was now murky and threatening.

  They drove on for a while through rugged hills, woods and mellow, rolling farmland splashed with russets and sharp greens. And always in the distance, first ahead of them, then shifting to the right as the road veered away, was the evocative marbled ridge of Montagne Ste-Victoire.

  It was early afternoon by the time they pulled up in front of a small café in the village square. It had to be the one — there was only one — and they went inside to get away from the relentless heat. Brodie asked for two citron pressés and a large bottle of Perrier.

  Emmy left the talking to him. She was just too hot, too exhausted to even think about Kit.

  ‘The patron is asking his wife to make us a couple of omelettes,’ he said, joining her at a table.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Fairfax hasn’t been here for a week.’

  ‘Great.’ She put her head down on her arms. ‘Is it always this hot?’

  ‘I think it’s probably building up to a storm.’ She groaned. ‘Don’t tell me, you’re scared of thunder.’

  She managed a grin from beneath her curls. ‘I had a series of perfectly bloody nannies, Brodie, each of whom made a point of passing on her own particular neurosis. But actually it’s not thunder that bothers me. At least, not much. It’s lightning. Nanny number six hundred and thirty-two knew someone who had been struck by it.’ She sat up and drew a finger dramatically across her throat. ‘Fried to a crisp.’

  Brodie regarded her doubtfully. ‘That’s quite a line in bedtime stories.’

  ‘It certainly makes Beatrix Potter appear rather tame,’ she agreed, ‘although I seem to remember one about a Fierce Bad Rabbit who was blasted by a hunter with a shotgun. Only his tail and whiskers were left.’

  ‘You’re kidding me?’

  ‘No, I swear it. Her stories weren’t all sweet and innocent you know. Just look what happened to Peter Rabbit’s father.’

  Brodie who had been spared these bloodthirsty tales as an infant, was curious. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He was put into a pie by Mrs McGregor. Oh, look here comes our food.’ Omelettes, salad, bread and a bowl of local olives were spread on the table. ‘It looks wonderful.’

  Brodie spoke to the patron. Emmy, her ears becoming attuned to the language picked up a little of what was said. ‘Is there going to be storm,’ she asked.

  ‘There’s one forecast, but apparently it’s been promised for days so he’s not holding his breath.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I’m a lawyer, Emmy, forecasting the weather is as much a mystery to me as it seems to be to the meteorologists. But I don’t think we’ll linger over this.’ He picked up a fork and broke his omelette.

  ‘That’s reassuring,’ Emmy said, following suit.

  ‘If you’ve got a better plan I’m perfectly happy to listen to it.’

  ‘No. We’ve come this far, we might as well get it over with.’ She reached for the pepper grinder.

  Brodie beat her to it, catching her hand. ‘What happened to your engagement ring, Emmy?’

  ‘It was picked, along with my money and my diary,’ she said, flippantly.

  ‘From your finger?’ he asked, concerned, and was surprised to see the faint flush of colour rise to her cheeks.

  ‘No, it was a bit loose, I put it in my pocket.’

  ‘You must have been distraught when you realised it was gone,’ he said, evenly. ‘You really should have reported it to the police or your insurance company might be difficult about covering the loss.’

  ‘I hadn’t got around to insuring it,’ she mumbled.

  It was doubtful if her insurance company would have believed her if she had, he thought. Women like Emerald Carlisle wore diamonds worth thousands of pounds. Or in Miss Carlisle’s case surely an emerald would have been the stone of choice? An emerald flanked with diamonds. She certainly didn’t seem to be desperately upset at the loss of the ring Kit Fairfax had given her. And he was quite certain that no matter how tiny it was, she would have been distraught to lose a ring given her as a promise of love.

  ‘Finished? Can I get you anything else?’

  ‘No. I just need to go and freshen up, I won’t be a moment.’

  ‘Take as long as you like, Emmy. But if you decide to do a disappearing trick I’ll turn around and drive straight back to Marseilles. And the car is locked if you were thinking you might get away with your bags.’

  ‘I wasn’t. There wouldn’t be any point. You know where Kit is now, Brodie and you’d get there before me. I know when I’m beaten.’

  He watched her as she turned and walked away. Did she? Really? Somehow he doubted that. Half a chance, less, was all she’d need and he’d be the one left to find his own way home.

  He took out his mobile and dialled Mark Reed. ‘There’s no need to spend any more time on this case, Mark, I’ve found out where Kit Fairfax is staying.’

  ‘Staying is right. Apparently his father, a Frenchman by the name of Savarin, died recently and young Mr Fairfax has inherited his farmhouse, a vineyard and an olive grove as
well as some very nice property on the coast. All in the nick of time, apparently, because the lease on that studio of his was about to run out.’

  Something prickled at the back of Brodie’s mind. ‘Why didn’t he ask his father for help with that?’

  ‘Apparently they hadn’t spoken for years. The father walked out on the mother — a common enough story — and when his mother reverted to her own name, Fairfax, the boy did too.’

  ‘The son refused to acknowledge the father, but under French law the father couldn’t disinherit his son.’

  ‘So I understand. Maybe the Hon Gerald won’t be quite so disappointed with his daughter’s choice after all. I wonder why she didn’t tell him?’

  ‘Who knows? Maybe she just wanted her father to accept the man she loved, no matter how unsuitable he seems. Thanks for your help, Mark. I won’t forget it.’

  ‘Neither will the Hon Gerald. My bill for services rendered promises to be memorable.’

  Brodie stared out through the café door, but seeing nothing. Something Mark Reed had said had been important. He pressed his fingers against his eyes, rubbing them hard. If only he wasn’t so damned tired.

  ‘I’m ready, Brodie.’

  He looked up to see Emmy standing in front of him. ‘Oh, right. Let’s go then.’ He paid the patron and led the way out of the café.

  They had turned off the narrow paved road that led from the village and had been climbing steadily for about twenty minutes along a country track carved into the hillside, its sandstone slabs worn away by cart wheels, when the first fat raindrop splashed on the windscreen, starring the dust.

  ‘How much further?’ Emmy asked, nervously, peering up through the windscreen at a sky that had seemed to have darkened in seconds. A few sheep grazing on the hillside above them began to shift nervously, moving into a huddle around a little stone shelter.

  ‘You’ve got the instructions,’ he reminded her. ‘But once we’re on the other side of the hill we should be able to see the farm.’ He hoped.

  He used the washers on the windscreen and for a moment or two nothing happened. Then without warning the rain began to fall in a sudden torrent cutting visibility to practically nil as the weather closed in and the wipers struggled to keep up with the downpour.