Last Act (14 page)

“Another of your cousins?” The unconscious irony of his suggestion almost choked her.

“More or less. Ah, here we are.” He swung the little car off the road and its headlights lit up a chalet with the usual wide overhanging eaves and a stag's antlers over the front door.

“It looks closed,” she objected.

“It is closed. Uncle Hans always closes at ten, and always opens up again for his friends.” He played a little tune on the car horn, and lights glowed out from the front of the chalet, illuminating a terraced beer garden with a luxuriance of flowers in boxes, their colours deep and strange in the artificial light. “In with you.” The front door had swung open and a huge man stood outlined against the light. “Uncle Hans, this is Miss Paget, who is going to sing us all into history. She wants something to settle her dinner.”

“She shall have it.” Hans shook hands warmly and beamed down at Anne out of a cheerful, weather-beaten face. “Didn't know you were hungry, did you?”

“No.” But it was true.

“Michael—” He paused. “My friends always come up here after the big banquets. They say food eaten under such strain is no use. Now, which shall it be, a hunter's breakfast or some of my dumpling soup?”

“Oh, soup! How lovely,” said Anne. And, “Hunter's breakfast,” said Michael. “If the guests are hungry, how do you think
the waiters feel?”

“You were splendid.” Anne let him seat her at a little table in a corner by a blazing fire. “You can't have learned that at Oxford.”

“No, that was Harvard. How else do you think I paid for my graduate year there?”

Hans gave something between a cough and a chuckle and vanished through a door at the back of the room, throwing over his shoulder: “I'm cook tonight. You see to the drinks, Michael.”

“Sure. What's it to be?” He looked at Anne thoughtfully. “If it wasn't for those dumplings, I'd recommend a glass of milk. How much wine have you had?”

“Only two glasses. And I can't remember them. Could I have a slivovitz?”

“Lovely girl!” He moved behind the well-equipped bar and filled two glasses. “Here's to you.”

“And you.” But as she raised her glass they heard the sound of another car, and then the emphatic blast of its horn.

“Turn them away, Michael,” came Hans' voice from the kitchen. “I'm cooking your eggs.”

“Gladly.” Michael went out into the darkness, closing the front door behind him. He came back looking grave, but nodded reassuringly to Anne before he vanished into the kitchen where she could hear a quick, anxious conversation, unintelligible in Liss. But she could also hear the car start up and turn away to go back down the hill.

“What was it?” she asked when Michael returned and began professionally setting their table.

“Police.” He refilled their glasses. “Food in three minutes. Drink up, like a good girl, it's not the nicest news.”

“Not something else?”

“Not exactly. But they got down to old Frensham's car at last. Took them all day. He was the only one in it.”

“But he took Bland and Marks home.”

“Precisely. Or they took him. It always did seem an odd kind of an accident. It gets odder and odder. Uncle Winkler wants a few words with Messrs Bland and Marks, so the police are out scouring the countryside for them. All twenty-one of us.”

“You don't seem to be scouring much.”

“I'm seeing you safe home first. And fed. And here it comes.”

“Food is good for the nerves.” Hans deposited a well-warmed soup bowl and steaming tureen in front of Anne. “Help yourself, my dear, and may it do you good.”

“Thank you.” How odd to find herself on the verge of tears.

“And as for you.” He put a huge platter in front of Michael. “Shall I start a second one for you? It sounds like a long, hard night.”

Michael laughed. “No, thanks. I'm getting old, Hans. I can only do one at a time now.” He broke the delicately fried egg that topped the heaped dish.

“What on earth is it?” Anne was helping herself to thick soup and fluffy dumplings.

“Hunter's breakfast? Oh, a bit of everything. Uncle Hans' own beans, sausage, bacon, anything else he happens to have lying round. You must try it some time.”

“Not till the opera's over. This soup is the best I ever tasted. Thank you.” She smiled up at the big man as he producd two green-stemmed glasses and a squat bottle. “Oh, I don't know…”

“Liss wine,” he said. “The lightest and, we think, the best in the world. No harm in it, except it won't travel. Don't worry, it will do you good. Not a hangover in it.”

“It's delicious.” She drank to him, then turned back to Michael. “But—Bland and Marks. What are they?”

“Assistants to James Frensham, deceased. That's all anyone seems to know. Young James didn't work with his father. He had his own affairs in Sicily. He'd never even heard of Bland and Marks. At least that's what he told Winkler. One thing—if the two of them aren't out of the country already, they won't get out now. Winkler's closed the frontier. Tight. Lucky thing tonight's guests were all staying locally.”

“But aren't there paths?”

“One. It starts from here and goes clear over the top into Austria. It was the great escape route in the war. Everyone knows about it, but it's not everyone can find it. Still less get through when Uncle Hans closes it.”

“Closes?”

“Yes. Don't ask me how, because I don't propose to tell you. Anyway, it's time for your bed, my nightingale. Business as usual in the morning, but don't forget to send for Dr Hirsch. Come to that, you do look kind of tired.”

“I feel it,” she said with perfect truth. “Who is Dr Hirsch?”

“A great man—you'll like him. Russian originally. He had a hard war; prisoner in Germany, came into Lissenberg the tough way, over the mountains.”

“You mean he's one of the Russians Lissenberg wouldn't send back?”

He smiled at her warmly. “You do learn, don't you? That's right. And, my goodness, he's paid us back for it. What a man. What an organiser. Clinics … hospitals … he's practically our health service here in Lissenberg. Well, you'll see.”

Back at the hostel, Josef greeted them with relief. “I'm about ready to lock up.” He looked exhausted, and Anne apologised warmly for keeping him up. “No, no,” he protested. “The police have only just left. They're checking all the buildings. Not much use in the dark, I told them, but you can imagine what the pressure's like. Her Highness is building up quite a head of steam, they say. Oh—there's a message for you, Michael.” He handed over a folded note.

Michael read it quickly. “Yes,” he said. “I'd better be going. Josef, fix for Miss Paget to see Dr Hirsch in the morning?”

“The doctor?” It got Anne a quick, anxious look from darkcircled eyes.

“It's OK,' Michael told him. “Just that our prima donna is going to need an alibi after being such a success tonight.”

“Hmmm …” said Josef.

Alone in her room at last, Anne drew a deep bath and lay in it a long time, trying to sort out the chaotic images of the day. It was all a jumble, confused, incomprehensible. Why should Bland and Marks have murdered their employer? And how in the world did the murder tie in with that strange business of sabotage in the hotel kitchen? Or, for that matter, with the accident to Brech's car the day she arrived, the accident that
might have killed Falinieri and stopped the opera. James Frensham had been a music lover, had put up the money for
Regulus.
Could his murder be a more drastic move against the opera? It was a thought to make one shiver.

And where did Michael fit into it all? Michael, who turned up everywhere, had his finger in everything. Michael, she reminded herself, who disliked what Prince Rudolf was doing in Lissenberg, who seemed to disapprove of the opera complex. What had he said? A stage set? For tragedy? She knew so little about him. Carl Meyer had called him poison; warned her to keep away from him—but then Carl Meyer himself was behaving so strangely. Once again, this evening, urging her to walk home with him from the hotel, he had used the possessive tone almost of an acknowledged lover, and she had seen Michael notice it.

Back to Michael. What an enigma he was. But she liked him, wanted to trust him, indeed did so instinctively. After all, the police seemed to, and Josef, and Hans. She must ask Josef about him in the morning. Absurd not to have done so sooner. But of one thing she was certain without any asking. He loved Lissenberg. So: why all that time away? How long? Oxford, then Harvard … He must be older than he looked. She had thought this once or twice. There was a strength about him that did not go with his casual, dropout exterior. Dropout? Who had called him that? Carl, of course, who disliked him. Or had he said it himself? She rather thought he had. But then, had he meant it? It was often hard to tell whether to take what he said at its face value. Anyway, she would ask Josef about him. Josef would know, she thought, climbing tiredly into bed. Josef would explain … She slept at last, and dreamed of Robin, the old nightmare. But this time Robin had Michael's face.

The doctor's visit was the first item on next morning's programme, and Anne was only just dressed in time to receive him, which meant that she had no chance to prepare a story. But very likely it would not be necessary. She liked him on sight, a spare, dry man with a curiously immobile face.

His greeting was abrupt. “You're overtired, I understand. And no wonder.” He reached for her wrist to take her pulse.
“I'm to prescribe rest and safe nights at home. Not a bad thing, with a murderer loose in the valley.” He looked down at his watch, his hand still on her wrist. “You had an agitating evening yesterday?”

She smiled at him. “You could almost call it that. But is it really murder?” Anything to distract him from this too close attention to her pulse.

“It's murder all right. They found another body at first light. Mr Bland. Looks as if he helped contrive the ‘accident' to Mr Frensham and was then disposed of in his turn—by Mr Marks presumably.” As he talked, he had put an enquiring hand on her forehead, and turned her gently round to face the morning light from the huge window with its view of the castle. “Only Mr Marks didn't know the habits of our River Liss. He put the body in at the wrong place,” he explained, producing a thermometer from his pocket and silencing her with it. “So, of course, it washed up where they always do. Not that we have bodies often, you understand, but anything that goes in above the town, beaches on the big bend below it. Winkler had men there this morning just in case, all ready to receive poor Mr Bland. He was shot in the back. No accident. I've just finished the post mortem.” He felt her shudder, and patted her kindly on the shoulder. “Don't mind. I went home and had a bath. After all, the dead are just— dead.” He withdrew the thermometer and studied it. “And now, young lady, perhaps you will tell me what is the matter with you? I could find out, of course, but it would take time, which we haven't got, and anyway I rather think you know.” He pulled up a chair, comfortingly close to hers, and looked at her steadily. “I am a reliable person,” he said. “As, I think, Michael would tell you. I take my hippocratic oath with the greatest seriousness.” His smile transformed his face, but looked, oddly, as if it hurt him. “You could say my face was my fortune.” He was talking, she knew, to give her time. “The Nazis gave it to me after I was captured—or took it away from me—because I would not do what they wanted. I was young and romantic then, but I think I would do it again, if necessary. So, Miss Paget. A small secret—such as yours must be. You can see, it will be entirely safe with me.”

She was crying. She could not have believed she could cry so much. She was on the floor, with her head on his knee, sobbing out her story; the first suspicions; the slow relentless movement of the health machine, and, at last, the verdict of death.

“And then?” He handed her a huge silk handkerchief.

“They wanted to operate. Said it might give me an extra few months.”

“And if not?”

“No operation? Six months—something like that?” She looked up at him with tear-drowned eyes. “Dr Hirsch, have I been very wicked? It's only three weeks of rehearsals, and then two weeks of performances. I'll be able to do that, won't I? I couldn't
bear
to let them down!”

His warm hand on hers was extraordinarily reassuring. The other one was stroking her hair, gently, as if she was a child. “Of course you'll not let them down. I was there at dinner last night. I heard you sing. If I hadn't, I don't think I would have come—not even for Michael. I don't much like fake illnesses. Now, it's different. You will let me treat you?”

“Treat me? But there's nothing … You don't mean …” She pulled away from him. “Not the operation?”

“No. That was the wisest thing you ever did, I think, running away from that. And—I'm glad you ran here. This is a battle, Miss Paget. A battle for you to fight with your illness. When we send a soldier into battle, we do not begin by mutilating him. We put him into strict physical training; we do our best to fill him with happy, positive thoughts—with the conviction, perhaps, that he is fighting for a glorious cause. Well, you have a glorious cause to fight for. Not just your life, but that voice of yours, that's something else. So—now you have an ally. We are going to fight, you and I. I do not promise—I do not even let myself hope—that we will win, but dear God, we are going to try. And, first, you are going to tell me a great deal more.”

“More?”

“Yes. I am a hard man to deceive, Miss Paget. I shall call you Anne.” He smiled his painful smile. “Since, I think, Paget is not your name.” He reached out and took her left hand, feeling gently where the wedding ring had left its mark. “I want to know
what has made you so unhappy,” he told her. “Body and soul are two, but what hurts one, hurts the other. So, tell me about yourself.”