Caravaggio's Angel (16 page)

15

Bombshell: London, August

At first his words didn’t really register. My mind, it must be said, was elsewhere. Propped on one elbow, eyes narrowed, eyebrow raised, Olivier had suddenly reminded me of Joe. Perhaps it was something about the stance, perhaps quite simply the fact that Joe was the last person I’d made love with on this bed, or indeed anywhere. At any rate, for an unnerving moment they merged, and for that moment I was suddenly uncertain exactly who it was, hovering up there. The confusion didn’t last long: they were too different, Joe fair, lanky, his chest covered with abundant tawny fur, Olivier dark, sleek, tanned and, given his sedentary occupation, surprisingly muscular (I suspected a regime of morning pushups). And that was just the physiology. Then my vision cleared and sharpened, rather as when one inserts a contact lens, and in the shock of pleasure when the outlines settled themselves definitively into the shape of this improbable new lover I understood that one of the gifts he had brought was closure. Finally, I’d recovered: Joe was in the past. In sheer delight I kissed the nearest part of him, which happened to be his side. Olivier, how-ever, intent on his revelation, did not react to this embrace. Instead he brought his cigarette gracefully to his lips, inhaled, blew a smoke ring (a man who could not only raise one eyebrow but blow smoke rings, how lucky was I!).

Only then did I actually take in the second part of what he’d just said.

‘Dead? Madame Rigaut?’

He nodded.

‘Where?’

‘At La Jaubertie, where else?’

‘I can’t believe it.’

Suddenly I felt very unsexy indeed. I rolled away from him, got out of bed, pulled on a dressing gown and began to pace about, as I always do when I’m really perturbed. A terrible weary sadness rolled over me. Although we’d spent so little time together Juliette and I had become oddly intimate, in a way that was rare in my life. My brother and I had hardly anything in common, and since our parents’ death we scarcely met. Naturally I had friends, but most, apart from Caroline, were comparatively superficial; and Olivier notwithstanding, the gap Joe left had not been filled. Of course, in the world’s eyes I barely knew her – how often had we met? Twice? Three times? Nevertheless, by the end of that last afternoon she and I had become something more than just acquaintances. Perhaps because she was old, and not much time might be left to us, we’d somehow bypassed the preliminaries. Paradoxically, the result had been something quite outside age: the person I’d met that afternoon had been simultaneously the old woman sitting before me and the audacious, resourceful girl whose story she was recounting. And now I’d never see her again.

But the shock I felt was more than grief. There was also a terrible, numbing guilt. I knew, with absolute certainty, that this death and my visit must be connected. How, I could not yet imagine, or perhaps did not care to try. The detail was unimportant. It was the conviction that mat-tered. It lodged toad-like in my stomach. If I hadn’t gone to La Jaubertie, Juliette would be alive today.

It also, of course, meant that Jean-Jacques Rigaut now really was the owner of the St Cecilia.

Olivier was clearly astonished by my reaction to what, for him, was no more than local tittle-tattle concerning an old woman I’d barely known. He’d been expecting
Gosh,
lucky I got to her in time
, and what he’d got was full-scale distress. How was he supposed to deal with that?

‘You say they found her . . . How long had she been dead?’

He shook his head. ‘No idea. All I know is, the house-keeper found her.’

‘Babette.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, I think that’s her name. She’d been away, apparently, and when she got back, no more Madame.’

‘Do they know how she died?’

‘I told you, I don’t know any details. If you like I can try and find out.’

‘If you could, I’d really like to know.’

Juliette – dead. It made no sense. Or perhaps it made only too much. I kept returning to the same image: Rigaut in the door of the study, dishevelled, unnerved, so completely panicked by my unexpected and unwelcome presence that he’d committed the ultimate blunder – told a lie that the slightest questioning would instantly find out. Anything to get rid of me. And that, surely, could mean only one thing?

I said, ‘I need a drink. Let’s go downstairs.’

I had a quick shower, then left the bathroom to him and dressed in the first garments that came to hand – as it happened the sexy silk trousers, that now seemed so glaringly inappropriate. I put some food on the table, opened a bottle of wine – not the Prosecco: I’d rarely felt less in the mood for bubbly – poured two glasses, and drank one off.

What, if anything, was I going to tell Olivier? My acquaintance with him was just about the opposite of that with Juliette. In terms of time and physical presence I’d known her hardly at all, and yet I felt I knew everything about her – or almost: now, I reflected the real truth about Helmut and Antoine would be forever a mystery. And I’d have told her anything. Whereas although I’d been as physically intimate with Olivier as a woman can be with a man, in any real sense of the word I hardly knew him at all.

Of course, her death might well have been entirely natural. She might simply have had a heart attack: felt ill, fallen down and died. Given her age and frailty, that was what everyone would assume. But I wasn’t convinced. She hadn’t shown any signs of illness the previous evening. She’d been tired, yes – though not too tired to mark up the notebook. Nor to invite me round in the morning. If she’d been feeling ill –
that
ill, on the point of death – she simply wouldn’t have called. Or if she had, somehow, dragged herself to the phone, it would have been to summon help, not confirm our rendezvous.

So she must have died just after that. And Rigaut had been there. Only that could explain his behaviour. If she’d simply been taken ill, he’d have said so. You find your mother on the point of death, you look for help. That’s the normal, human reaction.

For God’s sake, it’s the reaction if you find your mother
dead
.

I poured myself another glass of wine and took a deep breath. ‘What I’m going to tell you now is a big secret. Nobody else knows about this.’

His eyes widened. ‘Something to do with Madame Rigaut?’

I nodded. ‘And her son.’

‘Jean-Jacques . . .’ He could barely conceal his delighted anticipation. His initiative was paying off, in spades.

I suddenly felt overwhelmingly hungry. In the circumstances the celebratory meal I’d prepared seemed some-what out of place, but it was all there was. I said, ‘Let’s eat and then I’ll tell you. You’ll need to take notes.’

He looked at me curiously. ‘All right. What a strange woman you are, Régine.’

We ate in silence, each preoccupied with our own thoughts, and finally, over the coffee, I began my tale. Rigaut’s letter. My last afternoon with Juliette, the note-book, our appointment, the phone call, her failure to answer the door when I rang, the house open, the un-expected encounter with Rigaut. Going back later to find the house locked up, apparently empty. In the end we taped it, on my tape machine – the same machine I’d used to record Juliette’s tale. I needed to be sure he had the story quite straight.

When I got to the end of my recital, Olivier shook his head. ‘I don’t understand. To kill your mother? Over a picture?’

‘I don’t understand, either. But that seems to be what happened. What other explanation can there be?’

He stared into his glass, considering. ‘Is that what you thought at the time?’

‘Of course not. Though I knew something was wrong.’

‘What an idiot, to go back in the afternoon. Imagine if you’d run into him.’

‘I had to,’ I said. ‘I just knew something had happened, and that somehow it was my fault. I still feel that, even though I didn’t actually do the deed, whatever it was. How could I leave without trying to find out? You won’t believe this, but I even thought about trying to get in there by a secret tunnel she’d told me about, that leads to the cellars.’

‘I remember there were stories about a secret tunnel,’ Olivier said thoughtfully, pouring himself another glass of wine and lighting another Gitane. I’d have been seriously worried about his smoking habit if I were Delphine. Fortunately I wasn’t. As husband material, Olivier really was not convincing. I suspected she might be reaching that conclusion, too.

He inhaled slowly, and blew another smoke ring. I said, ‘What are you thinking?’

‘About Rigaut . . .’ He stubbed out the cigarette half-smoked, perhaps remembering some wifely injunction. ‘If he stands, he might really win. He’s very clever. He’s never been implicated in anything. Lives quietly, doesn’t go for great shows of wealth, puts it about that he isn’t a rich man. Not that he’s poor, you saw his wife, you don’t dress like that for nothing, but she has her own money. He lives on his salary, no business connections, all political contributions accounted for. He takes a trip, he pays himself, or at any rate it doesn’t come out of the slush-fund all the rest of them use.’

‘Sounds too good to be true.’

‘It is. But as I said, he’s clever.’

‘I suppose he’ll own La Jaubertie now. Not that that’s going to make anyone rich.’

Olivier laughed. ‘Quite the contrary, I’d imagine. But if he’s really planning to start his own party, he’s going to need some funds.’

‘The picture.’ I thought about the notebook entry and that dodgy Florentine ‘barone’. ‘If it’s genuine.’

He clicked his tongue thoughtfully against his teeth, then gave his sudden brilliant smile – the one I’d dreamt about most of last night. ‘You mean it’s not? What a fantastic story
that
would be . . . The old mother dies, and for what? I wonder . . .’ He ran a finger absently round the rim of his glass, making it ring – a sound that’s always set my teeth on edge. ‘It might be worth flying a kite. Just to see how he reacted.’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘State the facts. Just tell the story – you wouldn’t have to say anything in so many words. Then see what happened.’

‘You’d never get away with it.’

‘Not in England, no. Fortunately, things are a bit differ-ent in France.’

After that, conversation lapsed. Without sex to oil the wheels and pass the time we had not much to say to each other that had not already been said. I could think of nothing but Juliette, and Olivier was clearly planning his story. Our fling was over – evaporated as suddenly as it had blossomed. I wondered if his motivation had ever been more than what might be termed professional. Not that we hadn’t fancied each other – that sort of thing can’t be faked – but it seemed fairly apparent that his main reason for coming to London had been to recount his juicy morsel in hopes that it might lead to a story. He was a chancer, as Caroline would doubtless have been the first to point out – yet another in my litany of unsuitable men.

The night before us, to which I had looked forward so eagerly, now promised to be something of an embarrassment. Olivier offered to go to a hotel, but that seemed ridiculous: mine was a large bed, and we could perfectly well spend a civilized night in it together. By the time we’d cleared up it was bedtime: we bade each other goodnight, and turned over to sleep. But although I was exhausted I couldn’t stop the churning of my mind, and lay endlessly awake while Olivier snored, gently but insistently.

He was booked on the nine thirty Eurostar, which meant leaving the house at seven forty-five. We rode the Northern Line together: my stop was Charing Cross, he went on to Waterloo. The tube was crowded, but we managed to bag two lean-against semi-seats. As the doors shut and the train began its rattling progress, I remembered something that had occurred to me as I lay awake during the night. ‘By the way, have you any idea what’s likely to be happening at La Jaubertie just now?’

He looked at me blankly. ‘Happening in what sense?’

‘I meant, will it be closed up, or will someone be there?’

‘I’ve no idea, but I can easily find out. I expect they’re waiting for the will. Though of course everyone knows what’s going to happen, it’ll all go to Jean-Jacques.’

‘So no one can go in or out?’

‘Of course they can. They’ll put an official seal on the front door, but you can still get in round the back.’

‘Is your uncle Francis still working there, do you think?’

‘I’ve no idea. Probably not just now. But I expect he’ll still have a key . . . Why?’

I explained that I needed someone to go in and take a sample of paint from the picture for testing – a tiny fragment, preferably from behind the frame. ‘And if he could get a little piece of canvas as well, that would be wonderful. He’ll need to take the picture down, but it’s light, it shouldn’t be difficult. The canvas is nailed to the stretcher, when he turns it over he’ll see. He can take a bit from the back. Just a tiny bit, perhaps where it’s come away round a nail.’

‘Won’t there be an alarm?’

‘Not in the house – I’m pretty sure of that. And I don’t think there’d be one on the picture. I certainly didn’t notice anything when I was there. The insurance would be terrific, and who’s going to look for that kind of thing at La Jaubertie? I’d do the job myself, but that might be a bit difficult just now.’

‘I’ll ask him. I shouldn’t think he’d mind.’

Just before the train drew in to Charing Cross he said, ‘What are you going to do now?’

‘Go in to work,’ I replied, slightly surprised.

‘No, I meant about the story. What we were discussing last night.’

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I’ll leave that to you.
Bonne chance.
’

Sometimes work is a distraction, but that day I found it almost impossible to concentrate on anything, however simple. At a quarter to six I gave up, and an hour later was back at the house. It looked as though it had been hit by a hurricane – bed tangled, kitchen filled with dirty dishes, bathroom under water, the whole perfumed with Gitanes.

I’m not one of the world’s natural housewives, but
in
extremis
cleaning can be quite comforting. It’s constructive, and simple, and the results are more or less instantaneous. Grimly I attacked the bathroom.