by Muriel Zagha
As he started leafing through the pages of Death of a Lady Ventriloquist, Herbert Merryweather looked up and gave Isabelle a shy, toothy smile. She smiled back. It was nice to feel that she had done the right thing. Agathe’s advice, when Isabelle had called her earlier today, had been not to worry about informing Professeur Sureau of the new development. What Isabelle had mentioned regarding sets of horizontal, vertical and diagonal corrections done in blue ink in Meredith’s decisive hand and of varying stylistic significance sounded so promising – best to look into it first and surprise Sureau with a real breakthrough! And as usual her dear Agathe had been right: Isabelle was quite happy to share her discovery with her Quince Society friends first.
‘So,’ Roberta said to her, while carrying on with her knitting, ‘are they all here?’
Isabelle shook her head regretfully. ‘No. I mean, all the published novels are here, but there was something else I was hoping to find. An interesting stylistic experiment that didn’t work out. But unfortunately Mr Celadon didn’t have it.’
‘Bad luck, Izbl!’ Lucy said.
‘Oh dear, I hope you’re not too disappointed?’ Fern asked anxiously.
‘Well, a little bit,’ Isabelle admitted, looking up wistfully at Meredith’s portrait and the ink splodge on the desk. ‘Unfortunately, I now think that Meredith may have destroyed it. But it is wonderful to have all this,’ she added, looking on the bright side, ‘because I will be able to work out her creative process – you know, shifting paradigms of concealment and trompe l’oeil – the poetics of Cubist storytelling – all of that.’
‘Oh, yes!’ Fern said, shrinking a little into the sofa. ‘That sounds marvellous.’
‘It doesn’t matter about the other thing,’ Isabelle went on resolutely. ‘I am beginning to wonder if my instinct was wrong.’
‘Maybe so,’ Maud agreed, before adding crisply: ‘But it’s a little early to throw in the towel, isn’t it, Izbl? Tell me, have you tried Philip Quince?’
Isabelle shook her head, flushing. Philip Quince was, of course, Meredith’s nephew and Tom’s father. Trying to contact him was a frightening notion for all kinds of reasons.
‘No, not exactly,’ she replied after a moment. ‘But everyone seems to think that he has absolutely no interest in her writing.’
‘That’s quite true,’ Peter Holland confirmed, looking up from the pages of Murder in Kid Gloves. ‘Personally I always found Philip Quince to be a very blunt sort of man. No feeling for the arts, no sensibility.’
There was a pause, during which, unnoticed by Isabelle, who was gazing at the portrait, Maud, Fern, Wendy and Lucy all exchanged meaningful glances.
‘Yes!’ Wendy said tremulously, clasping her hands to her bosom. ‘And there is nothing in this world more precious than sensibility, is there, dear Izbl?’
Isabelle looked at her, disconcerted. ‘Well, perhaps. I ...’
‘What Wendy means,’ Maud said sharply, ‘is that we thought you might also like to show the manuscripts to young whatsisname, Philip’s son ...’
‘Tom,’ Isabelle murmured.
‘Ha! Yes, frightfully good!’ Lucy chimed in, her blue eyes shining. ‘Quite the decent thing to do.’
‘And then, you see, you’d even be in a position to ask him to contact his father,’ Fern added, playing with the beads on her necklace.
‘But it’s entirely up to you, Izbl, of course,’ Maud said, pouring herself another cup of tea.
Lucy, Maud and Fern gradually returned to their reading while Wendy took a few nervous bites out of a carob biscuit.
Isabelle turned the suggestion over in her mind. The ladies of the Society had a point. Never mind her supervisor – she really ought to let Tom know that she had got hold of the manuscripts. It was true that he had never bothered to read his great-aunt’s novels, but he had let her search all over the house.
‘Well, I suppose ...’ Isabelle began hesitantly. The four ladies instantly turned expectant faces in her direction. ‘Yes, it would be more polite to let him know and ...’ She stopped as a thought occurred to her. ‘I should really give them to him. Because they belong to Meredith’s family, don’t they?’
‘Goodness! How wonderful!’ Wendy cried joyously.
‘Very jolly!’ Lucy yelped. ‘Quite the thing!’
Isabelle stood up, resolute. ‘May I use your phone, Lucy?’
‘No need, Izbl. He’s on his way,’ Maud said, without missing a beat.
Isabelle sat down again abruptly. ‘He ... Who?’
‘Why, young Quince, young Quince, of course!’ Lucy barked. ‘Gave him a bell after I spoke to you. Invited him round. Returning his invitation, after all, you know. Only proper.’
‘That’s why I did this bit of impromptu baking, you see,’ Wendy interjected. ‘He gave us such a lovely tea that day.’
Lucy fixed her blue eyes on Isabelle, who sat still, as though entranced.
‘Don’t mind, do you, Izbl?’
‘No, of course not. I’m just ...’
Maud looked out of the window. ‘There’s his car now, I shouldn’t wonder,’ she said, getting up and striding towards the door, eagerly followed by Wendy.
And then, before Isabelle had had time to worry about how she looked or what she should say, Tom came into the room.
‘Ha!’ Lucy barked as she bounded forwards to greet him. ‘Splendid to see you again.’
In the confusion of greetings that ensued, it took Tom a moment or two to make his way to Isabelle, who remained rooted to the spot next to Meredith’s portrait. Then all of a sudden he was there, very close, and she was conscious of his light kiss on her cheek. He said something to her, and it was so lovely to hear his voice that she didn’t take in a single word. Now it was her turn to speak, but she couldn’t think of anything to say – nothing cogent, at any rate. Briskly shepherded by Lucy and Maud, the others left the room, congregating next door to help themselves to more tea and biscuits. Isabelle and Tom were left alone. He laid his hand on her arm and they sat down next to each other.
‘Lucy told me the most exciting story on the phone,’ he began, smiling at her. ‘I think it’s just possible that I may have misunderstood her. Tell me, is it true that you climbed over a garden wall in the middle of the night, all in pursuit of Meredith’s manuscripts?’
‘Yes, it is true,’ Isabelle said, sighing with embarrassment. ‘I find it hard to believe myself.’
‘Oh, I don’t. I remember what happened in the library at home when you started looking in earnest. I learned that a determined young scholar won’t let anything stand in the way of her desires.’
Briefly their eyes met, and Isabelle smiled.
‘Well, here they are at last,’ Fern said, coming back in and gesturing towards the manuscripts, which Wendy had gathered into a neat bundle. ‘Dear Meredith’s manuscripts. Isn’t it wonderful?’
The other members followed, munching biscuits, and took their places around the room.
Tom raised his cup of nettle tea and said solemnly, ‘On behalf of the estate of Meredith Quince, I would like to thank Isabelle Papillon for rescuing my great-aunt’s work. And for doing it in such a dramatic manner. I’m certain that Meredith would have appreciated it.’
‘Oh, yes!’ Emily Merryweather exclaimed, her nose crinkling with excitement. ‘It’s just the sort of thing Lady Violet might have done. So very dashing and intrepid.’
‘Like in Pink Gin Six Feet Under,’ Tom said, ‘when she captures the Russian spy using a big net on top of a moving train?’
‘Oooh, yes,’ Selina said cosily. ‘Exactly.’
‘Or in Murder in Kid Gloves,’ he went on calmly, ‘when she runs back into the burning castle in her opera cloak and manages to get all the children out before the whole thing crumbles.’
Isabelle looked at him, astonished. ‘But I thought you’d never ...’
‘Yes, yes – and it was really remiss of me. But you’ll be pleased to hear that I have started reading them. I think they�
��re excellent.’
There was a happy murmur of approval in the room.
‘And may I ask what made you change your mind at last?’ Maud asked with a hint of asperity.
‘I wanted to know why Isabelle liked them,’ Tom said.
Isabelle blushed deliciously and looked down at the floor.
‘Ha! Quite so!’ Lucy said.
‘So that I now feel that I would very much like to have a look at the manuscripts myself, Isabelle,’ Tom said.
Isabelle nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘I wondered,’ he went on quickly, looking at her in that unfocused way of his, ‘if the best thing might not be for you to bring them to the house. And then you would, of course, be welcome to come over and work on them whenever you wanted. You could have Meredith’s desk,’ he added, smiling.
‘Imagine writing at her actual desk!’ Herbert Merry-weather exclaimed reverently.
‘Good heavens! How exciting!’ Roberta said, so moved that she actually put her knitting down for a moment.
Indeed it would, Isabelle thought, be rather exciting.
‘And you could explain to Tom about the ... poetics of ... you know ... the thing,’ Fern said.
‘I’d love to hear all about it,’ Tom said. ‘Of course I could just take them home myself,’ he went on. ‘But I think you should be the one to do it. As a symbolic gesture,’ he added, looking up at his great-aunt’s portrait.
Isabelle nodded, smiling.
‘Shall we go now, right away?’ Tom said.
Why not? Isabelle thought. Knowing that the precious manuscripts were safe and sound in their rightful home, she would finally be able to recuperate after her exhausting catsuited expedition.
As they drove off in Tom’s car, the manuscripts stowed away in the boot, she could see, in the rear-view mirror, that the entire Quince Society had gathered on Lucy’s porch to wave them away. Wendy seemed very moved. That was sweet of her: she must really care about the fate of the manuscripts. Isabelle leaned back in her seat.
‘Happy belated New Year, by the way,’ Tom said, after they’d been driving for a few minutes.
‘Oh yes, Happy New Year to you, too.’
‘Did you have a good time in Paris?’
‘Yes, thank you. It was lovely,’ Isabelle said drowsily.
Tom nodded, staring ahead at the road.
Isabelle yawned. ‘Sorry, Tom, but I’m feeling so sleepy.’
Tom reached over and put the radio on. ‘Just relax,’ he said gently. ‘We’ll be there very shortly.’
On arrival Tom unpacked the manuscripts while Isabelle sat like a tired child at the kitchen table.
‘It’s strange,’ she said after a while. ‘I feel like I’ve been travelling for a long time.’
‘Well, it’s the end of your quest,’ Tom replied, walking over to the fridge. ‘Would you like a celebratory snack? Those biscuits were a little odd, I thought.’
‘Thank you, no,’ Isabelle said, laying her head down on her folded arms. ‘I’m too tired to eat or drink anything. I should go home.’
‘You could stay the night in the guest bedroom, if you like.’
‘I didn’t know there was a guest bedroom,’ Isabelle said, opening one eye.
‘Oh, but there is. Come on, I’ll show you.’
They walked upstairs together and Tom stopped on the first floor, outside the door to Meredith’s room.
‘Oh, this room?’ Isabelle said, remembering the forlorn storage space she had glimpsed on her first visit. ‘Was there actually a bed in there?’
‘There is now,’ Tom said, opening the door.
Isabelle went in and looked around in amazement. The room had been cleared of all clutter and wallpapered in a beautiful dusty-pink chinoiserie pattern. Tom had brought down Meredith’s chest of drawers and small four-poster bed from the attic. They had been polished and now smelled deliciously of beeswax. There were snowy white sheets on the bed and vases filled with masses of parrot tulips on every surface.
‘How perfectly beautiful,’ Isabelle murmured.
‘Well, I had the furniture, so it seemed silly not to use it. Do you like it?’
‘I love it, of course,’ Isabelle said, swinging around to face him.
‘Then it’s yours.’
‘Mine? How?’
‘I do not intend this room to become some sort of shrine to Meredith. I’m quite sure it’s not what she would have wanted. But I didn’t like to see it deserted and abandoned. Now it’s just another comfortable bedroom in the house, and you can stay in it whenever you like.’
‘But, Tom, I don’t understand. I mean ... when we said goodbye before Christmas I wasn’t even sure ...’
‘That you would ever come back here?’ he said, leaning against the door frame. ‘Well, I remember reading that sixteenth-century courtiers used to have the prettiest room in their house always ready in case the Queen decided to drop in on a whim.’
Isabelle looked at him, nonplussed.
‘I suppose I was thinking along the same lines,’ he said.
‘Tom, it’s lovely,’ she said, blushing
‘Do you need a toothbrush?’
‘Yes, thank you. That would be great.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No, not really.’
‘Wait here. I’ll get you a toothbrush and a towel.’
After saying good night to Tom, Isabelle returned to the bedroom and closed the curtains, singing absent-mindedly to herself. She suddenly felt so exhausted that she undressed where she stood, most uncharacteristically letting her clothes fall to the floor in a heap. Climbing between the cool sheets, her skin tingling with fatigue, she breathed in the delicious smell of lavender. Silently, she thanked Tom for thinking of everything. She burrowed into the pillows to make a perfect nest for her face, stretching out her arms and legs. She reached to extinguish the bedside lamp. For the first time in weeks her body relaxed completely. She slept.
In the morning she was awakened by birdsong. One phrase, possibly the vestige of a dream, was ringing insistently through her mind like a mantra. The phrase was ‘a winning hand’ and she could still see it written out in relief calligraphy, beneath the crystal-clear image of the playing cards Tom had worn tucked into the band of his hat that first time. She stretched luxuriously. Why was it that she had never liked taking chances? She had avoided risk like the plague all her life. Now, suddenly, she no longer felt frightened of it. Possibly because she had slept so soundly, she experienced none of the usual mental chaos and anxiety that usually accompanied her early mornings. Her head felt light and clear, and it was occupied by one thought and one thought only. That thought was – how wonderful it would be to see Tom right away, to be near him.
She got out of bed, walked to the window and pulled aside a curtain. It looked beautiful outside. The garden was serene in the pale sunlight. Feeling a little cold, she looked around for something to put on. A folded tartan throw had been thoughtfully left on an armchair in case she needed it in the night. She shook it and draped it around her body in vaguely Indian style. It was a bit short, perhaps, but perfectly decent.
It was just possible that Tom was still asleep. She couldn’t remember where she’d left her watch and had no idea of the time. It didn’t matter. She padded quietly up the stairs to the top floor. His bedroom door was wide open. He wasn’t there. She went downstairs to the kitchen. Tom wasn’t there either, although there were signs of recent tea drinking and a few biscuit crumbs on the table. Isabelle felt the side of the teapot. It was still warm. Why not have a quick look at the garden? In her intensely clear-headed state, it did not occur to her to go back upstairs to dress. That would have constituted a titanic amount of effort. It didn’t look very cold outside. Looking at the row of muddy wellington boots next to the door, she noticed a pair that looked about her size. Why not just slip them on and go out as she was?
She made her way slowly down the garden path, stopping along the way to feel the bark of a tree
trunk or rub some leaves between her fingers. There was something magical about how quiet and warm it was in Tom’s garden, Isabelle thought. It was like a balmy microclimate, unconnected to the wintriness that reigned elsewhere. She could see the greenhouse a little further away. And here was the shed, which he had recently painted a lovely shade of blue-grey.
The door was half open. Inside, it was very clean and tidy, with scrubbed floors and walls lined with deep wooden shelves filled with gardening-related paraphernalia, which she was at a loss to identify. Mysteriously, there was a subtle but pervasive scent of apples. At the far end, beneath a window, Tom sat at a table with his back to her, seemingly in the process of potting a plant.
‘Hello,’ Isabelle said, after gazing at him for a moment.
‘Oh, hi,’ he said, turning around. ‘Did you sleep well?’
Isabelle went in and closed the door behind her. ‘I haven’t slept so well in months. Have you been up long?’
‘Not very.’ Tom watched her approach, taking in the boots and the draped tartan. He smiled at her. ‘You look like you should be on a horse leading an army – a warrior queen. Holding a spear, or perhaps a crossbow. I think this might be the most charming outfit I’ve ever seen you wear.’
Standing over Tom and looking into his eyes affected Isabelle like a burst of pure oxygen, clearing her head even further. Without a moment’s deliberation, she flung off the tartan throw and let it fall on the floor at their feet.
‘Actually, you know,’ Tom said thoughtfully, removing first his gloves, then his glasses and putting them both down on the table. ‘I take it back. This one’s even better.’
He drew her down into his lap and kissed her, his hand running lightly over her breasts, her belly, her thighs. Eventually they pulled apart and looked at each other.
‘I was so completely, completely stupid,’ Isabelle said. ‘Forgive me.’
‘Not at all. It’s perfectly natural to be scared of powerful emotions at first. They take a bit of getting used to.’ Holding her round the waist with one hand, he bent down and pulled her boots off with the other. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t want you to think for a moment that this naked-in-wellies look doesn’t turn me on. I am, after all, a gardener. But really there’s no need to gild the lily for my sake. And you have very pretty feet.’