The cafe was still full, every table taken by people eating dinner, or just drinking coffee and half-carafes of rosé, smoke blowing up into the still warm night from right and left. Olivier was rushing between tables when Richard caught his sleeve.
‘Nous sommes complets mais si vous – ‘
‘Ou est Delphine?’
The young waiter pulled away and shook his head. ‘Pardon … je suis …’
The proprietor, Victor, was on tonight, tall, thin, with a builtin Gallic shrug and a surly manner which very occasionally lifted like a cloud away from the sun, to bestow charm, smiles, kisses, handshakes and lively conversation on some favoured customer – always a local. He came down the two steps and glanced over to Richard.
‘Monsieur.’
‘Ou est Delphine?’
The shrug.
‘Has she been in at all today?’
‘Non.’
‘Has she telephoned or –’
‘Non. If she is not with you, I do not know where, monsieur le docteur. Excusez-moi.’
Richard hesitated. Wait and see if she turned up? Go home?
He walked away, leaving behind the chatter and chink of china and glass and the blue cigarette smoke, into the dark, quiet street to his car. Where was she? Probably Victor knew. Probably Olivier. She had told them – and told them not to say anything if he asked.
He was not worried now. He was angry. Knowing nothing, being told nothing, made a fool of.
He drove too fast through the twisting country lanes to the house.
She was not there. No one was there.
He poured a glass of wine and sat in the garden. Was she coming back? Had she gone off with someone? Why?
And how much did he care? He had been fond of Delphine and enjoyed her company. He had not spoiled her with money or gifts, and she had never expected anything. But he had been made a fool of, and now, he felt that fool. An old fool. No fool like.
He brought the remains of the bottle out, lit the mosquito coils, and with just enough light from the porch, started on the Times crossword. He usually did it in the morning, but he was too restless and irritable to go to bed, and disliked sitting doing nothing. He had never been able to do nothing. There had always been work, and later, writing medical papers, editing the journal, his family. Coping with Meriel’s death, marrying Judith and, with her, discovering a different life, travelling in the camper van, across America, up and down Europe. He had never expected to enjoy it but he had. Judith. He looked up from the crossword he had not yet begun. What had happened? They should not have separated. She should not have left him. It would have taken some words of apology, some adjustments, but it had not seemed to him that she had wanted to make them.
He poured the last glass. The mosquito coil dimmed and went out, leaving the strange, musky smoke on the air. It was still very warm.
He half woke, hearing a sound – a car in the lane, perhaps passing the house. He lifted his head, but as it was quiet again, went back to sleep, stretched out in the garden chair, deeply comfortable.
In the end, it was not a sound but the sudden chill that brought him up. There was a dampness in the air, as of early morning.
He was stiff, cursed himself for falling asleep, not having the sense at least to stay in the house. There was already a faint dew on the grass as he hobbled inside.
It was a moment, because he was slightly dazed by sleep, before he noticed anything. The kitchen was as usual and he poured himself a glass of water, put some ice cubes into it, locked the back door, and went through to the small room he used as a study. His small Georgian clock was not on the side table, the Royal Doulton jug was not on the shelf, nor the two watercolours by Cotman. His laptop had gone. His Roberts radio. The three silver frames which had contained photographs of his grandchildren. The pictures themselves were scattered on the desk. He opened the drawers. In the top one he kept a couple of hundred euros in a wallet to pay people, take change when he needed it, and in the second the safe box which contained several thousand and a valuable gold pocket watch. He knew with only a cursory look that they had gone. Small items, some of worth, some he was merely fond of, an inlaid mother-of-pearl box, six silver spoons, a locket that had belonged to his mother and then to Meriel.
It was perfectly clear that Delphine had taken what she wanted. All her things had gone as well. Had she acted alone? Had she lied when she had said she wanted to stay in the house here, to be with him?
Did any of it matter?
He picked up the phone. But it was half past five in the morning, Cat would not thank him for ringing her now. What would he say to her? Would he tell her? He felt helpless and unsure and, suddenly, old.