Original Sin (59 page)

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And now at Last Daniel was on the Al2 and the road was arer. He kept within the speed limit; it would be disastrous if he e caught by a police patrol. But Dauntsey would be equally card, al not to attract attention, not to be held up. To that extent they w.e driving on equal terms, but he had the faster car. He planned hOest to get ahead once his quarry was in sight. In normal ciamstances Dauntsey would almost certainly know the car, we probably recognize him even at a glance, but it was unlikely thai!e knew he was being followed. He wouldn't be watching for a pur.r. The best plan would be to wait until the road was busy then take chance to overtake in a stream of traffic. And now for the first time he remembered Claudf Etienne. It horrified him that the possibility of her danger hadn't Ottrred to him in his concern to get to Dauntsey and warn him. But sh,ould be all right. He had last seen her when she proposed to go tree and she must be safe now. Dauntsey was ahead of him in his 'er. The only risk was that she had decided to visit her father and rht even now be on her way to Othona House. But that was one e reason for getting there first. There was no point in trying to st.Dauntsey' to overtake him, wave him down. Dauntsey wouldn't stunless forced to. Daniel needed to speak to him, to warn him, butalmness' not by ramming his car. The Last scene of this tragedy to be played out in peace. And then at Last he caught sight of the Rover. fey were now nearing the Chelmsford by-pass and the traffic walilding up. He

lights behind their curtains, and a single wind-distorted tree with a fragment of a white notice nailed to the bark, fluttering like a pinioned bird. On either side of the road the desolate country lay wind-scoured and eerie in l:he moon's cold light. He drove on. The road with its twists and turns seemed endless. The wind wlas strengthening now, gently buffeting the car. And here at last was the right-hand turn to Bradwell-on-Sea and he saw that he was passing through the outskirts of the village to the squat tower of the church and the lights of the pub. He turned once again, towards the marshlards and the sea. There was no sign of Dauntsey's car and he couldn't tell which of them would reach Othona House first. He only knew that for both of them this would be the joumey's end.

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He opened the rear door. After the enclosing darkness, the smell of petrol, of the rug, of her own fear, the fresh moonlit air touched her face like a blessing. She could hear nothing but the sighing of the wind, see nothing but his dark form leaning over her. His hands stretched towards her and he fumbled the gag. She felt the brush of his fingers momentarily against her cheek. Then he bent and untied her ankles. The knots were not difficult. If her hands had been free she could have untied them herself. He didn't need to cut them free. Did that mean that he hadn't a knife? But she was no longer worried about her own safety. Suddenly she knew that he hadn't brought her here to kill her. He had other, and for him more important, preoccupations. He said, with a voice as ordinary, as gentle, as the voice she had known, relied upon, liked to hear: 'Frances, if you turn over I can get more easily at your hands.' It could have been her rescuer speaking, not her gaoler. She turned, and it took only a few seconds to free her. She tried to ease her legs out of the car but they were stiff and he put out his hand to help. She said: 'Don't touch me.' The words were indistinct. The gag had been tighter than she had thought and her jaw was fixed in a painful rictus. But he understood. He stepped back at once and watched while she dragged herself out and stood upright, leaning against the car for support. This was the moment for which she had planned, the chance to outrun him, it hardly mattered where. But he had turned from her and she knew that there was no need to run, no point in trying to escape. He had brought her here from necessity, but she was no longer dangerous, no longer important. His thoughts were elsewhere. She could try to stumble away on her cramped legs but he wouldn't prevent her and he wouldn't follow. He was moving away from her, staring at the dark outline of a house and she could feel the intensity of his gaze. For him this was the end of a long journey. She said: 'Where are we? What place is this?'

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He said, his voice carefully controlled: 'Othona House. I've come to see Jean-Philippe Etienne.' They went together to the front door. He rang the bell. She could hear its peal even through the strong oak. The wait was not long. They could hear the rasp of the bolt, the turn of the key in the lock and the door opened. The stocky figure of an old woman dressed in black stood outlined against the light of the hall. She said: 'Monsieur Etienne vous attend.' Gabriel turned to Frances. 'I don't think you've met Estelle, JeanPhilippe's housekeeper. You're all right now. In a few minutes you can telephone for help. Estelle will look after you in the mean time if you go with her.' She said: 'I don't need looking after. I'm not a child. You brought me here against my will. Now I'm here, I'm staying with you.' Estelle led them down a long stone-floored passage to the back of the house, then stood aside and motioned them to enter. The room, obviously a study, was dark-panelled, the air stagnant with the pungent sweetness of wood smoke. In the stone fireplace the flames leapt like tongues and the wood crackled and hissed. JeanPhilippe Etienne was seated in a high winged chair to the fight of the fire. He didn't get up. Standing against the window, facing the door, was Inspector Aaron. He was wearing a sheepskin jacket, its bulkiness emphasizing the stockiness of his figure. His face was very pale, but as a log of wood crashed and flared it glowed for a moment into ruddy life. His hair was windswept, dishevelled. He must, thought Frances, have arrived just before them and parked his car out of sight. Ignoring her, he said directly to Dauntsey, 'I've been following you. I need to talk to you.' He took an envelope from his pocket and, drawing out a photograph, laid it on the table. He watched Dauntsey's face in silence. No one moved. Dauntsey said: 'I know what you've come to say, but the time for speaking is over. You are here not to talk but to listen.' And now for the first time Aaron seemed aware of Frances's presence. He said sharply, almost accusingly: Why are you here?' Frances's mouth still ached but her voice was strong and clear. 'Because I was brought here by force. I was bound and gagged. Gabriel has killed Claudia. He strangled her in the garage. I saw her

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body. Aren't you going to arrest him? He's killed Claudia and he killed the other two.'

Etienne had got to his feet but now he gave a curious sound, something between a groan and a sigh, and sank back into his chair. Frances ran to him. She said: 'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I should have told you more gently.' Then, looking up, she saw Inspector Aaron's horrified face.

lie turned to Dauntsey and said almost in a whisper: 'So you did finish the job.'

'Don't blame yourself, Inspector. You couldn't have saved her. She was dead before you left Innocent House.'

He spoke directly to Jean-Philippe Etienne. 'Stand up, Etienne. I want you to stand.'

Etienne rose slowly from his chair and reached for his cane. With its help he got to his feet. He made an obvious effort to steady himself but swayed and might have fallen if Frances hadn't moved forward and put her arms around his waist. He didn't speak, but gazed at Dauntsey.

Dauntsey said: 'Stand behind your chair. You can use it for support.'

'I don't need support.' Firmly he removed Frances's arm. 'It was only a temporary stiffness after sitting. I'm not standing behind the chair as if I were in the dock. And if you have come here as a judge, I thought it was usual to take the plea before the trial and to punish only if there is a verdict of guilty.'

'12ere has been a trial. I've conducted the trial for over forty years. Now I'm asking you to admit that you handed over my wife and children to the Germans, that in fact you sent them to be murdered in Auschwitz.'

What were their names?'

'Sophie Dauntsey, Martin and Ruth. They were going under the name Loiret. They had forged documents. You were one of the few people who knew that, who knew that they were Jews, who knew where they were living.'

Etienne said calmly: q'he names mean nothing. I-Iow can I be expected to remember? They weren't the only Jews I informed on to Vichy and the Germans. How am I expected to remember the individual names or the families? I did what was necessary at the time. A great number of French lives depended on me. It was

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important that the Germans continued o trust rae if I Were to get my allocation of paper, ink and resourceS for the tnderground press. How can I be expected to remember ne woman and two children after fifty years?' Dauntsey said: 'I remember them.' 'And now you have come for your revenge. Is it still sweet even after fifty years?' ffhis isn't revenge, Etienne. This is jtstice.' 'Oh don't deceive yourself, Gabriel. This is revenge. Justice doesn't require that you come finally to tell me what Yoga have done. Call it justice if it comforts your conscience. It's a strong word, I hope you know what it means. I'm not sure that I do. Perhaps the representative of the law can help us.' Daniel said: 'It means an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.' Dauntsey was still gazing at Jean-Philippe. 'I have taken no more than you took, Etienne. A son and a daughter for a son and a daughter. You murdered my wife but yours was already dead when I learned the truth.' 'Yes, she was beyond your malice. And mine.' He said the last two words so quietly that FraNces Wondered if she had really heard them. Gabriel went on: 'You killed my children; I have killed yours. I have no posterity; you will have none. After Sophie's death I could never love another woman. I don't believe that Our Xistence here has a meaning or that we have any future after death. Since there is no God there can be no divine justice. We have to nake justice for ourselves and make it here on earth. It has taken vae narly fifty years but I have made my justice.' 'It would have been more effective if you had acted sooner. My son had his youth, his young manhood. He had SUCcess, the love of women. You couldn't take those away from him. �Ottr children had none of them. Justice should be speedy as well as effective. Justice doesn't wait for fifty years.' 'What has time to do with justice? Time takes aWy our strength, our talent, our memories, our joys, even our capacity to grieve. Why should we let it take away the imperative of justice? I had to be certain, and that, too, was justice. It tool me over twenty years to trace two vital witnesses. Even then I was in no hurry. I couldn't have stood ten years or more of prison and now I shan't have to. Nothing is

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impossible to bear at seventy-six. Then your son got engaged. There might have been a child. Justice required that only two should die.'

Etienne said: 'And is that why you left your publishers and came to Peverell Press in 2962? Did you suspect me then?'

'I was beginning to. The strands of my inquiry were beginning to come together. It seemed sensible to get close to you. And you were, I remember, glad enough to have me and my money.'

'Of course. Henry Peverell and I thought that we were getting a major talent. You should have kept your energies for your poetry, Gabriel, not wasted them on a useless obsession born of your own guilt. It was hardly your fault that your wife and children were trapped in France. You were imprudent in leaving them at that time, of course, but no more. You left them and they died. Why try to purge that guilt by murdering the innocent? But murdering the innocent is your forte, isn't it? You took part in the bombing of Dresden. Nothing I have done can compete with the horror and magnitude of that achievement.'

Daniel said, almost in a whisper: 'That was different. That was the awful necessity of war.'

Etienne turned on him: 'And so it was for me, the necessity of war.' He paused, and when he spoke again Frances could hear in his voice the barely controlled note of triumph. 'If you want to act like God, Gabriel, you should first ensure that you have the wisdom and knowledge of God. I have never had a child. I caught a viral infection when I was thirteen; I am totally infertile. My wife needed a son and a daughter and to satisfy her maternal obsession I agreed to provide them. Gerard and Claudia were adopted in Canada and brought back with us to England. They are not related by blood either to each other or to me. I promised my wife that the truth would never be publicly known but Gerard and Claudia were both told when they were fourteen. The effect on Gerard was unfortunate. Both children should have been told from the start.'

Frances knew that Gabriel didn't need to ask if this was the truth. She had to force herself to look at him. For a moment she saw him physically crumble, the muscles of face and body seeming to disintegrate even as she watched. He had been an old man but one with force, intelligence and will. Now everything that was alive in him drained away in front of her eyes. Quickly she moved towards him but he put out a restraining hand. Now, slowly and painfttlly, he forced

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himself to stand uptight. He tried to speak but no words came. Then he turned and made for the door. No one spoke, but they followed him out through the hall and into the night and watched while he walked towards the narrow ridge of rock at the edge of the marsh.

Frances ran after him and, catching him up, seized him by his jacket. He tried to shake her off but she clung on and his strength was fa 'fling. It was Daniel, running up behind them, who clasped her in his arms and carried her bodily away. She tried to struggle free but his arms were like iron bands. She watched helplessly as Gabriel walked forward into the marsh.

Daniel said: 'Let him be. Let him be.'

She called back to Jean-Philippe Etienne: 'Go after him! Stop him! Make him come back!'

Daniel said quietly, 'Come back for what?'

'But he'll never reach the sea.'

It was Etienne coming up beside them who spoke. 'He doesn't need to reach it. Those pools are deep. A man can drown in a foot of water if he wants to die.'

They stood watching. Frances was still held in Daniel's arms. Suddenly she was aware of the beating of his heart thudding against her own. The stumbling figure was dark against the night sky. It rose, then fell, then reared itself up and fought on. Again the clouds moved and by the light of the moon they could see him more dearly. From time to time he would fall, but then would rise to his feet again, looking immense as a giant, arms raised as if in a curse or a last beseeching gesture. Frances knew that he was fighting to reach the sea, longing to walk out into its cold immensity, further and deeper, until he could splash forward into that final blessed oblivion.