The Ghost Who Fed Them Bones (26 page)

“I know that these two are stil layabouts, and there is nothing wrong with that – I have been more or less a layabout al my life – but what do you do?”

“I am an interior decorator,” Chloe flashes back convincingly.

“Oh, like Sybil Colefax.”

“Like Sybil Colefax, Sir?”

“That’s right. Do you know her?”

“No, unfortunately I don’t. I’ve heard of her, though.”

“Actual y this house could do with some touching up. Maybe you wil have some ideas you would be wil ing to share.”

“I’l certainly do what I can, Sir.”

“Excel ent. That would be most kind.”

John is looking puzzled. “I know some very talented interior decorators if you real y are looking for someone.” It is obviously the first time he has heard of it.

“Are you saying that this young lady here isn’t talented? Shame on you, John.”

“No, I wasn’t suggesting that.”

“I get the impression that Chloe here is very talented at her job indeed – a consummate professional. Would that be right, Chloe?”

It is Chloe’s turn to appear flummoxed. “I try to do the best I can,” she agrees.

“I think my wife the Countess wil be very keen to meet you if she is around. She is no mean interior designer herself.

Studied it at the Slade. You can share influences.”

“That would be nice.”

“I didn’t know that about her,” John comments.

The Earl winks at him. “She is very secretive about it. She is terrified somebody embarrasses her into taking a commission to do up their little Johnny’s nursery, or something. You might try asking her yourself, should the occasion arise. We very rarely get the opportunity to tease the old girl, do we?”

I cannot imagine anyone teasing the Countess and keeping sufficient of their limbs intact to be able to crawl away again. God knows what the Earl is setting Chloe up to do, but John is evidently aware that some game is afoot by now and that it probably has something to do with Chloe and ritual humiliation. Malign gatecrashers wil be tortured before they are ceremonial y ejected from the premises as common trespassers. A poacher’s fate is awaiting Chloe, I would guess.

Certainly Chloe is becoming less easy too – she is beginning to rustle.

She makes a bold move. “I met Alice the other day.”

“You did?” The Earl’s tone switches instantly to genuine interest. “You could actual y see her?”

“Yes, Paul took me to see her. We chatted for about an hour together. She is real y nice. She seemed very fond of you too, Sir.”

“I am delighted to hear that. I am sure that she must get very lonely. It real y is no fun being a ghost – no fun at al . I hope that when my time comes I whiz straight down the shute, even if it only leads to hel . I cannot imagine that hel is a worse fate than hanging around as the living dead.”

“Yes, she was fervently hoping for liberation. She felt that her work has now been completed, thanks to you and your efforts.”

“We do what little we can,” concedes the Earl modestly. “Ah, here is the Countess now. I real y must introduce you.

Hel o, my dear, this is Chloe. She is an interior designer. I was tel ing her about your expertise in the field. I hope you don’t mind. I am sure that you wil find a great deal in common.”

If you have ever watched a helpless creature being trussed up and fed to a crocodile, you wil understand this moment exactly. The Countess has just given Chloe a sharp flick of the eyelids and a brief gleam of the eye before declaring “Very nice to meet you, Chloe.” Having spoken to Alice definitely doesn’t count as sufficient redemption as far as the Earl is concerned. The Countess is almost licking her lips. “Let me show you around the house. How much do you know about classic French design? There are a few things here I have never understood. Perhaps you could explain them to me.”

As soon as Chloe is out of sight, the Earl pounces on us. “Whose bright idea was that, then?” he demands. Both Mike and I hesitate to respond, regressing instantly to our childhoods. “Paul? Michael? She real y is your girlfriend is she, Michael?”

“Yes, she is.”

“To what purpose exactly?”

Chloe may be getting off lightly as compared with Mike. I courageously step to one side to let him have the ful benefit of the onslaught.

“We wil be civil to her, but we expect you to find a good excuse to leave within the next fifteen minutes and to take her with you. Is that understood?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“Good. You can leave Paul here. I would like to consult him on something in private. John or Peter or somebody wil drop him back over to your place.”

I am trying to calculate whether I should continue to feel uneasy too, but I sense that the quiet fury is not being aimed in my direction, although he cannot be very pleased with me either.

“Come on, Paul. I want to show you something. I think you wil be intrigued by it.”

* * *

The Earl leads me not up the stairs, as I was expecting, but down the back stairs into the underworld of storage and boilers where M. Toucas goes and sleeps through his salaried days pretending to be clanking and shuffling about his duties.

“Here,” the Earl points. “I bet you you cannot walk clear through this wal .”

“No, I am not a ghost yet,” I reply, knowing ful wel that there is something the Earl is exceptional y pleased with himself about.

“Close your eyes and don’t open them until I say so.”

Isn’t he a bit old to be playing this game? Anyway, obviously I do.

There is a hefty scraping sound which tel s me more or less what is going on as it is accompanied by the disjointed heavy breathing of elderly exertion, then its return scrape, and sure enough the Earl has disappeared. I can hear a very muffled, distant voice saying something, then the wal is torn open again. “Come and look in here, Paul,” the Earl encourages me exultantly.

It is not very beautiful. It is a cool, dank wine cel ar of sorts, but it does have the virtue that the Earl only discovered it for the first time a few days ago, and nobody else was aware of its existence at al , not even that know-it-al M. Toucas.

“It is where the Marquis and his family hid away from the vil agers for several weeks before they were discovered. He showed it to me as a gesture of renewed entente cordiale. Imagine spending your last weeks down here. They were already in gaol. In the end, it was such a diminished, even shameful, life, and they al got so bad-tempered with each other that they came out again and gave themselves up to be guil otined. I feel that we should do something with it – make it into a shrine of something. What do you think?”

“I suppose you could set up an informal chapel down here – have it consecrated in memory of its aristocratic masters.

What is the Mairie’s view on aristocrats?”

“M. le Maire is friendly enough towards me. They al have been, but perhaps English aristocracy is exempt. Mind you, if he kicked up any kind of fuss (and I don’t suppose that he would), I can send Romanov père in to bat for me. His lot were shot in a cel ar, supposedly, if he real y is some kind of relation to them, the Tsar, that is.”

“It might be a bit of a waste of money, though. Who would ever come down here?”

“It wouldn’t have to be that ornate. Ornate would be out of keeping, don’t you think? Anyway, there you are. I thought that you might be interested.”

“I am, and I am very sorry about bringing Chloe along with us.”

The Earl pats me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about that, my boy. Those sorts of people always pray on the innocent.”

Innocent? What a fine insult.

“Did she real y meet up with Alice?”

“Yes.”

“Wel , that is something, then,” he comments, without indicating what kind of something he has in mind. “After our little excursion, come and have some tea.”

Back in the garden the last remnants of the Affligem entourage are assembled like a deck party on a cruiser.

“Has His Lordship shown you his little secret, then?” Peter inquires. “Very closet, don’t you think? Come and sit next to me.” He pats the seat of the chair next to him enticingly. “So what happens now with you?”

“We are going home soon. Back to Brussels.”

“Stil , it has to be better than living in rural England. It bores me sil y. The county set, peasants and serial kil ers. Actual y, I think they are al the same people. Dead bodies lying al over the place, snubbed for some obscure, confectioned reason or another. Thank God for the flat in London and for gruel ing dancing schedules. I don’t know how John copes. Fiona was born into it, so she has been inoculated, although she isn’t exactly wild about it either.”

“Where is Fiona?”

John looks up. “I don’t know. She went out somewhere earlier and hasn’t returned yet. She has been doing quite a lot of that recently. Sarah has gone with her.”

“I think they are having an affair,” Peter throws in, then in reaction to Mr. and Mrs. Harding’s faces adds “but not with each other, of course. They may be wel -bred, but they are not sophisticated enough for that yet. No, I think they’l be out cruising some local low-lifes, cavorting on the beach possibly.”

“Possibly,” John echoes diffidently.

“I must admit that I could do with a bit of action myself,” Peter continues. “If it gets any deader around here they wil be burying us al .”

Lady Harding clinks her cup delicately. “I was only just thinking how wonderful y peaceful it is here, compared with London. Besides, Peter, if you want action, you only have to go as far as the gate. I am sure that you can get anything you like down there for the price of a piece of inside gossip.”

“Mmm, I might try it. What do you think I can tel them? The idiotic thing is that there is no inside gossip – nothing at al .

What can you say about any of us? We haven’t a single secret to hide between us.”

“How do you know, Peter?” Mr. Harding retaliates. “How can you possibly assert, logical y speaking, that none of us has secrets? If they are secrets you wouldn’t, by definition, know anything about them.”

“Got me there, Alan. Come on, Paul, let’s go and hit a bistro and see if we can bump into Fiona and Sarah and discover what their secrets are. Are you ready, John?”

“Yeah, I’l come.”

“Alan, are you coming?”

No, I’l stay here, thank you, Peter?”

“Inspector John?”

“No, I’l give it a miss today, thanks, Peter.”

“Right, let’s see if we can wing a journalist on the way out. I could do with the publicity. ‘Famous bal et dancer flattens hack’ – that’l do it, although I think I prefer the description ‘notorious’ given the choice. It sounds more newsworthy.

Everybody knows by now that only nonentities are referred to as famous nowadays.”

Peter has lost the attention of his audience. Oscar Wilde he isn’t – not yet, anyway, but he’l certainly keep practising.

So we storm through the gates in the Mahari and take off towards Gignac. Nobody even bothers to pursue us. One glance tel s them that we are merely the supporting cast and that any information we could give them would be worthless.

We spend a few hours bistro-crawling in a leisurely way before grabbing a table at the Restaurant de Lauzun five minutes before Fiona and Sarah walk in.

“Wel , wel ,” Peter cal s out. “What are the chances, eh?”

Fiona frowns “I said we were coming here.”

“Did you?”

“You know ful wel I did. Hel o, Paul. Are you escaping la cave du marquis that my father has indefatigably been showing off to everyone?”

“Yes, I did get a tour,” I reply.

“Poor things. Can you imagine?”

“So are you joining us, or are you going to do your girly thing over there?” Peter asks, pre-empted by John who is already re-arranging the tables to accommodate two more. “Wel , what have you been doing, girls?”

“We have been down to the beach, eaten mussels, done al the last minute touristy things and general y been chatting.”

“Come and rest your weary jaws, then.”

“Thank you, Peter.”

And indeed they do. It is one of the most silent meals I have ever had. My thoughts are al over the place about how I miss Fiona, and how I would rather not be here at al , and how I should be looking for Alice and, failing Alice, Natalie.

Fiona and my eyes meet occasional y only to shy away from each other again. Peter indulges himself in a few florid forays to try to jol y things along, but the wine is getting the most company. Afterwards I say goodbye to Fiona, Sarah and John for the last time and Peter drives me back to Valflaunès in the Mahari.

Fiona kisses me once on the cheek and surreptitiously squeezes my hip fondly with her right hand. A tear nearly appears in my eye, and in Fiona’s too, I think.

* * *

“I would like to be buried properly,” says Alice. “Could you arrange that for me? Do you have time? Stop fiddling with your false tooth.”

“This temporary implant always feels as if it is wobbling,” I reply.

“Does it matter?” Alice demands.

“Not real y.”

“It is becoming an obsession.”

“I am sorry. Let’s discuss your re-burial.”

“I wonder if I could be buried in the grounds of the Château de Freyrargues. Do you think that the Earl would al ow that?”

“I don’t see why not. There is a Reynaud family mausoleum there.”

Alice shudders. “I don’t want to be anywhere near them.”

“Do you have a spot in mind?”

“I shal go and have a look.”

“Presumably there wil be a post-mortem first.”

“No thanks. I don’t want to stand there watching myself being poked around and scraped and chisel ed, or whatever they do. You wil have to re-bury me yourself.”

“Perhaps the Earl and I can have a little ceremony together. I am sure that he wil be wil ing to do that. It wil just be a question of how we sneak your body past the press. Mind you, that would be quite funny – sneaking a real story past them under their noses.”

“Do you think that when I am buried respectful y I wil be al owed to die properly?”