by Kathy Shuker
‘Possibly.’
‘It’s a very insecure profession, isn’t it?’ Grace smiled. ‘I wondered if we could have a chat some time?’
‘And that would be about?’
Grace glanced round and dropped her voice. ‘It occurred to me that an insight into the workings of a professional artist’s studio could make an interesting article. Peter’s especially.’ She brandished the catalogue. ‘I see that you can write. It could be a lucrative assignment.’
‘I see. I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. I’m not interested. Excuse me.’
People were starting to leave and Terri moved away, searching everywhere for Luc. It was important that she speak to him; she had to apologise, seriously apologise. She negotiated more compliments and enquires and managed to check all three rooms of the exhibition. There was no sign of Luc anywhere. She found Lindsey and Thierry together near the doors and asked them if they’d seen him.
‘He’s gone,’ said Lindsey. ‘I saw him slip out a few minutes ago.’
*
The clearing in the woods was deserted when Terri walked there late the next morning. The door of the bergerie was closed and there were no lights; she knocked but got no answer and turned away. She should have come earlier but it had been nearly three by the time she’d got to bed that morning and she’d overslept. Now she’d missed him and her carefully rehearsed apology would have to wait. Would he come to her leaving party that night? She doubted it. Maybe he’d gone away, determined not to see her again before she left. With her suspicions, distrust and allegations she’d ruined everything. She couldn’t blame Luc; she’d been an idiot.
There was a clear blue sky; it was pleasant and warm but Terri was in no mood to linger and she returned to her room. There were things to sort out; she should start packing. Fleetingly, she considered calling at the pigeonnier. She had neither seen nor heard from Peter’s sister since seeking her out under the cherry tree, and Celia hadn’t come to the exhibition preview, apparently unwell and unable to face the journey. ‘Food poisoning,’ Peter had declared roundly. ‘Hardly surprising; she eats some very strange things.’ But, increasingly, Terri thought chasing after Basma was a fruitless exercise anyway. With hindsight, she wished she had not been so quick to involve Celia.
Barely ten minutes later she was pushing note pads into a bag when she heard a light rapping on the patio doors and, quickly looking up, saw Celia standing outside, gesticulating at the lock and quickly glancing around behind her. Terri let her in and pushed the door to, automatically looking out herself across the terraced gardens.
‘Are you all right?’ said Terri.
‘Yes, yes, dear. A bit weak is all. Something disagreed with me. A bad mushroom perhaps. I pick them in the woods, you know. I don’t suppose you’ve got any brandy have you? No? Well, not to worry.’
‘Tea?’
Celia gave a pained expression and shook her head.
‘I’ve found out where Basma is,’ she said in a stage whisper, glancing towards the patio doors before continuing. ‘She’s working as a housekeeper at a hotel in St. Rémy-de-Provence. She’s married now. Finishes work around three-thirty usually. I can tell you how to find it.’ She grinned broadly. ‘This cloak and dagger stuff is exciting isn’t it? Have you got a map?’ She surveyed the room. ‘Have you really been living like this for six months dear? It’s so spartan.’
*
The hotel stood on the outskirts of St. Rémy de Provence, a cream-painted rendered building set back off the road in large leafy gardens. A broad gateway in the walled perimeter gave access to a car park, dotted with olive trees. Terri drew the car to a halt and glanced at her watch: it was twenty past three. She turned off the engine and glanced around. Though not exactly deserted – there were a handful of cars parked – the place was uncomfortably quiet. Sure that her very presence looked suspicious, she thought she stood out like an adult in a children’s playground. She fingered the ring in the pocket of her jacket, checking it was still there, got out of the car and made her way across to reception.
The girl behind the desk, olive-skinned with short, dark hair, dragged her eyes from a computer screen and smiled a welcome. Terri explained that she was looking for a Basma Chabanas whom she believed worked at the hotel.
‘Is she working today?’ Terri asked.
The girl studied her a moment, frowning, then tapped at her keyboard, glancing up at the screen. She turned back to Terri.
‘Yes, she’s working. Is there a problem?’
‘No. No problem. I was simply hoping to speak to her when she finishes. Will that be soon?’
‘Yes...probably. They should be back with the keys before long.’ The girl still regarded her suspiciously. ‘Please take a seat.’
Terri said she preferred to wait outside. She couldn’t imagine making her approach under the watchful gaze of the receptionist, and Basma was sure to pass that way - it was the nearest way through to both the road and the car park. She slipped out into the sunshine and perched on a low stone wall which gave her a view through the glass doors of the entrance straight into reception.
Each minute felt like an hour. Terri kept glancing at her watch. She had to be back at Le Chant for the party at seven-thirty and it was a good hour’s drive from St. Rémy. Three-thirty came and went. Three forty-five. Three fifty-five. Perhaps Basma had used another exit after all. But she hadn’t returned the keys to reception so hopefully she was changing out of her work clothes ready to go home. Terri decided to give it another ten minutes; she got up and began pacing up and down. A couple approached the door, suitcase in tow, and went into register. They were still at the desk when Terri saw two women cross the entrance hall. One of them stepped behind the desk and exchanged a few words with the receptionist before they both walked outside. The taller, broader woman was fair with dyed blonde hair. The smaller woman was slight, her dark hair peppered with grey, her skin the colour of pale cinnamon. Terri took a couple of steps towards them.
‘Basma Chabanas?’ she said uncertainly, her gaze settling on the smaller of the two women.
‘Oui,’ Basma had large, soft eyes and a nervous smile, quickly replaced by watchful mistrust. The lines on her face suggested that she often frowned. ‘What do you want?’ she asked in French.
‘Could I have a word?’
The blonde woman quickly said her farewells and left, walking away towards the car park.
‘I don’t know you do I?’ Basma pulled the strap of her bag higher onto her shoulder as if about to leave.
Terri hesitated. She had one chance here to persuade Basma to talk to her.
‘No, you don’t know me. I’ve been working at Le Chant du Mistral, curating an exhibition for Peter Stedding. In the course of my research, I found out that you were friendly with his daughter, Josie, and I want to know more about her. I wondered if you would be prepared to talk to me about your time there?’
Terri felt as though she were holding her breath. It had sounded so much better when she’d rehearsed the words in the car on the way. And now an expression of fear had indeed formed on Basma’s care-worn features; she was already backing off.
‘I promise I won’t pass on anything you don’t want me to,’ Terri added hastily. ‘Look...’ She fumbled in her pocket and withdrew the ring. It was a gold hoop, asymmetrically set with aquamarines, which Celia had prised from her finger, insisting that Terri took it with her. All those years ago, in the grounds of Peter’s estate, Basma had apparently admired the ring and Celia had joked that she would leave it to her in her will. It would be a gesture of faith, she’d said, for she had always got on well with the girl. Now Terri held it out for Basma to see. ‘...Celia told me to bring this to prove I meant no harm. She said she promised she would leave it to you in her will. Do you remember the ring?’ She held it out on the flat of her hand within Basma’s reach.
Basma glanced at it and nodded warily. ‘Did Monsieur Stedding send you?’
‘No. This was my idea,
honestly. It’s a long story but I’ll explain if you’ll let me.’
Basma’s dark eyes flicked behind Terri as if someone else might be hiding there.
‘I’m alone,’ said Terri. ‘Completely alone. I promise. Could I buy you a drink somewhere? A coffee? Something cold? Then I could explain to you what I want to know and why. If you don’t believe me, you don’t have to say anything. I’ll go and that’s the end of it.’
She waited. Basma was staring at her, expressionless. Eventually, she nodded.
‘There is a café over there,’ she said, and led the way with short brisk steps.
The café-bar was set back off the road with a terrace of tables in front. Basma chose a table on the edge of the terrace, pushed in beside a trough of box hedging, and they both sat, neither speaking until the order had been taken. Terri was aware of Basma scrutinising her face. The waiter returned with an espresso for Basma and a Perrier for Terri and they both watched his receding figure.
‘Where are you from?’ asked Basma.
‘England.’
Terri poured the fizzing water over the ice in her glass and replaced the bottle on the table. She raised her head and met Basma’s gaze.
‘Six months ago,’ she began, ‘I came to Le Chant du Mistral to work as a curator for an exhibition by Peter Stedding. I’d never been to Provence before. As far as I was concerned it was just a job – and a way to get away from a man who was causing me trouble. But Celia said I bore a surprising resemblance to Peter’s first wife. She implied that there might be a connection between me and the family.
‘I thought it was an absurd idea. But my own mother died young and she was always a mystery to me so I tried to find out more. I already knew that Peter’s first wife had died in childbirth. It was only a matter of time before I then heard about how his son Tom had accidentally drowned and his elder sister had killed herself soon afterwards...or perhaps run away. Apparently she was pregnant at the time.’ Terri paused. Basma was looking down now, vigorously stirring sugar into her coffee. ‘I may have been the child she was carrying.’
Basma said nothing.
‘Anyway, it seems a lot of people don’t think Tom’s death was an accident at all; they think Josephine killed her brother. So I wondered what you knew about it. It’s important to me. You see, in her diary, Josie says that she wasn’t there when the accident happened.’
Basma looked up sharply, eyes wide. ‘She kept a diary? What else does she say?’
‘She says she went to see a doctor in Ste. Marguerite and when she got back Tom was alone. He was dead in the pool.’
‘She said I killed him?’
‘No,’ said Terri quickly. ‘No. She said she was sure you wouldn’t have hurt him.’
‘She said that? In her diary? Have you got it here?’
Terri shook her head. Still uncertain where she stood in this conversation; she wasn’t prepared to hand over a diary she wasn’t supposed to have to a woman she didn’t know.
Basma’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you recording this conversation?’ she demanded suddenly.
‘No, certainly not.’
‘Prove it.’
Terri emptied out her pockets. She stood up, turned round and showed Basma the inside of the cotton jacket which she had thrown over the back of her chair. The woman looked satisfied.
‘Who else has seen this diary?’ she asked.
‘No-one. I haven’t shown it to anyone. Look, I just want to know what happened. Josie says she left you to look after the boy while she went to the doctor. What happened after she’d gone? Was there someone else there?’
‘I did not hurt him,’ said Basma emphatically. ‘But it’s a long time ago. I’ve been many places since then, done many things. I’m not sure what happened now.’
‘Really? I’d have thought it was a day you’d always remember. Tom liked you and Celia said you were good with him. I thought maybe you liked him too.’
The aggression faded from Basma’s face to be replaced by an expression of profound sadness. She sat back in her chair and stared towards the chalky outlines of the Alpilles hills as if trying to come to a decision. Terri said nothing, and waited.
‘You think Josie was your mother?’
‘Yes. It’s possible.’
Basma studied her again, perhaps assessing her features for a likeness.
‘And what will you do when you find out what happened?’ she asked.
Terri shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Nothing. It’s for me. I just want to know.’
‘Perhaps it would be better if you don’t know. For if you know you have to carry the knowledge with you...forever.’
‘Josie didn’t want to tell anyone that she’d left Tom with you because she didn’t want to get you into trouble. So she was blamed.’ Terri leaned forward, passionate suddenly, angry. ‘My mother killed herself when I was a child. I want to know why. I want to know what happened.’
Basma continued to consider her thoughtfully.
‘It’s true,’ she said slowly. ‘I did like Tom. He was a good boy. And I liked Josie too, though she was more serious...she was an emotional girl. But you have to understand: I am Algerian. I did my work. I kept out of trouble. It was very important for me that I didn’t attract trouble.’ She paused, chin raised defiantly. ‘I came here illegally, you see. No papers. I have them now, but not then. I had no position. No-one would believe me. It was a very difficult situation.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘Can you?’ Basma shook her head, smiling ruefully. ‘I doubt it. How would you understand? It’s not always easy now. Then it was much harder.’ She drank her coffee, finishing it in one gulp. Again she looked poised to go.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ said Terri. ‘How could I understand? So tell me what it was like. Help me to understand.’
Basma watched her, unblinking. ‘Sami is still there?’
‘Sami? Yes. Why?’
‘Does he know you’re here?’
‘No. Only Celia knows.’
‘So he doesn’t know about the diary?’
Terri shook her head. ‘No. I didn’t tell him. Are you scared of Sami? Was he there, that afternoon?’
‘Sami is always there. And he’s been at the house for many, many years. Monsieur Stedding is very good to him.’
‘Wasn’t he good to you?’
‘I hadn’t been there that long when the boy died.’
‘I don’t see what you mean.’
Basma leaned forward suddenly, rested her elbows on the table and pushed her face close towards Terri’s.
‘Do you really want to know what happened?’ she asked fiercely. ‘Because I do know. But no-one wants to know the truth. And who will believe me anyway?’
‘I will.’
Basma stared at her, clearly trying to gauge if she meant what she said. Then she began to talk in a quiet, urgent voice, and the words tumbled out as if she’d been waiting for this chance to speak for years.
Chapter 22
Terri drove the long winding lane up to Le Chant du Mistral and parked her car next to Angela’s BMW. It was already after seven o’clock - much later than she had expected to be. All the way back Basma’s story had run through her mind, over and over and over. Getting out of the car, she tried to clear her head and focus on the evening ahead instead. Walking up the path from the car park, she was aware of the diary in her bag. Now it felt like an incendiary device, waiting to burst into flames. Had Celia realised what Terri would find out if she found the diaries and followed up the leads? What strange game was she playing? It would have been so good to talk to Luc; she badly needed his input into her confused thoughts but that was out of the question now. Even if he was prepared to speak to her, there was no time; the party would be starting in a few minutes.
Terri crossed the courtyard. The meeting with Basma had left her jumpy and she regularly glanced round, checking to see if anyone was watching her. Letting herself in through the front door, she stepped as qui
ckly and lightly as she could across the hall and through the sitting room to the rear hall. Once in her room, she locked the door with hands that shook, then leant back against it.
She knew she should do something about what she had just learned. But what? And was Basma to be trusted? In a sudden change of heart at the end of their meeting, she’d said Terri could do what she liked with the information, that it was time that the truth came out. She would not cover it up any more. But was it the truth?
Terri straightened up and began to peel off her clothes. She needed to wash and dress; she needed to compose her thoughts and paint on a smile.
*
Peter unlocked the door to the studio and let himself in. The falling sun shed a warm pink glow through the room. He loved this melting light – if it had a smell it would be musky – and the place was empty, as he preferred. Even so, it was going to be strange without Terri squirrelled away in her makeshift office. He wandered across to the door of her room. All her things had gone and it was a storeroom again. It had a forlorn air, he thought, like an empty ballroom when the dance is over. He was going to miss her enthusiasm and her drive – and, yes, even the verbal sparring. Stubborn, forthright and tenacious, she had shaken him up, breathed new life into him.
He walked into his study and glanced at the clock on the shelf. There was no need to rush; he was dressed and ready. He poured himself a whisky, his mind still on Terri. It was unthinkable that she should be his granddaughter and yet he’d become increasingly convinced that it was so. He had certainly heard stranger stories. But if Terri’s mother was Josie, his daughter was dead and the thought wrenched at him deep inside. How he wished now that he had never pushed her away. It had been an act of self-preservation, a way of coping with his own sense of guilt. He’d been cowardly and cruel.
He knocked back the whisky and took Maddy’s jewellery box from the cupboard. There was still time to make some reparation. He extracted the small padded box containing the sapphire earrings, put it in the pocket of his trousers and put the rest away. Locking the studio door and retracing his steps back to the house, he found himself whistling.