Treacherous Waters

by Treacherous Waters (retail) (epub)

  ‘Then I told you that Philippe wasn’t Davie’s father.’

  He nodded.

  ‘And that put the cat amongst the pigeons, didn’t it? You assumed that Lucien didn’t know that, and that if I told him – and you guessed that I would – you’d lose your precious pictures anyway?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And by that time you were in so deep that you couldn’t bear that to happen. So you started planning to get Davie here without me.’

  He rubbed at his face with his hands.

  ‘And the only way you could do that was to exacerbate my fear of deep water whilst encouraging Davie to become virtually obsessed with the idea of driving to Paris. It’s really quite clever, isn’t it?’ She stopped, watching him, her eyes thoughtful. ‘One thing I don’t understand. How did you get Charles Draper to go along with such a disgraceful scheme? Is he an art lover too?’ The words were dry.

  Richard shook his head. ‘The Charles Draper you met wasn’t the real Charles Draper. Oh, there is a Charles Draper, and he does use hypnosis in treating his patients. When I first mentioned him to you I genuinely wanted you cured, because I thought I could persuade you to come with Davie. It was, as you say, when you told me that Philippe wasn’t Davie’s father that I had to… change my plans. I had invited the real Charles to the wedding; I put him off—’

  Annie let out a small gasp of genuine laughter as the irony of that struck her. ‘And you invited Joshua instead! Now that’s funny!’

  ‘—and hired a stage hypnotist – the “Charles Draper” that you met – to impersonate him.’

  ‘You set up the night at the opera, the West End consulting rooms, the bogus wife? No wonder I didn’t like her.’

  ‘Yes. He wanted to meet you first. To check if you were a suitable subject.’

  ‘An emotional, imaginative sleepwalker. Suggestible is the word, I believe.’ Her mouth twisted a little and she looked at him closer in the shadowed darkness. ‘That must have cost an awful lot of money? But then – this isn’t about money, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor is it about love. If you had loved me you couldn’t possibly have put me through what you have. Could you?’

  He could not look at her. ‘I swear, Annie, I didn’t realise how bad it would be for you. I would never have gone through with it if I had.’

  ‘But you did go through with it. To the bitter end. Didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re despicable.’ Her voice had dropped to a shaking whisper. All at once a fierce reaction had set in and, despite herself, tears were rising. She fought them fiercely.

  ‘Annie—’ He put a hand out to her.

  She wrenched herself violently away from him, jumping to her feet. He caught her hand; furiously she struggled against him. ‘Let go of me! Let go!’ Suddenly she was crying, sobbing hopelessly and desolately. ‘How dare you touch me! I hate you. Hate you, hate you, hate you!’

  ‘Annie, don’t. Please!’ He stood, tried to put his arms about her.

  Outraged, she stepped back and slapped his face with all her strength.

  The action checked them both. Annie’s sobs quietened; Richard stood quite still, his hand to his stinging cheek.

  ‘You deserved that,’ she said at last, almost defensively.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Worse,’ she said. Miserable tears were sliding down her face.

  ‘Yes. Tell me something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Could you ever forgive me?’

  ‘No.’ The answer was quick and flat.

  He lifted a hand to touch her wet cheek. ‘So – you really don’t love me any more?’

  She did not reply.

  He did not press her. ‘May I ask you something?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Is Lucien truly Davie’s father?’

  She inclined her head. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did Philippe know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you love him? Philippe, I mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So—’ His voice was quiet and held a trace of almost helpless sadness. ‘You know what it’s like to deceive the one you love? Can you tell me what happened?’

  She turned abruptly away and stood with her back to him, arms crossed, shoulders hunched against him. Yet when she spoke, her voice had calmed. ‘Tell me something – you spoke of the high life Lucien lived in this house before he became ill. At those gatherings – those parties and soirées for the rich and the beautiful – did you ever know of drugs being used?’ She glanced over her shoulder as she spoke, and caught the unguarded expression on his face. ‘Ah. No need to answer.’

  He stared at her. ‘You… took drugs? With Lucien?’

  Annie shook her head fiercely. ‘No! I was tricked into taking a drug. By Lucien. From what I have read and learned since, I believe it must have been some kind of opium derivative. I was eighteen years old, a virgin, and engaged to his son.’

  His eyes narrowed in shocked disbelief. ‘Annie!’ He stopped.

  She turned to face him, lifting a hand. ‘Oh, it gets worse.’ She moved to the fountain, wetted her hand in it and rubbed at her face. When she started to speak, her voice was almost calm again. ‘When I knew them, Lucien and Philippe lived in Billancourt, just north of here. Their house had a huge and beautiful garden that ran down to the river. There were lawns and fountains and fine statues… Lucien has always had an eye for fine things – and for pretty girls. As you obviously know, of course.’ Her voice was caustic. ‘The riverbank was lined with willows, and there was a small grove of trees at the back of the house which sheltered a pretty little summer house.’ She turned her head to look at him. ‘The summer house was almost always locked, though Philippe said that his father spent a lot of time there. Working, he said.’ Her smile was mirthless. ‘There was always an odd – not unpleasant – smell about that summer house. In our innocence neither of us knew, or even came near to suspecting, what it was.’ She paused for a moment, putting a finger back into the water, watching as it trickled over her skin, shining in the lamplight. ‘There was a path along the riverbank. Hardly anyone used it but Philippe and me.’ She half-smiled, sadly. ‘We were young and silly. No one ever objected to our meeting, but sometimes we liked to pretend we were star-crossed lovers meeting secretly. There was no harm in it; it was just more… romantic, I suppose. And I often used to slip away and walk by the river, too, not telling him I was coming, just hoping to see him, to meet him “accidentally” – just for the fun of it. One summer’s night’ – she glanced around her – ‘a night very like this one, I sneaked away, hoping he’d have the same idea and meet me in the garden. We often did that. It wasn’t quite dark. There were shadows, and the water was silver—’ She stopped abruptly, and closed her eyes for a moment.

  ‘The drowned mother and child,’ he said, his voice almost a whisper.

  ‘Yes. They were caught in one of the willows. It was the most terrible thing I had ever – I have ever – seen. The child’s mouth was open, the woman’s arms—’ She stopped, pressing a hand hard against her mouth for a moment, her eyes closed again. ‘I was rooted to the spot,’ she said at last. ‘I couldn’t look away from them. I screamed. Screamed and screamed and screamed. I heard footsteps running towards me. I thought it was Philippe. I turned and threw myself into his arms. I was utterly hysterical, but—’

  ‘But it wasn’t Philippe?’

  ‘No. It was Lucien. He held me and comforted me. He was talking and talking, very softly, in my ear. He stroked my hair; kissed me, I think. I couldn’t stop crying. I was sweating and shaking, as if I had a fever. Even with my eyes shut I could see them – see their faces and their pale, bloated flesh – the way their bodies moved in the current…’ Annie drew a deep breath, shuddering. ‘I still get confused when I think about what exactly happened next. I know Lucien led me away and into the garden, and that the summer house door was open. I remember that the warm glow of light coming from it
was the most comforting thing I had ever seen. I don’t know what gave me the idea, but I thought perhaps Philippe was in there. Perhaps Lucien said he was. I don’t know. But I know that it didn’t seem at all strange that he took me there. I was shaking so badly I could barely stand.’

  She fell silent for a moment, remembering. ‘The summer house was beautifully furnished. Even shocked as I was, I remember being vaguely surprised at that. It wasn’t what I had expected. There were rugs and a big couch, with shawls and cushions. Pictures on the walls. Pictures of naked women. Very beautiful pictures, you understand. Nothing… nasty. There was a very strong, very strange scent in the air. It made my head swim. I still couldn’t stop crying, still couldn’t get the sight of those poor drowned creatures out of my mind. Lucien seated me on the couch and sat down beside me, holding me, stroking my hair. And still talking, whispering. I could feel his mouth against my ear… his breath. At last he got up and went to a sort of cabinet. He seemed to be there for a long time. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but I heard glass chinking. Then he brought me a glass of something. I remember that it looked like Pernod and water – you know, sort of milky, I’ve never been able to stand the stuff since – and it smelled like it too, but… it tasted odd. He coaxed me to drink it, said it would make me feel better—’

  ‘I don’t think you need tell me any more.’ Richard’s voice was harsh.

  ‘I drank it because I trusted him.’ She turned to look at him levelly, her face still tear-streaked. ‘Trust makes fools of us all, doesn’t it, Richard?’

  He did not reply.

  ‘It was like a dream.’ She turned back to the fountain, speaking softly. ‘A bizarre, but at that moment not unpleasant dream. Even the pain wasn’t that bad until later. He touched me, gentled me. I felt as if I were floating. The faces went away… my mind went away… everything went away. And for the moment that was all that I wanted. All that I needed. What he did to me didn’t seem wrong. Nothing seemed wrong. It was like a dream,’ she repeated. ‘Like drifting in a dream.’

  Richard waited to see if she would say more. The perfumed silence deepened. ‘Did you not tell anyone?’ he asked at last. ‘Your mother?’ He hesitated. ‘Philippe?’

  ‘No. I was quite ill for a while afterwards. Confused. People assumed that it was because of the shock of what I’d seen. Perhaps it was. Sometimes I couldn’t be sure what had happened myself.’ She gave the ghost of a laugh. ‘Who else would believe me if I didn’t entirely believe myself? It was a month or so later – when I realised that I was pregnant – that I knew I hadn’t imagined it all. I was terrified. Absolutely terrified. That was when I went to see Lucien. Just the once.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He suggested that it was very doubtful that anyone would believe me. He reminded me – oh, very gently of course, you know the man probably better than I do – that my illness had proved my hysteria and that he was a respected man of no small influence. He advised me to marry Philippe as quickly as possible and assured me that – since the war was obviously coming and a hasty wedding would cause little comment – he would put no obstacles in the way of my swift marriage to his son.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Quite.’ Her voice was expressionless. ‘You know the rest. Philippe was killed in the first few weeks of the war. We had only a few days together. That at least, in this miserable story of deception, is true.’

  Both heard the murmur of voices above them. Both heard a door close.

  ‘Did you ever discover who they were – the mother and child? How it had happened?’

  She shook her head. ‘By the time Lucien reported to the authorities the current had taken them further downstream, almost into the heart of the city. No. I never did find out who they were.’ Her eyes were distant. ‘I have sometimes found myself wondering if they ever truly existed, outside my nightmares.’

  ‘M’sieur? Madame?’ The little maid, Marie, had appeared at the doorway. ‘M’sieur is asking for you. Madame Tilde has told him he should rest, but he will not. She asks you to come, please, but not to stay too long.’

  ‘The longer the better,’ Annie murmured beneath her breath, in English, ‘as long as it hastens his passing.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘So.’ Lucien, propped against ivory pillows that were no paler than his skin, looked from one to the other. ‘You have told each other your secrets? Go away, woman, and stop fussing.’ This last, sharp-edged and dictatorial, was directed at the uniformed nurse who was plumping his pillows and smoothing the bedspread.

  The woman straightened, tutting, glared at Annie and Richard. ‘M’sieur must not be excited. You understand?’

  Lucien’s great dark eyes turned upon her. Tight-lipped, she left the room. The eyes, tranquil now, turned to Annie. ‘It was clever of you to find us, my dear. I’m glad you did. I very much wanted to see you again before I died.’

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t return the compliment.’ Face and voice were bleakly expressionless.

  ‘Richard has shown you the paintings?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you think of them?’

  ‘I think it a great pity that such lovely things should be so polluted by lies and treachery.’

  ‘And – supposing they were yours?’ His voice was very soft. ‘Supposing I gave them to you? What would you think of them then? What would you do with them then?’

  She looked from one to the other, then spoke clearly and sombrely. ‘I’d probably burn them. Just to spite the pair of you.’

  ‘Isn’t that just a little extreme?’

  Annie flared. ‘What do you expect? A deathbed reconciliation? I think not!’ She raised an angry finger. ‘Listen to me, both of you, and listen carefully. I’m taking my son and we’re going home. I want neither of you near nor by him again. Or me. Ever!’

  Richard took a step forward. ‘Annie!’

  ‘Wait.’ Lucien lifted a wasted hand. His eyes were half-hidden beneath the huge, drooping lids. ‘You’re very in your anger, Annette.’ His voice was soft. ‘Pitiless, even.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

  There was a long moment of quiet. Then, ‘How clear are your memories, Annette?’ the old man asked.

  ‘Clear enough.’ The words were clipped.

  ‘And – how selective?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He turned his head a little, eyes now wide, to look directly and intently into her face. ‘Do you, for instance, remember the splendid party at which we celebrated Philippe’s nineteenth birthday? We held it in the garden at Billancourt. I recall it so very clearly. You wore a very pretty dress. White, with a wide green sash. And you had flowers in your hair. Do you remember that day?’

  Annie did not for the moment answer. Richard looked at her, a faint question in his eyes. Then, ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I remember.’

  ‘It might surprise you to know—’ Lucien broke off for a moment, fighting a coughing fit. ‘It might surprise you to know that I still have the rose that you gave me that evening. It is hidden, still, in the pages of the poetry book. Do you remember that too?’

  ‘Yes.’ A very faint flush of colour had risen in Annie’s cheeks.

  Richard looked from one to the other, his eyes still puzzled. ‘Lucien? What’s this all about?’

  Lucien was still looking at Annie. ‘You were enchanting, Annette. Bewitching. As you were the day when we all picnicked in the Bois de Boulogne. It was spring. You wore blue that day. Do you remember? Blue always suited you well.’ Voice and eyes were gently remorseless.

  She stared at him stonily, and did not reply.

  ‘Tell me – do you still have the brooch? The little bluebell brooch I gave you that day?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A pity. It was a pretty thing, as I remember.’

  ‘Lucien! Stop this.’

  Pale, arched eyelids drooped again for a moment, then lifted. ‘Stop what, my dear? May an old man not treasure his memories? The we
ekend at Honfleur, the walks on the beach – you played with the waves like a child, running barefoot on the sand. But you were not a child, Annette. Were you?’

  Annie said nothing.

  ‘The memories are strong, are they not, my dear?’ He paused. ‘Or have you chosen, perhaps, to forget?’ he added, his voice soft.

  ‘Lucien’ – Richard broke in, his voice sharp – ‘what exactly are you trying to say here?’

  Annie it was who replied, bitterly, her eyes not moving from the man in the bed. ‘You know exactly what he’s trying to say. What he’s trying to do. He’s trying to say that I flirted with him, that I led him on. He’s trying to imply that I was to blame for what happened.’

  ‘And – were you?’

  ‘No! No!’ At last she turned away from Lucien to look at her husband. ‘I was young,’ she said. ‘Young. Silly. Innocent. All of those things, though in my book none of them counts as a crime. And yes, I suppose my head might occasionally have been turned by his attentions, by the flattery of an older man—’

  ‘Annette,’ Lucien interrupted her. ‘Listen to me. And believe me. I am not asking for forgiveness. I know that nothing – nothing! – can ever excuse what I did to you. I always was a wicked and self-centred man. But I would ask you to believe one thing. If I had not been’ – he hesitated – ‘indulging myself on the night when you discovered the drowned woman and child, what happened never would have occurred. Our… flirtations… would have remained as innocent and enjoyable as they always had been. As it was, I lost control of myself, took outrageous advantage of you and then abandoned you. You have every right to hate me; I’m not denying that. I’m simply asking you if, with your hand on your heart, you can swear that you did not find the small games we played as exciting as I did?’

  ‘That doesn’t excuse what you did,’ she said.