‘Yes,’ I answered you last night;
‘No,’ this morning, sir, I say.
Colours seen by candlelight
Will not look the same by day.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning: The Lady’s Yes.
Next morning a note was brought up to the schoolroom at breakfast-time by Bernard, Léon de Valmy’s man.
It looked as if it had been written in a tearing hurry, and it read:
My dear,
I can’t stay today as I’d hoped. I find I must go back to Paris – a damnable ‘must’. Forgive me, and try not to worry about anything. I’ll be back on Thursday morning without fail, and we can get things worked out then.
Héloïse said nothing to me, and (as I’d promised you I wouldn’t) I didn’t talk to her. I don’t think you need worry too much about that side of it, m’amie; if they have anything to say they’ll undoubtedly say it to me, not you. Till Thursday, then, pretend, if you can – if you dare! – that nothing has happened. I doubt if you’ll see much of Héloïse anyway. She overdid things, and I imagine she’ll keep her bed.
Yours,
R.
As a first love-letter, there was nothing in it to make my hands as unsteady as they were when I folded it and looked up at the waiting Bernard. He was watching me; the black eyes in that impassively surly face were shrewd and somehow wary. I thought I saw a gleam of speculation there, and reflected wryly that it was very like Raoul to send his messages by the hand of the man who hadn’t been out of Léon de Valmy’s call for twenty years. I said coolly: ‘Did Monsieur Raoul give you this himself?’
‘Yes, mademoiselle.’
‘Has he left already?’
‘Oh yes, mademoiselle. He drove down to catch the early flight to Paris.’
‘I see. Thank you. And how is Mrs. Seddon today, Bernard?’
‘Better, mademoiselle, but the doctor says she must stay quiet in her bed for a day or two.’
‘Well, I hope she’ll soon be fit again,’ I said. ‘Have someone let her know I was asking after her, will you please?’
‘Yes, mademoiselle.’
‘Bernard,’ said Philippe, putting down his cup, ‘you have a dance tonight, don’t you?’
‘Down in the village?’
‘Yes, monsieur.’
‘Do you have supper there as well?’
‘Yes, monsieur.’
‘What sort of things do you have for supper?’
The man’s dark face remained wooden, his eyes guarded – unfriendly, even. ‘That I really couldn’t say, monsieur.’
‘All right, Bernard,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
As he went I wondered, yet again, what pretty little Berthe could see in him.
It was a very unpleasant and also a very long day.
I felt curiously bereft. Raoul had gone. Florimond left soon after breakfast. Mrs. Seddon did as Bernard had prophesied and kept her room, and Berthe went about her tasks all day with that withdrawn and rather shamefaced expression which seemed – if it were possible – faintly to image Bernard’s sullen mask.
Small wonder, then, that when Philippe and I were out for our afternoon walk, and a jeep roared past us carrying several men and driven by William Blake, I responded to his cheerful wave with such fervour that Philippe looked curiously up at me and remarked:
‘He is a great friend of yours, that one, hein?’
‘He’s English,’ I said simply, then smiled at myself. ‘Do you know what irony is, Philippe? L’ironie?’
‘No, what?’
I looked at him doubtfully, but I had let myself in for a definition now and plunged a little wildly at it. ‘L’ironie. … I suppost its Chance, or Fate (le destin), or something, that follows you around and spies on what you do and say, and then uses it against you at the worst possible time. No, that’s not a very good way of putting it. Skip it, mon lapin; I’m not at my best this afternoon.’
‘But I am reading about that this morning,’ said Philippe. ‘It has a special name. It followed you comme vous dìtes and when you do something silly it – how do you say it? – came against you. It was called Nemesis.’
I stopped short and looked at him. I said: ‘Philippe, my love, I somehow feel it only wanted that … And it’s practically the Ides of March and there are ravens flying upside down on our left and I walked the wrong way round Sainte-Marie-des-Ponts last Thursday afternoon, and—’
‘You didn’t,’ said Philippe. ‘It was raining.’
‘Was it?’
‘You know it was.’ He chuckled and gave a ghost of a skip. ‘You do say silly things sometimes, don’t you?’
‘All too often.’
‘But I like it. Go on. About the ravens flying upside down. Do they really? Why? Go on, mademoiselle.’
‘I don’t think I can,’ I said. ‘Words fail me.’
On our way in from the walk we met Monsieur de Valmy.
Instead of coming up the zigzag itself we took the short cut which ran steeply upwards, here and there touching the northerly loops of the road. We crossed the gravel sweep at the top. As we went through the stableyard archway, making for the side door, the wheelchair came quietly out of some outbuilding and Léon de Valmy’s voice said, in French: ‘Ah, Philippe. Good afternoon, Miss Martin. Are you just back from your walk?’
The quick colour burned my face as I turned to answer. ‘Good afternoon, monsieur. Yes. We’ve just been along the valley road, and we came back up the short cut.’
He smiled. I could see no trace of disapproval or coolness in his face. Surely if I were privately under sentence of dismissal, he wouldn’t act quite so normally – more, go out of his way to greet us in this unruffled friendly fashion? He said, including Philippe in the warmth of his smile: ‘You’ve taken to by-passing the woods now, have you?’
‘Well, we have rather.’ I added: ‘I’m nervous, so we keep near the road.’
He laughed. ‘I don’t blame you.’ He turned to Philippe with a pleasant twinkle. ‘And how are you this morning, after your excesses of last night?’
‘Excesses?’ said Philippe nervously.
‘I’m told you had a midnight feast last night … an “illicit night out à trois” was the phrase, I believe. No nightmares afterwards?’
Philippe said: ‘No, mon oncle.’ The amused dark gaze turned to me.
I said, almost as nervously as Philippe: ‘You don’t mind? Perhaps it was a little unorthodox, but—’
‘My dear Miss Martin, why should I? We leave Philippe very completely to your care and judgment, and so far we’ve been amply proved right. Please don’t imagine that my wife and myself are waiting to criticise every move that’s out of pattern. We know very little about the care of children. That’s up to you. And a “special treat” now and again is an essential, I believe? It was kind of you to spare time and thought to the child in the middle of your own pleasure … I hope you enjoyed the dance?’
‘Yes, oh yes, I did! I didn’t see you last night to thank you for inviting me, but may I thank you now, monsieur? It was wonderful. I enjoyed it very much.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. I was afraid you might feel rather too much a stranger among us, but I gather that Raoul looked after you.’
Nothing but polite inquiry. No glint of amusement. No overtone to the pleasant voice.
‘Yes, monsieur, thank you, he did … And how is Madame de Valmy this afternoon? She’s not ill, is she?’
‘Oh no, only tired. She’ll be making an appearance at the dance in the village tonight, so she’s resting today.’
‘Then she won’t expect us – Philippe and me – in the salon tonight?’
‘No. I think you must miss that.’ The smile at Philippe was slightly mischievous now. ‘Unless you’d like to visit me instead?’
Philippe stiffened, but I said: ‘As you wish, monsieur. In the library?’
He laughed. ‘No, no. We’ll spare Philippe that. Well, don’t let me keep you.’ The wheelchair swivelled away, then slewed back to us. ‘Oh, by the way …’
‘Don’t let Philippe use the swing in the big coach-house, Miss Martin. I see that one of the rivets is working loose. Keep off it until it’s mended. We mustn’t have another accident, must we?’
‘No, indeed. Thank you monsieur, we’ll keep out of there.’
He nodded and swung the chair away again. It moved off with that disconcertingly smooth speed towards the gate to the kitchen garden. Philippe ran ahead of me towards the side door with the air of one reprieved from a terrible fate.
He wasn’t the only one. I was reflecting that once again my imagination had betrayed me. That smile of Monsieur de Valmy’s last night … Madame’s coldness … my interpretation of them had been wildly wide of the mark. A guilty conscience, and a too-ready ear for gossip had given me a few bad hours. It served me right. There was obviously no idea of dismissing me; if there had been Monsieur de Valmy would never have spoken to me as he had. All was well … and even if there were snags in the future, Raoul would be here beside me.
‘Mademoiselle,’ said Philippe, ‘you look quite different. Qu’est-ce que c’est?’
‘I think I’ve seen a raven,’ I said, ‘flying the right way up.’
The rest of the day limped through without incident. I put Philippe to bed a little earlier than usual, and later on, as soon as I had taken him his late-night chocolate, I went thankfully to bed myself and slept almost straight away.
I don’t remember waking. Straight out of deep sleep, it seemed, I turned my head on the pillow and looked with wide-open eyes towards the door. The room was dark and I could see nothing, but then there came the stealthy click of the door closing, and soft footsteps moved across the carpet towards the bed. I think that for a moment or two I didn’t realise I was awake, but lay still listening to the ghostly approach in a sort of bemused half-slumber.
Something touched the bed. I heard breathing. I was awake and this was real. My heart jerked once, in a painful spasm of fear, and I shot up in bed, saying on a sharply rising note: ‘Who’s that?’
As I grabbed for the bedside switch a voice that was no more than a terrified breath said: ‘Don’t put the light on. Don’t!’
My hand fell from the switch. The intruder’s terror seemed to quiver in the air between us, and in the face of it I felt myself growing calm. I said quietly: ‘Who is it?’
The whisper said: ‘It’s Berthe, miss.’
‘Berthe?’
There was a terrified sound that might have been a sob. ‘Oh, hush, miss, they’ll hear!’
I said softly: ‘What’s the matter, Berthe? What’s up?’ Then a thought touched me icily and I put a hand to the bed-clothes.
‘Philippe? Is there something the matter with Philippe?’
‘No, no, nothing like that! But it’s – it’s – I thought I ought to come and tell you—’
But here the distressful whispering was broken unmistakably by gulping sobs, and Berthe sat down heavily on the end of the bed.
I slipped from under the covers and padded across the room to lock the doors. Then I went back to the bed and switched on the bedside lamp.
Berthe was still crouched on the bottom of my bed, her face in her hands. She was wearing the silver-netted frock, with a coat of some cheap dark material thrown round shoulders which still shook with sobs.
I said gently: ‘Take your time, Berthe. Shall I make you some coffee?’
She shook her head, and lifted it from her hands. Her face, usually so pretty, was pinched and white. Her cheeks were streaked with tears and her eyes looked dreadful.
I sat down beside her on the bed and put an arm round her. ‘Don’t, my dear. What is it? Can I help? Did something happen at the dance?’ I felt the shoulders move. I said on a thought: ‘Is it Bernard?’
She nodded, still gulping. Then I felt her square her shoulders. I withdrew my arm but stayed beside her. Presently she managed to say, with rather ragged-edged composure: ‘You’d better get back into bed, miss. You’ll get cold like that.’
‘Very well.’ I slipped back into bed, pulled the covers round me, and looked at her. ‘Now tell me. What is it? Can I help?’
She didn’t answer for a moment. Nor did she look at me. Her eyes went round the room as if to probe the shadows, and I saw terror flick its whiplash across her face again. She licked her lips.
I waited. She sat for a moment, twisting her hands together. Then she said fairly calmly, but in a low, hurried voice: ‘It is Bernard … in a way. You know I’m – I’m going to marry Bernard? Well, he took me to the dance tonight, and I wore your frock and he said I looked a princess and he started – oh, he was drinking, miss, and he got … you know—’
‘I know.’
‘He was drunk,’ said Berthe, ‘I’ve never seen him that way before. I knew he’d taken a good bit, of course; he often does, but he never shows it. I – we went outside together.’ Her eyes were on her fingers, plaited whitely in her lap. Her voice thinned to a thread. ‘We went to my sister’s house. She and her man were at the dance. It – I know it was wrong of me, but—’ She stopped.
I said, feeling rather helpless and inadequate: ‘All right, Berthe. Skip that part. What’s frightened you?’
‘He was drunk,’ she said again, in that thin little voice. ‘I didn’t realise at first … he seemed all right, until … he seemed all right. Then … afterwards … he started talking.’ She licked her lips again. ‘He was boasting kind of wild-like about when we were married. I’d be a princess, he said, and we’d have money, a lot of money. I’d – I’d have to marry him soon, now, he said, and we’d buy a farm and be rich, and we’d have … oh, he talked so wildly and silly that I got frightened and told him not to be a fool and where would the likes of him get money to buy a farm. And he said—’
Her voice faltered and stopped.
I said, wondering where all this was leading: ‘Yes? He said?’
Her hands wrung whitely together in the little glow of the lamp. ‘He said there’d be plenty of money later on … when Philippe – when Philippe—’
‘Yes?’
‘– was dead,’ said Berthe on a shivering rush of breath.
My heart had begun to beat in sharp slamming little strokes that I could feel even in my finger-tips. Berthe’s eyes were on me now, filled with a sort of shrinking dread that was horrible. There was sweat along her upper lip.
I said harshly: ‘Go on.’
‘I – I’m only saying what he said. He was drunk … half-asleep. He was—’
‘Yes. Go on.’
‘He said Monsieur de Valmy had promised him the money—’
‘Yes?’
‘– when Philippe died.’
‘Berthe!’
‘Yes, miss,’ said Berthe simply.
Silence. I could see sweat on her forehead now. My hands were dry and ice-cold. I felt the nails scrape on the sheets as I clutched at them. The pulse knocked in my fingertips.
This was nonsense. It was nightmare. It wasn’t happening. But something inside me, some part of brain or instinct listened unsurprised. This nightmare was true: I knew it already. On some hidden level I had known it for long enough. I only wondered at my own stupidity that had not recognised it before. I heard myself saying quietly: ‘You must finish now, Berthe. Philippe … so Philippe is going to die later on, is he? How much later on?’
‘B – Bernard said soon. He said it would have to be soon because Monsieur Hippolyte cabled early today that he was coming home. They don’t know why – he must be ill or something; anyway, he’s cancelling his trip and he’ll be here by tomorrow night, so they’ll have to do it soon, Bernard says. They’ve tried already, he says, but—’
I said: ‘They?’
‘The Valmys. Monsieur and Madame and Monsieur—’
‘No,’ I said. ‘No.’
‘Yes, miss. Monsieur Raoul,’ said Berthe.
Of course I said: ‘I don’t believe it.’
She watched me dumbly.
‘I don’t believe it!’ My voice blazed with the words into fury. But she didn’t speak. If she had broken into protestation perhaps I could have gone on fighting, but she said nothing, giving only that devastating shrug of the shoulders with which the French disclaim all knowledge and responsibility.
‘Berthe. Are you sure?’
Another lift of the shoulders.
‘He said so? Bernard said so?’
‘Yes.’ Then something in my face pricked her to add: ‘He was drunk. He was talking—’
‘I know. Kind of wild. That means nothing. But this can’t be true! It can’t! I know that! Berthe, do you hear me? It – simply – isn’t – true.’
She said nothing, but looked away.
I opened my lips, then shut them again, and in my turn was silent.
I don’t intend – even if I could – to describe the next few minutes. To feel something inside oneself break and die is not an experience to be re-lived at whatever merciful distance. After a while I managed, more or less coherently, to think, spurred to it by the savage reminder that Philippe was what mattered. All the rest could be sorted out, pondered, mourned over, later; now the urgent need was to think about Philippe.
I pushed back the bedclothes. Berthe said sharply: ‘Where are you going?’
I didn’t answer. I slipped out of bed and flew to the bathroom door. Through the bathroom … across the child’s darkened bedroom … Bending over the bed, I heard his breathing, light and even. It was only then, as I straightened up on a shaking wave of relief, that I knew how completely I had accepted Berthe’s statement. What was it, after all? A frightened girl’s version of the drunken and amorous babbling of a servant? And yet it rang so true and chimed in with so many facts that without even half a hearing it seemed I was ready to jettison the employers who had shown me kindness and the man with whom an hour ago I had been in love.
Stiffly, blindly, like a sleepwalker, I went back to my own room, leaving the connecting doors ajar. I climbed back into bed.
‘Is he all right?’ Berthe’s whisper met me, sharp and thin.
I nodded.
‘Oh, miss, oh, miss …’ She was wringing her hands again. I remember thinking with a queer detached portion of my mind that here was someone wringing her hands. One reads about it and one never sees it, and now here it was. When at length I spoke it was in a dead flat voice I didn’t recognise as my own. ‘We’d better get this clear, I think. I don’t say that I accept what Bernard says, but – well, I want to hear it … all. He says there’s a plot on hand to murder Philippe. If that’s so, there’s no need to ask why; the gains to Monsieur and Madame and – the gains are obvious.’
The words came easily. It was like a play. I was acting in a play. I didn’t feel a thing – no anger or fear or unhappiness. I just spoke my lines in that dead and uninflected voice and Berthe listened and stared at me and twisted her hands together.
I said: ‘You say “they’ve tried already”. I suppose you mean the shot in the woods and the balcony rail?’
‘Y – yes.’
‘So.’ I remembered then the white expectancy on Madame de Valmy’s face as Philippe and I came up from the woods that day. And the night of the balcony rail; she hadn’t come upstairs that night to get any tablets; she had come because she couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. Léon de Valmy, stationed in the hall, must have heard the crash from the forecourt. My mind leaped on from this to recollect those two interviews with my employer in the library. I said harshly: ‘This could be true. Oh, my dear God, Berthe, it could be true. Well, let’s have it. Who fired the shot? Bernard himself?’
‘No. That was Monsieur Raoul. Bernard dug the bullet out.’
I forgot about its being a play. ‘I don’t believe it!’
‘Miss—’
‘Did Bernard say so?’
‘Yes.’
‘In so many words?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then he’s lying. He probably did the shooting himself and—’ But here I saw her face and stopped. After a while I said fairly calmly: ‘I’m sorry. I did ask you to tell me just what he said, after all. And I – I’m pretty sure that what he said is true in the main. It’s just that I can’t quite bring myself to – to believe—’
‘Yes, miss. I know.’
I looked at her. ‘Oh, Berthe, you make me ashamed. I was so wrapped up in my own feelings that I forgot the way you’d be feeling, too. I’m sorry. We’re both in the same boat, aren’t we?’
She nodded wordlessly.
Somehow the knowledge steadied me. I said: ‘Well, look, Berthe. We’ve got to be tough about this for Philippe’s sake, and because there isn’t much time. Later on we can work it out and – and decide who’s guilty and who isn’t. At present I suppose we must assume they’re all in it, whether or not we can believe it in our heart of hearts. And I’m pretty sure that Monsieur and Madame are guilty – in fact I know they are. I’m very much to blame for not seeing it before, but who on earth goes about suspecting an impossible outlandish thing like murder? That’s something that happens in books, not among people you know. I suppose I ought to have seen it straight away, when Philippe was shot at in the woods. And Raoul … Raoul was out there; he admitted it himself, and Bernard was sent straight out, and I suppose he removed the bullet then and went back later with someone else to ‘discover’ it. Yes, and I was right in thinking that Monsieur de Valmy knew I spoke French; I’d shouted it at – at the murderer in the beech-wood, and talked it to Philippe all the way home. Then the affair of the balcony rail, Berthe – I suppose that and the swing in the barn were extras? Off-chances? Booby-traps that might work sooner or later?’
‘Yes.’
‘And then the Cadillac’s horn blasting at – perhaps at nothing – brought Philippe out to his death?’ I added shakily: ‘Do I have to believe that, too?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, miss. What horn? Bernard never said anything about any horn.’
‘Oh? Well, skip it. It’s over, thank God, without harm. Now we have to think what to do.’
I looked down at my hands while I tried to marshal my thoughts. And the pattern was forming in a way I didn’t want to examine too closely. It was all there. I tried to make myself look at it all quite coldly and in order, from the time when Philippe had been sent up to Valmy and so delivered by the unsuspecting Hippolyte straight into the hands of murder …
The first step – and it was taken immediately – had been to get rid of the only person close to Philippe and trusted by Hippolyte – the child’s nurse. Someone must replace her, and it was judged better to find a young woman without family or guardian who, in the event of an ‘accident’ to her pupil, wouldn’t be able to call upon friends and relatives to exonerate her from possible charges of carelessness (or worse) should there be a mistake and doubts arise. So Madame de Valmy had made inquiries of a friend in London who was known to supply her friends with domestic help from an orphanage. Who better than an orphan, and a foreigner at that – someone who, in the accumulated bewilderments of a new job, a new country, and a foreign language, would hardly be in a position to observe too much or defend herself too readily … There had in sober fact been that slight over-emphasis on my Englishness … my instinct to hide my Continental origin had, absurd though it had seemed, been right.
So the scapegoat had been found and brought to France. They waited. There was plenty of time. I had been allowed to settle in; my life with Philippe formed its own quiet pattern, an ordinary day-to-day pattern which appeared pleasantly normal except that Monsieur de Valmy couldn’t quite keep his bitter tongue off the child who stood between him and so much. So it had gone on. I had stayed there three weeks, settled and happy, though still not quite at ease with my employers. Then the attempt was made and, by the purest chance, it failed. The second was a longer chance, but quite safe for them – the rotten coping had already been reported, so Bernard had made sure of the stone’s collapse and then waited for an accident to happen when none of the interested parties was anywhere near. And the second ‘accident’ failed too, because of me. If the first, or even the second, had come off, ‘accident’ would almost certainly have been the verdict … and no doubt an entirely baffling series of alibis was in any case available. Certainly the one person who couldn’t be found guilty was the interested party, Léon de Valmy. It would have been a tragedy, and it would have blown over, whispers and all, and Léon would have had Valmy. It was even possible that there’d have been no whispers at all … Léon was highly thought of, and a first-rate landlord: the country folk would for many years past have regarded him as the seigneur, and they might have been only too pleased when the custody of Valmy passed unequivocally into his hands.
Berthe was still crouching at the foot of my bed, watching me dumbly. I said: ‘And now, Berthe, what’s next?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’
‘You must. This is what matters. Think. Bernard let so much out; he must have told you that.’
‘No. I don’t think he knew himself. I think it wasn’t to be him. That’s all.’ She floundered, gulped, and began to sob again.
Out of nowhere, unbidden, unwanted, a picture flashed onto the dark screen of my mind. Philippe’s sleeping head lolling back against Raoul’s shoulder, and Héloïse’s voice saying hoarsely: ‘What’s the matter with Philippe?’ And Raoul giving her that hard quelling look. ‘Nothing at all. He’s asleep.’
I said shakily: ‘And Bernard said nothing to indicate when? Or how?’
‘No, honestly he didn’t. But it was to be soon because of Monsieur Hippolyte coming back. The cable came early this morning and it really put the Master out, Bernard said.’
‘And Hippolyte’s coming back tomorrow?’ I caught my breath. ‘Today, Berthe. It’s today, d’you realise that? Today?’
‘Why – yes, I reckon it is. It’s nearly one o’clock, isn’t it? But I don’t rightly know when Monsieur Hippolyte’ll get here. I think it won’t be till night, and then he mayn’t get up to Valmy till Thursday.’
I said quietly: ‘Monsieur Raoul has gone to Paris till Thursday, Berthe. If the cable came “early” this morning he would probably know about it, but he still went to Paris. So he can’t be in it, can he? Bernard was wrong.’
She said in that dull voice that was stupid with shock and succeeded in sounding stubborn: ‘Bernard said he was in it. Bernard said he fired the shot.’
It was useless – and cruel – to spend myself in protests. I said: ‘All right. The point is that if we’re to decide how to protect Philippe we must have some idea where the danger’s coming from. I mean, nobody’s going to listen to us unless we have some sort of a case which, God knows, we haven’t got yet. Let’s begin with the things we know. You say it’s not to be Bernard.’
She gulped and nodded. She was steadier now, I saw, and her breathing was less ragged. Her hands had stopped wrenching at each other. She was listening with some sort of attention.
I said: ‘I think we can count out the idea that there are any more booby-traps waiting about. They’ve got to make quite certain this time; they can’t wait for chance to act for them. And in any case, too many “accidents” of the same kind might make people begin to think. That was why Monsieur de Valmy warned me about the swing in the barn … yes, he did that this afternoon, after he’d heard that Hippolyte was coming back. He was as nice as ninepence, though I’d been quite sure that he and Madame – oh, well, that doesn’t matter. Well, Bernard’s out, and booby-traps are out. There are limits to what Monsieur de Valmy can do himself, and from the way things have gone up to now I have a feeling he’ll keep well out of it, since he’s the person who stands most obviously to gain. And Raoul isn’t here, so it can’t be Raoul.’ In spite of myself my voice lightened on the words. I said almost joyously: ‘That leaves Madame, doesn’t it.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Berthe.
‘That it’s Madame? Of course I’m not. But—’
‘That he’s gone,’ said Berthe.
I stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’
She gave a little boneless shrug. ‘It’s a big place.’
Something crept over my skin like a cold draught. ‘You mean … he may still be here somewhere … hiding?’
She didn’t speak. She nodded. Her eyes, watching me painfully, were once more alive and intelligent.
I said almost angrily: ‘But he went. People must have seen him go. Bernard said – oh, that’s not evidence, is it? But his car’s gone. I noticed that when we came through the stableyard this afternoon.’
‘Yes. He left. I saw him. But he could have come back. There’s such things,’ added Berthe surprisingly, ‘as alibis.’
I said slowly: ‘Yes, I suppose there are. But that he should be here – hiding – no, it’s too far-fetched and absurd.’
‘Well,’ said Berthe, ‘but it’s absurd to think Madame would do it, isn’t it?’
‘Oh God,’ I said explosively, ‘it’s absurd to think anyone would do it! But I can’t believe the thing hinges on Raoul. No’ – as she was about to speak – ‘not only for the reason you think, but because if he is in it, I can’t see where I come in at all. That’s fantastic if you like.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘If he was involved in this murder thing, why get involved with me? You know he was, of course?’
‘Everybody knew.’
I said bitterly: ‘They did, didn’t they? Well, why did he? Surely it was a dangerous and unnecessary thing to do?’
‘Perhaps,’ she said disconcertingly, ‘he just can’t help it. You’re awfully pretty, aren’t you, and Albertine says that when they were in Paris she heard—’
‘Ah, yes,’ I said. ‘Albertine hears an awful lot, doesn’t she? You mean that he automatically turns the power on for every young female he meets? His father’s like that, have you noticed? He’s got a technique all his own of disarming you with his affliction and then switching on charm like an arc-light. Well, it could be, but I don’t think so. Raoul’s not like his father; he’s got no need to waste himself where it doesn’t matter. And in this case it might have been actually dangerous to get involved with me if he was … Third Murderer.’
‘If he’s in it with them, and he started to – well, to—’
‘To make love to me?’
‘Yes, miss. If he did that, and, like you said, it wasn’t safe, mightn’t that be why Monsieur and Madame were so annoyed about it?’
‘I thought they were at first, but they weren’t. I told you. Monsieur was awfully nice to me this afternoon.’
‘Oh, but they were, miss. Albertine said you were to be sent away. Everyone knew. They were all talking about it. And why should they bother to send you away, unless Monsieur Raoul was in with them, and it wasn’t safe, like you said. Otherwise you’d hardly think they’d trouble their heads about his goings-on, because – oh, I’m sorry, miss, I do beg your pardon, I’m sure.’
‘It’s all right. “Goings-on” will do. Well, they might be annoyed even so, because Philippe was in their charge and I – no that won’t do. If they’re all set to murder the child they won’t give a damn about the moral code of his governess. But no, Berthe, it won’t fit. It doesn’t make sense. I still can’t throw Monsieur Raoul in, you know. And not just because of the way I feel either. It went too far, our affair – beyond all the bounds of reason if he was involved in his father’s game. He asked me to marry him at the ball.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘You know?’
‘Yes, miss. Everybody does.’
I don’t think I spoke for a full five seconds. ‘Do they? Second sight or just more gossip?’
‘I don’t know what you mean. Bernard told Albertine and she told the rest of us.’
‘When was this?’
She looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, she’d been saying things about you for quite a time. She’d been saying you were, well—’
‘Yes?’
‘She said you were out to get him, miss, and that Monsieur and Madame were furious and you were going to be sent away. And then yesterday she was saying it had happened, like.’
‘Yesterday? You mean after the ball?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Did she say she knew for certain?’
‘I don’t know. She was sounding sure enough about it. She said – oh, well, never mind. She’s a nasty one sometimes, that one.’
‘Yes. Let it pass. I’ve had my fill of Albertine. But let’s think,’ I said a little desperately, ‘if she and everyone else were talking about our engagement, then, even if they hadn’t been actually told, you’d think Monsieur and Madame would know too?’
‘That’s right, you would.’
‘But you said they were genuinely furious before that – when it was known that he and I were, well, interested in each other.’
‘Oh yes. I’m sure of that.’
‘But I tell you it doesn’t make sense. I told you, I saw Monsieur de Valmy yesterday – when presumably he knew as much about it as everyone else – and he was extremely nice to me. And neither of them sent for me to ask me about it or – or anything. I – I can’t work it out, Berthe. My head’s spinning and it feels as if it’s going to burst. If they knew, and didn’t mind, then Raoul can’t be in it, can he? When I saw him, Monsieur Léon must have already laid his plans because he’d already had Hippolyte’s cable …’
My voice trailed away into nothing. I swallowed hard. I repeated, unrecognisably: ‘He’d already had Hippolyte’s cable.’
In the silence that followed she stirred and the bed creaked.
I said slowly: ‘He and Madame were angry with me before; I know they were. I believe they were planning to send me away. But Hippolyte’s cable changed all that. They had to make a plan in a hurry and that plan included me. How does that fit?’
‘Well—’
‘It does, you know. But how? How? Are you sure Bernard said nothing?’
‘I’m sure,’ she said desperately. ‘Don’t you fret, miss. I’d go bail you’ll be in no danger.’
‘What makes you think I’m worrying about that?’ I said, almost sharply. ‘But we must get this straight, don’t you see? It’s the only way we’ll be able to do anything to help Philippe. What can they be planning to do that includes me? What the sweet hell can they be planning?’
She said: ‘Maybe you’ve nothing to do with it at all. Maybe they just think it’d look funny if something happened to Philippe the day you were sent off, so they’ve decided they’ll have to keep you.’
‘Yes, but marriage is a bit—’
‘Maybe they want to make sure you’ll hold your tongue if you suspect anything,’ said Berthe.
‘Oh, dear God,’ I said wearily, ‘they surely can’t imagine that I’d suspect a child was murdered and do nothing about it?’
‘But if you were going to marry him, and everyone knew—’
‘What difference would that make? They’d never be idiot enough to think I’d help them? No, it’s nonsense. They’d never use marriage as a bait to make me hold my tongue. Why, good heavens—’
‘I wasn’t going to say that.’ There was some new quality in Berthe’s voice that stopped me short. She was still speaking softly, but there was some curious vibrancy in the tones that held me. She said: ‘Everybody knows you’re engaged to Monsieur Raoul. If Philippe died, you’d be Madame la Comtesse de Valmy one day. If the cable really came before the ball—’
‘What do you mean?’ Then I saw. I finished in a voice that wasn’t a voice at all: ‘You mean that when the cable came and they made their plan, it did include me? That they’ve given me a motive for murder? That they can’t risk another “accident” without a scapegoat ready to hand in case things go wrong and people ask questions? Is that what you mean?’
Berthe said simply: ‘Why else should he ask you to marry him?’
‘Why else indeed?’ I said.
I had checked up again on Philippe. He still slept peacefully. The house was quiet. I tiptoed back into my bedroom and reached for my dressing-gown.
Berthe said: ‘Is he all right?’
I was putting the dressing-gown on with hands that shook and were clumsy. ‘Yes. You realise, I suppose, that the likeliest time for anything to happen is tonight, now, and everybody’s out at the dance except Mrs. Seddon?’
‘Mr. Seddon didn’t go. He stayed with her.’
‘Oh? Well, I’d trust them all right, but she’s ill and I doubt if he’d be much use – even if they’d believe us, which isn’t likely.’ I found my slippers and thrust my feet hastily into them. ‘Will you stay with Philippe and mount guard over him? Lock his door and window now.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘The only possible thing. What’s the time?’
‘Going on quarter past one. I – we came away early.’
‘Did Bernard come up with you?’
‘Yes.’ She didn’t look at me. ‘I persuaded him to bring me up in the brake. It wasn’t difficult. He – he’s asleep now in my room.’ She finished in a thin little voice: ‘It was awful, driving up that zigzag with him so drunk still …’
I was hardly listening. I was reflecting that apart from the Seddons, we were alone in the house with Léon de Valmy and Bernard. Thank God the latter still had to sleep it off. I said: ‘Was Madame de Valmy at the dance?’
‘Yes, but she’ll have left by now. She never stays long.’
‘I see. Now can I get to the telephone in Seddon’s pantry without being heard or seen? Does he lock it?’
‘No, miss. But he goes to bed at midnight and he always switches it through to the Master’s room then.’
Something fluttered deep in my stomach. I ignored it. ‘Then I’ll switch it back again. How d’you do it?’
‘There’s a red tab on the left. Press it down. But – he might hear it. Miss – what are you going to do?’
‘There’s only one thing I can do. We must have help. D’you mean that if I use the telephone it’ll ting in the Master’s room or something? Because if so I can’t use it. And I can’t go out and leave Philippe. You may have to go for the police yourself if you can—’
‘The police?’
I was across at the door that gave on to the corridor, listening. I turned and looked back at her in surprise.
‘Who else? I must tell the police all this. They may not believe me, but at least I can get them up here and if there’s a fuss it’ll make it impossible for another attempt on Philippe to be made. And tonight or tomorrow Monsieur Hippolyte gets back and he can take care of Philippe when the row’s over and I’ve been sent – home.’
‘No!’ said Berthe so violently that the syllable rang, and she clapped a hand to her mouth.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘You’re not to go to the police! You’re not to tell anyone!’
‘But my dear girl—’
‘I came to tell you because you’ve been kind to me, because I liked you and Philippe. You’ve been so good to me – always so nice, and there was the dress and – and all. I thought you might have got mixed up in it somehow, with Monsieur Raoul and all that … But you mustn’t let on I told you! You mustn’t!’
The new fear had sharpened her voice, so that I said urgently: ‘Be quiet, will you! And don’t be a fool! How can you expect me to say nothing—’
‘You are not to tell them about Bernard! You can go away if you’re afraid!’
I must have looked at her blankly. ‘Go away?’
‘If it’s true what we said, and you’re likely to be blamed for a murder! You can make an excuse in the morning and leave straight away! It’s easy! You can say you don’t want to marry him after all, and that you know you can’t stay as governess after what’s happened. It’s likely enough. They can’t make you stay anyway, and they won’t suspect.’
‘But, Berthe, stop! That’s only guesswork! And even if it’s true you can’t seriously suggest that I should run away and leave Philippe to them?’
‘I’ll look after him! I’ll watch him till Monsieur Hippolyte gets back! It’s only one day! You can trust me, you know that. If you upset their plans and they’ve nobody to blame, maybe they won’t do anything.’
‘Maybe they will,’ I rejoined grimly, ‘and blame you instead, Berthe.’
‘They wouldn’t dare. Bernard wouldn’t stand for it.’
‘You’re probably right. But I’m not risking Philippe’s life on any “maybes”. And you don’t undersand, Berthe. The thing to be stopped isn’t my being involved, but Philippe’s murder! I know you came to warn me, and I’m grateful, but there’s simply no quesion of my leaving. I’m going to ring the police now.’
Her face, paper-white, had flattened, featureless; starched linen with two dark holes torn for eyes. ‘No! No! No!’ Hysteria shook her voice. ‘Bernard will know I’ve told you! And Monsieur de Valmy! I daren’t! You can’t!’
‘I must. Can’t you see that none of these things matter? Only the child.’
‘I’ll deny it. I’ll deny everything. I’ll swear he never said a word or that I spoke to you. I’ll say it’s lies. I will! I will!’
There was a little silence. I came away from the door.
‘You’d do – that?’
‘Yes. I swear I would.’
I said nothing for a bit. After a few seconds her eyes fell away from mine, but there was a look in her face that told me she meant what she said. I fought my anger down, reminding myself that she had lived all her life in Valmy’s shadow, and that now there was the best of reasons why Bernard should still be willing – and free – to marry her. Poor Berthe; she had done a good deal: more I could hardly expect …
‘Very well,’ I said, ‘I’ll leave you out of it and I won’t mention Bernard. We’ll let the past die and just deal with the future. I’ll put it to the police as simply my own suspicions. I’ll think of something. And then I’ll go straight along to Léon de Valmy and tell him that I’ve spoken to them. That should put paid to him as effectively.’
She was staring at me as if I were mad. ‘You’d – dare?’
I had a sudden inner vision of Philippe in Raoul’s arms. ‘Oh yes,’ I said, ‘I’d dare.’
She was shivering now, and her teeth were clenched as if she was cold. ‘But you mustn’t. He’d guess about Bernard – and me. Someone’d tell him Bernard was drunk tonight. He’d know. You can’t do it.’
‘I must and will. Don’t be a fool, Berthe. You know as well as I do that I’ve got to. …’
‘No, no, no! We can look after him! With two of us he’ll be all right. It’s only for one day. We can watch Bernard—’
‘And Madame? And Léon de Valmy? And God knows who else?’
She said blindly, hysterically: ‘You are not to tell! If you don’t swear not to go to the police I shall go to Bernard now! He’ll be sober enough to stop you!’
I took three strides to the bedside and gripped her by the shoulders. ‘You won’t do that, Berthe! You know you won’t! You can’t!’
Under my hands her shoulders were rigid. Her face, still pinched and white, was near my own. My touch seemed to have shaken the hysteria out of her, for she spoke quietly, and with a conviction that no scream could have carried: ‘If you tell the police, and they come to see the Master, he’ll guess how you found out. And there’ll be a fuss, and he’ll just deny everything, and laugh at it. They’ll say that you – yes! they’ll say you tried to marry Monsieur Raoul and were slighted and you’re doing it out of spite, and then the police will laugh too and shrug and have a drink with the Master and go away …’
‘Very likely. But it’ll save Philippe and a bit more slander won’t hurt me.’
‘But what do you suppose will happen to me when it’s all over?’ asked Berthe. ‘And Bernard? And my mother and my family? My father and my brothers have worked at Valmy all their lives. They’re poor. They’ve got nothing. Where can they go when they’re dismissed? What can we do?’ She shook her head. ‘You must please – please – do as I say. Between us we can keep him safe all right. It’s best, miss, honestly it’s best.’
I let my hands drop from her shoulders.
‘Very well. Have it your own way. I’ll keep my mouth shut.’ I looked at her. ‘But I swear to you that if anything happens to Philippe – or if any attempt is made – I’ll smear this story, and the Valmys, across every newspaper in France until they – and Bernard – get what they deserve.’
‘Nothing will happen to Philippe.’
‘I pray God you’re right. Now go, Berthe. Thank you for coming as you did.’
She slid off the bed, hesitating. ‘The frock?’
I said wearily: ‘Keep it. I’ll have no use for it where I’ll be going. Goodnight.’
‘Miss—’
‘Goodnight, Berthe.’
The door clicked shut behind her, and left me alone with the shadows.