CHAPTER 4
After Rose left I was too restless to work and instead drove into Abbeville to see a film. Autumn was approaching and I felt the cool winds blowing in over the bay. The last few days had been cloudy, not suitable for walking. I hoped that by the next day when I was due to meet the children it wouldn’t have turned to rain.
Situated along a strategic route, the ancient town of Abbeville was razed to the ground in the two world wars and a few before that, including the Hundred Years War, when Burgundians and Armagnacs had skirmished and battled round the counties of Picardy and Artois. But the citizens of Abbeville had been kind to Joan, and some of them had gone upriver to visit her in Port St Pierre.
In the late afternoon I shopped for groceries and then went to an American film poorly dubbed into French. On impulse I decided to treat myself to dinner and relaxed over a perfectly cooked meal: snails, blanquette de veau, and a glass of Pouilly-Fume. It was quite late when I took the quiet, narrow road back to the Somme estuary, dawdling along in the Morris.
As I chugged into Port St Pierre shortly before midnight, an ambulance came speeding out of the town in the other direction. I wondered whether its destination was Abbeville or Rue, but apart from that gave it no thought and enjoyed a sound night’s sleep. It was well I did, because my nights were far from sound for some time afterwards.
The next day the town was humming with the news that Rose had been found half-drowned on the seashore and was in critical condition. The postwoman told me when she delivered a parcel of second-hand books sent from Oxford, and I almost dropped them in shock.
“She was caught by the tide,” the postwoman explained. “If one is stranded it can happen; the water forks and you are left on a sandbank in the middle of the bay. It seems as though she’d been crossing the bay, maybe walking from Port Guillaume at low tide when the bay was all dry, but she was caught. At least that is what one assumes.”
“She walked across the bay when high tide was expected?” I wondered aloud. “What an extraordinary thing to do.”
The postwoman shrugged and bade me good day. I dumped my parcel and hurried over to see Madame Gilbert.
“She couldn’t swim,” she explained. “Everything is so tragic for that family. Maybe she will recover.”
From the look on Madame’s face it seemed doubtful.
“She couldn’t swim?” I echoed. “In that case, surely she would never have attempted to walk across the bay, tide due or not.”
“And in the dark,” Madame said, with her characteristic shrug. “C’est extraordinaire!”
“I don’t think she’d do it,” I said. “I don’t think anyone would.”
Madame Gilbert looked at me with her shrewd eyes, her pince-nez shining in the light. “What are you trying to say? That someone drowned her?”
“Madame, I’m not saying anything like that. I just say that I don’t understand how she drowned, or almost drowned. When did it happen?”
“No one knows. They missed her at dinner and Jeanne was angry at having to take her place.”
“The tide last night was about nine o’clock, so it would have been almost dark. I saw the ambulance when I returned from Abbeville just before midnight; then Rose’s accident must have happened during the late evening or night, which is singularly odd.”
“I will find out what I can from the gendarmerie,” Madame Gilbert said. “They will have made a full investigation. Leave it to me, and then if the girl recovers we will know what happened.”
I didn’t mention to Madame Gilbert that Rose had been to see me. I don’t know why I felt secretive about it, but I did. If I told Madame Gilbert, the whole town would know, and people would want to know why she’d come.
I wanted to see Rose, yet I had no reason for going; I was not even supposed to know her. Already I was becoming involved in a web which, all things considered, was really of my own making.
But I need not have tortured myself, for Rose never recovered from her coma and within two days she was dead.
The terrible tragedy that had afflicted the de Frigecourt family, or rather someone connected with it, cast a cloud over the entire town. No one could talk of anything else, but few appeared to have known Rose well, if at all. Although Laurent de Frigecourt had come almost immediately, the huge gates of the chateau remained firmly closed, and I felt helpless to penetrate that strange house dominated by the enigmatic Jeanne. Was it coincidence, or could Rose have been right that there was something sinister about the silent governess who stared blankly out of her window?
Rose had been found unconscious at about eleven p.m. by a fisherman looking for bait. Her body was washed up on the shore. The tide was going out by then and no one knew how long she’d lain there. I thought it strange that Jeanne had not thought to search for her, but maybe she had.
I was consumed with curiosity and felt a definite involvement in Rose’s death. Usually a sound sleeper, for the past two nights I had tossed and turned in my bed, unable to dismiss it from my mind. Had her visit to me endangered her? What mystery was the house concealing? I owed it to Rose to find out, both as a fellow countrywoman and one to whom she had entrusted her last confidence.
In the end I wrote the Marquis a letter. It was the obvious thing to do. I said I was shocked to learn of Rose’s death, I had slight acquaintance with his children, and was there anything I could do to help?
I expected a refusal, but what I got was an invitation. He sent a note round by hand asking me for a drink that very evening. I was both exultant and strangely afraid, as though I were on the brink of an exciting but rather terrifying journey, which indeed it proved to be.
I immediately cast about for something suitable to wear. What was appropriate for a Marquis? I was a jeans and tee shirt type at work, and a caftan and beads type while haunting the groves of Academe.
One nice thing Tom had managed to say about me was that I had a good figure and since then I tried to take advantage of this asset. Being tall and dark I went for exotic colours, and that evening I got out my best Thai print, decked myself with an assortment of beads, carefully applied my eye makeup, and completed my toilette with a touch of Javanese perfume.
My appointment was at six sharp. It is almost longer to drive to the chateau than to walk because of the one-way system; but I didn’t dare be observed on the streets of Port St Pierre in this attire. They would think the Witches’ Sabbath had arrived in person.
I was indeed expected. The gates of the chateau were open, the lights of the interior warm and inviting. At the sound of my car a man appeared at the top of the steps, and then suddenly the children swarmed round him and bounded down the steps, preceded by Goofy, as they had been that very day I first saw them. They stopped shyly by the car, and I felt shy too until I saw the wonder in Philippe’s expression as he gazed at the ancient vehicle.
“It’s at least as old as I,” I volunteered. “Maybe older.”
“Tiens, alors …” He gestured excitedly to the others, and they took turns sitting in the driver’s seat, jumping tip and down.
“Children,” their father said to them in English, “you must take care with Madame’s car.”
“I don’t think anyone could take care of it,” I said, and held out my hand.
“In its way it must be an antique,” Laurent de Frigecourt said with amusement, and as we shook hands I could see he was as charming as his children and as I knew he would be. “Come inside. The night is so cold. Children, go to your playroom. Cecile will give you your tea this evening. Come, Madame.”
The children rushed ahead of me, and Laurent de Frigecourt followed me as I sashayed up the stairs in my trailing gown. If I closed my eyes I could almost imagine I was Madame de Pompadour, and this Versailles.
The first thing one saw was a grand hall with a double staircase, which seemed to follow the contours of the outside steps and sweep grandly upwards. In the hall was a huge chandelier and, off the hall, doors to the other parts of the house stood invi
tingly open. My first thought was that despite its grandeur the chateau had the simplicity of a family home; there were children’s boots, fishing nets and other paraphernalia cluttering the hall. The Marquis shooed the children upstairs and invited me into a large salon, a long, elegant room with bay windows. The walls were hung in striped silk wallpaper and the furniture was mainly Louis Quinze. The room was more formal than the hallway yet still comfortable, with low modern sofas facing the sea view and scattered tables piled with books and magazines and vases of flowers. I guessed the children would be on their best behaviour in this room.
“It was most kind of you to write,” the Marquis began, gesturing towards one of the sofas. “Please sit down while I get you a drink. Will you have whisky, gin or sherry? You see, for several years I was brought up in England.”
“Gin and tonic would be nice. May I smoke?”
“Please.” In an instant he was offering me a silver cigarette box, and I selected an English cigarette, which he lit for me. I could see he was appraising me and, I think, liking what he saw. One is really quite bruised by a failed marriage, and the attentions of someone of the opposite sex become especially important. Although I knew I hadn’t failed Tom sexually, I still felt rejected as a woman, which was why I suppose I’d gone to such trouble with my appearance this evening. I knew I looked good, and that helped me to relax.
Laurent de Frigecourt was a tall man with dark brown hair and a healthy, tanned complexion, as though he spent a lot of time outdoors. I was surprised by his obvious youth and, for all his troubles, his air of calm serenity. Like the children, he had blue eyes that were almost violet. I assumed Fabrice’s blond hair came from his mother.
“I adore your chateau,” I said, sipping my drink and observing his lithe figure as he lit his own cigarette and sat down opposite me.
“It is beautiful,” he said wistfully. “Unfortunately, the circumstances for the children being here are not the happiest, and now ...”
“It was awful about Rose,” I said quickly. “What a terrible shock.”
“Oh, it was awful. An accident, but how, no one knows. She couldn’t swim.”
“What was she doing by the water at night when she should have been with the children?”
The Marquis took a drink and shrugged. “That is a complete mystery. Usually after school is finished – I do insist on a proper school day, and as you know they are long in France – Rose takes over. This particular day she was not at tea and no one had seen her except Cecile, our maid, who saw her go out about two. Normally she did take a walk at some point during the day, or go shopping, but she couldn’t drive and never used the car that I leave for the senior staff. She wasn’t seen again after that by anyone except the fisherman who, stumbled upon her on the beach just after eleven at night. She’d been there some time according to the doctors, otherwise she might have been saved. She died as much from exposure as from anything.”
“How dreadful.”
“Well” – the Marquis shrugged – “these things are dreadful. God knows why they seem to happen such a lot in our family. I suppose you’ve heard my wife is very ill following a car accident over a year ago. She will probably never recover but could live for years. However,” he said, looking at me, “in these situations one develops certain inner strengths, and this helps one to cope.”
“I’m glad you’ve found the strength,” I said quietly. “The children must be a great comfort to you.”
“Oh, they are; I wish I could see more of them. It’s a great anxiety for me, but Jeanne is a most capable woman and they seem very devoted to her.”
“And Rose?”
“Well, Rose ...” He screwed up his face. “I don’t know how to explain about Rose. They never seemed quite so attached to her as they have been to other nannies or to Jeanne. I think Rose was a bit jealous of Jeanne and resented her. Of course, Rose was a young girl and you know what they’re like, always wanting to be out and having a good time. Jeanne is very devoted to the children, altogether a different type. I don’t think Rose liked having Jeanne over her, because she came later, after my wife’s accident. But I felt I had to have an older woman in charge.”
I sat silently taking all this in. I longed to tell him about Rose’s visit to me, but I knew it would sound strange and would involve me with the family in a way I didn’t want.
No, if I was to play the detective, I felt I would do better to keep what I knew to myself and see what I could find out about Rose’s death and about Jeanne and the children. Surely no one would bar my visits now, after I’d been entertained by the father? And what was the truth of that? Had Jeanne really stopped my coming before?
“As for your offer of help, Mrs. Trafford, I can only say thank you and do feel free to come visit whenever you like. The children took to you right away and talked to me about you.” He wrinkled his eyes. “It seems there is a fun-loving quality about you they detected immediately. I must say, if you don’t think it rude, I admire your outfit enormously.”
Under that steely male gaze I had the grace to feel myself blushing. My caftan was of heavy Thai silk and glittered with all the colours of a peacock.
“Is Mr. Trafford not with you?”
“He’s in London.”
“I don’t know how he can be so restrained with a wife like you.”
I’d decided at the beginning not to be coy about our separation, and even though I felt most susceptible to Laurent de Frigecourt’s male charm, neither of us was either free or in a position to flirt, however mildly, without some statement of fact, on my part at least. As for him, I assumed from the tender way he spoke about her that he was still very much in love with his young wife.
“My husband and I have agreed on a year’s separation. We’re both on the staff of colleges that are part of London University, and we found that our work and personal lives didn’t gell, as they say.”
Laurent de Frigecourt looked embarrassed. “I’m terribly sorry. I hope...”
“You didn’t upset me at all. I’ve come here to write a book and I love it.”
“It is lovely. Port St Pierre reminds me of my childhood. For me as a boy it had everything – the sea, adventure, exploration, the hunt – we adored our summers here. We sailed and swam and then, well, I suppose you can hardly not have heard about the disaster to my father and brothers.”
“I was terribly sorry to hear about it,” I murmured.
The Marquis got up and walked over to the window, brooding into the dark.
“I was eleven at the time, my brothers fifteen and seventeen. I couldn’t talk about it for years, but in time that, too ... It seems there was a traitor who betrayed all my father’s Resistance group, which was centred on Rue. There were ten of them, all caught one night in 1943 and taken away. We never saw them again and only heard after the war that they’d been shot.”
“All ten of them?”
“Almost all. Two were killed when they were captured and one got away, but we never found out who had betrayed them.”
“Are you sure they were betrayed? Couldn’t the Germans just have known?”
“There is no doubt about it. They were crawling up to a bridge at midnight, a prearranged spot for sabotage, and suddenly the whole area was illuminated and they were surrounded. They’d been one of the most effective Maquis groups in the area. The German officer who directed the operation said they were brave men but they should have been aware of the Judas among them.”
“Was it the man who got away?”
“Well, we think not, because it was he who told us the story. Had he been guilty, I don’t think he would have come forward. But I did hear that he lived the rest of his life a very sad, lonely man because certain people resented that he’d escaped. My family knew him – he was a local fisherman – and we never thought he was guilty.”
The Marquis got up to freshen my drink and lit cigarettes for us both. I could see he was in a mood to share confidences, and I supposed that despite the glamour of
his life he might still be a lonely man, deprived maybe of any close relationship with a woman. Whether or not he had close male friends I couldn’t know. He now wore an anguished expression as he nervously puffed at his cigarette and then stubbed it out half-smoked.
“Oh, you know what terrible things happen in wartime. You never know the truth about anything. Long afterwards a rumour came back to us that one or both of my brothers had escaped from the concentration camp. A man who’d been a prisoner of war returned home and swore he’d seen one or both of them after the war was over. They were very similar in appearance. But nothing was ever proved and, although I got in touch with an agency that tracks down wartime refugees, the quest was fruitless. And if the story were true, why should my brother not have come home? It didn’t make sense, but it did cause us a lot of grief. It is so much better to be sure of something, however unpleasant, than not to know. Don’t you agree? Now, of course, we do know. The war has been over for many years.”
Laurent lit another cigarette; talking to me had seemed to calm him. “As a family we’ve had a lot of tragedy. It isn’t amusing to be the only one left. To a small boy, one’s older brothers are heroes, and mine even more so because of what happened to them. I idolise their memory.”
He stopped speaking abruptly, close to tears, and got up on the pretext of fetching a clean ashtray. When he looked at me again he was in control, but his eyes were bright. He was certainly a man of acute sensitivity whose family’s misfortunes must have caused him great pain. He looked at his watch and suddenly the mood changed.
“My goodness, it’s nearly time for dinner!”
“Then it’s time for me to go.”
“No, please join us. There is always food enough for an army.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t ...”
“Oh, but you could, and you shall. Besides, I want you to get to know my family better if you are to keep an eye on them while I’m away.”
Rose, Rose Where Are You? Page 4