“Sounds amazing. Lovely to meet you, but I’m going back now. Bit of a headache,” I lied. Before he could make a gallant offer to accompany me, I added, “Don’t worry, I have a torch.”
He beamed at me, somewhat owl-eyed, then turned the beam at his new friends. “Mary here is such a good little Scout, always prepared.”
“Have fun, Terry. See you tomorrow.”
I tucked in my elbows and, after a last discreet wave at the small, blond heads—down to two now, I saw—I threaded my way to the house and the door and the lane beyond.
The tumult fell behind, making my head ring with the sudden change. I reached into my pocket for the pen-light, then decided that the moon, though young, might be sufficient once my eyes had adjusted to the dark.
I tried to remember when I had last been alone. Weeks? Not since leaving Sussex, at any rate.
I stood for a time, waiting for the sense of relief to settle in, but oddly, it did not. I had craved solitude, time and again, but now that I had it, I felt oddly…alone. Aware of a faint and inexplicable thread of melancholy. One that had permeated the entire evening.
Melancholy? Where did that thought come from? Not from Sara and Gerald, surely—they were the most contented people I had met in a long time. And not from having missed out on seeing Mrs Hudson—that evoked a far more complicated emotion. This came from…ah. The Russians. Five men and women who had stepped onto the terrace, shadowed by tragedy and ending.
Poor things. Who would have thought it, ten years ago?
The sea-mist had gone, the night was warm, and there was sufficient brightness to show the faint gleam of tram-tracks that led to the hotel. I went slowly off, pressing up against trees or into gateways the few times a car approached. From time to time I would pass a house with lights and voices and gramophone music, but for most of the way, the only illumination was from the sky, the only song, that of nightingales. The Riviera might not be the Tropics proper, but its climate seemed to encourage the planting of exotic plants: the air smelled of frangipani and orange blossom, with the faint astringent odour of olive trees that took me back to Palestine. I was tempted to climb a wall into one of the dark and silent gardens, to stretch out on some neglected lawn or dusty bench and watch the fireflies, but I did not. I followed the tram-lines and came eventually to the hotel, whose corridors echoed from the impact of my heels.
Up in my room, I left the windows open and climbed inside the folds of mosquito netting, that I might listen to the distant pulse of sea against cliffs. We could hear such a thing at home in Sussex, if the night was still and the waves high.
Where was Holmes, anyway? I missed him, after nearly a month apart. That must be why I was feeling so unaccountably sad—I was in need of his acerbic presence, the bracing opposite of romantic melancholy.
I turned to bury my head into my pillow. Maybe tomorrow, I thought sleepily, Terry and I could teach the Murphys how to water-ski.
TEN WEEKS EARLIER
“Clarissa, you shouldn’t have brought those naughty pastries—I want to gobble them all.”
“I couldn’t resist, when I saw them in Madame Renault’s window—they reminded me of that time in the Ritz.”
“I claim one of the pink ones.”
“Have them both.”
“How did the meeting go?”
“Your banker friend is an interesting fellow.”
“But you’ve met Yevgeny before, haven’t you?”
“Once or twice, though I don’t think we’ve exchanged more than half a dozen words until today. How do you know him?”
“I must have met him, oh, thirty years ago? Yes, the year before Hugo and I married. He was very young, but terribly handsome. He used to come here with the Romanovs every winter, and bring his family. His adorable wife, who was the size of a doll, would invite me to tea so their children could practice English. Two sons and a daughter. He was so proud of his family. And he doted on the girl. Now she’s the only one left.”
“Her lungs are bad, I heard.”
“Lungs? No, it’s her nerves. She was always a delicate thing, enormous dark eyes, pale hair. The most charming pianist. When the Bolsheviks came…you know. They were men, in a mob, and they were angry. They killed the boys and the mother outright, but when Yevgeny got there, the daughter…well, she was still alive.”
“Oh dear God.”
“But Clarissa, you mustn’t let him know that you’ve heard this. I heard it from Zedzed—the Count himself never tells people any of it. If the girl comes up in conversation, he says that she was away when her mother died, in a hospital in America. In fact, she only went afterwards.”
“How terrible.”
“I gather the poor child didn’t speak a word for years. The only thing that helped was getting her as far away from Russia as possible, and giving her as few reminders as could be arranged. He even managed to find a sanitorium that has only women doctors and nurses—for a long time, she couldn’t bear the sight of men, even her own father. He says she’s tolerating him more easily now.”
“That does explain some things about the man.”
“He is a bit of a puzzle. But he does have beautiful manners, and he could be very useful to you.”
“So I imagine. He has friends in all sorts of places. Although some of them, to be perfectly honest, I had hoped I was finished with.”
“You’re talking about Zedzed.”
“Oh, that nickname.”
“I think he liked how amiable it made him sound. But seriously, Clarissa, once he learns you’re here, he’ll want to see you. And you can’t possibly refuse him.”
“I will be seventy years old next May. One would think that a woman my age might have outlived her past.”
“Clarissa—”
“You’re right, dear. I’m merely grumbling.”
“You did know he was here before you got on the train in Paris. And you know that if he’s in Monaco, it’s impossible to avoid him.”
“I said I would see him.”
“Of course, he is married now.”
“He was married before. Several times.”
“This one is different. I’ve come to know her fairly well, and find her a much sweeter person than one would expect. And he, to all appearances, remains quite besotted with her, even after all these years.”
“Well, he’s bought her an entire principality as a wedding gift. That shows some affection.”
“Clarissa, you must take care not to—”
“Yes, yes, I’m being catty. I shall watch my tongue and treat Zedzed as an old friend. But that doesn’t mean I’ll go out of my way to see him.”
“I know. Still, the occasional snake in the garden seems to be the cost—”
“—of doing business.”
“—of living here, I was going to say. Like hurricanes in the Bahamas or earthquakes in California. When in Monaco, we do as the Monégasques. Oh, but speaking of doing business, I have something for you, Clarissa—two somethings. First, I found this the other day in one of my photo albums.”
“Good heavens, look at us. Look at your waist! Mine was never that tiny.”
“Mine wasn’t either, I couldn’t breathe.”
“What year is this? ’Ninety-two, maybe?”
“It must have been, because it was taken on board the White Ladye, and I stopped using her in ’ninety-three. This would have been February or March? During the Season, at any rate—and certainly one of the years your Mr Holmes was thought to be dead.”
“In Tibet, of all unlikely places. Still, it let me spend an entire year away from Baker Street.”
“Oh, but can you make out that necklace you’re wearing?”
“It’s—isn’t that the one?—”
“The very same! And that brings me to the second thing: le voilà—it just arriv
ed this morning.”
“Oh, your agent found a buyer! And my, what an impressive stack of notes. You must take half.”
“Absolutely not. I’m more than comfortable here, my husband is generous. And after all, I was the one who had the pleasure of wearing the thing, all these years. Since you didn’t want your Mr Holmes to come across it in your sock drawer.”
“Wouldn’t that have been awkward! I’d forgot how handsome those diamonds were.”
“You shouldn’t have had me sell it. We’d have figured out something.”
“Good heavens, no. Diamonds are meant to draw attention to a smooth young neck, not to wrinkles and age spots. So bless you, my dear old friend, these funds will get me started nicely. And blessings on that sweet young man who gave it to me. He’d never have imagined what would become of his gift.”
“Would you have married the boy, Clarissa? If his father hadn’t been such a prude?”
“Probably not. I don’t think he really cared for women all that much.”
“He cared for you—clearly.”
“The necklace was by way of a parting gift. And I think a last gesture of rebellion against his family before he went off to marry the sweet young neighbour they’d chosen for him. He died fighting the Boers, did you know that? Such a nice boy. Such a lot of nice boys, who died too young.”
“We’ll raise a glass of bubbly in his memory, when you have a sitting room of your own.”
“I may have found one—Count Vasilev’s green-eyed young Greek boy wants to introduce me to his landlady. She has a small house to let, which looks nice from the outside.”
“I hope it works out. Do you think you will miss England?”
“Yes. And no. I’ll miss the people. Mary and Mr Holmes are the closest I have to family now—except for you, naturally. But I shan’t miss the winters.”
“Do you wonder how they are getting on without you there in Sussex?”
“Oh, I imagine by now Mary’s hired one of the women from the village. Neither she nor Mr Holmes care much about the state of the floors, but they will draw the line at eating Mary’s burnt offerings. The girl never did master the oven.”
The next morning, I woke luxuriously late, well after dawn. I stretched hard, enjoying the whisper of the Hôtel du Cap’s crisp linen—on a boat, nothing is dry, from bedsheets to biscuits. Through the windows came the rhythmic sweep of a gardener’s rake on gravel. I rang down for a tray, had a bath, drank my coffee and ate my croissants while wrapped in the hotel’s towelling robe, with nothing more to do than watch sailboats and merchant steamers ply back and forth, out on the azure sea.
In an hour, I was jittering with a mix of caffeine and boredom. Dear God, how could people bear to take holidays?
I dug out my nice, new, least-skimpy-available bathing costume and pulled on a linen dress, adding hat, sandals, and my bright Venice bag with a few things for the beach. I could hear sounds from the direction of the cliff-side swimming pool, but when I came out of the hotel, I turned the other way, to retrace the route to the cove that Terry and I had taken the previous afternoon.
The beach was magnificent in the relative cool of morning. There was even a second group of visitors, down at the far end. Up at this end, the umbrellas were straight and the blankets pristine, awaiting the late-rising artists and dancers. Sara was all alone, lying prone under a wide hat, a long pearl necklace descending along her brown spine. A young nanny—the returned Mademoiselle Geron, no doubt—was watching over the three Murphy children in the shallow waves. In the distance, a figure swam across the open end of La Garoupe bay.
I arranged my towel at a distance, so as not to intrude on Sara’s nap. I took a swallow of mineral water, laid my book on the towel, and went back to the bag for my sun-glasses, which I hadn’t worn since leaving the Stella Maris. The cord I’d tied around the ear-pieces, insurance against losing them overboard, had gone stiff with salt. I’d only just succeeded in loosening one of the recalcitrant knots when I heard my name.
It was Sara, urging me to join my camp to hers.
I took my things across the sand to where she lay. “I thought after last night, you might like to sleep.”
“I was dozing, a little. Though I’ve found that mothers never seem to sleep very hard.”
“You have nice children.” They were in fact nice—not only well mannered, but friendly and unspoilt.
“They’re turning out a lot more interesting than I’d expected.”
I laughed at the surprise in her voice. She smiled, and rested her chin on her forearm again.
Sara Murphy was a very beautiful woman, even with no trace of makeup. Her face was focused, alive, and uniquely her. The Russians at the party had been, in their own bloodless fashion, flirting with her.
“I hope Terry managed to convey my thanks to Gerald last night, before he went off to sleep under a bush?” I was amused to hear my voice tightening into its American accents.
“He probably did. Again, I apologise for the riot. We’ll plan another dinner, a proper one. Though p’raps not tonight.”
I returned her grin, said that no apology was required, and resumed my attempt at freeing my dark glasses. She watched me picking away.
“I wore these on the boat,” I explained. “They saved me from going blind, but three weeks of salt air turns twine to steel.”
“There’s sure to be a knife or some scissors in that basket.”
I went to look, and found both silver grape-scissors and a sheathed fruit-knife with a blade sharp enough for brine-cured twine. I exchanged my regular spectacles for the dark ones, and the world instantly became a more comfortable place.
“That’s better.”
She turned onto her back, fiddling with her hat until it provided shade without covering her eyes completely. The long pearls were now gathered down her front side. “I know you met Cole and Linda when you were in Venice, but did you manage to spend any time with them?”
“The Porters? Yes, they invited Ho—” Oh dear: what was “Mr Russell’s” first name? “They invited Sheldon and me for dinner, at that amazing palazzo they have on the Grand Canal.”
“Ca’ Rezzonico. Spectacular, isn’t it? And you were at the Hero party there, too, I think Gerald said? On the Saturday?”
“Briefly.” Just long enough to kidnap a would-be gate-crasher.
“I hope you enjoyed it?”
“The word ‘memorable’ comes to mind.”
Sara had a magnificent, deep laugh. “What about your husband—Sheldon, you said? Is he with you?”
“Not at the moment. He had people to see in Roumania, though he might join me later.”
“What does Sheldon do, other than play the violin?”
“Pretty much whatever he feels like,” I said, which was only the truth. “When Terry offered me a place on his friend’s sailing yacht—I met Terry in Venice, on the Lido—I thought sailing around Italy sounded more interesting than rattling around on a series of trains into the mountains of Roumania. So here I am.”
“Linda asked us back to Venice at the end of summer, but I think we’ll stay here. The children are happy, and the summers there can be a bore. It’s hot, it smells—and so many tourists this year.”
“Even with the growing threats from Mussolini’s people.”
“Dreadful man, isn’t he? I hope they get rid of him soon. But yes, Venice is just too popular for its own good. That’s one of the reasons we bought a house on the Côte d’Azur rather than on the beaten path. The crowds here can be bad in winter, but we’ve kept a small place in Paris, to escape to. This time of year the only people are those we invite ourselves.”
“Doesn’t it get awfully hot, by the end of August?”
“No worse than Paris—and there’s always a breeze in the evening. We’ve sort of got into the rhythm of afternoon siestas an
d late nights. Like summer holidays when I was a child: no responsibilities and loads of hours to play and swim and turn brown.”
“I had a couple of summers like that,” I mused. “My father owned a cabin on a lake, out in California.”
“So you know what I mean. Oh, it won’t last forever—it’s too perfect. The children will grow up, people will move on, there’ll be something tedious like money or illness or squabbles among friends. They’re even saying there will be another War, before too long. But that just means that these years with nothing but family, friends, and sun, the beach and the garden and the sea—they’re just so precious. And all the sweeter for knowing they’ll pass.”
Even without the threat of a second War, I did not think that the Cap d’Antibes would remain an idyllic retreat—not when one thought of the crowds spilling across Venice. But why ruin this nice woman’s simple pleasure with a suggestion that her Riviera could become another Lido watering hole? “Yes, Venice was great fun, but one doesn’t hear many nightingales there.”
“Oh, aren’t they just the loveliest? I often sit in the moonlight, listening to them.”
I chuckled, picturing the doyenne of Lido parties, Elsa Maxwell, trying to invent a game based on nightingales. Sara turned her head, looking a question at me.
“I was just thinking about the Lido crowd, and a friend of Terry’s whose great passion is inventing party games for adults.”
“Elsa Maxwell.”
“You know her?” This really was a small world, down among the pleasure-seekers.
“Who doesn’t? Thank God the woman hasn’t got her claws into the Riviera. Don’t get me wrong—I adore Elsa, even though I frankly loathe big parties, and she’s the sort of hanger-on I usually find appalling. But the woman’s so utterly unapologetic about what she is, a person can’t help but love her.”
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