“Oh, dear, you are a funny girl,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Your Aunt Penelope sounds quite a card.”
“She’s very fruity,” said Celestria, watching Mrs. Halifax laugh again. “Like a bowl of rich red plums!”
Celestria’s drawing was terrible, but it didn’t matter. She discovered she enjoyed the tranquillity of the afternoon, the gentle sound of the sea lapping against the rocks below, and the distant barking of a dog. She enjoyed Mrs. Halifax, too. “You’re a pretty girl, Celestria. You must have a suitor or two back in England?”
Celestria thought of Aidan. “Not really,” she replied, then decided there was no point in lying to someone who had nothing to do with her life back home, so she added, “Well, I have agreed to marry someone.”
“Oh, dear, you’re going to have to break it off then, aren’t you?”
Celestria looked surprised. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Because you’re not in love. That’s obvious.”
“But he’s very nice.”
“If nice is the best adjective you can come up with, I should definitely avoid the trip to the altar. Weren’t you forbidden to use that word at school? I was. My dear, if the earth doesn’t move, it isn’t right.”
“But, Mrs. Halifax, the earth has never moved.”
“Good God, dear, you’re still a child! You’ve plenty of time for earth-shattering moments. Believe me, the earth will move. It will tremble and shake and shift on its axis, leaving you in no doubt that you are head over heels in love. By the way, please do call me Daphne.”
That evening, back at the Convento, Celestria bathed and dressed for dinner. She wondered what her grandfather had made of her telegram and hoped he had decided to join her. She spent a long time in her room, rubbing oil into her body and painting her toenails pale pink. Then, a now-familiar voice rose up to her window from the courtyard below. She wrapped a towel around her and hurried over to peer down between the shutters. There, talking to his father-in-law, was Hamish. Her stomach lurched. He was pointing to various places beneath the cloister, and Gaitano was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. They were speaking Italian.
Celestria dressed, her body quivering with the sudden rush of adrenaline. Confronting him had been the right thing to do. She didn’t feel furious and defensive; rather, her assertiveness had empowered her. She slipped into a pretty white sundress that reached midcalf and showed off her slim shape, and a pale blue cashmere cardigan. She rubbed her bluebell scent into her wrists and under her ears. She was certain that since their confrontation earlier, he would attend dinner tonight, if only to have the last word.
She skipped down the stone staircase and out into the courtyard. She cast her eyes to the little door through which Hamish and Gaitano had disappeared only minutes before and hoped they’d step out again. She bent down to pat Primo, who was lying sleepily on one of the crimson cushions that were piled up under the cloister beside a low table of elaborate hand-embroidered dolls from Afghanistan. She played for time, but they did not emerge. Finally, as the courtyard grew darker, she knew she should make her way to the dining room.
Mrs. Halifax was already deep in discussion with Mrs. Waynebridge and Federica. There was no sign of the men anywhere.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Celestria apologized, taking the seat beside Federica, opposite the two other women.
“There is no ‘late’ at the Convento,” said Federica. “You are our guests, and you can come and go as you please. Besides, you are not the last.”
“You look lovely, Celestria,” said Mrs. Waynebridge. “Don’t you think so, Mrs. Halifax?”
“Oh, to be young again, able to wear such pretty, feminine things,” the older woman replied, smiling at Celestria. “I compensate by wearing silly shoes.” Celestria noticed there were two more places laid and presumed they were for Gaitano and Hamish. She felt her heartbeat accelerate at the prospect of colliding once more with the darkly alluring Scotsman.
“A telegram came for you this evening,” said Federica. “I should give it to you before I forget.” She delved into her pocket and pulled out a white envelope. Celestria opened it with excitement.
“It’ll be from my grandfather,” she said happily. Then her face fell. “He’s not coming,” she muttered, disappointed.
“What does he say?” Mrs. Waynebridge asked, hoping they wouldn’t have to leave now she was beginning to enjoy herself. She had already pressed the little yellow flower between the pages of her book.
“My dearest Sherlock, if anyone can get to the bottom of it, you can. Use your guile and your imagination. Isn’t it about time England made friends with France?”
“Whatever does he mean?” Mrs. Waynebridge asked.
“I know what he means. I was just rather hoping he’d come out and help me. You see,” she said to Federica, shoulders drooping, “I haven’t simply come out for a holiday. I’ve come to find out why my father killed himself.”
Federica blanched. “He killed himself?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t tell you the whole truth.”
“Don’t apologize,” said Federica gently, touching her hand. “There’s nothing to apologize for.” But the older woman’s face sagged with sorrow. “Wouldn’t it be better to leave him in peace?”
“Absolutely not. I am determined.”
Before she could say another word, the Frenchwoman Celestria had last seen in the police station now entered through the kitchen. “What a day,” she said huffily, “they don’t get much worse.”
“That makes two of you,” said Mrs. Halifax.
Celestria stared at the Frenchwoman in horror. She had changed out of her cream suit and was wearing a pair of navy blue slacks and a blue-and-white-striped top. Around her neck she had tied a silk scarf. Her hair was pulled off her face and fell in a ponytail down her back. Just above her lip was a thin white scar that almost reached her nose.
“I don’t think you’ve met Celestria,” said Federica. The Frenchwoman’s eyes fell upon the younger woman. She recognized her instantly.
“We have met. I’m afraid I was rather rude. I apologize. My name is Armel.” She held out her hand. “I was just having a bad day.”
“Didn’t look so bad to me,” said Celestria dryly.
“Yes, well, appearances can be deceptive. You don’t know the half of it.” She sat down. Luigi poured her a glass of wine. She sniffed it first, then took a sip. “Very nice,” she said, “for Italian wine.” Federica ignored her comment, which Celestria considered immensely rude. “What were you doing with that cheating rat?” she asked Celestria. Celestria felt herself stiffen. It was none of her business. However, she remembered her grandfather’s advice and decided that nothing would come out of nothing. She decided to throw some bread onto the water.
“I believe he has stolen my father’s money,” she said, looking at Armel steadily.
Federica shook her head. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t trust Salazar as far as I could throw him.”
“He’s a pompous ass!” Celestria added.
“You and I do have something in common,” said Armel darkly, knitting her long brown fingers. “I believe he has stolen my husband’s money.”
“Do you think he has women throwing bricks through his window every week?” said Celestria with a small smile.
“This is most extraordinary!” Federica exclaimed. “You both turning up at the same time.”
“This Salazar character can’t know what’s hit him,” said Mrs. Halifax, chuckling huskily.
“I tried to get information out of the police,” said Armel seriously, settling her hooded brown eyes on Celestria.
“I thought you were just holding court,” said Celestria. Armel didn’t smile.
“With a little persuasion, I hoped to find he had a record of this sort of thing.” Celestria must have looked incredulous, for Armel clicked her tongue and added sulkily. “I can’t do it on my own. I have no connections in Italy. It is only by coincidence that I discove
red my husband had been sending money to Salazar. I want to know where it has all gone. Salazar said that he withdrew it. It is not true.”
Celestria stopped smiling. She felt light-headed as the blood drained from her cheeks.
“Your husband is sending money to Salazar?” she repeated slowly.
“Was sending money to Salazar. My husband is dead.”
Federica looked from one to the other. “Now I am afraid,” she said, clutching the beads that hung against her chest. “This is madness.” Celestria felt the room spinning around her. She stared at Armel.
“We have more in common than you would imagine,” she said. “My father is also dead.” Armel’s cool façade now crumbled. Her eyes glistened, and her lips began to quiver.
“Forgive me,” she whispered. She took a moment to compose herself, during which time Celestria and Mrs. Waynebridge looked at each other in bewilderment. Mrs. Halifax didn’t know quite what to make of the sudden turn of events, and Federica’s fear mounted. Something very sinister was going on in Marelatte. “We need to talk, you and I,” Armel said at last. “Perhaps we are not alone.”
“You think there may be others?”
“For sure. Why not?” She shrugged. “Salazar is a crook. I believe my husband was murdered. I believe Salazar was behind it.”
“What are we going to do?” Celestria asked, gnawing the skin around her thumbnail. Armel’s beautiful face now looked older and less hard.
“I don’t know. But we have each other.” She managed a thin smile, but her eyes revealed nothing but hopelessness.
“Don’t leave us out,” said Federica, the color returning to her cheeks. “You have us, too. Don’t forget, I’m Italian, and I have connections.” She turned to Celestria, the suspicion that had cast a shadow across her face now dispelled. “I want to help,” she said. “I really want to help.”
At that moment Gaitano entered the room, followed by Primo and the other dogs. “Forgive me,” he said brightly, taking the last seat. Celestria felt a wave of disappointment as she realized that Hamish was obviously not joining them for dinner. “I had a few things to discuss with my son-in-law. This building is an ongoing project. A labor of love.”
“We are still converting rooms,” Federica added, trying to shake off the sinister feeling that that these two foreign women had whipped up in the room. Her cheerfulness couldn’t fool her husband, however.
“What is going on?” he asked solemnly, shifting his eyes across the faces of the four women. Federica sighed and told him the whole story.
“It is very strange,” she said finally. “One Englishman and one Frenchman both die, having transferred enormous amounts of money to Salazar.”
“My husband wasn’t French,” interjected Armel. “He was English.”
“My father did a lot of business in Paris,” said Celestria.
“My husband did a lot of business in London.”
“You don’t suppose…” Celestria’s voice trailed off. It was too much of a coincidence, surely.
“That they knew each other?” said Armel. She took a gulp of wine. “Now you come to mention it, why not?”
25
After dinner, Armel put out her third cigarette and drained her wineglass. “I can tell you that I will not leave until I have uncovered my husband’s murderer,” she said, standing up shakily. She was far removed now from the brittle, arrogant woman Celestria had seen in the police station. She looked fragile and desperate, the shadows under her eyes emphasized by the amber glow of the candlelight. Gaitano pushed out his chair.
“Allow me to escort you to your room,” he said, and she didn’t decline. Mrs. Waynebridge suggested Celestria have an early night.
“You’ve had a long day,” she said kindly. “What you need is a good sleep.” Celestria didn’t argue. Her eyes suddenly felt heavy with exhaustion. Federica and Mrs. Halifax bade her good night and she left the room with Mrs. Waynebridge shuffling out behind her.
As she walked down the corridor she noticed a little staircase leading up to a room she hadn’t seen before. The door had been left ajar. Inside, the light was on. But there seemed to be no one there. She could just make out a table of paint pots. Her heart stumbled. It must be Hamish’s studio, she thought, discovering a hidden source of energy as her disappointment evaporated. Mrs. Waynebridge left her in her room. She stood in front of the mirror in her pretty white dress and looked at her reflection. All dressed up and no place to go, she thought. There were no parties in Marelatte. Only Hamish with his dark, enigmatic presence. He was clearly still avoiding her.
Without another thought, she left her room and tiptoed down the corridor to where the little staircase promised proximity to the man who had inflamed her imagination. She looked about her to make sure there was no one around and then climbed the steps. With a thumping heart she pushed the door a little, and it opened with a gentle whine. Inside was a square room with a small window looking out over the sea. The moon was full, lighting up the water below it with bold silver strokes. On the left was a table, covered in dried paint, and colored pots and tubes of watercolors and oils. There were muddy jars of brushes and thin brown boxes piled one on top of another. On the right were large canvases stacked against the wall. She wandered over to take a look. To her horror, many were grim and dark pictures of ghoulish faces. Some were so abstract she couldn’t make out what they were. Daphne Halifax’s paintings were heavenly compared with the hell of Hamish’s compositions. She pondered the state of mind necessary to produce such tortured pictures. She rested them back against the wall and turned to the canvas that was placed on an easel. The paint was still shiny and wet. He must have painted it that day. Like the others, it was dark. A man sat hunched at the bottom of the painting, shrouded in a black cloak, facing away so that she couldn’t see his face. In front of him, in the right-hand corner of the picture, there was a door left ajar. Around the door was a golden light coming from the other side. It seemed so bright compared with the dimness of the world inhabited by the crouching man. She extended her hand and touched the canvas. The paint was still sticky. She withdrew her fingers, rubbing them together to erase the paint stuck to her skin. With a shiver that rippled across her flesh, she felt his desolation and the desire to open the door and enter the light. The picture stirred in her something strange and unfamiliar, a deep sense of compassion.
Suddenly, she heard footsteps coming down the corridor. She froze. There was nowhere to hide. She turned around, her mind cranking up a suitable excuse for once again intruding. Before, she had felt so bold. Now she felt foolish. As the shadow of a man fell across the door, she grew hot with fear, her heart beating loud and fast. To her immense relief, it wasn’t Hamish but Gaitano. He looked at her quizzically.
“I’m afraid my curiosity got the better of me,” she admitted, looking sheepish.
He smiled and shook his head. “You’re daring in your curiosity.”
“Perhaps too daring. He despises me for intruding into his wife’s crypt. He’d probably strangle me if he discovered me here, looking at his paintings.”
“Natalia’s tomb is a sacred place for him.”
“I know that now. I was in the wrong. It wasn’t right to go there. I was walking on her grave.”
“I don’t believe in holding on to the dead. One has to let them go.”
“Judging by these pictures, I don’t think he’s ready to let her go.”
Gaitano sighed. “That is because he does not want to. He is wracked with guilt because he was with her when she fell off the cliff. He believes it was his fault. Freddie and I don’t throw blame. It was an accident.”
“I’m so sorry.” Celestria stared at the painting, now understanding why he couldn’t reach the light behind the door. He felt he didn’t deserve to.
“Natalia died three years ago. She would not have wanted us to remain in a state of mourning. She was a bright, carefree spirit who believed in the world beyond death. She didn’t fear it, so neither sho
uld we.”
“My father’s death has devastated my family” she said, wanting him to know that she understood bereavement. That she wasn’t an outsider, preying on someone else’s misfortune. “My mother’s inconsolable. My father was the world to her. She’s lost without him.”
He turned to her, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “If I can do anything to help you and Armel, I will. Let’s sleep on it. Everyone has chinks in his armor, even Salazar.”
“Thank you,” she replied.
“Don’t let Hamish intimidate you. He’s very soft beneath his hard shell.”
“Oh, he doesn’t intimidate me at all. We can easily avoid each other.”
Gaitano smiled knowingly. “Of course you can.”
As they left the little room, Gaitano switched off the light and closed the door. Celestria longed to ask where Hamish was, why he hadn’t joined them for dinner. But she felt it was none of her business. Gaitano escorted her to her room and said good night. She undressed and brushed her teeth. As she was getting into bed she heard the banging of the front door and footsteps in the courtyard below. Something compelled her to move to the window. As she peered through the crack in the shutters, she saw, to her astonishment, Hamish staring up at her bedroom window. He ran a hand through his hair, hesitating a moment as if deliberating what to do next. For a second their eyes met. She jumped away as if scalded, her cheeks hot with embarrassment at having been caught watching him. She remained petrified, wishing she had had the sense to peer through the shutter, waiting for the footsteps to continue and disappear.
Finally, she climbed into bed and switched off the light. That moment of silent communication embossed itself on her mind like a still from a film: his face, set in a grimace, suddenly handsome in the light of the moon. She sensed they were somehow linked, as if he were pulling her towards him like a furious magnet. She lay alert to every sound. It wasn’t long before she heard his footsteps along the corridor outside. She froze in her bed, barely daring to breathe. There was no reason why he should knock on her door, or even pause outside her room. Yet, as the footsteps neared her room, she was sure they slowed down. Her pulse thumped in her ears. The footsteps were now right outside her door. She could feel his eyes upon it, burning through it, as if he could see into the dark room to where she lay trembling in her bed. Then they continued, and she was left wondering whether she had simply imagined it.
Sea of Lost Love Page 28