As they both stepped out into the heat, Solange said slowly, as if she was speaking to a stupid child, ‘I realize what I said must have been painful. But believe me, it’s true.’
‘Tell Metand,’ said Lucy brusquely. ‘That’s all you have to do.’
She stumbled down the hill towards the search party, conscious that Solange was watching her, statuesque, grotesque and completely out of her mind. As she began to run towards Metand she felt safer. He would protect her.
‘That woman is stark, staring, raving mad. And you let me climb that damn tower with her.’
‘I’ve never considered her in the least violent.’
‘She accused Tim of murdering her husband.’
There was a long silence during which Metand looked almost comically horrified. It was the first time she had seen him disconcerted. And so he should be, she told herself, reality slowly gathering about her. Lucy had touched madness before, when she had met a woman on a train whose bag was full of torn-up scraps of paper and who had told Lucy she had been swindled out of a fortune by her husband. She could see her now, with the same big staring eyes as Solange, the same clown’s face.
‘I told you she was ill,’ Metand had recovered his composure. ‘Claude, like the others, was executed by local people. It would have been common knowledge if he had been killed by an escaping British officer. I should never have left you alone with her. It was a mistake.’
‘Were these self-appointed executioners identified?’
‘No.’
‘Has Solange ever made this allegation before?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘So why make it now? Not that I believe her for a moment.’
‘Of course not.’
‘It was terrifying.’
There was a distant rumble of thunder but the overcast sky had grown a little lighter and pale sunlight struggled to get through.
‘Solange told me that she and Tim were lovers and he had shot Claude in a jealous rage. I had no idea my husband was capable of a crime passionnel.’ Lucy gave an angry little bark of laughter.
Metand looked increasingly embarrassed. ‘Solange once told me she was the illegitimate daughter of an Austrian princess. She informed Louis Dedoir that she was born on a ranch in Argentina and was brought up by her cattle-driving father who raped her. She claims to have shot him at fourteen. I wish I could force her to seek help but the law doesn’t allow it. At this stage.’
‘She ought to be locked up. Put away!’
Gradually, however, Lucy was getting the bizarre situation into perspective. It had been an unpleasant experience but also one she should dismiss – a mere blip in the search for Tim. She wanted to forget, to concentrate on finding him.
She suddenly thought of Solange, huge and crazy, sitting in Caves Café ordering coffee, or sipping a sherry at a cocktail party in Drakes Close, telling May and Sally about murder and mayhem. They would be engrossed.
‘Solange is to be pitied.’ Lucy was working her way through the gamut of shock, trying to find a calm acceptance of the spiteful but crazy accusations. Oh yes, Solange should be pitied all right.
Metand was watching a small patch of blue appearing in the dark sky. ‘The storm’s passing over,’ he muttered. Then he said, ‘What would you have done, madame, if your husband had been executed and you were never spoken to again by your neighbours?’
‘She’s mad,’ Lucy said firmly, ignoring Metand’s plea for compassion. ‘Not worth getting worked up about. I’d like to join the search party now. Make my own contribution.’ She paused. ‘You must ensure I don’t see that demented woman again.’
At lunchtime a short rest was declared and surprisingly large quantities of food and wine were laid out.
‘Do you think Tim’s dead?’ she asked Metand again, the despair, never far away, resurfacing.
They were sitting at a distance from the others as he uncorked a bottle of red wine and poured some into a glass for her.
‘There can be a simple explanation.’
‘I can’t imagine what it could be.’
‘Have some pâté. It’s good.’
She took a portion unwillingly and found it delicious.
‘What would you prefer to do now? Stay with us, or return to the hotel?’
‘I’d rather stay,’ said Lucy. ‘Back there I’ll just wait for the telephone.’
‘Very well. We shall keep going until sundown.’ Metand paused. ‘While you were with Solange, one of the search party, a young man called Henri Tissot, approached me.’
‘Well?’ There was something in his voice that made her tense again. What was he proposing now?
‘It’s nothing to do with the investigation, but he says he knew your husband slightly during the war and would like to tell you what a brave man he was. Apparently he rescued his son. You don’t have to meet him, of course. I haven’t had much luck with my introductions recently. But I can assure you Henri has all his faculties.’
Lucy tried to fall in with Metand’s mood, to banish the Solange encounter with irony. ‘As long as he doesn’t accuse Tim of murdering his mother, I’d be pleased to talk to him.’ She broke off, wanting to come a little cleaner, even become something of a martyr. ‘It was equally my fault about Solange. I was curious to know what she knew of Tim. Now I’m curious again.’
‘I’ll go and fetch Tissot,’ said Metand briskly. He didn’t sound as if he believed her.
He was away some time. Lucy sank back on the blanket he had courteously spread out and closed her eyes against the oppressive woods with their sticky heat. She was sure the search party were enjoying their task. No doubt there was some kind of incentive or reward for the first man to find the body. How wonderful it would be if Tim could confound them all and suddenly stride out of the densely packed trees with the ‘simple’ explanation that they had all hoped for and now seemed so elusive.
‘Sorry, Lucy. I was so tired I went into the woods and slept and do you know I’ve only just woken up.’
‘Sorry, Lucy. I went and twisted this damned ankle and had to sit around and wait for someone to come. Shadows of the war, old thing!’
‘Sorry, Lucy. I came over faint and –’
Would the search party be relieved or disappointed? If human nature was anything to go by, Lucy was sure they would be disappointed. It would be something to remember if they found a corpse. A corpse in the woods. A corpse on the Clump, you chump!
Lucy opened her eyes and saw the patch of blue was spreading over the Tour des Oiseaux, giving the ivy a lighter, less ominous colour.
Then a figure hovered above her, late thirties, clean-shaven oval face, fair hair. Lucy must have been half asleep because, for a fraction of a second, she had the illusion that she was gazing up at Tim. She rose, staggering a little as Metand made the introductions.
‘Mrs Groves. This is Henri Tissot. He has an anecdote he thought you would like to hear about your husband. You may find it comforting. If you want me, I’ll be with the search party.’
‘Excuse me.’ Tissot spoke softly and nervously. ‘I hope you don’t mind –’
‘Of course not.’ She wondered if he was regretting his initiative and tried to be as warm as possible. ‘I gather you met Tim during the war.’
‘I’ve every reason to be grateful to him. My son, André, fell off his bike near your husband who was hiding out in the woods. Apparently a Nazi jeep suddenly appeared on a right-hand bend and gave André such a scare that he lost control. The bastard didn’t stop and the kid fell into a ditch and was knocked unconscious. Anyway, your husband not only revived him but had the courage to bring André home.’
‘Brought him home?’ said Lucy in amazement. ‘That was a risk in the circumstances, wasn’t it?’
‘The bike was a wreck, but André couldn’t have cycled back anyway. He was too groggy to walk. Yes – of course it was an amazing risk and we could easily have been the types to give all three of them away. Your husband told us he was on h
is own. To protect the others.’
‘Thank you,’ said Lucy. ‘I feel very proud of him.’ She had thought that Tim’s mental state might have deteriorated so much that he would be incapable of such an act of bravery. Obviously that was not the case. It was an instinct with him.
‘You have good reason to be proud, madame. Your husband saved André’s life. The doctor told us he had severe concussion.’ There was a slightly awkward pause. ‘I must be getting back. I do hope we find him safe and well soon. There is every chance that we will and then I can thank your husband in person.’
Lucy’s adrenalin was now running so high that she decided to risk a second opinion. ‘I wonder if you could help me.’
‘I’d be delighted to if I can.’
‘I had a brief conversation with Solange Eclave earlier. She made some – wild accusations about Tim. I’m quite sure she’s absolutely demented. Would you be of the same opinion, monsieur?’
Tissot was silent. Then to her amazement and dismay he said, ‘She’s cunning, I think. Many people believe her to be mentally ill. But I have my doubts.’
‘You think her behaviour is that of a sane woman?’
‘She has made herself like that.’
‘Why?’ asked Lucy baldly.
‘To take her revenge on Navise.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I knew her when she was younger. Claude and Solange were very much in love and she was an extremely beautiful woman. I think Solange wants the village to believe that she has been driven mad.’
‘Are you sorry for her?’
‘In some ways.’
‘She told me – terrible things about my husband.’
‘Then you mustn’t believe her. She would like to use his disappearance as another opportunity to get back at the community for what they did. I can never work out whether she was more outraged that they burnt Pavilly or that they executed her husband. I remember that a couple of years after the war she stopped me when I was cycling past the château and begged me to talk to her. I weakened, but I was seen by a friend who told on me. I got beaten up. Solange is to be pitied rather than feared. I think that she is partly a desperately lonely woman who longs for attention. She also wants to hurt. I believe she’s been waiting a long time to do that.’
When he had gone, Lucy wondered where Henri Tissot’s theory left her. But in her heart of hearts she knew. Suppose Tissot was right? Suppose Solange was sane?
She climbed the hill to find Metand, not wanting to think any more. The heat had diminished slightly and a light breeze stirred the leaves so they rasped together. She poured out the story, considerably alarmed but also utterly exhausted. Metand, however, was yet again his usual reassuring self.
‘I understand what Tissot means,’ he said calmly. ‘But I don’t agree with him. Solange is mentally ill. Far more than your husband ever was. There is no doubt about that. And as for waiting to exact revenge –’ He paused. ‘I can’t comment on that because I don’t know.’
‘Suppose he’s right?’ Lucy was not to be mollified and a wave of hysteria swept her. It was as if she was being deliberately misled. The story about Tim and André seemed to count for nothing in her confusion. ‘What should I believe?’
‘Look, you are getting yourself in a bad state. Tissot is wrong. Solange is mad. I’ve already apologized for my part in this. Don’t you think it would be easier if you had your English friends here. To support you?’
‘No,’ said Lucy firmly. ‘And you have made a wrong assumption, monsieur. They are not my friends.’
The search party moved inexorably on, and then split into two, one group taking a route on to the top of the hill and the other to a steep valley below. Lucy and Metand took the latter.
Solange’s malicious words repeated themselves, until they became a mocking rhythm in Lucy’s exhausted mind. Tim? A violent lover who killed? Tim a violent...
Then she suddenly remembered his dream and realized that this was something she had forgotten to tell Metand.
‘Can we stop? You asked me to rack my brains and I’ve come up with some more information.’
He motioned her over to a dead oak tree and leant wearily against the trunk.
‘Just before we left England, Tim had a nightmare.’
‘He often had these?’
‘Yes. But he never told me what he dreamt. That night he did. Tim was half awake and I grabbed his hand and he said, without really knowing what he was saying, “The angels are dying”.’
‘The angels are dying,’ repeated Metand. He looked straight ahead, as if he was trying to remember something but so far not succeeding.
‘Then he said, “Don’t make me”. And that was it.’
Metand seemed to refocus. ‘I think I know where his angels were dying,’ he said at last. ‘There was a painting on the ceiling of the chapel at the château, but most of it was destroyed by the fire. A few small pieces remain. The painting is entitled Armageddon and depicts the final battle between the angels and the dark host. I would not say it was outstanding, but it’s a pity it was destroyed. I wonder if your husband was dreaming about the chapel?’
‘“Don’t make me”?’ Lucy asked. ‘What could that mean?’
Metand shrugged and was about to reply when they both heard the roar of a motorbike. There was an unnerving urgency to the sound.
Metand hurried to meet the policeman, leaving her alone, and the search party stopped work, turning round to watch the encounter curiously.
Lucy suddenly felt as if she was in a lift that was plunging down a high building, and her heartbeats were like hammer blows. What in God’s name was going on?
She glanced towards an old man in blue dungarees. He smiled and shrugged and then smiled again. She knew he was trying to reassure her.
Lucy watched Metand walking back towards her, his face expressionless. It’s Tim, she said to herself over and over again, the terrible chill creeping over her together with a feeling of desolate finality. ‘That’s it, old thing,’ came his voice. ‘Got to go. Pip-pip. Cheerio.’ You are dead, aren’t you? My darling, you’ve gone and died on me, haven’t you?
‘It’s Tim,’ she gasped, as Metand came up, his face set. One hand fluttered up to her neck, the other plucked at small red berries on a bush near by, scattering dozens of them.
‘It’s Solange.’
‘Solange?’ Lucy stared at him, not able to make sense of what he was saying. ‘Solange says he’s dead?’
‘It’s Solange who is dead.’
‘She can’t be. I only saw –’ Lucy almost laughed. This must be another of her lies, another mad joke. She was playing a trick. She was –
‘Solange was found by the gardener at Pavilly. She had fallen from the fourth floor.’ He was silent for a few moments and then said abruptly, ‘The strange thing is that she was holding something.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘My colleague tells me it’s a scrap of cloth.’
‘Yes?’
‘It looks as if it could have been torn from a shirt. A check shirt. I’m going to have to ask you to come with me and make an identification. I’ll make it as painless as I can. We’d better go now.’
He turned away and began to walk back so fast that Lucy had difficulty in keeping up with him. A check shirt? A shirt that was checked? Checking a shirt? The phrases beat banally but painfully in her head. Then they were replaced by a terrible and deep-seated sense of foreboding that sent Lucy’s mind shooting back into a traumatic moment of the past.
A crow flapped its wings over her head and from somewhere deep in the wood there was the sound of cawing. Surely the trees were denser? Why were they so familiar? Then Lucy realized they were a reminder of times past that she hadn’t thought about in years. Twice she had got lost in the woods at the back of Claygate Common. Twice she had been sure she would not be able to get home. And, on the second occasion, she had seen the boy walking towards her, his penis hanging out of his trousers. She had
run and run until she was lost, dashing about in a breathless panic. The boy had been about her own age and there was a look in his eyes that she had known was dangerous.
Eventually Lucy had emerged from the woods on to the main road. She went home the long way round, but when she arrived her father was not there. In fact he returned a few minutes later, having gone to buy some cigarettes, but in her panicky mind he had gone for good, leaving her to the boy with his penis hanging out.
Lucy had never walked in those woods again, but whenever she looked at them she didn’t think so much of the boy but her terror of being left alone.
Now the worst had happened. Her father was dead. Tim was missing. She was alone. Instead of the sex-hungry boy there was Solange. And she apparently still held a fragment of check shirt. But Tim had one of those.
7
29–30 July
A couple of police cars were already parked outside the gates of Pavilly as Metand drove through. Lucy sat in the passenger seat, dreading what she might witness.
In her mind’s eye, she could see Solange now, on the top of the tower, her saucer eyes fixed hypnotically on her own. ‘As far as the eye can see, I will be queen bee.’ The phrase beat idiotically in Lucy’s head but only to mask the other phrases – ‘He killed my husband. Tim shot Claude because he was in love with me.’
Desperately, Lucy tried to rationalize the situation. Solange had driven herself mad with her bitter fantasies that were designed to shock and hurt. She had already been moving inexorably towards destruction.
‘The reason he’s disappeared is that he’s looking for me. Your husband is a violent man.’
Lucy knew she should instantly dismiss the crazy, malicious words. Metand believed Solange to be mad. He was bound to be right. Tissot was wrong.
As they drove alongside the banks of the still lake she tried to adjust to some coherent pattern of thinking but found it impossible.
Metand also seemed stunned by the sudden turn of events, but he eventually slowed down and came to a halt by a jetty that had partly collapsed into the water.
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