Not long now, and she would be off the island. She could leave anytime she wanted. The hills behind Le Lavandou on the mainland reared up in reassurance, so close that they seemed no farther than the opposite side of a lake. White sails skipped over the blue, and she watched them, thinking of the man in the billowing shirt, how sweetly serious he was at the café and how he had noticed and helped her when she felt unwell.
She walked on. Then, as if she had summoned him by the power of thought, there he was—or a figure that could easily be him—on the path ahead where it curved round a higher point in the direction of the Cap Medès. Or had seeing him sparked the thought, subconsciously? She began running, but when she emerged from a line of holm oaks, he was nowhere to be seen.
The disappointment she felt was entirely disproportionate. She tried to justify it; as a local there was so much he could explain: whether there had been any other news about Florian Creys, what his background was, and why he had slipped off the boat in front of them; the oddness of the de Fayols family and their domaine; what was wrong with Madame, and whether everyone on the island knew she was a lunatic.
If nothing else, she would have liked to run into him once more, anyhow, to say good-bye and thanks. Apart from Jean-Luc at the hotel, he was the only person who had shown her real kindness during the past few days. There had been something about him she found calming.
She skittered to a halt. What was she doing, chasing him like this? Had she lost her mind again? She turned round to start walking back to the Plage de la Courtade. A handful of earth trickled from above, as if the higher ground had been disturbed. She looked up but could see only trees. Her train of thought half forgotten, she turned back the way she came. Her shirt was damp and cold on her back.
How is your work going on the garden?”
As she reached the harbour, there he was at her shoulder. His battered espadrilles had made not a sound on the concrete runway of the quay.
“Oh! It’s you.” Close up she caught the aroma of old-style French tobacco. “The garden . . . it’s not really happening now.”
“Problems?”
“You win some, you lose some.”
“I saw you over at one of the dive places.”
“Yes.”
“Are you going out on a dive?”
“I was just curious.”
He said nothing.
“I asked about the plane wreck, but they didn’t know about it.”
“Not many people do.”
“I see . . .”
“It is there, even if most people don’t know about it.”
She watched closely as he ran his hand up his right forearm. As the sleeve was pushed back, it revealed a contusion of red scars. “It was you on the ferry, the day the boy committed suicide, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a police lieutenant, Meunier, who wants to talk to you. They’re still talking to everyone, trying to get an accurate picture of what happened. I’ve got his card somewhere.”
“Meunier? OK, no problem. I can find him.”
“Someone is saying the boy was pushed. Did you think he was pushed?”
“No.”
The sea shuddered in the wake of a passing boat, setting off a carillon of metal against mast in the marina.
“The trouble is, the more you try to remember exactly what you saw, the more you begin to doubt yourself.”
“First instincts are normally right.” He fidgeted with a heavy brass cigarette lighter he brought out of his pocket. “So what happened over at the Domaine de Fayols?”
“I’m not taking the job—I’m going home today.”
“Good.”
“Good? Why do you say that?”
“There is something I want to ask you. Will you walk with me?”
“I still don’t know your name.”
“Gabriel.”
“I’m Ellie.”
Slim tree trunks twisted like wrought-iron latticework, holding up clouds of acid green foliage against the sea and sky. From the coastal path, the hills on the mainland were soft purple-brown mounds.
“How exactly did you come to be involved with the Domaine de Fayols in the first place?” Gabriel asked, in a tone that implied she was out of her depth there.
“Laurent de Fayols sent me an e-mail. He’d heard about my work. We spoke on the phone a few times and arranged for me to come over to look at the garden. But then he went off to Paris, and Mme de Fayols informed me that she was the one who’d found out about my work and chosen our firm, yet she has done nothing but undermine me since I arrived. It has all been very strange—and to what purpose?”
“She has a certain reputation.”
“I am very glad to hear that.”
“She is crazy.”
Ellie laughed, and the tension in her shoulders began to release. “Certifiably . . . or was that just a figure of speech?”
He did not reply.
As the trees grew more densely, a brown weave of needles on the path deadened the sound of their footsteps.
“So the memorial garden at the Domaine de Fayols will have to wait to be restored,” he said.
“I’m sure they’ll find someone else.”
“I hope so. It’s important to preserve it. It’s special, the way it brings together the land, the sea, and the sky—and the lighthouse.”
“I agree. The view of the lighthouse is integral to the garden.”
“You are very perceptive.”
“I went into the little museum there. I thought perhaps there might be a connection to the Domaine, but if there is, it’s not mentioned.”
“Did you see the record book and gloves that belonged to the lighthouse keeper who remained on the island under the Germans during the war?”
“Yes.”
“Henri Rousset refused to join the evacuation, and the occupiers needed him. He was permitted to stay to operate the lighthouse as normal. A very brave man.”
“I saw the large photograph and the flag,” she said. “I guessed it must have been something like that.” She shivered involuntarily as it came back to her: the feeling as she stood on the cliff looking up to the beacon that she was on the verge of making some important connection.
Gabriel was quiet for so long that she wondered whether he was going to respond. They climbed farther, following signs for the Fort de l’Alycastre, defenceless now, gnawed back to bare stone by birds and wind. Tufts of sea grass stole up the squat stone walls like a raiding party.
“Rousset put his life at risk to safeguard the lives of thousands of Allied men,” he said. “Before the Allies landed at Saint-Tropez on the fifteenth of August, 1944, these three Golden Islands had to be neutralized. At the crucial moment, just before the amphibious assault, he disabled the lighthouse beam to confuse the German night defences. Meanwhile, another beam was set up farther along the coast to imitate the Porquerolles lighthouse.”
“How did he know what he had to do?”
“A resistance agent managed to get out here to tell him. It was risky, but it had to be done. Allied intelligence agents in Marseille wanted to blow up the lighthouse, but bombing it from a plane would have condemned Rousset, a good man who had stayed on the island watching the Germans and waiting for his chance to act, to certain death—and risked the destruction of nearby properties.”
“The Domaine de Fayols,” said Ellie. “I’m beginning to understand. But how did the resistance get someone out to an occupied island, in an area that must have been heavily defended?”
“A light aircraft, flying at night.”
“That must have been extremely dangerous.”
“It was.”
“So the plan worked?”
“Up to a point. The objective was achieved. But Rousset was beaten senseless, had his head kicked in by the Germans when they realised they had been tricked. He never properly recovered, nor was able to remember exactly what had happened.”
They had stopped walking. Below was
a beach of pebbles where three small boats rocked in the shallows. Even with one hand shading her eyes, Ellie could only see in patches of light and dark.
“But there was someone else who had stayed on the island, surely,” she said. “The doctor. Louis de Fayols.”
“They told you that, then.”
“Mme de Fayols told me.”
“Yes, during the war the doctor continued to care for the convalescents, mainly Italian soldiers. Most were poor young conscripts who had done very little harm. The doctor felt a responsibility for them. When the Nazis took over, they sent the Italians to prison camps, but they realised the value of having a doctor on the island. He was ordered to stay, effectively a prisoner in his own house. They shot him there, in the grounds, on the night the plane landed.”
“But the Allies were so close, the liberation was about to begin—why do it then?”
He did not answer.
“I can understand how you became a war historian, trying to make sense of it all.”
He nodded gravely. “So are you going back to London?” he asked.
She smiled at the assumption. “Only passing through, but I don’t live too far away. Why?”
Gabriel pushed a hand through his hair. “Would you . . . consider doing something for me, to help me with my research?”
She was touched by the way he seemed hesitant about asking, this man who was otherwise supremely confident.
“I’ll certainly help, if I can.”
“Some of the material I need is in London. The story concerns both France and Great Britain. It occurs to me that if I could find out in advance which archives hold the documents I need, then it would make my job quite a lot easier when I come over to England.”
“Of course. I’m sure I can do that.” It would mean keeping in touch, maybe even meeting up. She felt a smile spreading. “No problem at all. Tell me what you need to know.”
They found a shady spot and sat down. Ellie made notes as he spoke. It was hard to tell whether his interest in her was romantic or just friendly. They did not touch, even by accident. When he had described the events he was working on, making sure she had enough useful detail, they spoke of other relationships and the difficulty of love disrupted by war. He seemed to understand her need to talk about Dan and, as she did so, it felt for the first time as if she was freeing herself for the possibility of another life.
The afternoon grew hotter. Gabriel leaned back on a tree and closed his eyes. Ellie began a small sketch of him, ready to snap the book shut if he stirred. At last she was living for the moment, seizing the day with an optimism she had not expected to feel again. There no longer seemed any urgency to catch the ferry back to the mainland.
At the hotel there were two messages. One was to call Laurent de Fayols as soon as she got back. She used the landline on the reception desk.
“What’s been going on while I was away?”
She would have told him, but he continued without waiting for an answer. “And you left your phone. Will you come over to get it?”
Reluctantly, she agreed.
The other message was that Lieutenant Meunier was waiting for her in the hotel dining room. Wearied by his persistence, Ellie went to meet him. The door was open, and he filled the space by the window, alert and aware of his power, looking out at the harbour. It was very possible he had seen her with Gabriel.
They greeted each other brusquely.
He was going to ask her whether she had seen the man in the panama hat, she knew it. A question to which he already knew the answer.
“I thought you should know the result of our inquiries into the death of Florian Creys. It cannot have been pleasant for you to have this as part of your introduction to Porquerolles, but perhaps it helps to know. I have come to tell you that Florian Creys had a history of depression and drug abuse from the age of fourteen. He was diagnosed as schizophrenic a month ago. Last week he walked out of a clinic in Strasbourg and headed south.”
“So . . . it was suicide, then?”
“The prosecutor at Toulon seems satisfied that it was.”
Ellie peered at him, the narrowed eyes and bulky shoulders that made the room seem so small around him. “But you’re not satisfied.”
He made an expressive sound with his mouth. “It probably is so.”
“Very sad.”
Just another sad story of a young man who found he could not deal with the world; he would not be the first or the last, the lieutenant seemed to imply. “You say that he was standing alone when he climbed over the rail.”
“Yes.”
“You say that there was someone else who saw the same as you—but we cannot find this person.”
Now he was closing in on his point.
“I have seen him again—the man in the panama hat. I saw him today.”
“Where?”
“Here, by the harbour.”
“But you did not call me.”
She sighed. “I haven’t got my phone. I lost it. I gave him your name and told him that you wanted to speak to him. I’m sure he will call you.”
Meunier appraised this information. “Do you know the name of this man?” He took out his notebook.
“Gabriel. He didn’t tell me his surname.”
“You did not ask?”
“Well, no . . . he said he was attached to the university at Aix. I was going to Google him,” she admitted.
He blew air out of his mouth, shaking his head.
“You could find him that way,” she pointed out.
“And you don’t know where I can find him on the island?”
“No . . . I’m sorry, I—”
“This is a serious matter involving the death of a young man. In cases like this we have to be sure that all the witness statements support the conclusion. You do understand that?”
She nodded. It seemed to be more about paperwork than anything else.
Against her better judgement, she went back to the Domaine de Fayols. What else could she do? Her mobile held so much information; it felt as if more and more of her life was filed on that phone. Jean-Luc offered to lend her a bicycle from the hotel.
For once the exercise did not calm her mind. The warmth and colour of the landscape had faded. The atmosphere was changing; banks of dark cloud had massed on the horizon; trees whispered in the wind. Was it happening again? Why was it that any connection with the Domaine de Fayols provoked this anxiety?
Dusk was falling early as she pedalled up the drive. The house grew more imposing, its grand facade streaked by the last rays of sunset permitted through the clotting sky. Most of the shutters were closed, and as she looked up, another was pulled shut by an unseen hand, as if the inhabitants were locking themselves in, or securing the house to leave.
Ellie dismounted. She hadn’t any time to waste, should have been on the ferry hours ago. She would go in quickly and get out.
The main door was slightly open. Even so, she rang the bell at the side and waited. When no one came after a few minutes, she pushed the door open and entered the hall.
“Hello? Laurent?”
Dance music from the 1940s swelled from somewhere deep inside the house, then stopped. A ticking grew louder, then faded, replaced by a light scratching from one side of the hall, as if mice were invading the wall cavities.
“Hello?”
A faint churchy smell, recent polish perhaps, hinted at order and respectability. She would do everything by the book. It would be foolish to provide the de Fayolses with any reason for finding fault with her professional services. She would not allow them the satisfaction. Returning to the portico, she pulled the door shut and rang the doorbell again, keeping her finger pressed down as she counted to five and released.
The noise continued to ring inside her head, drowning out any other sound.
After a few minutes, a familiar tapping on the flagstones approached the other side of the door, and then stopped. Ellie’s heart sank. The tapping began again, but was recedi
ng now.
It was a few more minutes before the door was opened.
“Bonsoir,” said Jeanne, no longer bothering to speak in English. “Venez avec moi.”
Ellie followed her across the hall.
In the large sitting room the doors to the terrace were half closed. The lamps had been lit. Outside, the taller trees were bending in an increasingly heavy wind.
The tap-tap-tap of a cane began again.
Laurent bounded in from the terrace.
“Ah, you’re here! I was making sure the boat was moored properly. Better to be safe if there’s going to be a storm.”
Relief at seeing him so unperturbed, so normal, allowed Ellie to give him a genuine smile. For a moment he was silhouetted against a sickly yellow-grey sky as he moved towards the drinks tray.
“Will you take an aperitif?”
“No, thank you.”
He poured a glass anyway, and held it out. “A kir made with our own rosé.”
She shook her head, then took it because there were more important issues to settle.
“My phone, do you—”
“Ah, yes.”
He made no move to fetch it, far less explain how it had left her possession. Instead he raised his glass.
“Let’s talk. I want to persuade you to accept the commission. Surely you won’t go without reconsidering?”
She watched him carefully, holding her glass but not drinking.
“I’m sorry I had to leave for Paris,” he went on. “But now I’m back, we can resume our work, non? While I was on the move I had some good ideas, and there are various details I think would appeal to you.”
“My week here is up, I’m afraid. I have a flight booked tomorrow, and commissions back home that need my attention.”
“But we can discuss further, at least.”
“Perhaps.” The lies we tell, she thought.
Tap-tap-tap. Ellie’s heart sank.
The Sea Garden Page 8