Deadly Petard (6 page)

He ushered her to a patio chair, under the shade of overhanging vines, and then went into the sitting-room, cool because of air-conditioning. ‘Francisca,’ he shouted.

Francisca was nearing thirty. Quite tall for a Mallorquin, she had a heavily featured face, relieved by lustrous dark brown eyes. Her husband had recently been killed in a car crash, leaving her to bring up a newly born son.

‘Bring out a bottle of champagne, two glasses, and some olives/ he said.

‘Yes, señor.’ She understood simple English, but spoke it with considerable difficulty and with an accent that often changed words almost beyond understanding.

He returned to the patio. Charlotte was staring out at the distant bay and so was in profile to him. No wonder the natives in the country of her husband’s last posting had demanded independence, he thought as he sat. He asked her if she knew how a mutual acquaintance was and, as he’d expected, was immediately regailed with the latest discreditable gossip.

Francisca came out, carrying a tray on which was a bottle of champagne together with two fluted glasses and a small smoked glass bowl containing olives stuffed with anchovies. She put the tray down on the table. ‘Is all, señor?’ she asked.

‘That’s the lot.’ It was one of his proud boasts that he hadn’t learned a single word of Spanish.

He picked up the bottle, stripped off the gold foil, unwound the wire cap, eased out the cork, and filled the two glasses. He handed Charlotte one, raised his own. ‘As they say where I come from, “To wine, women, and song. If the first is mature, not young, and the second is young, not mature, the third can be what the hell it likes.” ’

Privately, she was not surprised that where he came from people should say things like that. ‘I hear you were at the Weightsons the other evening?’

‘Rather a good party, I thought.’

With just a quick twist of the mouth, she managed to convey the fact that she knew he was merely being polite.

‘Incidentally, the Talletons were talking about you: said how much they admired you.’

She was gratified. She finished her drink and approved of the speed with which he refilled her glass, without causing her embarrassment by asking if she wanted any more.

‘Apparently they knew your husband when he was working.’

‘In the service,’ she corrected. One thing needed to be made clear. ‘As a matter of fact, we didn’t see very much of them because they were commercial.’ She helped herself to a couple of olives. ‘I do hope the women who put the anchovies into these are always made to wash their hands in antiseptic before they start work. One doesn’t want to catch their horrible diseases.’ She ate. ‘Was Rosalie at the party?’

‘She was there, yes.’

‘I think she’s a charming gal,’ she said graciously.

He smiled, but made no comment.

She was annoyed that he had not the breeding to confide in her whether they were now engaged, as gossip claimed. Then she drank and her sense of resentment was borne away on the bubbles.

Being almost in the geographical centre of the island and therefore far from the sea, few foreigners lived near Caraitx. Which was one of the attractions for those who chose to do so. However, they weren’t necessarily completely anti-social, merely choosey, and Gertrude saw quite a lot of Bruno Meade, Norah, and Liza. Their carefree, frankly amoral way of life was so different from anything she had experienced before that this in itself was an attraction—albeit, she wasn’t quite certain that it should be—and in any case she liked them a lot.

She was in the kitchen of No. 15, Calle Padre Vives, preparing a salad for her lunch, when she heard the front door crash open. There was a shout: ‘Where the hell are you?’

‘In the kitchen.’

‘There’s been a bloody calamitous catastrophe.’ Meade walked through the sitting-room, his flip-flops slapping noisily on the tiled floor. ‘It’s a fiesta and all the shops are shut and we’ve run out of booze. What have you got?’

‘Tomato juice and some tonics.’

‘That’s not even funny.’ He appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. Just over six foot one tall, he had a pair of shoulders so massive that at first he appeared to be of only medium height. His hair was black and tightly curly, his eyes deep blue, his nose Roman, his lips full, moist and sensuous, and his beard luxuriant. No woman ever made the mistake of trusting him.

He stepped into the kitchen, peered into the olive-wood salad bowl into which she was grating raw carrot, and helped himself to several pieces of lettuce.

‘That’s my lunch you’re pinching.’

‘Norah’s cooking lechona and you’re noshing with us.’

‘I ought to finish my work . . .’

‘Why?’ He helped himself to more lettuce.

She made no answer. On the island, there was always tomorrow.

‘Right,’ he said, through a mouthful of lettuce, ‘where’s all the booze?’

She pointed to one of the small cupboards. ‘What there is, is in there. But I really haven’t very much.’

He opened the cupboard door. ‘No brandy!’ He turned and glared at her. ‘What is this—a bloody teetotallers’ hall of residence?’ He looked back, reached in and brought out in succession two bottles of red wine, one of white, and a half-full bottle of gin. ‘Sodding fiestas! How in the hell are we supposed to know the shops will be shut today because some saint managed to get himself burned to death?’

‘You could always brush up your religious knowledge.’

‘Booze shops ought to be made to open, fiesta or no fiesta . . . Find a box for these while I go up and see how your latest daub’s coming on.’ He turned and left.

She found a large cardboard box and packed the four bottles in this, then continued grating the carrot on to what lettuce was left: the salad would do for supper.

He came down the stone stairs and began shouting as he crossed the sitting-room. ‘Everything’s too regular. Makes it look like some stockbroker’s garden in Wey bridge.’

As always, initially she resented his harsh, exaggerated criticism, then was forced gradually to admit that there might be some merit in it.

He saw the cardboard box on the table and picked it up. Come on, then. We’ve not got all bloody day to waste.’

He drove as he lived. Why he had never had a serious road accident was one of the minor mysteries of life.

The house, which lacked piped water and electricity, lay up a long dirt track which ran through farmland. It was in a poor state of repair, but the stone walls were over a metre thick and so it was dry in winter and cool in summer, in direct contrast to most houses now being built.

Norah was cooking and Liza was decorating some pottery. They were both honey-blonde, blue-eyed, proudly busted, slim-waisted, long-legged, and twenty-three. In so far as anyone could judge, they normally shared Meade without the slightest discord ever creeping into their relationships. Only if Liza had to do the cooking, or Norah the washing-up, was there any sign of discontent.

‘She’d no brandy,’ said Meade in tragic tones. ‘Only a smell of gin and some vino. Where are the glasses, then?’

On the kitchen table,’ replied Liza.

‘Get four.’

She ignored him and crossed to welcome Gertrude with a kiss on each cheek.

Norah came to the doorway of the kitchen. ‘Hullo, Gertie. Everything OK? . . . Grub’s up in a quarter of an hour.’

‘It’ll wait until we’re bloody well ready for it,’ shouted Meade.

She shrugged her shoulders.

Meade pushed past her to go into the kitchen, returning with four tumblers. He filled them, without asking what anyone would like to drink. Norah sat cross-legged on a rush mat and lit a joint. He leaned over and took it out of her mouth and smoked it. Without any show of resentment, she fetched herself another.

They ate at half past three, by which time the sucking-pig was grossly overdone and the roast potatoes were cannon balls. They drank the bottle of white wine with some tinned peaches and Meade emptied a bottle of maraschino into their four tumblers.

He belched, patted his stomach affectionately, and spread himself out on one of the very decrepit chairs. ‘Gertie, when we were talking about Keir West once, didn’t you say you’d known him back home?’

The question surprised and upset her. ‘Yes,’ she answered.

‘Is he rich?’

‘He is now.’

‘Thought he must be.’

‘He’s very good-looking, except for all those scars on his cheek,’ said Norah.

‘Makes him look like a pirate,’ said Liza. Her voice became dreamy. ‘I love pirates.’

‘Watch it!’ Meade threatened.

Liza smiled.

‘I’ve been wondering.’ He put his little finger in his right ear and began to work it around. ‘I’ve been wondering, if he is the bloody, pompous, ingratiating, snobbish shit he undoubtedly is . . .’ He removed his finger and examined what he’d captured. ‘Well?’ said Norah.

‘If he is, then what the hell’s Rosalie thinking about?’ ‘What’s the matter with Rosalie?’ Gertrude asked with sharp worry.

‘I mean, she may be French, but she’s all right.’

‘Why’s Rosalie anything to do with him?’

He began to explore his left ear with his other little finger. ‘How can she begin to consider marrying a bloody little creep like him?’

Until she had come to live on the island, it had been virtually true to say that Gertrude knew a number of people but had not a single friend. Those early years of friendships laboriously made only to have them broken almost immediately when they moved, that childish sense of guilt which had demanded she did not betray her guilt by becoming friendly with anyone but Keir, that adult uneasiness, the belief that other people must find her gauche and boring, had all inhibited her ability to give of herself. But in Caraitx she had found a freedom of self and had discovered how to reach across to others. And this had been truest where Rosalie Rassaud had been concerned. Her friendship with Rosalie was all the stronger because of the past blank years. Typically, Meade had once demanded to know if the relationship were a lesbian one. Instead of being outraged and humiliated, she’d laughed—which proved just how much she’d changed. But on another occasion he’d accused her of behaving like a mother towards a daughter and this time she’d been upset and annoyed, much to his evident satisfaction. Had he known a great deal more about her past life, and had he stopped to think, he might then have suggested, with some justification, that what she was really doing was behaving like a mother to the image of herself as she might have been . . .

She crossed the floor of her sitting-room and switched off the record-player. Normally, she loved Beethoven, but now the music was interrupting her thoughts. Bruno might be wrong: he so often was. But it was true that recently she had not seen as much of Rosalie as usual and when they did meet Rosalie showed a reserve which had not been there before. Until now, she’d put all this down to the fact that Rosalie was having to face up to the toughest part of her husband’s death, coming to terms with it emotionally, but what if it wasn’t that at all, but was because Rosalie had fallen in love with Keir . . .?

Keir was rotten. So rotten that on the night his wife had committed suicide, driven to do so at least in part by his promiscuous behaviour, he’d been out with another woman. But however rotten—or was it in part because he was rotten?—he could make himself very attractive to women. Rosalie was not someone who would ever find wealth a good substitute for love, but being very reasonable she would probably see it as a reinforcement of love.

Gertrude began to pace the floor, her mind racing. Rosalie mustn’t suffer a second tragedy and have her life ruined by marrying Keir. He must be forced to give her up.

Gertrude parked by the garage of Ca’n Absel, climbed out of the car, and began to walk towards the front door.

‘What a very welcome surprise!’

She turned and looked down to see West by the swimming pool.

‘The water’s eighty-four and feels like a maiden’s caress. Come and have a swim.’

‘No,’ she answered harshly.

‘Why ever not? Not brought a costume? You’ve surely been on the island long enough to lose all your puritanical mores? Tell you what, if you won’t go in skinny, I’ll lend you a pair of trunks. It’s my considered opinion that you’re one of the few fortunate women who can go topless with honour.’

‘Is anyone here?’

His expression became perplexed. When you say anyone . . . For a start, I’m here.’

‘I mean, anyone else?’

‘Francisca’s in the house, working. Rather, I’m paying her to work. The difference is usually quite obvious.’

‘I’ve got to talk to you.’

‘Talk away.’

‘Not like this: not when I have to shout.’

His expression was now one of mild curiosity. He pulled a pair of sandals on to his feet, stood. He walked round the pool, across the pool patio and the grass, and climbed the steps to the house patio. ‘This is not only a welcome surprise, it’s also an astonishing coincidence. Only this morning I was thinking about you and how it was high time you came and had a meal. Never clap eyes on you these days. I suppose you’re not on the phone yet?’

‘I haven’t applied to be.’

‘How you can willingly bury yourself away in the middle of a village of half-witted peasants beats me. Still, as the manager of the liquorice factory said, it takes all sorts to make the world . . . Now, a glass of champagne?’

‘I haven’t come here to drink.’

‘That alone sets you apart from most of the other expatriates. You’re still very English, Gertie.’

‘And you never were.’

He grinned. ‘A touch of the old asperity . . . Where shall we sit? Out here, or inside where it’s so much cooler?’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Then let’s try inside. I’ve been sun-bathing for so long I’m beginning to feel rather like a strip of biltong.’

He led the way under the vines, then held the door open for her to enter the sitting-room. After the fierce heat outside, the air-conditioned room initially felt frosty.

‘You’ll change your mind now and have a glass of bubbly, won’t you?’

‘I don’t want anything.’

‘That places me in something of a quandary. As the perfect host, perhaps I ought to join you in abstinence. But I have to confess that even when the spirit’s very weak, the flesh remains all too willing.’ He left by the far doorway.