by Lin Anderson
‘Not indefinitely?’
‘It can never be that.’ Charles shook his head. ‘You know why.’
‘There were three of us that day on the mountain,’ Patrick said. ‘I’m the only one left alive.’
‘Which is the reason.’
Charles opened the door, indicating that Patrick should get out. They shook hands, as they had done on the day of the garden party.
‘I wish you well, Courvoisier. And good luck with Madamoiselle Lucca.’
As the car drew away, Patrick could see nothing through the smoked-glass windows, but he sensed that Carruthers did not look back.
THIRTY
That evening he and Grazia attended a different kind of garden party. One that didn’t demand the wearing of a top hat and tails, nor the equivalent expensive female outfit. That’s not to say the guests weren’t well dressed, in particular Chevalier.
‘They should invite you to a Buckingham Palace tea party,’ Patrick told Chevalier when he arrived.
‘Who is to say they haven’t done so already?’ Chevalier said mysteriously, before heading off to greet their host, Pascal.
Grazia was wearing the green dress Patrick had first seen her in, but she had unsuccessfully tried to persuade Patrick to don his kilt.
‘I’ll wear it for you later,’ he promised, with a glint in his eye.
‘Like a true Scotsman?’ she enquired.
‘Naturellement.’
Oscar was off on his rounds, gathering approbation and titbits with equal enthusiasm. Patrick helped himself to a verre de rosé and chose a seat, just outside the circle of light, from which to observe the party. The scent of roses hung heavy in the still night air. Above him swifts skydived through the tumble of buildings that formed Le Suquet, crying their joy.
Patrick couldn’t think of anywhere he’d rather be at that moment than in this courtyard with all his friends about him.
When Fidella spotted him in the shadows, she loosened her arm from Daniel’s and approached. Patrick gestured she should take a seat beside him.
‘Jean-Paul tells me you were born in Casablanca,’ she said.
‘My father was a doctor there. My mother worked as a teacher.’
‘Casablanca was my home before I came to France.’ She faltered a little on that.
‘You miss it?’ Patrick said.
‘I miss my family, but now there is Daniel.’ She glanced over at him and, as if he sensed this, Daniel turned round and smiled.
‘There have been no more problems with those men?’
She shook her head. ‘Although I fear they may make trouble for my family in Morocco if word gets back about what happened here.’
It seemed the cycle of revenge kept on turning, whatever was done.
Patrick spotted that Moreaux had arrived with Madame Lacroix. The detective acknowledged Patrick’s presence, but made no effort to come and speak to him, choosing to greet Oscar instead.
According to Moreaux, the police had been close on Jonas’s trail.
‘In truth, he hadn’t been in hiding,’ Moreaux had told Patrick. ‘He was more interested in getting to you than saving himself.’
‘He expected to die?’
‘I don’t think he cared, as long as you died first.’
Patrick had thanked Moreaux for saving his life.
‘I think this time we’re even,’ Moreaux had said. ‘I should warn you that Miss Lucca will be leaving Cannes soon.’
Patrick didn’t ask why, or where Grazia might be going. Those questions he would have to direct to her.
And I haven’t. Yet.
Patrick glanced over at the tall figure next to Madame Lacroix’s much slighter one. The two women were deep in conversation. About the forged Fragonard, Patrick suspected.
At that moment, he saw Oscar detach himself from the group and sprint through the passageway to the outside door. Assuming more guests had arrived, Patrick went to let them in.
But the door stood open and there was no one there.
Then Patrick noticed that Oscar had something in his mouth.
‘Here, boy,’ Patrick said. ‘What’s that you’ve got?’
Oscar wasn’t keen on giving up his prize, which was an envelope.
Patrick shooed him back into the courtyard, fetched a titbit from the table of food, and offered it to him in return for the envelope. Oscar thought about it briefly, then relinquished his prize, accepted the treat in return, and took it elsewhere to eat.
Patrick glanced down at the envelope to find it was addressed to Le Limier. Intrigued, he looked at the back and found the envelope was sealed.
Anyone in Le Suquet would be aware of the party and that he would be at it, so it was no surprise a message should be delivered there. But why run away afterwards?
Patrick contemplated opening the envelope, then decided it would keep until later. Slipping it into his pocket, he went in search of Grazia.
They walked back to the gunboat in silence, Oscar at their heels. Patrick already knew this was to be Grazia’s parting gift to him. She would return to Italy in the morning.
‘For how long?’ Patrick asked.
‘I don’t know.’
Patrick didn’t question her any further. Given the little he knew about Grazia and the little she knew of him, they had done well to get even this far. The look she bestowed on him suggested she felt the same.
‘Then let’s make it a night to remember,’ he said.
Patrick woke before dawn to find Grazia gone, the place beside him already cold. Oscar had made no sound when she left, he imagined Grazia signalling the little bulldog to be silent.
He rose and checked the cabin briefly, hoping to find a note from her. There wasn’t one. Because, he realized, they had said all there was to say.
Patrick dressed, made a pot of coffee, and took it up on deck. The rising sun had painted the sky above the castle a bloody red, reminding him of the intensity of the sunrises and sunsets of his Moroccan childhood.
Until his conversation with Fidella, he hadn’t recalled that time for many years now. He wondered about his family’s house, still there, waiting for a return visit that would never happen. Both parents now dead, there was no reason to go back.
Thinking about Morocco and Fidella reminded Patrick of the previous evening’s delivery. He went downstairs, retrieved the envelope from his trouser pocket, and brought it up on deck.
Whoever had sealed it had done a good job, aided by the application of adhesive tape.
When he finally managed to tear it open, Patrick found a single sheet of paper, with a name on it. A name he recognized.
‘Took your time opening that.’ Jack Brooke’s loud American twang resounded across the quai. ‘Gone native, I see.’ He indicated the gunboat’s name.
‘When in France …’ Patrick said with a smile. ‘Are you coming on board?’
‘I sure as hell am.’
Patrick lowered the gangplank and the big American stepped aboard.
He glanced at the coffee pot. ‘Got anything stronger?’
‘It’s eight o’clock in the morning,’ Patrick remonstrated.
‘For me it’s the night before.’
Patrick ushered Jack to a seat and went down for the whisky and two glasses. He suspected they might both need a stiff drink. A visit from the jovial American, though welcome, was unlikely to herald good news.