“Oh.” Sylvie made a moue of disappointment. “Then I must send a big present to Anne-Marie herself. To help her forget the little baby. Flowers. I shall send a whole roomful of flowers, and also champagne.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “I’d cut out the champagne, I think,” I said. “The Mother Superior might not approve. But the flowers are a splendid idea. They’ll make her feel she’s not forgotten and unloved.” I was intending to send flowers myself, though not by the roomful.
“Then that’s settled.” Sylvie sipped her champagne and twinkled at me over the rim of her glass, like a child with a delectable secret to impart. “And now, my Jane, I have plans for you.”
“For me?”
“I should say…I have great favor to ask you. Will you help me?”
“If I possibly can—you know I will.”
Sylvie set down her glass and looked straight at me. “Come and live in this apartment, Jane,” she said.
I was so taken aback that I said nothing, but I could feel my eyes opening wide in astonishment. Sylvie laughed. “You are surprised.”
“I’m…I don’t understand what you mean, Sylvie.”
“Oh, my Jane—you look so very English when you are surprised. Do you think I make a wicked proposition?”
“Of course not. I simply don’t see what you’re driving at.”
“Forgive me.” Impulsively, Sylvie put out her hand and touched mine. “I am naughty—I so like to see you bouleversée. It is charming. No, my Jane, it is very simple, my idea. Pierre is so busy, there is no chance for us to come again before Christmas. Any little holiday he may take in August, we must go on some yacht in the Mediterranean because of the important people. Important c-r-r-ashing bores,” Sylvie added, rolling the R’s around. She had picked up the English expression “crashing bore” from me, and for some reason found it exquisitely amusing. She went on, “Now, when Anne-Marie was here, it was different. She kept the place clean and looked after it well. But this new girl—who is she? You don’t know her. I don’t know her. Maybe she is all that Bienne says—maybe not. We have some good things here, and Pierre does not want the apartment to be empty for months, with the key in the pocket of some little Italian girl we don’t know. Now do you see?”
“You mean, you want a caretaker?” I said.
“Oh, Jane—you, a caretaker? Don’t be silly. But we would be so very grateful if, as a friend, you would move in here until December. You will still have your pretty little house and your studio for working,” she added, almost wheedling. “And you could have your friends to stay—there is the guest room with its own bathroom, and you have so little space at Les Sapins. Would you do it for us, Jane?”
I laughed. “There’s no need to persuade me,” I said. “Living here would be sheer heaven after Les Sapins and Herbert. The only thing that frightens me is…well…all this beautiful stuff.” I made a gesture, a rather despairing one. “Your china and glass, the carpets… I’d be terrified of wrecking the place for you.”
Sylvie jumped to her feet. “If that is all that worries you, my Jane, we may say the bargain is fixed and drink to it with another glass of champagne.” She flourished the bottle gaily. “What are things —they are just things, made to be broken, made to be used. You may break anything you like, my Jane—you may pour red wine over the carpets and stub out cigarettes on the parquet. You may set fire to the curtains and rip the chair covers! You are our friend! What we do not want is to be robbed by some mean little stranger.”
I could not help smiling at her Gallic logic—the beautiful, generous gesture coupled with the fact that I knew, and she knew I knew, that I had been carefully selected for the caretaking job. Sylvie knew me; she had seen how I kept my own house. She knew that if there were any breakages, they would be the result of bad luck and not of carelessness. Even as this thought flashed through my mind, I felt guilty and ungracious for quibbling at Sylvie’s motives.
Sylvie handed me my refilled glass, raised hers to touch it briefly, and we both drank. Then she said, “And now comes the bonne bouche. The reward to my Jane for being so kind and saying yes.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Sylvie,” I said. “I don’t want a reward. It’ll be heaven for me, living here—”
“Ssh. Don’t interrupt. It’s very rude, and you English are so ver-r-y correct.” Sylvie made a face, which was supposed to indicate Brittanic rectitude. Then she went on, “You said you wanted to make a head of Giselle, no?”
I could hardly believe my ears. I didn’t dare jump to the beckoning conclusion. Trying to keep my voice offhand, I said, “You mean Giselle Arnay?”
“Who else?”
“And has she…? Will she…?”
“She and Michel,” said Sylvie, “are planning to spend September in Montarraz. I’ve told her that you’ll be living in my apartment, and she’s agreed to sit for you. She’s quite excited about the idea.”
After that, the idea of leaving Montarraz never crossed my mind again.
I moved into the Claudet apartment the following week, and for a time I simply sat back and reveled in the sheer luxury of it. The contrast with Les Sapins could not have been greater. Instead of Herbert and his grinning, ever-open maw demanding offerings of wood and coal, there was discreetly concealed central heating which adjusted itself to keep a steadily delightful temperature. I had the choice of two bathrooms—pink or lilac—in both of which hot water gushed endlessly. The kitchen was a dream—a fully automatic electric oven topped by a battery of gleaming gas rings. There was a washing-up machine, of course; a huge refrigerator with a deep-freeze compartment; an electric mixer with attachments which took a whole cupboard to house them; twin stainless-steel sinks; in fact, every gadget that modern science could devise had been mustered to take the edge off the Claudets’ “roughing-it,” servantless holidays. I don’t think I need dwell on the difference between the Claudets’ sanitary arrangements and the lean-to chemical closet. I was very happy indeed.
I also remembered what Sylvie had said about having people to stay, and the idea was tempting. I knew enough about Montarraz by now to realize that August—the so-called “high season” of the summer—was a disastrous month, whereas September was entrancing. Consequently, I wrote to Emmy Tibbett and suggested that she and Henry might like to spend some time with me in September. I could promise them, I wrote, a rather more comfortable holiday than the previous one.
I would, I hoped, be busy on my head of Giselle Arnay at the time, but I knew that the Tibbetts would be able to amuse themselves. They were both keen walkers, for instance, and the mountains around Montarraz are famous for their “excursions à pied,” especially in the autumn. The Tibbetts accepted with enthusiasm, and so it was that, on a balmy evening at the end of August, I found myself once more at the post office, waiting to meet the gallant orange bus when it puffed its way up from the plain. Giselle Arnay was due to arrive in her private helicopter the next day.
Henry and Emmy were in great form, and regaled me with a blow-by-blow account of a mad twenties-style pajama party which they had attended earlier in the week—an aftermath, apparently, of the Balaclava case. I had been reading the trial reports in the English papers, knowing that Henry was involved. Even in the rather stilted press accounts of Chief Superintendent Tibbett’s evidence, I could always detect the man himself, his dry wit and deceptive diffidence. I was glad that justice had been done, and I knew that Henry was, too.
My visitors were gratifyingly impressed by the Claudet apartment, and took an unaffected delight in its luxuries. Emmy and I had great fun experimenting with the various gadgets in the kitchen, and with their aid we produced a really splendid lunch of homemade cheesecake followed by entrecôte beurre Café de Paris. It was after we had eaten, and were sunning ourselves on the balcony with our coffee, that Henry said, rather sleepily, “By the way, Jane, we saw a thing of yours the other day.”
“A thing? What sort of a thing?”
“That figure you did for
the Bassingtons. They’re neighbors of ours, you know. They gave a drinks party in the garden the other evening, and everybody was admiring it. We came in for quite a bit of reflected glory, since we not only knew the artist but had met the model. Nobody would believe that she was your char. How are Anne-Marie and Robert, by the way? They must have been married for over a year now. Any offspring?”
For a moment I couldn’t say anything. Then I said, “Oh, dear. I’d forgotten you didn’t know.”
Quickly Emmy said, “Oh, Jane, I’m sorry. It’s bad news, isn’t it?”
I nodded. The bright sunshine suddenly seemed brash, the gaiety of the afternoon had evaporated. Far down in the valley below us I could just see the tall gray turrets of the convent where, in a few weeks, Anne-Marie would have her child. “I’d better tell you,” I said. And I did.
When I had finished, there was a long silence. Then Emmy said, “That poor child. How terrible. And how awful for you, Jane. You had to give evidence against her.”
“Not only that,” I said. “It was my evidence that convicted her. You can imagine how I felt.”
“I never did like the setup at the Chalet Perce-neige,” said Emmy. “You remember that sinister party we all went to?”
“Don’t be silly, Emmy,” said Henry quite sharply. “You said afterward what fun it had been, and how charming they all were.”
“Well, I didn’t know then—”
I said, “You really can’t blame Giselle Arnay. Lots of rich people make a great fuss of their ski instructors, and lots of instructors take it all with a pinch of salt, enjoy themselves, and forget the whole thing at the end of the winter season. I’m afraid the answer is that Robert Drivaz was weak and vain and greedy, and hopelessly spoiled by his mother. I should have realized that before I encouraged Anne-Marie to marry him. If I’d been able to—”
“You wouldn’t have been able to change anything that happened, Jane,” said Henry. After a pause he added, “We have far less effect on people than we like to think—even people close to us.” Emmy looked quickly at her husband, but he was frowning down at his coffee cup. “You say she denied killing him?”
“Yes. Right up to the end. That was what made it so awful, in a way. If she’d admitted it—well, it would have been a sort of catharsis. A cleansing, a relief. Do you see what I mean?”
“For her, or for you?” There was a dry edge to Henry’s voice that I recognized.
I said, “All right. For me, I suppose. As it is, I’m left with more than sorrow. Doubt.”
He looked at me then. “Real doubt?”
“I just don’t know. I’d have staked my life on the fact that Anne-Marie would never tell a lie.”
“But you say the evidence was conclusive?”
“Absolutely. Damn it.”
“You think she would have been capable of killing Robert? Psychologically, I mean.”
I considered. “In hot blood, yes. She’s a passionate creature. But…all that time. What was she doing in there all that time, before she came rushing out and bumped into Mario? It’s just not right. Not like her.”
Henry said, “This has been worrying you badly, hasn’t it, Jane?”
“Yes, it has.”
“Then why not tell me about it properly—in detail, I mean. Everything you can remember.”
I shrugged. “There doesn’t seem much point, now. What’s done is done. Heaven knows, I’ve done all I can to help, and so has Sylvie. If it wasn’t for the baby—”
Henry said, “Yes. The baby. Who is going to be brought up by a grandmother who has already ruined his father, and who will undoubtedly tell him that his mother is a murderess.”
“Oh, Henry—don’t!”
“You see,” Henry said gently, “it might just be worth telling me. You never know. There’s always a chance.”
So I told him everything I could remember, everything I have written in this account so far. When I had finished, he said, “And you are quite sure that you saw Anne-Marie going back to her chalet before five o’clock?”
I gave an exasperated sigh. “Good God, Henry, of course I’m sure. Don’t you think I’ve been over and over it, with the police, with the lawyers, in my own head? There was no doubt at all. I was packing up my things a bit earlier than usual, because the light had gone. It had started to rain, and I couldn’t see to work any longer. I was back inside Les Sapins by five, because I switched on the radio in the kitchen and listened to the five-o’clock news summary. I tell you, there’s no doubt at all.”
“H’m.” Henry seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then he said, “You say she had good legal advice?”
“The best. She was represented by a famous advocate from Geneva. He did all he could—all that anybody could.”
“Who paid him?”
The question was unexpected. “Paid him? I don’t know.”
“You don’t get a legal celebrity for nothing. Someone footed the bill.”
“I…I really don’t know, Henry. I did inquire…that is, I offered to help with legal costs, but the police assured me that Anne-Marie was being adequately represented, and so she was. I never thought about who paid. Somebody who was sorry for her and wanted her cleared, I suppose.”
“Or,” said Henry, “somebody with a guilty conscience.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t really know,” Henry admitted. “I’m just groping around a bit in the dark. Just thinking.” He took a deep breath, and sat up straight in his chair. “And now that you’ve got that off your chest, my dear Jane, try to forget it, and let’s enjoy our holiday. What about a walk to shake down our lunch?”
“Will you forget it?” I said.
Henry looked at me and grinned, but all he said was, “Where’s that excursion map you were showing us? I’d suggest a walk of about an hour and a half, and not on one of the routes that are only for people who don’t suffer from vertigo…”
We picked a walk which took us up through meadows thick with autumn crocus, and brought us down through an aromatic pine forest. Nobody mentioned Anne-Marie, and gradually our mood of contentment came drifting back. Henry had been right, I thought. It had done me good to get the whole story off my chest. Besides, in an obscure way I felt that the whole matter was now in good hands.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE NEXT DAY I arranged a raclette picnic in the mountains. If you know the Suisse Romande, you have probably eaten raclette in a café, for it is one of the specialties of the region; and I know that a good many foreigners find it a little disappointing. Briefly, the idea is to take a Bagnes cheese (no other will do), which roughly resembles a disk about the diameter and depth of a scooter tire, cut it in half, and apply the cut surface to the hot embers of a fire. As the cheese begins to melt and bubble under the heat, it is scraped off onto your plate, and eaten with small potatoes boiled in their skins, pickled onions, and gherkins. Each helping of melted cheese is quite small, and the idea is to see how many scrapings you can manage to eat. Seven or eight is about average, ten or twelve is good, and the record is alleged to be around forty.
As I say, in spite of the particularly delicious and delicate taste of the Bagnes, some people find raclette rather banal. This is because they have eaten it only in stuffy restaurants, prepared on electric grills. The proper way to eat raclette is as follows.
Take a large rucksack. Into it put half a Bagnes cheese; a kilo of raw potatoes; a jar of mixed onions and gherkins; a saucepan; a plate, glass, knife, and fork per person; a large knife for scraping the cheese; and a couple of liters of local white wine (don’t forget the corkscrew). An old ski glove is also useful to prevent burned fingers.
Next, climb your mountain, with the rucksack on your back. As you go, look out for certain geographical features—a stream, a flat clearing with plenty of large gray stones to make a hearth, and pine trees for kindling and fuel. When you find your ideal site—remember, it should have a fantastic mountain view and be surrounded by flowering meadows—you
pitch your camp.
Having constructed your hearth, you light your fire, fill the saucepan from the stream, and boil the potatoes. Open the first bottle of Fendant. By the time the potatoes are done, the embers of the fire will be red and glowing, and you can make your raclette. Each member of the party toasts his own cheese, holding the Bagnes in his ski-gloved hand against the red-hot wood ash. The second bottle of wine has, of course, been cooling in the ice-cold running water of the stream and is now ready to accompany your meal. The pines are green, the sky is deep blue to match the gentians, the distant peaks are capped with white. The smell of wood smoke and toasted cheese drifts deliciously upward through the crystal air; the stream burbles busily and the wine glows golden in the sunshine. Now you know what raclette is all about.
Henry, Emmy, and I climbed steadily for an hour through the woods and meadows above the village before we found the perfect spot. It was a little glade, sunny but surrounded by trees, and the stream tumbled and danced over dark, shiny stones toward the valley below. As the crow flies, we were not far out of Montarraz, but we were high above it, and only a corner of one house was visible, far below us.
We were soon busy with our fire and our cooking, and after that, eating and drinking took over. At first we were famished after our climb, and were queuing up for the ski glove to scrape ourselves another delectable dollop of cheese; but gradually we grew replete, the tempo slowed down, the last of the wine was poured, the neglected embers began to cool. And one by one, we stretched out luxuriously on the fragrant, springy turf and fell asleep.
I was woken abruptly by the sound of an engine. An insistent throbbing, somewhere near at hand. Sleepily I thought, A car? No. Not possible. We were far from any navigable road. An airplane? No. The steady, powerful drone was missing. I was still only half-awake, but the sound persisted, annoyingly, like the buzzing of a bluebottle. I heaved myself up onto my elbows and looked around to locate the source of the noise.
Season of Snows and Sins Page 6