The Men

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The Men Page 13

by Anthony Masters


  ‘Let’s give ourselves a little time in which to collect our thoughts. My colleague can cope for a few moments.’

  Lucy became even more unsettled. ‘What you’re really saying is that you think Tim had something to do with this – and that I’m covering up for him. This shirt – I don’t –’

  ‘There’s no point in jumping to conclusions, Mrs Groves. I just wondered if you’d remembered anything else that might help us, or you felt able to confide in me.’

  They sat in silence, the water stirred by a breeze lapping at the algae-covered wood. Strangely, rather than resenting Metand’s request she found it had calmed her. She had to think. Remember.

  There seemed to be two ways of looking at the horror of what had happened. The first was straightforward. She had inveigled Tim into the journey, he had wandered off somewhere, his memories had made him ill and he had got lost in the woods. The alternative was much more disturbing. Could Tim possibly have been mixed up in this collaboration business?

  Then Metand gently asked, ‘Did anything happen in England before you left? Did you notice any difference in your husband’s behaviour patterns?’

  Then Lucy remembered Graham Baverstock. Of course his death had nothing to do with –

  ‘There was a local murder.’ She spoke hurriedly and dismiss-ively. ‘The gardener employed by Peter Davis had his throat cut. I believe the police thought it might be a – a homosexual killing.’

  ‘That’s something else you haven’t told me,’ Metand said irritably.

  ‘I hardly thought it was relevant,’ she snapped.

  ‘How did Tim react?’

  ‘He was appalled. Then he brushed it aside. Something unpleasant from Hersham.’

  ‘Hersham? Where is that?’

  ‘A working-class district near Esher.’

  ‘So murderers and homosexuals only come from the working classes in England?’

  Lucy shrugged. ‘I can only tell you what little I know.’ There was a long silence between them while Metand gazed out over the lake, watching a heron swoop low over the water, plunging suddenly after a fish.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t think of anything else that would be helpful. I’m genuinely sorry.’

  ‘At the moment everything is circumstantial. We’ve got to be careful. Let’s leave the gardener out of the picture for the time being. Did you notice anything in your husband’s behaviour over the last few days that might make you think he was in charge and not you?’

  ‘That he capitalized on my ultimatum?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘He was going down badly. Dreaming more. But then he’d been a nervous wreck for such a long time it would be difficult to say how much worse he was getting,’ She paused. ‘He was definitely feeling the pressure of Martin and Peter.’ She frowned. ‘It wasn’t like a normal friendship.’

  ‘They had never met before the war?’

  ‘No. They were bonded together by their experiences.’

  ‘Experiences you know little about.’

  Lucy gave an angry shrug. ‘I should have been more forceful, but I was afraid they would close ranks and shut me out completely. I suppose they did that anyway.’

  ‘Was your husband afraid of them?’

  ‘He was afraid of something.’

  ‘Suppose Tim had wanted to come to France, rather than being dragged here by your threat of leaving him – presumably Martin and Peter would have tried to stop him as much as they tried to stop you.’

  ‘And their wives. They put pressure on too. All four of them were obviously terrified of what might happen if we came. Of course they said it would be bad for Tim. Then Martin phoned and gave us his blessing. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Presumably that was before he knew Tim was missing –’

  ‘Yes.’ She turned to face him, needing support. ‘Are you saying that if there was a plan, then Martin and Peter were in it too?’

  ‘It’s another way of thinking about the problem.’

  The heron dived again and came up with a small fish struggling in his beak.

  ‘Even while I’m talking,’ said Lucy, ‘I’m thinking of the normality of Esher. Everyone has got back to their routines after the interruption of the war. They’re going up on the train to the Festival, playing cricket, attending Evensong; the women are doing what the women do, the men are doing what the men do. The war’s over. It’s been banished into history. But in Tim’s case it was still being fought in a way I couldn’t understand.’

  ‘Instincts are inhibited in peacetime. War unchains the wild beasts. The combatants usually have God on their side, but war allows a kind of undercover freedom. While it rages away some masks can be removed, can’t they?’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Suppose your husband did come here with a purpose? Perhaps he thought he might be able to achieve his goal quickly and decisively in a short space of time? Even an hour. Suppose coincidence had brought together the escaping English soldiers with Solange and Claude and Philippe and Robert? What about the Germans who were investigating Château Pavilly as a possible venue for a Gestapo regional headquarters and who Solange was trying to fob off? Now we have the English, the French, the Germans. All together for a while. Later we have the execution of three Frenchmen by an outraged local community, Frenchmen who apparently procured local girls for the Germans.’ Metand paused. ‘Solange’s role appears ambiguous, but so does everybody else’s. Suppose the English and the Germans and the French had been up to something much more damaging than procuring? Suppose your husband took his opportunity to come back here and face out whatever was still bothering him?’

  Despair swept Lucy. Metand was putting forward the worst scenario of all.

  ‘Do you think Tim killed Solange? I thought you’d dismissed her accusations? I thought you said she was mentally ill.’

  ‘She was. And at this stage I’m not saying anything of the kind.’ Metand switched on the ignition again. ‘This is going to be very difficult for you, Mrs Groves, and that’s why I’m glad we’ve had this talk first.’

  ‘Wait a minute. I’ve remembered something else, but it may be insignificant.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘We were talking about Thérèse and her attempted flight from the tower. Solange said, “I admire Thérèse for that. I don’t have the courage. Not yet.”’

  Metand nodded. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  He drove away from the lake towards the ruins of the château, its windows blind gaps in a blackened stonework shell. The classical façade was surmounted at each end by two medieval towers, and it had been built in four storeys, the walls decorated with coats of arms.

  The front entrance had collapsed and was masked by more galvanized sheeting. A section of the roof had fallen into the stone hall below and the wall bulged outwards, shored up by scaffolding. On the left-hand side, a small part of one wing had remained intact and was hardly blackened. Just underneath, a small bell tent had been erected on the lawn. A police car was drawn up beside it and an officer stood outside.

  ‘I must ask you to remain in the car for the moment,’ said Metand. ‘The pathologist hasn’t arrived yet so it might be some time before I need you.’ He got stiffly out of the car and slammed the door. Then he came round to Lucy’s half-open window. ‘While you are waiting, please keep thinking.’

  Lucy’s encounter with Solange at the Tour des Oiseaux had taken on a dream-like quality that was beginning to give her acute anxiety. Again and again she saw her monstrous bulk, the terrible accusations, the crumbling balustrade, the ground seeming to claw at her from below. Solange was ill, she told herself determinedly. Mentally ill. Mad. Crazy. Deluded. Demented. She couldn’t touch Tim. Not in any possible way. She should be locked up. But now she was dead. And did she really have something of Tim’s?

  Metand quietly opened the door of the car, startling her.

  ‘I’m afraid I need you now.’

  Lucy gazed up at him fearfully. ‘Do I h
ave to go in there?’

  ‘The pathologist still hasn’t arrived and I can’t disturb her body. I’m sorry I’m having to ask you to do this.’

  ‘Let’s get it over with then.’

  He tried to take her arm as she reluctantly climbed out of the car, but she impatiently shook him off.

  Metand led Lucy into the stuffy tent where there were more police officers and a young man with owlish spectacles, tall and slim, in plain clothes. He gave Lucy an apologetic smile.

  ‘This is my colleague, Gerard Villet,’ said Metand.

  The heat was intense and there was a heavy smell of faeces that immediately made her want to choke. The body was covered with a tarpaulin, but some dark stains had leaked through.

  ‘Turn away for a moment, madame, please,’ said Villet.

  Lucy faced the canvas wall, the smell of shit filling her nostrils. She wondered if she was going to faint.

  ‘If you’ll turn back.’ Villet sounded even more apologetic.

  She saw a wide, wooden bracelet clamped round thick white flesh. There were no abrasions of any kind. Only one fingernail was broken – a half-moon that had been jaggedly torn away, revealing a little blood underneath that was dried and caked.

  Between the two middle fingers was a scrap of material that was instantly familiar. For a moment she couldn’t speak and a feeling of utter, unbelieving horror filled her mind.

  It couldn’t be. There was a mistake. An explanation. A coincidence. A misunderstanding. Again she heard Solange’s voice and again she pushed away the words.

  ‘I think that is a piece of my husband’s shirt,’ Lucy said as if she was confirming personal information to her doctor in Esher.

  The nausea finally choked her and she ran outside, just reaching the long grass before she was violently sick.

  The shirt had had a particularly memorable pattern with its houndstooth check in red and blue. She had bought it with him last Christmas and she remembered how upset Tim had been when he found the collar size had been too large. Lucy had forgotten how thin his neck had become.

  Nevertheless, he had worn the shirt stubbornly and she had wished he hadn’t for it had made his now pronounced Adam’s apple far too obvious. He had even worn it when they set out yesterday, with his sports coat and corduroys.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Metand gently, emerging from the tent.

  Lucy nodded. What have you done, Tim, she asked him. In God’s name, what have you done? Despair swept her.

  ‘What has he done?’ she asked aloud, trembling violently, and Metand steadied her, putting an arm around her shoulders. ‘Do you think he’s here? Somewhere in the château? Or the grounds?’

  ‘They’re searching now,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m going to have you driven back to the hotel. I’m sure you don’t want to go but I still have to stay here and wait for the pathologist. I think you should phone your friends and tell them what has happened. Then I’ll interview them in England. Villet can take over here.’

  ‘In England?’ Lucy was completely thrown. ‘You’re going to speak to them there?’ she asked in amazement. ‘What about Tim? What about the search?’

  ‘That will continue. Villet is very capable and knows exactly what to do.’

  ‘Perhaps it would be easier if Peter and Martin did come.’ Then she thought of them in the Hotel des Arbres and winced. They would take her over.

  ‘No,’ said Metand, and she was surprised by his vehemence. ‘If I’m going to get anywhere in this case I need to see both sides of it.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

  ‘I’m sure that these two men, Peter Davis and Martin Latimer, hold the key to all this. If your husband can’t tell me what is going on, then I’m hoping they can. If they won’t co-operate, I may need to liaise with the British police.’

  ‘You really think they know what’s going on?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Do you think she killed herself?’

  Metand gazed at Lucy with some curiosity, unsettling her even more. ‘It’s the shirt –’

  ‘Yes. I’m getting muddled.’

  ‘I would like to interview these two men in their own homes. If they come here I’m concerned they’ll feel under too much scrutiny. Back home they might be more receptive.’

  ‘And I’m to wait here? Liaise with your colleague? Sit in that damned room until –’

  ‘On the contrary, Mrs Groves. I was hoping you would join me. We could travel together and talk some more.’

  ‘You think I’m still holding back?’

  ‘Not intentionally, I’m sure. But consider your husband and Solange Eclave. A young and heroic army officer makes a remarkable escape. A young and beautiful farmer’s wife betters herself and becomes a valued employee of a distinguished French family. Look at them a few years after the war. Timothy Groves has become a neurotic wreck. Solange Eclave is mentally ill. What caused all that? Not some kind of shell shock. Not a brutal husband. Not vigilante executioners. No – there has to be something else. Something that happened here – when they were together. I know Solange but I don’t know your husband and if I’m to do that I have to travel to England. I can assure you it will be a very short trip – little more than twenty-four hours. No doubt you will wish to return with me. I can get official clearance.’

  ‘I’ll come,’ said Lucy. ‘I certainly don’t want to stay here.’ She felt utterly confused and still a little faint.

  Looking up she saw a tall, elegant woman walking up the overgrown drive, dressed in a white linen suit. Her auburn hair was cut short, almost severely so, and her eyes squinted slightly in the sun.

  As she came closer, Lucy could see the long languid walk was deceptive; she was barely able to control herself, her hands shaking and mouth working without any sound emerging.

  ‘Anna.’ Metand seemed flummoxed.

  ‘I want to see her.’ She had the most striking face. It was almost boyish, with a delicate complexion and high cheekbones, but the dark eyes were bleak and on closer inspection Lucy saw her skin was blemished.

  Metand stepped between Anna and the tent.

  ‘You can’t go in there.’

  She came to a halt, gazing at him, her eyes glazed. Her shoulders heaved slightly but no tears came. ‘They wouldn’t let me bring the car in. So I walked.’ The prosaic little statement was incredibly pathetic.

  Metand still seemed flustered.

  ‘She fell but I can’t tell you the precise cause of death. I’m waiting for the pathologist.’

  ‘Do you think someone killed her? This man they’re looking for? The Englishman who disappeared. She knew him, you know.’

  ‘This is his wife,’ said Metand bleakly.

  For the first time Anna’s eyes rested on Lucy’s. ‘Solange had an affair with your husband during the war. She said he’d shot her husband Claude and that she was frightened he would come back one day.’ She spoke decisively and with considerable authority.

  Lucy was determined to keep calm, but the panic rose. It was all happening again. The impossible nightmare was back. Solange was ill, she told herself. Mentally ill. You shouldn’t have believed her.

  For a moment it looked as if Metand was going to intercede. But he said nothing.

  Anna Ribault gave a sharp intake of breath and then a half-sob. Tor God’s sake. I must see her.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  She rounded on Lucy. ‘Do you know why your husband did this?’ she demanded.

  ‘He didn’t. Surely you knew Solange well enough to realize how ill she was. You couldn’t believe a word she said.’

  ‘We can’t have this conversation here,’ said Metand. ‘Mrs Groves, I’ll arrange for you to be taken back to the hotel. I’ll come and see you later.’

  ‘Tell me about your husband,’ said Anna threateningly, ignoring him. ‘Tell me why he’s done this. After all these years. Why did he have to come back?’

  ‘You mustn’t say that,’ Lucy yelled at her
, the hysteria rising into her throat like bile.

  ‘Solange was my closest friend. Your husband – your filthy pig of a husband –’

  Lucy ran forward, not knowing what she was going to do, her hand instinctively rising as if to slap her and then failing to follow through. Anna Ribault stepped back, dropping her briefcase, somehow managing to keep on her feet.

  ‘Nothing’s proven against Tim,’ yelled Lucy as one of the police officers grabbed her round the waist and pulled her back towards the car, kicking and struggling. ‘When you find him, he’ll be able to explain everything. I promise he’ll tell you what we all want to know – that he didn’t do it, couldn’t do it. Your friend Solange was ill. Why don’t you accept that?’

  ‘She was afraid,’ said Anna, picking up her briefcase. ‘Solange was afraid for a long time. She told me about your husband. She told me over and over again.’

  The police officer pulled Lucy towards the back door of the car while one of his colleagues opened it and helped her in. She was shaking all over now.

  Metand came and poked his head through the window. ‘I’m alerting Monique. You need looking after.’

  When Lucy arrived back in the dusty square at Navise, the dog with the cut paw came snuffling up to her and the officer swore, driving him limping back to his usual position under the trees. There was no sign of his companions and the dog crouched down, whining slightly.

  The police officer took her arm gently and led her to the front door of the hotel and rang the bell. After a while Louis opened it and stood there while the officer told him how upset Lucy was. Then he went back to the car, looking relieved that he had delivered his awkward charge.

  Louis steered her inside and towards the sitting room. ‘Sit down,’ he said gently, and she collapsed in the old armchair.

  ‘Solange has been found dead.’

  Louis looked as if he didn’t believe her, that she was making it all up. ‘What in God’s name happened?’

  Lucy was in the middle of a stumbling explanation when Monique arrived. After that a good deal of brandy was poured. Only dimly did she remember the Dedoirs helping her up the stairs between them.

 

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