The Sirens Sang of Murder

by Sarah Caudwell

  ‘And afterwards she kept you hidden from the Germans?’

  ‘For three months. Luckily for us, there was no great search made for the missing soldier. I suppose the Germans thought he’d deserted, stowed away perhaps in one of the fishing boats. Still, it was desperately dangerous for her – if they’d found out she was hiding me, they’d certainly have sent her to a concentration camp, if they hadn’t shot her outright. Her brother, too, I’m afraid, although he was only sixteen. Well, finally the news came through that St Malo was in the hands of the Allies. As soon as we heard that, she set about finding someone to take the three of us across, and one night in July we were landed from a fishing boat on the coast of Brittany.’

  ‘And you, I suppose, fell in love with her?’

  ‘Oh of course – what else would a boy of nineteen do under such conditions? Head over heels in love with her, and making myself no end of a nuisance about it, I dare say. I must have pestered her almost to death trying to persuade her to marry me, but she wouldn’t have me.’

  ‘Not even,’ I said, having no choice but to venture the assumption, ‘when she knew she was going to have a child?’

  ‘Not even then, though life wasn’t easy in those days for a woman with a child and no husband – it wouldn’t have occurred to her to marry for the sake of convenience. But things turned out well for her, I’m glad to say – she married a Breton businessman, and he made her very happy, I believe, until his death a few years ago. He brought Gabrielle up as his daughter.’

  ‘But you have never met her?’

  ‘No. Rachel thought that it would be disturbing for her to meet me, even when she grew older – it would hardly have been possible, even if it had been right, to prevent her finding out who I was. But Rachel and I kept in touch – chiefly by letter, though we met from time to time. So although Gabrielle knew nothing about me, I knew a great deal about her. Rachel’s letters were of almost nothing else – how pretty she was, how clever she was, how well she was doing in her studies, how successful she was in her profession. Her husband wasn’t good enough for her, of course, but then no one could have been. And then, a few months ago, there was something quite different – a letter suggesting disquiet.’

  Gabrielle’s mother, it seemed, no less than her husband and Clementine Derwent, had noted the lowering effect on her spirits of events at recent Daffodil meetings and had eventually confided her anxieties to the judge.

  ‘Did you,’ I asked, ‘regard the notion that the Contessa was being followed as one to be taken seriously? Did you not think it more likely that she was simply imagining things? Her work is demanding, and she may be subject to considerable stress.’

  ‘I could not be sure, Professor Tamar. I certainly did not think that our own Department of Inland Revenue would go to such lengths as she appeared to believe – or even the French Revenue authorities, though their methods of investigation are perhaps more vigorous than our own. I thought it not impossible, however, that her profession might have brought her into contact and potentially into conflict, with persons very much more dangerous – if your clients are the sort of people who are anxious to hide their funds away in Jersey or Liechtenstein, then you are fishing in deep and murky waters.’

  ‘But surely,’ I said, ‘there is nothing necessarily criminal about keeping money in such places. My understanding is that the purpose may be perfectly legitimate tax avoidance.’

  ‘In some cases avoidance. In most, in my opinion, downright evasion – why else the secrecy? Even if the money itself is honestly come by – and that is by no means always the case – I do not consider that a crime to be treated lightly. In my view a man who enjoys the privileges of living in a country, and yet is not willing to make his just contribution to that country’s exchequer, is no more an upright or honourable man than one who spends a week at a first-class hotel and leaves without paying his bill. Still, you must not allow me to bore you on the subject – some of my colleagues would say that it is a hobby horse of mine. Suffice it to say that I am sorry Gabrielle has chosen to use her talents in assisting such people, and should not be surprised if there are those among them with whom it is dangerous to have dealings.’

  Rachel Alexandre had done more than confide in him. She had asked him to go to Jersey at the time of the next meeting and to try to discover if her daughter’s fears had any foundation in reality. Gabrielle herself was to know nothing of his presence or its purpose. I remarked that it sounded like a difficult task.

  ‘Difficult? It was a hopeless task, Professor Tamar, an impossible task. But what could I do? Rachel Alexandre had saved my life, and it was the only favour she had ever asked of me. Moreover, I still feel a sense of responsibility for Gabrielle. I told her that I would do my best, and so I did. I have been following Gabrielle since she left her mother’s house in Brittany eight days ago. That part wasn’t so difficult – I knew in broad terms about her travel arrangements, and some tomfoolery of dressing up as an old countrywoman when she crossed the French frontier. I don’t mean that she was constantly in my view – that would indeed have been impossible, but I always knew, at the very least, what building she was in, and I would have been, I think, within earshot if she had needed help. But as to knowing whether anyone else was following her – it was hopeless. Any one of a thousand holidaymakers could have been watching her, and I would have been none the wiser.’

  And then, within hours of being obliged to report to Rachel Alexandre the abject failure of his assignment, he had seen Cantrip – behaving in a way he had found unquestionably suspicious. He had of course observed that, in the Channel Islands, Cantrip and Gabrielle had been much in each other’s company. Why then, in the Place Chateaubriand in St Malo, had Cantrip been at such evident pains to conceal his presence from her? The judge could imagine no reason that was not sinister. When he saw Cantrip again at Dourdan, suspicion had come near to certainty, and when on the following day it became clear that Cantrip was still following Gabrielle southwards, he had no doubt that he had found the man he was looking for.

  ‘And it began to look as if luck was on my side. There’s an old friend of Rachel’s and mine who has a restaurant and vineyard just south of Beaune – I was reasonably sure that Gabrielle would lunch there, if only for the sake of politeness. I telephoned him from Beaune and asked him to arrange a little reception party.’ The judge’s eyes, I regret to say, brightened at the thought of this, and he seemed untroubled by any interesting questions of his jurisdiction to behave in the manner he had described. ‘The plan was to leave your young friend to cool his heels in the cellar for a few hours, until I was sure that Gabrielle was safely back to Monte Carlo, and to question him on my return. But yesterday morning I learnt that he had escaped, and I did not feel, in those circumstances, that I could consider my task as being at an end.’

  I attempted to explain, as tactfully as I could, the reasons for Cantrip’s conduct in St Malo and Dourdan, but I saw with some dismay that the judge was not wholly convinced. His suspicion, it seemed, had taken too firm a hold to be easily dispelled, even by the knowledge that Cantrip was a member of Lincoln’s Inn.

  ‘But apart from your suspicions of Cantrip,’ I said, ‘you have seen nothing to confirm the Contessa’s fears? On Sark, for example, where a stranger might perhaps have been more conspicuous than in Jersey – you observed nothing unusual?’

  Thinking it a piece of exceptional good fortune that so reliable and conscientious a witness should have been in Little Sark on the night of Edward Malvoisin’s death, I was anxious to draw from him an account of what he had seen and heard there. When at last I succeeded in doing so, however, it was something of a disappointment – he had been asleep. He had resisted the temptation to reveal his presence to Philip Alexandre, who would certainly have offered him a comfortable bed, and had instead spent the night in a barn a little distance from the main building; but fresh air and unaccustomed exertion had had their way with him, and he had slept as soundly as in the most luxuri
ous four-poster. He had remained awake long enough to see Gabrielle, with Cantrip and Clementine, return after dinner to the Witch’s Cottage. Of any event occurring after that he would evidently have been oblivious. Not even the commotion of Albert’s homecoming, it seemed, had roused him from his slumbers.

  ‘I did notice something in the morning that struck me as a trifle odd. I woke early, as one does after a sound night’s sleep, and took the chance of looking round before there was anyone about. There’s a porch at the side of the farmhouse – the hotel as it is now – which we used to use as a kind of lookout post. It provides a certain amount of cover, and it’s a good place to watch out for anyone coming along the road from the Coupee, or indeed from the cottage. It seemed to me that someone might have been using it quite recently for that purpose. It looked as if it was cleaned and dusted fairly regularly, but there were traces of damp mud on the floor and half a dozen cigarette butts.’

  His heavy eyebrows gathered again in a frown.

  ‘But there are any number of possible explanations – I don’t think it’s of any significance. No, Professor Tamar, I’m afraid I still think that if Gabrielle is in danger from anyone, it’s your young friend Mr Cantrip. I don’t doubt your own belief in the explanation you’ve given me of his motives, but I have to say that I find it less than convincing. Nor does the fact that he has evidently gained the trust of Gabrielle herself serve to reassure me – quite the reverse. In academic life, Professor Tamar, you do not have the opportunities which I have unfortunately had of learning how easily a personable appearance and an engaging manner may conceal a plausible scoundrel. I do not pretend to know precisely what young Mr Cantrip is up to – I would be only too happy to believe that it was nothing sinister. But I should feel that I was failing in the responsibility I have undertaken if I were to leave Monte Carlo while he is still here.’

  Glancing across the street, I saw that Cantrip and Gabrielle, having consumed enormous quantities of pancakes and champagne, were now drinking coffee. I began to think the situation a trifle desperate.

  ‘But I rather fear,’ I said, ‘that Cantrip may adopt a similar position – that is to say, he will refuse to leave Monte Carlo while you are still here. Sir Arthur, the legal term has already begun and you cannot, I imagine, absent yourself indefinitely from your judicial duties. Cantrip also has responsibilities, albeit of a far humbler nature, which require his presence in London. Surely you will agree that something must be done to resolve this impasse? If I can persuade him to be at Nice airport tomorrow in time to take the first plane to London, will you undertake to be there and to take the same flight?’

  It was with some difficulty that I convinced him of the sense and practicality of my proposal; but his conscience, I fancy, was troubled by the thought of his neglected judicial duties, and he could think of no other means to reconcile his conflicting obligations. By the time Gabrielle and Cantrip rose from their table, the arrangement was agreed on.

  I saw that nonetheless he was once more preparing to follow them, having evidently no intention of abandoning as yet his watch over Gabrielle. It occurred to me that after all, quite apart from any concern he might feel for her safety, it was natural enough for him to be interested in her.

  ‘It must be,’ I remarked, ‘a matter of great regret to you, Sir Arthur, that you have never been able to meet your daughter. She is a delightful woman.’

  He stared at me with every sign of astonishment, and then gave the harsh snort of laughter which I had found to be characteristic of him.

  ‘My daughter? Oh, my dear Professor Tamar, is that what you thought? I confess I had thought your researches to have been more thorough. My daughter? Oh no, Professor Tamar, that isn’t why Rachel wouldn’t let me meet her – Gabrielle is not my daughter.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, considerably discomfited. ‘I was under the impression – ’

  ‘She’s the daughter of the man I killed. I told you, Professor Tamar, that Rachel Alexandre was a remarkable woman.’

  15

  There was a breathless hush in the Casino as all eyes turned towards the suave figure in impeccable evening dress of the daredevil young barrister who that evening had already won a fortune at the roulette table and was now preparing to stake it all on a single spin of the wheel. Beautiful women sumptuously attired in gowns of gold and silver and adorned with gems of fabulous value gazed at him admiringly, their lovely bosoms heaving with emotion.

  ‘Sair,’ hissed the white-faced croupier, ‘zees is madness. In all my years at ze Casino, I ’ave never seen a man ’oo would dare to reesk so much.’

  ‘Risk?’ cried Martin Carruthers with a contemptuous laugh. ‘Do you suppose this is the worst risk I have taken? Let me tell you, my good fellow, that tomorrow I go to meet my deadliest enemy, the fiendish Mr Justice Heltapay – what risk can I take tonight to compare with that? Do your duty, my good man, and spin the wheel.’

  * * *

  Those familiar with the Casino will infer that Carruthers, with characteristic recklessness, had begun the evening by paying the sum of five pounds required to secure entry to the Salles Privées. Cantrip, on the other hand, had judged this too high a price to pay for the privilege of joining the handful of gamblers, dressed with respectability rather than distinction, who amid an expanse of deserted green baize were gathered there in mournful silence round a single roulette table. I found him in the Salle des Jeux Américains – that is to say, the room devoted to what I believe are called fruit machines – moving eagerly from one cacophonous device to another in search of one responsive to his skills. It was accordingly under conditions of some difficulty that I told him of my conversation with Mr Justice Welladay, explaining that on certain matters, having undertaken to respect the judge’s confidence, I was obliged to silence.

  His efforts were from time to time rewarded with clattering showers of coins, eventually amounting to a sum almost equivalent, at the prevailing exchange rate, to eighty pounds sterling. While not seriously imperilling the solvency of the Casino, his winnings seemed to him sufficient to vindicate the chambermaid’s prophecy and to justify the purchase of a celebratory bottle of wine among the ornate mirrors and pink and crimson draperies of the Salon Rose.

  It was here that his muse came upon him. He motioned for silence with the true imperiousness of the creative artist and for several minutes wrote without pause, looking up only to enquire my opinion on the spelling of sumptuous. At last he leant back wearily in his pink velvet chair, gazing with admiration at the ceiling, upon which were depicted a number of lightly clothed young women reclining on rose-tinted clouds – of tobacco smoke perhaps, since all were smoking cigars. He remarked, with sentimental tenderness, that one of them looked just like Julia. I could see too little of her face to judge of the resemblance.

  ‘My dear Cantrip,’ I said, ‘I perceive that for the purposes of fiction you still regard Mr Justice Welladay as the villain of the piece. You do understand, I hope, that I am now satisfied that in real life he is not?’

  ‘Oh rather, Hilary, I quite understand that you’re satisfied.’

  ‘Would you care,’ I said, ‘to explain your emphasis on the second-person pronoun?’

  ‘Well, what I understand is that old Wellieboots has spun you a yarn and you’ve fallen for it. And he’s told you to keep the whole thing under your hat, the way chaps do when they’re trying to get some mug to invest in underwater motels or Venusian railway shares, so you won’t have a chance to talk it over with anyone who might have a bit more sense.’

  ‘My dear Cantrip,’ I said, ‘I may claim, I believe, to be not quite so lacking in judgement and worldly experience as your comparison might seem to suggest.’

  ‘You can claim what you like, old thing, but you can’t say that pootling to and fro between libraries and senior common rooms and giving the odd lecture or two on novel disseisin is exactly a training in the tough school of life. You’re jolly good at picking up juicy bits of gossip, I give you that�
�� – he seemed to think this a most generous admission – ‘but the trouble is you don’t much care if it’s true or not as long as it makes a good story. So when some con artist pitches you a yarn, you swallow it hook, line, and sinker.’

  ‘If I say that Sir Arthur Welladay impressed me as a person of almost unshakeable integrity, you may perhaps be reluctant to rely on the impressions of a person so naive and inexperienced as myself. I would remind you, however, that since he has been appointed to be one of Her Majesty’s judges, he would appear to have made a similar impression on the Lord Chancellor.’

  ‘There you are,’ said Cantrip triumphantly, as if I had proved his point. ‘That’s the impression successful con artists always make on people. I mean, let’s face it, if everyone can tell at first sight that you’re as crooked as a cross-eyed kookaburra, it’s not much use going in for being a con artist, is it? Better give up the idea and be an old-fashioned burglar – ask any careers master.’

  ‘Moreover,’ I continued, thinking it right in the circumstances to exercise the utmost patience, ‘the explanation which he offered of his behaviour was consistent with other evidence available to me of which he could not have known. It is inconceivable that it should have been a spur-of-the-moment invention.’

  ‘That’s what you think. What you’re forgetting is that before you get to be a High Court judge you’ve got to spend about thirty years in practice at the Bar, and you’ve got to be jolly good at it. And one of the things you’ve got to be jolly good at is thinking on your feet and coming up with a convincing explanation when the evidence comes out all different from what you expected. So for old Wellieboots thinking up a good story in ten seconds flat would be a piece of cake. After all, he’d know you wouldn’t have any experience in cross-examination, so he didn’t have to worry about you picking holes in it.’