“I am particularly keen on butterflies, although I would not choose those words to describe my pursuits,” he replied, biting sarcasm lacing his tone, but he did not answer her question. He had looked up from the beetle, but had not moved the glass from its position.
“The sun is coming straight through your lens,” I said. “I am afraid your multilegged friend may be suffering from the heat.”
“That is the general idea,” he said. “I was trying to determine how long it would take before he succumbed, but now that you have interrupted me, I have lost track of the time elapsed. I was counting, you see.”
“How singular of you.” I cringed. “Will you take a turn with us? Margaret and my husband have been arguing about Latin poetry, and as Greek is my area of expertise, I am feeling quite left out of the conversation. I do hope you will rescue me.”
He gave me what can only be described as a look of disdain, but he rose, put the magnifying glass in his jacket pocket, and walked beside me. Colin and Margaret, as planned, pulled ahead of us. Augustus did not reply to any of my attempts to engage him in friendly conversation, but after approximately a quarter of an hour—a most uncomfortable quarter of an hour—broke his silence as we passed a tall fountain.
“What do you want from me, Lady Emily?” he asked. “I know you have as little interest in befriending me as I have in befriending you. You have come here for a specific purpose. What is it? I would prefer if you were as direct as possible so that we may end this charade in an expedient manner.”
“Amity told me you were following Jeremy the night Mr. Neville died,” I said, regretting that I had not followed my instincts and approached him directly. “Did you see anything out of the ordinary?”
“Do you know how many times I have been asked that question? The police are not absolute fools, you know. They did speak with us all.”
“I am well aware of that, but now that we know there was a murder that night—”
“The death of some sad little prostitute is hardly any concern of mine.”
“She was not a prostitute.”
“However you would have it,” he said, poking at a hedge with his walking stick.
“Did you see her again after she and Jeremy parted at the casino?”
“I did not. Your question, however, suggests that you suspect she was with your dear friend the duke, because you already claim to know that I was following him.”
“I do not suspect him of anything untoward, but it is possible that the girl—her name is Hélène—was doing something of which he was unaware.”
“You think perhaps she was following him as well? Yes, that would make things considerably more interesting, wouldn’t it?”
“But you did not see her?” I asked.
“As I already said, I did not. I admire your insistence on pursuing the truth, though, and as a result will share with you this: had I seen her, whether at the hotel, or in the casino, or anywhere else, behaving in a manner that led me to believe the duke was even contemplating betraying my sister, I would have gone straight to Amity, rousing her from her bed if necessary, and made sure she knew without delay. I would not stand by and let her marry someone who I believed would not make her happy.”
“Do you believe Jeremy will make her happy?” I asked.
“I have not yet reached a verdict on the situation,” he said, his voice measured. “Is there anything else or will you release me now?”
“Did you see the hatbox being delivered to the hotel the day of your excursion to Monte Carlo?”
“I was on my way to Monte Carlo when Amity received the gift.”
“I do, of course, realize that, but you are, if nothing else, a careful observer. The desk clerk does not remember seeing the box before I was at the desk, but I believe it was already there when I came to leave my key. That was not long after you had departed. Did you see a hatbox on the desk?”
His smile was reptilian. “I did.”
“You did?”
“I had to turn in my key as well, didn’t I? The box was there. I read the label.”
“So you know I did not put it there.”
“I know you did not put it there at the same time that you left your key. As to what you were doing prior to that, I am entirely in the dark. I will spare myself from any more of your mundane questions by telling you that I did not see the box being delivered. The only delivery person I noticed that morning was someone bringing a large bunch of flowers for a female guest of the hotel. I understand she is a well-known opera singer. Would you like further information about her?”
“That will not be necessary.” I gritted my teeth. The man was infuriating. He saluted as he walked away from me, and I stood still so that the distance between us would increase. He turned back after he had covered about ten yards.
“You do know that Mr. Fairchild and Mr. Neville returned to the hotel together that evening, don’t you? Perhaps you could torment him with some of your impertinent but charming questions.”
Amity
Jeremy did everything in his not inconsiderable powers to convince Amity that he was devoted to her, that there was nothing about her that he found short of perfect, and that he would never, ever again be the cause of her tears. The only awkwardness was caused by Amity’s refusal to move even one step from where Emily had deposited her in the lobby, where she was now leaning against a marble column. Mr. and Mrs. Wells, setting off on a walk, saw them, and the concerned looks on their faces told him he would have to have a conversation with Amity’s father to smooth things over.
“Now I have made you angry,” Amity said, watching her parents go.
“Not at all,” Jeremy said. “I shall make sure your father knows there is no trouble between us.”
“He was being facetious when he said he brought a shotgun,” Amity said. “He would never force you to marry me.”
“No one will ever need to force me to marry you, my love.” He brushed her cheek with his hand. “Please can we go somewhere more private?”
“Absolutely not,” Amity said. “I can no longer trust myself alone with you until we are married. Not after our walk on the beach.”
“Nothing so very untoward happened.”
“But I wanted it to.”
“I never meant to upset you—not then and not now.”
“I believe you,” Amity said. “Now go and find your friends and leave me be. I have some very important issues to discuss with Christabel concerning her own romantic happiness.”
“Jack is quite fond of her,” Jeremy said. “Wouldn’t it be a perfect end if they married after we did? She could follow him around the world with her camera, recording his every adventure.”
“I do not think we will ever see the day,” Amity said. She felt a slight pang of guilt at misleading her fiancée, but there were times when one must focus on greater goals, and she could not let him go to his brother and ease his anxieties about Christabel. “You know how fond I am of Jack—never doubt it—but do you really think it is a good match? She would have to move to Cairo, and you cannot think that a girl like her would want that.”
“He does not have to stay in the army forever,” Jeremy said.
“But he loves it.”
Jeremy shrugged. “He likes having a useful occupation, particularly one that puts him in interesting parts of the world, but I am sure he could learn to love something else. He is nothing if not adaptable.”
“That is awfully cold of you,” Amity said. “If he has found a situation that suits him, why should he have to leave it?”
“Marriage often requires compromise. I see the darkness crossing your face, my love, and I can assure you that I am not referring to our marriage. We shall never compromise—we won’t need to, not given how similar we are.”
“I think Christabel would be content in India. She did so love it there.”
“Better than Egypt?”
“Without question,” Amity said.
“You are suggesting t
hat I speak to him about making a slight adjustment to his plans?”
“You know me too well,” Amity said. “Just do not let him know that I have said a word about it. I would not want to raise in him any false hopes.”
“It is a simple enough situation,” Jeremy said. “Either Christabel loves him or she doesn’t.”
“Precisely, and it is not for me or you to push either—or both—of them to decide before they are ready. Playing matchmaker is always a bad idea. I would not have so much as mentioned India if I did not believe that your brother himself had been happy there. Should he transfer back, he would remain happy there, with or without Christabel.”
“I do so admire you, Amity,” Jeremy said, “and if we were not in the middle of this wretched hotel lobby I should sweep you up in my arms right now. Part of the reason I have—until I met you—dreaded marriage is that I could not bear the thought of dining nightly with someone bent on marrying off every young lady within her reach. I understand that to be the primary object of most wives.”
“I can promise you, Jeremy, I shall never be like most wives. Now go, before I have the urge to kiss you in public and thoroughly disgrace myself.” He kissed her hand and sauntered off. Amity watched him go, feeling more and more certain that Emily had been quite correct. Not only did he adore her, he would never want her to be an ordinary wife. Nothing could be more perfect.
18
Beautiful though I had found the gardens at the Villa Vallombrosa, my conversation with Augustus had left me frustrated and with a general feeling of unease. Nonetheless, upon our return to the hotel, I did want to set off in search of Mr. Fairchild, as Augustus had suggested I speak to him. Colin stopped me, reminding me that he had already queried him about the night of Mr. Neville’s death.
“You are letting Augustus fluster you,” my husband said. We had retired to our balcony, with Margaret and Cécile. “He is trying to distract you with irrelevant details. If Bainbridge was the intended victim of the so-called suicide, we can focus on that. I am going to speak with Jack, but will not let him know that I suspect his brother was—or is—at risk. I merely want to better understand him and what he wants from his life. I shall also inquire as to his finances via Scotland Yard.”
“We ladies shall go back to the Soucy house and the dressing room at the casino and comb through all of Hélène’s things,” I said, waving away a bee that was becoming rather too interested in my hat.
“I do not want to believe that she was responsible for poisoning the whisky,” Margaret said.
“You like the idea of the poor, noble girl who stands by her principles,” Cécile said. “It is a romantic notion, but not often realistic.”
“Even if she had poisoned it, she may not have known what she was doing,” Margaret said. “Whoever ordered her to do it might have given her a vial of some mysterious liquid and told her it was something to help the duke sleep.”
“Or she might have been so mortified that Bainbridge rejected her advances that she wanted him dead.” Colin ran a hand through his tousled curls. “We do not know enough about her to make any assumptions. It might be useful to talk to someone who didn’t consider her a friend.”
“That is an excellent idea,” I said. Meg stepped onto the balcony and handed me an envelope.
“This came up from the desk,” she said.
I thanked her and opened it. “Amity asks if I could meet her to discuss something urgent. She is at a café not far from where we caught the ferry to Sainte-Marguerite—she rang the hotel to get me the message.”
“You go meet her,” Margaret said. “Cécile and I can manage without you.”
Not wanting to waste any time, I left without so much as grabbing an umbrella. The cab ride to the café was short, but the place was extremely crowded. The weather looked as if it would soon turn inclement; the wind was picking up and dark clouds hung heavy in the sky, driving inside many of the tourists who wanted to be settled somewhere cozy before the rain began. The maître d’ did his best to assist me, but neither of us could find Amity. I checked with waiter after waiter, asking if they had served a table with an American girl on her own, but none of them replied in the affirmative.
Wondering if the clerk who wrote the message might have garbled the address, I went back outside, and searched the cafés on either side of the one where I expected to find Amity, but to no avail. I was about to go back to the hotel, when a coarse, elderly woman sitting on a bench, dressed in the heavy black clothes one expects to see on a Greek widow, called to me. She was holding a large umbrella, open even though it was not yet raining.
“Are you the one who was supposed to meet the pretty young lady?” she asked me, her accent coarse.
“Yes,” I said. “Did you see her?”
“She came running out the door, crying like anything, so I called out to her. It is painful to see someone in such a state of distress. Told me she had been waiting for someone—you, I imagine—but that she had given up hope that you would come.”
“Where did she go?” I asked.
“She ran to the end of the block and then turned up the hill to Le Suquet. I believe she was in need of religious consolation.”
I thanked her and waved down another cab. It dropped me in front of Notre Dame de l’Espérance a short while later, but Amity was nowhere to be found. After a thorough search of the small church, I went back outside, climbed the stairs to the parapets, and walked the length of the wall. The rain started, coming down in droves, and I wished I had brought an umbrella. The cobbles, which had been slippery when dry, proved an absolute hazard when wet, so I used the rough stones of the battlement to steady myself. Halfway along, I noticed a splash of yellow on the pavement: the sad remains of a large yellow carnation, just the sort Augustus Wells sported in his buttonhole every day without exception.
I collected the flower, and then looked down over the wall, but saw no one below outside the church. In the other direction, the wide stairs that led to the houses in Le Suquet were empty save for a solitary couple, the gentleman’s one arm firmly around the lady’s waist, the other arm holding an umbrella above her. Augustus was nowhere to be found. I went back into the church to search again, and then into the garden next to the remains of the castle. By now, I was soaked to the bone, and the chill in the air would not be ignored.
There were no cabs to be found up here. In my rush to reach Amity, I had neglected to ask my driver to wait for me, so I was forced to walk back down the hill in the driving rain. My progress was deliberately slow, as I did not want to slip. My straw hat had long since ceased functioning in any practical capacity and was now funneling water down my back. I had no map with me, not that it would have mattered, as it would have become soaked and useless. Devoid of guidance, the narrow streets of Le Suquet confused me. I kept heading downhill, not worrying much about where, exactly, I would come out at the bottom, figuring that once I was in a busier section of town, I would be able to hail a cab.
I paused briefly near a twelfth-century wellhead that had been built sunken into a wall, providing a small shelter. Shivering, I stood out of the rain for a few minutes, and then continued on my way. I thought I recognized the buildings around me, not far from the site of Mrs. Wells’s ill-fated dinner party, and therefore only a short walk from the promenade that would take me to La Croisette. I brushed some of the water from my jacket and continued, confident that I was soon to be out of my misery. This, unfortunately, was not quite correct. Cab drivers, I have learned, are averse to stopping for ladies who are bedraggled and dripping wet, and I was forced to walk the entire way back to our hotel.
The desk clerks were horrified by my appearance, and my shoes creaked as I crossed the lobby, leaving a trail of dripping water in my wake. Colin, Mr. Fairchild, and Jack were sitting at a table near the lounge and called out to me.
“Emily! You look like an extremely elegant drowned rat,” my husband said, as they all rose to greet me.
“An Englishwoman ou
ght to know better than to face the day without an umbrella,” I said. “The usually fine Côte d’Azur weather is making me weak.”
“You are shivering,” Colin said. “Get yourself upstairs and warm. I shall organize some soup to be sent up.”
“No, thank you, I shan’t require soup,” I said.
“Where were you?” Jack asked.
“Looking for Amity,” I said.
“Amity is over there with her mother,” Mr. Fairchild said. “They have been playing cards for nearly two hours.”
“Another drowned rat,” Jack said, and we all turned to the door, where Jeremy had just appeared, as soaked as I was. “This one less elegant. Were you walking together?”
“No, I was on my own,” I said. “I am off for a hot bath before I flood the lobby. Do hold on to this flower for me, will you? I shall tell you why it matters when I return.” I put the sodden carnation on the table.
Jeremy caught up to me while I was waiting for the lift. “Have you gone lazy, Em?” he asked. “I thought you always insist on the stairs. Although in your present condition, I can imagine speed is of the essence. Were you swimming?”
“You are no better off than I,” I said. “What happened to you?”
“I was to meet Augustus—dreadful bloke—and he stood me up.”
“Where were you to meet him?” I asked, as the lift operator opened the door and ushered us in, looking unhappily at the puddles that had formed around us.
“A little café not far from the ferry dock. When I couldn’t find him, I took a stroll along the water until the rain started. It took me ages to get a cab.”
“Had you arranged in advance to meet him?” I asked.
“No, he sent a message.”
“Did he ring the front desk?”
“Yes, why?”
“That is more or less what happened to me, although I thought I was to meet Amity,” I said. “Come back downstairs once you are dry again. Something most peculiar is happening.”
* * *
Much as I longed for a luxurious soak in a hot tub, I forced myself to hurry and, hence, was still chilled when I returned to the lobby. Jeremy was not yet there—nothing would induce him to rush his ablutions—but I quickly explained to Colin and our friends what had occurred. By this time, Margaret and Cécile had arrived, both utterly dry, I might add, Cécile being far too wise to ever let a cab get away from her.
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