The Greengage Summer (13 page)

Inspector Cailleux shrugged. “Children are everywhere, like insects. They can know anything.”

“H’m,” said Monsieur Dufour thoughtfully. “They say he slept for two days. It must have been strong.”

“The drug or the reason?”

“Both,” said Monsieur Dufour. “But it was abominable! To drug a child!”

“This was Allen,” Inspector Cailleux reminded him. “The little boy is lucky to be alive.”

“
Who
are they talking about?” Willmouse whispered more urgently to me.

“You.”

“Why?”

“Because they think . . . Eliot . . . put you to sleep.”

“
Eliot?
”

“Yes.”

“Why? Why?” said Willmouse imperiously to Inspector Cailleux.

“Because, my little man, you knew something he did not want you to tell. It was not a very pleasant thing to do to you, was it?”

“It was silly,” said Willmouse. He was wounded. “Why didn’t he ask me not to tell? He needn’t have put me to sleep. He could have
trusted
me.”

“Was this man God to them?” asked Inspector Cailleux. He was getting angry and the questions came fast.

“Why did he send you to bed?”

“I was out late.”

“Why were you out late?”

“I had been for my walk.”

“Where did you go?”

“Along the river.”

“Did you see anything?”

They were coming closer . . . like bloodhounds, I thought, and prickled with apprehension. “Did you see anything?” asked Inspector Cailleux peremptorily.

“I saw the barge,” said Willmouse.

“What barge?”

“The
Marie France.
”

“What was the barge doing?”

“Nothing,” said Willmouse truthfully, but Inspector Cailleux was looking deeply into him.

“Do you like barges?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then there was something especial about this one? Something you saw perhaps? Perhaps?” rapped out Inspector Cailleux.

“I would rather not talk to you,’ said Willmouse.

“I am not
playing
,” cried Inspector Cailleux and hit the little table with his fist so that it shook. Vicky burst into tears.

“I don’t like it,” she wailed, “I want Mother.”

As if Mother’s name had been a touchstone we all began to weep, except Joss, who was still dissociated from us; I was ashamed but the tears were gathering, unbearably heavy and hot, in my
eyes. Mother. If only Mother were here for us in this terror! But there was no one, no one for us, and we quailed like little rabbits, chased and cornered, ready to be snared. Helplessly we wept.
There was more to come, more shockingness, but we had moved Monsieur Dufour. He protested, “I told you this was not for children.”

“Some of them are not children.”

We jumped. Mademoiselle Zizi was standing in the doorway. At the sight of her distorted face even Vicky was quelled.

“You are asking them questions,” said Mademoiselle Zizi. “Why? You need only ask her.” She pointed at Joss. “Ask her what the ladder was doing on the lawn under her
window, why the marks of it were on the grass.” Madame Corbet had come running after Mademoiselle Zizi, but Mademoiselle Zizi shook her off. “Ask her.”

Inspector Cailleux looked at Joss, who had risen like a girl in class. Slowly I rose too, but no one noticed me.

“Is that a child?” said Mademoiselle Zizi, and to Monsieur Dufour, “You have seen her with your own eyes, how she behaved at the dinner. She drove Paul out of his mind. You saw
that too. Well, ask her what happened. The ladder was at her window. Elle a couché avec l’un après l’autre.”

I did not understand the word ‘sleep’ used like that, ‘sleep with one after the other’, nor its import; I was only sure that in some way it was hideous and unjust and I
moved nearer to Joss. “She didn’t sleep,” I said, “she was wide awake. Why, she came to my room and sent me in . . .”

“
You?
” Their eyes all shifted to me.

“Tiens! They begin young in England,” said Mademoiselle Zizi.

“Don’t be a fool,” said Joss curtly to me.

“These little children must go
out
,” said Monsieur Dufour, springing up distressed, but Hester and the Littles had already left their yellow satin chairs and come to Joss and
me; they did not understand what the talk was about but knew we were threatened and they stood loyally round us.

Once again we seemed small and alone in that French house. Monsieur Dufour was kindly, but he was thinking of Mademoiselle Zizi. Only one person would have defended us—Eliot . . . and he .
. . I could not go on. I swallowed, and felt as if the tears were running down my throat.

“So! Two of you,” said Mademoiselle Zizi. “And this is what I took into my house.”

Your dear house! In that moment of misery I almost said it. Les Oeillets, the gold-green days, the love, to end in this.

It was at that moment I heard a sound in the courtyard outside that made me look up. These were the windows from which Mademoiselle Zizi had so often watched for Eliot, listening for the Rolls.
Now I looked out and saw the big gate was shut as it had been on our first night. It had been shut by the police. The sound I had heard was the jangling of the bell.

I do not know how I heard it in the confusion in the room, but it seemed to join on to the bell of that first night; the sound belonged . . . to us? I thought, puzzled.

A gendarme opened the wicket; he spoke for a moment to someone outside and opened the gate.

Inside the salon there was turmoil. The other two policemen had jumped up and Madame Corbet was explaining to them, shouting over our heads while Monsieur Dufour talked to Mademoiselle Zizi as
if he were scolding her. Only Inspector Cailleux stayed at his desk, quietly watching.

“Zizi! You haven’t a shadow of proof,” scolded Monsieur Dufour.

“Haven’t I?” She wheeled on him. “Why did I have to put Monsieur Joubert out of the hotel?” Everyone stopped to listen. “They said it was painting!”
said Mademoiselle Zizi and she spat the word again, “Painting!”

I had felt Joss quivering, but now happened something so alarming that it burnt out everything else. Joss, dignified, aloof, almost grown-up Joss, crumpled like a little girl. “Mother. I
want Mother,” she wailed like Vicky.

We stood round her, appalled too. “Help me. Help me,” sobbed Joss.

We could not help her. How could we? We barely understood. There was no one to help us now, and soon, soon I should have to . . . Helpless in my tears I looked out of the window and saw that a
man had come in through the gate. He was dressed in a grey suit and brown felt hat and was followed by a porter with a handcart and two leather suitcases. There was something very familiar about
the man; his small figure looked square and solid in the Frenchness of the courtyard, his skin fresh and pink beside the dark, sallow-skinned gendarme and porter, and there was a wonderful calmness
about him. My heart suddenly calmed too. It was Uncle William.

“Uncle William!” The shout I gave filled the little salon. I do not know how we burst out of it, past Mademoiselle Zizi, Madame Corbet and Monsieur Dufour. I think I heard Inspector
Cailleux ordering us to sit down, but I was not listening, nor were the others. All of us, even Joss, rushed through the bar into the hall.

Uncle William came in. Joss threw herself into his arms, I had mine round his neck, Vicky and Hester were hugging his legs, Willmouse danced up and down in front of him. Uncle William! Dear,
dear, dear Uncle William!

CHAPTER 18

“M
Y NAME
is Bullock.”

We had always winced and thought that people must laugh when Uncle William said that, but now nobody laughed, nor did we wince. We kept close behind him; Hester even had a corner of his coat
clutched in her hand. “Bullock,” and he put down his card on the desk, “of Bullock, Roper and Twiss, Solicitors, Southstone. That is in Sussex, England.”

“À votre service, Monsieur,” said Inspector Cailleux and introduced the others. “Monsieur Dufour, Monsieur Lemaître. Monsieur Aubry.” They bowed.
“Madame Corbet,” said Inspector Cailleux; he did not introduce Mademoiselle Zizi.

“You have some trouble?” asked Uncle William after he had shaken hands. “The police . . . ?”

“You have doubtless heard at the station or on your way here of these shocking events,” said Inspector Cailleux dryly.

“I have heard nothing. I do not speak French,” said Uncle William. His calm flat English voice sounded wonderfully unexcited. “I have come to take my sister—if she can
travel—and my nieces and nephew home . . . to England,” he added firmly, looking at us.

“You said you wouldn’t come and you came!” said Hester, stroking his coat.

“How did you know to come now, just now?” cried Joss, pressed close to him.

“But I was sent for,” said Uncle William.

“Sent for?”

Freeing himself from us he said, “This came yesterday,” and from his wallet took out a piece of paper and unfolded it; it was a telegram. He read aloud, “Come immediately
Hôtel des Oeillets Vieux-Moutiers Marne France your sister in hospital children urgently—repeat urgently—need your help.”

“But who sent it?” asked Madame Corbet.

“It isn’t signed,” said Uncle William.

“Someone must have sent it,” said Inspector Cailleux and looked round on us all. I tried to put a surreptitious hand on Hester, but I was too late.

“Eliot, of course,” said Hester.

“Eliot!” That came from Joss, Mademoiselle Zizi, Madame Corbett and Inspector Cailleux.

“Yes. He
always
did look after us,” said Hester, beaming.

“The fool!” Mademoiselle Zizi’s cry rang out as she darted across the room and snatched the telegram from Uncle William. She was crumpling it in her hand, tearing it with her
teeth as they caught her. Inspector Cailleux ripped it away and Monsieur Dufour and Madame Corbet struggled to hold her as the little sheet of paper was smoothed out and pieced together on the
table.

“Châlons. Eleven twenty-five yesterday morning.”

“He was heading for the German border,” said Monsieur Dufour.

“Obviously,” said Inspector Cailleux and snapped, “Get me Lavalle on the telephone.” Then he stopped. “No, wait. Châlons,” he said, puzzled. “But
Châlons is almost here.”

“C’est vingt-et-un kilomètres,” said the man in the window.

“Twenty-one kilometres at eleven o’clock yesterday,” said Inspector Cailleux.

“He had been at the dinner,” reminded Monsieur Dufour.

“But only until about midnight. He had had at least nine or ten hours,” said Inspector Cailleux. “I don’t understand,” but he said it as if in a minute, or minutes,
he would understand and he began to pace up and down. Mademoiselle Zizi was quiet now, limp and sobbing against Madame Corbet.

“Could he be walking?” asked Monsieur Dufour.

“With the roads watched?”

“Cross-country?”

“There are
roads
into Châlons,” said Inspector Cailleux irritably and he walked up and down. “Somewhere slow, where we would not look for him. Of course not. We
are looking everywhere fast. Very clever, Monsieur Allen. Slow, Vieux-Moutiers, Châlons, into Germany.”

“Châlons? You mean Châlons-sur-Marne?” said Uncle William in his pleasant voice. “On the Marne?”

“The Marne!” Inspector Cailleux stopped. “The Marne!”

From the river, into our silence, came the hoot of a passing barge.

First published 1958 by Macmillan

First published 1961 by Pan Books

First published with a new preface 1993 by Pan Books

This edition published 2004 by Pan Books

This electronic edition published 2011 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
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Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com

ISBN 978-1-447-21027-6 EPUB

Text copyright © Rumer Godden 1958, 1993

The right of Rumer Godden to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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