Dangerous to Know

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  I thought she was outrageously good-looking. Red-haired, green eyed, pale-complexioned.

  There were moments when Catherine reminded me of my Special Lady.

  Like the Special Lady’s daughter Vivienne, Catherine was older than me.

  By five years. That didn’t matter. I’ve always preferred older women.

  Catherine and I met in Paris in August of 1994. She was staying with an English journalist friend of mine, Dick Vickery. I assumed they were romantically involved. My assumption was incorrect. They were just good friends.

  She and I became more than just good friends in a matter of days.

  I liked brainy women. They stimulated me. Thrued me on. Catherine was much better than a mindless screw. She was the ultimate. -She came to stay with me for Christmas. It was then I asked her to -move in with me. She agreed. We saw the old year out together, greeted the new one in. Drinking champagne on the chAteau’s ram parts. Ibasting each other.

  Getting drunk together.

  It seemed to me that 1995 held wonderful prospects. Especially with Catherine on the premises. Indefinitely.

  “I can’t promise you marriage,” I’d said to her over Christmas.

  “Marriage!” she had cried indignantly. “Who’s interested in marriage ?

  Certainly not I. I’ve no desire to be legally bound to any man, present company included. I love my independence. I don’t aim to lose it.”

  So that was that.

  I had met my match.

  Seven months after our first encounter this clever woman still fasci noted me. Apparently I still fascinated her.

  I moved away from the trees. Striding out, I headed for the chAteau looming up in the distance, a great mass of stone.

  It gleamed palely on this February morning. Watery sunlight glanced off its many windows. The gray4iled rooftops and turrets were dark smudges against the hazy blue sky.

  I paused, looked toward the chAteau across sweeping green lawns, a formal garden and, just beyond the garden, the wide stone terrace of the chAteau.

  It was the perfect spot from which to view the eighteenth-century edifice at any time of day. This morning it looked spectacular in the soft light, with the mist rising off the lawns.

  I filled with satisfaction, knowing it was mine.

  I glanced at my watch. It was almost nine o’clock. Time for breakfast with Catherine.

  I found her in the library. She had been working there since seven.

  “Alen’t you a love,” she said, looking up as I came in. “Bringing me breakfast, no less. Spelling me.”

  “Your turn tomorrow.” I put the large wooden tray on the coffee table in front of the fire and sat down.

  She joined me a moment later. We sat drinking large cups of cafe’ all lait and eating warm, freshly baked croissants spread with butter and homemade raspberry jam.

  “Jack, these are lethal.”

  “You say that every day.”

  “Three minutes on the lips, six months on the hips,” she muttered, shaking her head. “I simply must go on a diet tomorrow.”

  “I like you the way you are.”

  “I’m getting fat, living here with you, Jack.”

  “Want to leave?”

  “No, of course not, you fool,” she replied swiftly, affectionately, laughing as she spoke. “This place is compelling.”

  “I thought it was me.”

  “It is. You and the chAteau. Jack, I’ve come across something really fascinating, in one of the old books I found. I think I know where the name ChAteau d’Case might have come from.”

  I pricked up my ears. Leaned forward. I was suddenly more alert.

  The origin of the chAteau’s name had always baffled Sebastian.

  Olivier Marchand had been unable to throw any light on it. Neither had any of the old timers who had worked here for years. Documentation barely existed. It was a mystery.

  “Speak,” I said. “Tell me, Catherine.”

  “As I mentioned, the book is old. It carries a series of paintings of

  about thirty famous people from the fifteenth, sixteenth, and

  seventeenth centuries. The spelling of those periods, reproduced in the

  hook, is quaint-“

  “What do you mean by quaint?” I interrupted.

  “For example, Rabelais is spelled Rabies. Buckingham, as in the Duke of, is spelled Boucquin can. The Queen of Spain, is ia Reine Dspaigne, instead of ‘?”Espagne. And the Queen of Scotland, which correctly is ia Reined’Ecosse shows up as Ia Rene de Case. Therefore, I think that d’Case, the name of this chAteau, is a bastardization of de Case, and somehow refers to Scotland.”

  I stared at her. “That would be peculiar. An odd coincidence.

  If you’re right. Malcolm Lyon Locke, the founding father of the dynasty, was a Scotsman. Is there any reference to my chAteau in the book?”

  “No. None at all. As I just said, it’s a picture book really, showing different paintings of . . . well, shall we call them celebrities of the day. Rabelais, the writer, the Duke of Buckingham, Mary Queen of Scots, etcetera, etcetera. And, of course, the spelling of the latter’s name caught my eye at once.”

  “Keep digging. Maybe you’ll find something else that makes reference to Scotland. Maybe this was her place?”

  Catherine shook her head. “I doubt it. Mary was mostly in the Loire Valley when she was growing up. And after she married the Dauphin of France, she was at the legendary Chenonceaux, the home of the king. She was with Henry II, his mistress Diane de Poitiers, his wife Catherine de Medici, and their son Francis II, who was the Dauphin.

  The petite Reinette d’Ecosse she was usually called in those days, the little Queen of Scotland. Poor sad thing she was in the end. And she met such a grisly death. Had her head chopped off-“ The ringing of the telephone next to Catherine’s elbow interrupted her.

  Reaching for it, she said, “Chateau d’Case. Bonjour.”

  There was a moment of silence before Catherine went on, “Oh hello, Vivienne, how are you?”

  I took the phone from Catherine, sat down in the chair she had vacated .

  “Hi, Viv,” I said. “How’re things?”

  “Fine, thanks. Jack, I’d like to come over to see you.”

  “When?”

  “This morning.”

  “That’s impossible,” I said quickly. I’d caught something in Vivienne’s voice. I knew when to protect myself from her.

  “What about this afternoon then? Or this evening?” Vivienne pressed.

  “It’s very important. Really it is.”

  “Viv, I can’t. Not today. I got problems. Stuff to deal with.”

  “You can spare half an hour. Surely. For me.”

  “Can’t, Viv. Olivier has people coming. We’ll be tied up. All day.

  Winery business,” I lied, improvising as I went along. I’d known her forever. Since I was six. Something was troubling her. I could tell.

  It echoed in her voice. Instinct made me keep her at arm’s length.

  Other wise she’d rope me m.

  “I really need to talk to you, Jack,” she murmured in a warmer, softer voice. “About something that concerns us both.”

  Viv could beguile when she wanted to, didn’t I know that.

  Swiftly, I said, “It’ll have to wait.”

  “Not necessarily. Perhaps we can talk on the phone.”

  “I don’t know when.”

  “We can do it right now, Jack. Listen to me for a moment, please.”

  “But-“

  “No buts, Jack. I’ve finished the Bronte book, as you know, and now

  that I’m not so concentrated on my writing, the matter of Sebastian’s

  death has broken through into my consciousness. It doe”

  “Oh God, Viv! Not that old turkey! Again. Let it drop!”

  “I won’t, I can’t. Listen to me. Sebastian’s death does not sit well with me, not at all.”

  “He committed suicide,” I snapped.
/>
  “I accept that. But I need a reason why he did it. I need to know.

  Only then, when I have a resolution, will I be at peace about it.

  And at peace with myself.”

  “No one can give you a reason. Only Sebastian knows. He took that secret to the grave with him.”

  “Not necessarily,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been thinking-“

  “What about?” I cut in, groaning inside. How well I knew that tone of hers. It spelled trouble.

  “About his life. What he was doing in the last six to eight months of it. Who he was with. And just as importantly, how he was behaving.

  You know, what frame of mind was he in? Was he troubled? Or happy?”

  “He was happy. The day you had lunch. So you claim.”

  “He was.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “That’s a stupid question, Jack. I knew him intimately. He was happy.

  Look, I remember how I felt that day, truly I do. And I was pleased for him, pleased he was about to start a new life.”

  “He was?” I was startled. “What do you mean by a new life?”

  “There was a woman, Jack, a new woman in his life. He was in love, and he was planning to marry her.”

  Flabbergasted, I exclaimed, “You gotta be kidding!”

  “I’m not. He told me he was planning to marry in the spring. In fact, he wanted me to meet her and he invited me to the wedding.”

  “That’s sick,” I said.

  “No, it’s not. We were always close. Very, very close. Anyway, don’t digress.”

  Ignoring this admonition, I asked, “Who was the woman?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t tell me her name. That’s the problem.

  If I knew who she was, I could go and see her. Obviously you never met her, since you sounded so surprised when I mentioned her.”

  “I didn’t even know about her.”

  “Did Luciana?”

  “No. I’m sure. She would’ve told me.”

  “Someone must have met her, Jack, and that’s what I’m leading up to. I want to talk to people who worked with Sebastian on the charities in Africa.”

  “Why the African charities?”

  “Because Sebastian said he met her there,” Vivienne explained.

  “He said she was a doctor. A scientist. I want to talk to a lot of people who were involved in his life and activities, in order to get a better perspective about him in that six-month period.”

  People might resent that. They might clam up,” I pointed out.

  They are very loyal to him. and his memory.”

  I know. But I have the perfect reason. I’m writing a profile about him for the Sunday Times Magazine. Sandy Robertson okayed it last night.

  I’m planning an in-depth profile about the world’s greatest philanthropist . . . who was probably the last of the breed. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to see you, Jack. I’d like to get your impressions of him during those last few months last year.”

  Vivienne, that’s ridiculous! Why can’t you just let it drop.”

  I can’t. I wish I could. Rationally, intellectually, I do accept his suicide. Emotionally, I cannot. At least I can’t accept that he would kill himself when he was so happy, so positive about the future.

  It just doesn’t sit well with me, I keep telling you that. There’s something wrong here, something terribly amiss. Something strange must have happened after we’d lunched on that Monday. I just know it in my hones.”

  And you aim to find out? Is that it? Hey, Viv, I have the perfect reason. The lady dumped him.”

  Perhaps she did. That’s certainly a possibility, I won’t argue with you there, Jack. But I don’t believe Sebastian would take his life be cause of a woman, not the Sebastian I know.”

  “And I know nothing. I can’t help. Not with the profile.”

  “You might think of something, if you wrack your brains. If you really think hard about it, think back to those months last summer.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “The day of the funeral, Cyrus suggested I should write a book.

  A

  biography of Sebastian.”

  “The keeper of the flame! Is that your new role, honey?”

  “Don’t be sarcastic, Jack, it doesn’t become you. And I might do it. I just want to be sure I can be absolutely objective about Sebastian.

  Writing the profile will give me a good idea about that. It’ll be a sort of test.”

  “Who are you planning to interview, Viv?” I asked.

  “His colleagues at Locke Industries and at the foundation. One person will lead to another, that’s how it usually works. I’ll soon under stand who knew him the best, knew certain sides to him. I hope to talk to Luciana too.”

  “Viv, you know better!” I exclaimed. “You’ll only get a flea in your ear.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Take my word for it, honey.”

  “Jack?”

  “Yes?”

  “You were in New York last month for the board meeting at Locke Industries. I just wondered if anyone mentioned anything to you.

  About the new woman in his life.”

  “Mmmm. Interesting. Perhaps they didn’t know about her.”

  “You got it, kid.”

  “Jack, you will help me with the profile about him, won’t you?

  It’s so important to me. Important that I write this, and I do believe it will help me to come to terms with his death.”

  “Okay,” I agreed reluctantly. And against my better judgment.

  “But -there’s nothing I know. I hardly saw him last year.”

  “You might think of something that would give me a clue about his moods, his behavior in those final six months of his life.”

  “I gotta go. I’ll call you. Next week.”

  “I won’t be here. I’m leaving for New York in a couple of days, Jack I want to start the interviews with some of my old friends at the found dation. It’ll be a beginning.”

  “Have a good Ciao.”

  “Bye, Jack. I’ll be in touch, we’ll talk soon.”

  “Merde!” I said as I slaffimed the phone down and sat back in my chair, scowling.

  “What is it, Jack? What’s ‘wrong?” Catherine asked in that cairn voice of hers. A voice I had grown accustomed to these past few months.

  “It’s Vivienne. She’s off the wall.”

  “That’s a curious statement to make about someone so balanced and as down4o-earth and rational as she is,” Catherine countered.

  “She’s not rational. Not down4o-earth,” I exclaimed heatedly.

  “Not when it comes to Sebastian. She’s obsessed with him. He’s been dead five months. She’s still ranting and raving about his death. I wish she’d just shut the hell up. Let him rest in peace. I can’t stand her when she’s like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Playing the keeper of the flame.” I laughed, added, “She’s carying a torch,” and laughed again at my play on words.

  Catherine did not appear to be amused. She wore a concerned expression

  .

  “From what you’ve told me, she adored him and you hated him.

  Never the twain shall meet,” Catherine murmured. “You’re poles apart when it comes to Sebastian Locke. You’ll never agree about him.”

  “True enough, sweetheart. Vivienne’s got a problem. Not enough to do.

  Her book on the Brontes is finished. Delivered. Now it’s Sebastian.

  She’s focused on him. Again. Merde!”

  Catherine rega?ded me thoughtfully for a second or two, then said slowly, “Do you mean she’s going to write a book about your father, darling? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  “Not a book. A profile. For the London Sunday Times. The magazine section. The editor she works with okayed it. But there might be a book. My grandfather, the old coot, suggested it. At the funeral. Ca
n you beat that. Jeer! She might do it too. Bet she does. Merde!

  Merde!

  Merde!”

  “Jack, for heaven’s sake, why are you so upset? You’re being quite childish. Irrational, actually.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Whenever your father is involved I’m afraid you are very irrational, darling.”

  “Vivienne wants to probe. Dig into his life. The last year of it. I need to know. That’s what she said. She also said, I need to know what he was doing. who he was with. what he was like. His moods. His demeanor. I have to understand him. I want to pinpoint the reason he killed himself That’s what she just said to me.”

  “How does she propose to get this information?”

  “She’s going to talk to people. Interview them.”

  “Who exactly?”

  “People who worked for him. With him. At Locke Industries. At the foundation. Me. Luciana. God knows who else.”

  “And she’s going to write about her conclusions, is that it?”

  “Not exactly. She won’t dwell on the suicide. Not in the article.

  Knowing her, she won’t mention it. If she does, it’ll be one line. The way she felt about him, still feels, it’ll be a glowing profile.

  Flattering.

  She’ll only show his good side. Understanding him, understanding the last few months of his life. That’s what’s important to her. This is purely personal.”

  “I see. But I really can’t quite understand why you’re so upset.”

  “I wish she’d let it rest. I don’t want constant reminders about him.

  He’s dead. Buried. I don’t want her digging him up.”

  112Barbara Thyrandfather, the old coot, suggested it. At the funeral.

  Can you beat that. Jeer! She might do it too. Bet she does.

  Merde!

  Merde!

  Merde!”

  “Jack, for heaven’s sake, why are you so upset? You’re being quite childish. Irrational, actually.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Whenever your father is involved I’m afraid you are very irrational, darling.”

  “Vivienne wants to probe. Dig into his life. The last year of it. I need to know. That’s what she said. She also said, I need to know what he was doing. who he was with. what he was like. His moods. His demeanor. I have to understand him. I want to pinpoint the reason he killed himself That’s what she just said to me.”