‘I killed him. No one else. He would have been safe if we’d stayed at home.’
‘You can’t go on destroying yourself. You did what you had to do. What would have happened if Tim had stayed in England? What sort of state would he have ended up in?’
Lucy’s sobs lessened. ‘I can’t bear him to be dead.’
Monique stroked her hair gently. ‘None of us can bear it for you.’
She was silent, feeling as if she was stranded on some fogbound island, unable to see which way to go. ‘I want to go back to England in the morning. I’m sure that they won’t release Tim’s body until there’s been a post mortem. That could be days – or even weeks.’
Monique said nothing, which she immediately took as a negative response.
‘Does he suspect me? Does he think I killed him?’
‘Lucy. If you won’t see the doctor and let him prescribe sedatives, at least let me bring you up a stiff drink. A brandy or-’
‘Metand gave me some.’
‘Let me get you another. You have to sleep. I want you to sleep. You must do what I say.’
Lucy gave in.
In fact she didn’t need the brandy. While Monique was downstairs she slipped into exhausted sleep to find herself cycling over the Clump with Tim. They were racing each other up a hill which was steep and covered in long grass, puffing and groaning, standing up on their pedals, shouting and jeering at each other until Tim’s bike flipped over and he fell off, fortunately rolling clear of the machine and coming to rest, scratched and breathless, in a blackberry bush.
He was lying there, mock dead. At last he opened his eyes. Tim gazed up at her as they had done when he was hauled from the well. He looked blind. Then she knew he was dead.
But still Lucy didn’t wake. Instead, the first nightmare merged into the second.
Peter and Martin were mounted on the backs of the young Frenchmen, frozen in a tableau-like stance, an exhibit around which she and Tim were walking slowly, as if in admiration of a particularly good piece of sculpture that they had come a long way to see and which had cost them a good deal of entrance money.
Lucy struggled to wake. Someone was gripping her shoulder. ‘It’s propaganda,’ she said over and over again. ‘Only propaganda.’
‘You were dreaming,’ said her father. Then she saw it was Metand. Lucy found nothing strange in him being in her room, sitting by her bed. In fact she was delighted to see him for she knew that he would help her to surface from the night’s horrors.
‘I want to go home.’
He smiled. ‘Shall we both go?’ Metand paused and then said, ‘Please don’t think I’m only interested in solving this investigation. You’ve already been through a series of terrible ordeals and this is the worst.’
‘But it’s not the last, is it?’
‘I lost my parents. They met violent deaths and I never recovered and neither will you. But the pain will lessen until the grief becomes part of you. That’s what happened to me. Also, I believe that you will eventually find Tim was not a hero once, but a hero twice.’
‘Do you know something I don’t?’
‘I can’t talk about it now. But trust me.’
‘Are you coming to a conclusion?’
‘Yes. But it lies in Shrub Lane.’
‘How did he die?’
‘He was stabbed.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘At the mortuary in Honfleur.’
‘Is Solange’s body there too?’
He nodded.
‘Together again?’
‘Don’t, Lucy.’
‘I want it over.’
‘We must leave in an hour or so. You must have some breakfast and I’ll make some calls. Then we shall be back on our commuters’ journey on the ferry. They’ll be getting used to us.’
‘You think the photographs are crucial to all this?’
‘Yes,’ Metand got up. ‘I’m with you, Lucy. Please remember that.’
‘Thank God,’ she replied.
Monique and Louis Dedoir stood on the cracked and faded tree-patterned tiles in the foyer of the Hotel des Arbres. They were both looking tired and Louis had his boiler suit on again.
‘I don’t want to say goodbye. And I’ll be back. If you’ll have me, after all this.’ Lucy was tearful but controlled.
Monique was not. She gripped her tightly and kissed Lucy several times on each cheek, the alcohol strong on her breath. ‘Come back,’ she said. ‘Come back to us.’
Louis looked embarrassed and shuffled, wanting to return to his garden. It was he who brought Lucy the greatest comfort.
13
1 August
This time, Metand sat on the lounge deck, a cigarette between his teeth and the packet in front of him on the table. Lucy pretended to read The Times, aware that, whatever happened, she couldn’t escape the deadly reality of being alone. No father. No Tim. Just a long life to lead.
‘Do you know what’s going to happen?’ Lucy asked Metand. The sea was glassy calm, the ferry only a quarter full and they had the row of seats to themselves.
‘I have some theories.’ He reluctantly put down a novel. ‘They need to be put to the test.’
‘You won’t tell me what kind of conclusion you’re coming to?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You’re not going to eventually tell me Tim killed Solange, are you?’ she pleaded.
‘Remember what I told you. He will emerge heroically. I’m sure of that.’
‘You have evidence?’
‘I know it. As strongly as you do.’
‘What a peculiar detective you are.’
‘Thank you. I must tell my boss.’
‘Do many policemen act on intuition?’
Metand abruptly returned to his book and Lucy got up and prowled the decks of the ferry.
The sun was high in the sky and there was a mist on the sea. She gazed into the heat haze and muttered to herself, ‘You’re not out there any more, are you? You’ve gone, left me. Just when we might have got going.’ She began to cry.
When Lucy returned to Metand he had put down his book and was gazing at a poster proclaiming the delights of St Malo.
‘Tell me what Peter said when you phoned him.’
‘I’ve already told you.’
‘Tell me again.’
‘He was horrified.’
‘Didn’t he ask any questions?’
‘He asked after you with very great concern. He wanted to know if Tim’s death was connected with Solange’s and I said I couldn’t make any comment but I had to see both of them urgently.’
‘They didn’t ask you why?’
‘No.’
As he spoke, Metand gave Lucy a glancing look that seemed so full of tenderness and regret that she bent over and kissed him on the forehead. He looked up in such genuine surprise and bewilderment that, despite everything, she laughed.
‘What was that for?’ he asked, blushing.
‘For you.’
The evening was grey and cold as Metand drove down Shrub Lane towards the cricket pitch. They were early and Lucy had suggested they caught the Men at nets practice which was held with unbreakable routine on a Tuesday evening.
‘I don’t want to go back to the house. Not yet anyway.’
They passed the coal yard that now inhabited the ruins of an old brewery. Next door was a village shop and a butcher.
‘This is still Esher?’
‘It’s called West End. The original village.’
‘Prettier than Navise.’
‘Yes, but it’s got such bad memories.’
‘Cricket?’
‘Man’s domination. Women’s subjugation. Sandwich-making,’ she added.
‘A local industry?’
‘Practically.’
‘Why didn’t you fit in, Lucy? Surely most women do?’
‘It was my father.’ She began to tell Metand about him, and as she did so the village green came into view with the pavilion,
the pitch and the nets where a number of men in whites were standing watching someone bowling.
‘He sounds interesting,’ Metand pronounced when she had finished. ‘He gave you quite different expectations.’
‘So did Tim. Until he got sucked under.’
‘And now? What will you do when this tragedy is resolved?’
‘I shan’t stay here. I shall travel. I shall travel without him.’ Her voice shook, and when they had pulled up on the verge Metand gently took her hand. To Lucy’s surprise, she realized she hadn’t thought about the prints for some time.
Peter embraced Lucy with a bear-hug, drawing her to him, holding her in a strong grip that was meant to be reassuring but was, in fact, merely uncomfortable.
‘You’re safe now,’ he said, the dark mat of hair blooming at his cricket shirt collar.
Martin, his face drawn, also took her in his arms, but his touch was gentle, more tentative. ‘It’s awful,’ he said. ‘So awful for you. We’re both here to help.’
She wanted one of them to say, ‘It was your fault,’ so she could fight back, but neither of them did. Then the detail in the photographs sharply returned.
‘We’re early. I knew it would be nets practice tonight so why not finish and we’ll just sit here for a while and take a break.’
‘You can’t do that,’ Peter began.
‘Please do as Mrs Groves suggests.’ Metand spoke abruptly.
Peter and Martin had walked slowly back to the nets looking rebuffed and Lucy wondered what they were thinking.
They sat together on an uncomfortable wooden seat on the edge of the village green.
‘Are you sure you’re going to be up to this?’ asked Metand as Peter hit the ball back to the bowler while Martin stood silently gazing across the village green to the church.
She nodded. ‘When will you want me to come back to France?’
‘I don’t know. It depends on how things go.’
‘Here?’
‘And there.’ He was vague. ‘Your husband’s body won’t be released for some time, I’m afraid.’
‘Will you need to question me again?’
‘Of course.’ He tried to distract her. ‘Can you tell me about the temperament that drives these men?’
Lucy thought carefully before she answered. ‘The English believe in king and country, and that’s why they went to war. They also believe in home in a very special way, as a kind of bastion. The Englishman’s castle and all that, protected by privet hedges and a gravelled drive. The lawn is the shrine. They see normality as the pivot of their lives; they want an unruffled surface. Their men are protective and have a certain concept of honour. They like to say they believe in God and uphold the Ten Commandments. But they don’t want to show their feelings. They need to conform to a certain pattern, to their chosen way of life.’
‘I didn’t realize you were such a cynic.’
‘I was bred to be one.’
‘You never talk – husband and wife – on an equal basis?’
‘There’s a tendency, in our class, for the men to manage.’
‘You weave, paint, arrange flowers? You are not meant to take a job?’
‘Martin’s wife is a teacher. A good one.’
‘And you and Tim? That was so different?’
‘We weren’t going to fit into the system. We were going to travel.’ Lucy’s voice shook. ‘If he had come home from the war in any way whole, we’d never have lived in Esher.’
‘As it is –’
‘He became an invalid and I had to try and help him without knowing what was wrong. Peter and Martin, they kept an eye on him. Their relationship with him never changed.’
‘This might be a difficult question to answer, but I have to ask it. Did you feel they feared him?’
‘Perhaps. Tim was ashamed of himself. He didn’t believe in psychiatry or even medication for bad nerves. He wanted to recover. Peter and Martin wanted him to recover too. But instead he got worse.’
‘Why do you think he couldn’t confide in you? He must have known how much you loved him, longed for the relief of sharing it all.’
‘How could he have confided in me? Given the kind of person he was? Given the pressure he was under?’ Lucy paused and then asked, ‘Do you think he went to Solange to ask her to give him the film? Ask her to be merciful? Do you think she could have been blackmailing Peter and Martin?’
‘Wouldn’t you have known? Wouldn’t there be tension you would have picked up from their wives?’
‘Frankly,’ said Lucy, ‘it all goes round and round. But it doesn’t come out anywhere, does it? But then, of course, you are keeping your own counsel, aren’t you?’ she added bitterly.
‘I’m afraid I have to,’ he said regretfully. ‘Just for a while longer.’
Peter walked slowly across the grass towards them from the pavilion. He looked wary.
‘The other chaps are going home,’ he said apprehensively, his cricket jersey round his shoulders, although the dull evening was not cold. ‘There’s only Martin in the pavilion. Would you like to talk in there? It’s not particularly comfortable but there’s wine in the fridge.’
Lucy watched Metand get up stiffly. He looked tired and rather frail. Why had he stopped confiding in her, she wondered.
14
1 August
Directly she was inside the pavilion again Lucy remembered the sandwich-making of last weekend, with May so conscientiously filling the thin slices and Sally coming through the door to talk about the murder of Graham Baverstock.
Sunlight no longer played on the sandwich-makers. Instead, the atmosphere was dark and gloomy. Nevertheless, Lucy still had total recall. The team was batting outside and Tim, just run out, was watching from the deckchair, his thin, invalid’s frame defeated.
Peter brought up chairs and she sat down heavily.
‘Are you all right?’ Martin asked quietly.
She nodded, her heart pounding as she gazed around her. Her anxiety had dispersed a little, but raw fear had taken over. The chairs were placed in a semicircle at the back of the pavilion which smelt unappetizingly of linseed oil and stale food.
Martin poured out wine into smeared glasses. Lucy noticed his hands were shaking. She took a sip, only to discover it was slightly bitter.
‘I have something to show you,’ said Metand.
He seemed to take a very long time foraging in his briefcase for the envelope containing the photograph, and then an equally long time taking it out.
He passed it to Martin, who was sitting next to Peter. They studied the print together and, for a while, betrayed not the slightest emotion. Neither did they exchange a glance. Lucy watched them in mounting amazement. Why didn’t they react?
Then Peter looked up at Metand, only just meeting his eyes, while Martin gazed down at the cracked and discoloured lino on the floor. There was embarrassment, certainly, but not the extreme reaction Lucy had expected. Why were they so controlled? Had they expected this? Had plans been made?
‘I don’t think we should be looking at this kind of stuff with Mrs Groves here,’ Peter said eventually. He sounded, as ever, briskly protective.
‘She has already seen it.’
‘How?’ asked Martin. His voice was expressionless.
‘Solange arranged for the film to be handed to her.’
Peter’s eyes met Lucy’s for only a few seconds before they moved away again.
‘It’s disgusting,’ he muttered, but once again she had the impression that he was acting.
‘I – it’s – yes, it is.’ Lucy could barely get the words out.
‘But you did it,’ said Metand.
‘We had to. But I don’t want to talk about this in front of Mrs Groves.’ He sounded like a prep school headmaster, faced by juvenile pornography.
‘Regrettably you must.’
‘Why?’ asked Peter a little more uncertainly.
Metand ignored the question. ‘Can you tell me when this photograph was
taken and in what circumstances?’
‘Has it been publicly circulated?’ asked Martin tentatively. He still seemed unexpectedly calm, but Lucy could see the beads of sweat on his brow.
‘No. It was developed yesterday.’
‘We were forced to – do that disgusting thing. At least we were drunk.’ Peter gave a little bark of a laugh.
‘We should have owned up to all this a long time ago, but you must admit, monsieur, that it’s embarrassing – to say the least.’ Martin undid a button on his cricket shirt and pulled at the small folds of skin at his neck.
‘Did Tim know?’ asked Lucy.
‘Yes. It was because of him that we did it. I’d better explain what happened.’ Martin continued, speaking quickly, as if wanting to get it all over.
As he did so, Lucy became increasingly tense. The Men were so reasonable, so frank, so neatly controlled. Had they actually rehearsed?
‘As we told you before, we were given shelter in the cellars of the château. On the second night, Solange got drunk and started making advances to us and in particular to Tim. Naturally she was told where to go. Then the German patrol arrived. A couple of Gestapo officers were with them.’ Martin paused. To our horror, Solange gave us away to them. It was unbelievable and she did it out of pure vindictiveness. At first I thought we would either be executed or taken away to a prison camp. Then I realized that the Gestapo officers had visited Pavilly before. We were told that local French girls had been photographed having intercourse with German soldiers as a propaganda exercise to demoralize the French, and that Solange and her husband Claude had been paid to organize the event. Now they were being paid again and I’m sure very highly. This time the Nazis thought they would demoralize the English. We were told to go through with this obscene act and at first we refused. But we were forced to drink a considerable quantity of alcohol and told that if we didn’t – co-operate – Tim would be shot. Then Claude and his two friends arrived. Do I have to go on?’
‘Why was Tim let off?’ asked Metand.
‘Solange. She intervened on his behalf.’
The Men Page 20