2006 - Wildcat Moon (41 page)

“What happened at Killivray?”

“Well, as you know the plan was for me to bide my time at the convent. When the time was right Margot and Romilly would make their escape in the car which you would be sending. But then things went horribly wrong. Jonathan Greswode turned up early, which put Margot into an absolute panic. He’d brought a woman down to Killivray with him and Margot overheard his plans to shut her up in an asylum. It was all getting too much for her and then…”

“Then what?”

“She found out what he’d been doing to the child…”

Il Camaleonte
looked across at Miriam and saw the pain in her face.

“She’d gone up to her room and been woken by the child dying. The old nanny was asleep and stinking of brandy so she’d stayed with Romilly all night. Poor Romilly had no idea that Madame Fernaud was her own mother. And Romilly confided to her that Jonathan Greswode had…had…”

“You don’t need to say more.”

“The next morning Margot went out to the Skallies and met with a woman there who ran the pub, to ask her if there was anyone local who had a car.”

“So the woman from the Pilchard helped her?”

“In the end, but Margot said she was a feisty devil and had ideas that Margot was spying on her and her child. Quite a character, from what I can gather.”

Il Camaleonte
smiled and signalled that she continue.

“That’s where it all took a turn for the worse. Margot took the key to’ the gun cabinet and took out a gun. Then she sat in his study and waited for him. She knew his habits, knew he was a bad sleeper and that he usually came down to his study in the early hours of the morning for a cigar…And when he did she was waiting for him.”

“Did she mean to shoot him?”

“I don’t honestly know, she won’t speak of it but I think so. She and the child had endured a terrible time at his hands. I think that she wanted to know that that was the end of him once and for all.”

“He was a bully like his father, Charles. Tell me, how did you manage to escape from the good Sisters of St Mary’s?”

“Well, the original plan was that Margot would contact me and let me know when they were leaving Killivray and then I would make my escape from St Mary’s. Of course, as soon as the murder was discovered I had to take a gamble. If I ran away from St Mary’s then suspicions would be awakened. Far better that the police thought the governess had done it and abducted the child.”

“You must have nerves of steel, Miriam.”

“I had good practice during the war,” she said. “When the police came to tell me the news I gave them the theatrical works! Ranted and raged. The police realized they’d never get any sense out of me and left me to the nuns.”

“You are a genius, Miriam,”
Il Camaleonte
said with a smile.

“Well, I knew that the nuns feared for my mental state…thought me a likely suicide risk. I was in a room on the third floor and they watched me like hawks but one of the windows had been left open in the upstairs lavatory. I’d escaped from harder places than that and in the wink of an eye I was out…”

“Miriam, there is something that I must tell you,” he said softly, reaching out for her hand.

“What is it?”

“The woman at the Pilchard Inn is an old friend of yours.”

Miriam looked at
Il Camaleonte
in surprise.

“A friend of mine? I haven’t had any friends in years, I’ve been on the move all the time.”

“Hannah Abelson,” he said and watched her face with interest.

“My God! She is alive?”

“Apparently very much so. One day soon you shall both meet, of that I have no doubt.”

“But I thought that she had perished along with the others from Bizier. How was she saved?”

“She was found in the woodshed at Le Petit Bijou after her parents had been taken. She had been out walking her baby brother when the Germans came for her parents.”

“I can’t believe this. My friend Hannah is alive! And Solomon? Is he alive too?”

“No. Sadly, Solomon died.”

“What happened to the Abelsons?”

“They were sent to their deaths,” he said with a weary voice.

“Like my own parents.”

There was a long silence before
Il Camaleonte
spoke again.

“We scoured Bizier for you, Miriam, to try and get you out but we couldn’t find you. I thought of you often in the years since that day, wondering how you had fared, whether you had made it.”

“I knew that I had to run away. I’d seen them take the Abelsons and I’d run home but by the time I got there I was too late…”

There was silence for a while and then she said in a barely audible voice, “It was the day after we’d been on an outing to the beach…such a day we’d had, the last truly happy day that I can remember. The weather had been gloriously hot and Hannah and I had swum in the sea for hours and then played together on the sand. Mr Abelson took a photograph of us. Of course I’ve never seen it. I still have a shell that I picked up that I’ve kept all this time…”

“Where did you go, Miriam?”

“I knew it wasn’t safe for me to stay in Bizier. I made my way down to Narbonne to some friends of my parents but they too had been rounded up. There was a beach hut I knew of on Narbonne Plage and I knew where the owners hid the key. I stayed there for many weeks, then I made my way up through France, stealing, hiding out until the war was over…”

“And since then?”

“I haven’t led a very good life, I’m ashamed to say. I’ve got by—by foul means rather than fair. Tell me, though, how did you find me and come to be sitting in the cafe in London?”

“I’d been trying to track you down for many years. I picked up your trail and put out my feelers. I have many connections,” he said, tapping the side of his nose. “And I was so pleased to be told that you were there in London. I needed someone very brave and you were the right person. Indeed when I am gone there will be much work for people such as yourself. If you don’t feel up to that then I have left a little something for you as a thank you. Now I am tired and must sleep.”

Miriam got slowly to her feet and looked down at the old man. She’d heard the stories of many of the children he’d saved, but she’d never dreamed that she would meet him. His eyes were dosed now and there was a hint of a smile about his mouth. She bent down and kissed him gently on his cheek and then she left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Sister Angelica lit the candles in the room to drive away the gloom but
Il Camaleonte
had asked for the windows to be left open. He wanted to hear the sound of the sea, the call of the owls down in the garden of the Casa delle Stelle. He knew now that by the time the old cockerel crowed again he would be safely out of this world, for good this time.

He would be buried with his mother and father in the hilltop cemetery amongst old friends. They would write: Thomas Greswode born in Santa Caterina died August 1960. It was amazing how many names one man could assume in a lifetime, how many times one man could be buried.

Down in the church the nuns were praying; if he listened really hard he could make out the low murmur of their voices, the clink of their rosary beads.

He closed his eyes and listened to all the night sounds down in Santa Caterina. The music of the metal curtains as the breeze caught at them. The tinkle of a music box as a child was stilled into sleep. The far-off laughter from the Ristorante Skilly; the smell of tobacco smoke mingling with the scent of lemon trees.

Archie could not sleep. He lay awake looking up at the ceiling. He heard a clock chime midnight. His rucksack was packed and soon he would be saying his goodbyes to the people of Santa Caterina. He stifled a sob and bit his fist. He’d been happy here, happier than he’d ever known that a boy could be.

Suddenly he sat up. Someone was moving around stealthily in the bedroom next door. Then he heard footsteps going down the stairs and the key turn in the front door. He got out of bed and crossed to the window, opened the shutter a fraction and looked down.

Holy Mary and all the blessed saints of heaven! What was she up to now? She’d be the death of him with all her antics!

Lissia, barefoot and still in her nightgown, was walking along the Via Porto as fast as she could go. He dressed as quickly as he could, made his way down the stairs and hurried after her.

Il Camaleonte
was unaware of the door opening and the sound of soft footsteps approaching the bed.

A shadow moved across the white sheets. At the feel of the kiss on his cheek he opened his eyes with a start. No, it couldn’t be…

A line of children had crept silently into the room and were standing around his bed watching him.

Louis Abner. A tiny bespectacled boy that they’d brought out from Paris after his parents had been taken…

Next to him Douglas Abernethie. A foul-mouthed, cheerful little devil from an orphanage in Glasgow.

And there too was Rudi Abrahams and his little sister Ruth…

Dear God, he was hallucinating now.

He tried to raise himself up on his elbows but he was too weak.

He’d been reading through the red book earlier and reading all those names was playing tricks with his brain.

There was no one there…

He was all alone…

He closed his eyes.

Opened them again suddenly.

Sweet Jesus, is this what the end is like?

A bright-eyed ghost of a woman stood looking down at him, her white clothes billowing in the draught from the window…No. It couldn’t be…

What the bloody hell was she doing here in Santa Caterina?

Alicia Murphy. The Convent of the Blessed Saints, Dungonally. The poor little girl who had given birth to the baby that he’d helped get out of Ireland.

He was hallucinating again. He blinked, and the woman was gone but he could feel the imprint of her kiss on his cheek.

Somewhere a floorboard creaked and a candle flickered, grew dim then bright again.

There was a brown-faced, wide-eyed angel looking down at him now.

Angels don’t wear spectacles with sticking plaster over them. Or open and close their mouth like a landed fish.

A lemon fell with a thud outside in the courtyard.

The nuns’ voices grew louder, “Santa Caterina, Santa Caterina, Santa Caterina daughter of the brave…”

Il Camaleonte
looked up at Archie Grimble then passed his hands over his eyes as if he were seeing things that weren’t there.

Archie Grimble looked down in incredulity at the emaciated face of Thomas Greswode. It was a long time before he could gain control of his mouth and speak.

“Bo didn’t kill himself,” he said. “He was murdered because he knew too much.”

The old man looked at him, stretching out his trembling hand towards the boy.

Moonlight swept into the room and they were both dappled in a shimmering, silvery light.

“Gwennie’s son came back for her.”

The old man smiled and his eyes brimmed with tears. Archie shook his head. Everything was falling into place.

Parrots could live to over a hundred years of age. The word for pumpkin in Italian was
zucca
.

Down in the convent the nuns were singing, Santa Caterina, Santa Caterina…

The song that Benjamin used to sing. Archie had thought it was about Santa’s cat.

He’d been surprised when William Dally had said that Benjamin’s favourite hymn was ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’.

Archie Grimble looked down on
Il Camaleonte
, Thomas Greswode, the man of many names, and tried his very best to be brave.

“I am truly honoured to have you here at this time, Archie,” he whispered, pulling the boy towards him. And Archie Grimble buried his head in the old man’s chest and felt the trembling hands on his back. He felt the tears fall onto his face and he knew what love meant and that it came from many places and that people weren’t always what they seemed, they were usually better.

He stayed that way for a long time. Then when he felt the old man weaken he took the silver bird from around his neck and put it into his left hand and dosed the gnarled old fingers around it.

Thomas Greswode was the best left-hand bat that William Dally had ever seen. The real Benjamin Tregantle had been right-handed.

The old man’s eyes flickered.

“You found yourself a proper mystery in the end?”

Archie nodded.

“Night, Arch.”

“To sleep, perchance to dream; aye there’s the rub,” Archie said and watched as a smile crept fleetingly across the lips of Thomas Greswode, the man that Archie had known as Benjamin Tregantle.

Archie bit his lip, brushed a tear from his eye and walked slowly towards the door.

“Now be off home, you silly young bugger, and be sure to check where that last key fits.”

June 1971

The cockerel crowed exultantly in the garden of the Casa delle Stelle and up in the convent the bells began to clang noisily. Martha Grimble awoke, got out of bed and opened the window shutters, letting in the early morning light.

She made her way downstairs and unlocked the front door with the same key that Archie had mysteriously brought out of his pocket all those years ago.

Fancy that,
Il Camaleonte
had been so taken with Archie that he’d left him the Casa delle Stelle. It was odd really because they’d only met for a few minutes when Lissia had gone racing up to the convent in the dead of night. Mind you, life was strange when you thought about it. She would never forget the man in Dublin who had approached her in a run-down cafe. She’d been quite desperate at the time to get Archie out of Ireland and evade capture and then this man, a perfect stranger, had ended up getting them new passports and sent them to an address in St Werburgh’s where they’d been given the keys to Bag End.

Archie’s getting the Casa delle Stelle was truly a miracle though; she’d been worried sick about how they would have survived if they’d gone back to the Skallies. She’d known that Archie was dreading going back. And just as well they hadn’t because there’d been the most awful storms there a few years later and half the place had been washed into the sea.