AT POINT ZERO, it was well past midnight. The castle was asleep, but Charlie Chieverley wasn’t tired. He was tucked up in bed, trying to read a book about Alexander the Great’s campaign in India. Even though it was a subject that usually fascinated him, he just couldn’t concentrate: sadness sat like a stone in his stomach. He missed his friends terribly.
He pictured them in Jacobean London, Nathan fussing over his clothes as the others joked at his expense. What secrets are they uncovering? he wondered. Are they any closer to finding Philip? His thoughts changed tack again. Are they all going hungry without me to cook for them? No doubt they’re tucking into some dreadful hog roast. The Jacobeans are the worst: meat-mad.
Charlie sighed, threw back the covers and hauled himself out of bed. He reached for his crutches and hobbled towards the door. Mr Drake opened one eye. ‘I’m going down to the kitchen,’ Charlie told him, ‘to knock up a flan or something – that’ll take my mind off things.’
He limped down the back stairs and along the passage that led to the kitchens. As he approached the open door, he heard a banging of pans, and stopped. ‘Who on earth can be cooking at this time of night?’ he wondered, peering inside.
On the far side of the room stood Oceane Noire, her face covered in flour, hair all over the place, clothes awry, mumbling to herself.
Charlie, intrigued – and just a little frightened – hobbled into the room, coughing to make his presence known.
Oceane was so engrossed, she didn’t notice at first.
‘Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Noire,’ Charlie said in a clear voice, and she froze.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she sneered. ‘Qu’est-ce que tu veux?’
‘I can’t sleep,’ Charlie replied, ‘so I have come to make a flan.’
‘Ce n’est pas possible! You can’t,’ she snapped. ‘Can’t you see I’m working here?’
‘I’m sure there’s room for two,’ Charlie replied breezily, not to be deterred. As he crossed the room, he noticed her slip something – it looked like a small brown bottle – into a cupboard.
As Charlie selected ingredients for his flan and started to crack eggs into a bowl, he peered across to see what Oceane was doing. She had made a cake – a lumpy mess that she was now covering with gloopy chocolate icing.
‘You’re a woman after my own heart, mademoiselle,’ Charlie said jovially, ‘making a gateau for yourself in the middle of the night. Is it chocolate?’
‘It’s bitter chocolate,’ she replied enigmatically, ‘and it’s not for me! Do you think I would keep my figure if I ate cakes all day long?’
Oceane was indeed as skinny as a rake; she had become even more so since Jupitus and Rose had announced their engagement.
‘Oh, I see,’ said Charlie. ‘So who is the lucky recipient?’
Oceane’s eyes glazed over. She poured the last of a bottle of red wine into her glass and took a slug. ‘How’s that little bird of yours?’ she asked, changing the subject.
‘He’s much better, thank you. He’ll be flying again by next week.’
‘C’est bien,’ she replied softly. ‘Our pets are the only things we can truly rely on, aren’t they?’
Charlie nodded solemnly. The lioness had tried to kill him, but he still felt sorry for her owner. He didn’t like to think of any animal as bad, but Josephine had been an unusual case: even though she had grown up on the Mount, she simply didn’t like humans, or any other animal. Perhaps it was something to do with having been kept in a circus when she was very young. He returned to the subject of the cake. ‘So who is it for?’ he persisted, nodding towards the brown mess.
Oceane’s expression turned to acid again. ‘It’s for them. The lovebirds. That man and his British carpetbag.’ She drained her glass and slid the cake onto a silver salver, then took a sharp knife, dropped it into her pocket, blade up, grabbed the cake and made for the door.
Charlie suddenly felt a flutter of panic. ‘You’re not going to give it to them now, are you?’
Oceane swung round and fixed him with a murderous glare. ‘What is it to do with you?’
He gulped, looked down at the knife sticking out of her jacket. ‘W-w-well, I – I imagine they’ll be asleep by now.’
She gave him a twisted smile. ‘Well, if they want to have their cake and eat it, they’ll just have to wake up.’ She turned and strode to the door.
‘And besides,’ Charlie went on, ‘Rose and Mr Cole aren’t even on speaking terms any more. I should leave them be.’
‘Keep out of my business!’ Oceane shrieked, and stormed away, slamming the door behind her. Charlie heard her clomp up the stairs.
He felt sick. He hobbled over to the cupboard and took out the brown jar she had just hidden. It was half full of powder, and Charlie recognized the label immediately – rat poison! He grabbed his crutches and limped after her.
‘Miss Noire! Miss Noire!’ he called. ‘Whatever you’re about to do, I beg you to think again.’ But Oceane had disappeared. He started hopping up the stairs as fast as he could.
Five flights up, panting and wheezing, he finally made his way to the corridor where Rose and Jupitus both had their suites. Their doors were open and they were both standing outside, Rose half asleep in a kaftan, Jupitus in dressing gown and slippers, with a look of thunder on his face.
‘Don’t eat the cake!’ Charlie shouted as he flew towards them. ‘Did you eat it – did either of you eat the cake?’
‘Has everyone gone stark raving mad?’ Jupitus yelled. ‘It’s nearly two o’clock in the morning. What are you all doing?’
‘Just answer my question,’ Charlie persisted. ‘Did Oceane Noire just come up here?’
‘Yes, she did,’ Rose told him. ‘She was thumping on my door, ranting about goodness knows what. We both came out and she said she had made us a surprise. Then she started mumbling to herself, invited us both to go to hell and tossed whatever it was into the bin there.’
Charlie turned and saw that the cake lay in pieces at the bottom, the knife thrown on top of it. ‘So you didn’t eat any of it?’ he asked again, relieved.
‘This is lunacy,’ Jupitus hissed. ‘I’m not listening to any more of it. Goodnight to you both.’ He turned on his heel, went back into his room and slammed the door behind him.
Rose stared at him with loathing, before turning to Charlie with a smile. ‘We didn’t touch it, no. What’s all this about?’
Suddenly Charlie didn’t know what to say. Oceane had obviously seen sense at the last moment.
‘You look much better, by the way,’ Rose went on. ‘You’ve got some colour in your cheeks.’
That was an understatement: Charlie had just hobbled up five flights of stairs! ‘I’ll get rid of this,’ he said, picking up the rubbish bin and limping off. He stopped suddenly, another thought coming to him. ‘Which way did Oceane go?’
Rose pointed along the passage. ‘Up there, onto the battlements. I suppose she needed some air.’
Charlie wished her goodnight and headed out onto the terrace. He scanned the contours of the Mount, a dark collage of shapes and shadows. Finally he located Oceane on one of the upper levels. Was she about to throw herself off? He hid the rubbish bin behind a buttress and, reflecting that he would be happy if he never saw stairs again in his life, he limped up onto the terrace towards her.
He stopped when he saw that his guess had been correct. She had climbed up onto the parapet and was now standing swaying high above the sea. The summer wind made her dishevelled hair stream out behind her. She turned and looked at him, eyes smudged where her make-up had run. She no longer looked crazy – just desperate and dejected.
‘Miss Noire’ – Charlie’s voice was calm – ‘please don’t do that.’
‘Pourquoi pas?’ she asked hoarsely.
‘Because it’s not really high enough and the chances are you won’t die – you’ll end up on crutches like me and it wouldn’t suit you at all.’
‘It wouldn’t?’ she growled. ‘Why not?’
‘You’re much too pretty for crutches.’
She looked at him angrily. ‘Ce n’est pas vrai! If I was pretty, people would love me. But no one loves me.’ She clenched her fists, and prepared to launch herself into space.
‘You’re the prettiest woman on the island. How can you deny it? When I first met you, I thought I had never seen anyone so beautiful.’ Charlie was telling the truth . . . to a degree: there was no need to mention that he also thought she was mad as a box of frogs. ‘Why don’t we do a deal? There’s a summer ball this coming weekend, over the bay in St Malo. It’s a lavish affair, by all accounts, bound to be stuffed with aristocratic types – counts and dukes and so on . . . right up your boulevard. You’ll meet one who’ll sweep you off your feet. And if you don’t, we’ll come back here and I’ll personally help you jump.’
Oceane looked at him, scrutinizing him carefully. ‘Why are you helping me?’ she asked.
Charlie sighed and let his shoulders drop. ‘I don’t know. I think perhaps . . . perhaps we’re both a bit lonely.’
There was a long pause, and then Oceane stepped back from the edge.