The Mermaid Garden (55 page)

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floor. Before Mr. Atwood knew what was happening he was cuffed and

helpless on the ground, the tights ripped off his head with such force

they bruised his nose. The lights were turned on, and the room filled

with the familiar faces of the Dawcomb-Devlish police force, gawping

at them in astonishment. They looked from Mr. Atwood to Jennifer,

bound and displayed like a pig at the butcher’s, but only one or two had the decency to avert their eyes. At last one of the officers threw a towel over her exposed body and set about untying the ropes.

“This is a terrible mistake,” gasped Mr. Atwood.

“. . . Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

“I’m not robbing the house, I’m role-playing with my mistress. For

God’s sake, this is ludicrous.”

“Come on!” said PC Dillon, lifting him to his feet.

Mr. Atwood looked down to see his once proud erection shriveled

like a little pink worm. “Well, if you insist I come with you, can you

please do up my trousers!”

The following morning word had got out and Dawcomb-Devlish

could talk of nothing else.

Mr. Atwood did not come into the office, which was just as well, for

a group of photographers had gathered outside with the nation’s press.

The crowd of onlookers grew until PC Dillon had to put up barricades

to keep the traffic moving.

“They thought they’d caught Baffles,” said Sylvia, her eyes brimming

with mirth. “Can you imagine, Mr. Atwood of all people!”

“It’s beyond the powers of my imagination,” agreed Clementine,

watching the heaving throng outside the window.

“Fancy him dressing up and pretending to break into your recep-

tionist’s house.”

“I knew he was having an affair with her. The silly fool took me with

him to buy her a bracelet. Didn’t it occur to him that I’d recognize it on her wrist and put two and two together?”

“Perhaps he doesn’t think you’re very good at maths!”

“Maybe he
is
Baffles and this is a double bluff,” Clementine suggested.

“He’s not that clever.”

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“I wonder whether we’ll see Jennifer today?”

“Or ever!”

“I’d leave the country if that happened to me.”

Sylvia giggled. “I think it’s quite an inspired idea. I could get rather turned on with the right man.”

“Not Mr. Atwood, then?”

They both laughed. “
Not
Mr. Atwood! Say we close up shop for the day and go and have a nice lunch?”

“Now
that’s
inspired,” Clementine agreed, picking up her handbag.

“The goldfish bowl is not a life for me!”

“So, how’s it all going with Rafa?” Sylvia asked, sipping a glass of Pinot Noir on the terrace of the brasserie.

“Oh, nothing to report.”

“But it’s only been a week!”

“I know. I shouldn’t expect things to move so swiftly. I just feel I’ve known him forever.” She shrugged, not wanting Sylvia to know how

much she cared.

“You need to go away so that he misses you.”

“I’m not going anywhere until September.”

“That’s too late. You need to go away now.”

“And where do you think I should disappear to?”

“Anywhere, down the road—so long as he thinks you’ve gone away.”

“I don’t have enough money—or time off.”

“Shame. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

“Or it makes the heart forget altogether.”

“Not likely, lovely. Trust me, I know. I’m a master at playing hard to

get.” Clementine laughed, assuming she was being ironic, but Sylvia

was looking at her very seriously.

She coughed. “I’m sure you’re right,” she said hastily. “If anyone can

play it cool, you can.”

Rafa watched Marina disappear up the drive in her car before wan-

dering furtively into the stable block. Grey was out in his boat, the

painters were busy in the vegetable garden, and Harvey was on the roof

mending one of the chimney pots with glue, baler twine, and Agritape.

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Mr. Potter was having his tea and digestives in the greenhouse with

Biscuit, and Bertha was making up Rafa’s room, taking as long as pos-

sible to fold and hang his clothes from the night before.

He climbed the stairs and walked across the landing to Marina and

Grey’s bedroom. The smell of her perfume wafted into the corridor, and

it clung to his nostrils as if she were right there with him. He glanced around anxiously before entering. But he needn’t have worried; he was

quite alone. Inside, the bed was unmade, awaiting the arrival of Ber-

tha, and the window wide open, boasting a magnificent view of the

sea. With his heart pounding loudly, he began carefully to lift things

up. She didn’t keep many trinkets, and as far as he could tell there was nothing out of the ordinary.

He began to open her drawers and run his hands along the bottom

and across the back to check for hidden items. But there was nothing

squeezed behind the clothes, and he felt ashamed for having invaded

her privacy. When he reached her cupboard, his heart lurched at the

sight of a pretty floral box file that lay partially hidden beneath her shoes. He delved within, removed the shoes, and pulled it out. With

trembling hands he opened it. Inside, it was stuffed full of letters.

The paper was yellowed, indicating that they were old. He caught his

breath. He lifted the one at the top. But his heart deflated for it was a love letter from Grey, dated 1988. He burrowed deeper, but they were

all either letters from Grey or childish pictures from Jake and Clemen-

tine.

He found her marriage certificate and a couple of photographs

of their wedding day. He dug his hand into the very bottom and

pulled out the final letter, hoping for something revelatory. What he

found was a poem torn out of a book, entitled “My Marine Marina,”

dated 1968, by John Edgerton. He read it, and his eyes watered; it could have been written about her.

Oh mournful soul that craves the sea,

Restless will forever be,

What relics of your dreams lie there,

Beneath the waves of your despair . . .

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It was a poem about love, but also about loss. He wondered if she had

known the poet and whether he had written it for her.

Suddenly, he heard the front door open and slam shut. Hastily, he

thrust the box back into the cupboard and replaced the shoes on top.

He hurried out of the bedroom. As he stepped onto the landing the

floorboards creaked loudly into the silence. Jake heard him and peered

up from the hall below. “Rafa! What are you doing here?” he demanded,

staring at him suspiciously.

“I’m looking for Biscuit,” Rafa replied, trying to sound casual. He

thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. “He sometimes likes to come

in here and lie on your father’s bed.”

“Does he?” Jake wasn’t convinced.

“He’s not here.”

“Why do you want him?”

“I want my students to paint him.”

“Really?” Jake watched him come down the stairs. “Tell me, didn’t

Harvey take you to Edward and Anya Powell’s house not so long ago?”

Rafa nodded. “Yes, we went to paint the dovecote.”

“Hmm.”

“Why?”

“No reason,” Jake replied, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

He watched the artist leave the house and walk across to the hotel.

He had a sudden, uncomfortable feeling that Rafa was not all that he

seemed.

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32.

That evening Jake took Clementine aside. “I need to talk to you,” he

said seriously.

She followed him into the library. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s Rafa.”

“What about him?”

“I caught him snooping around the stable block this morning.”

“What do you classify as ‘snooping’?”

“Well, he wasn’t in the kitchen making a cup of tea.” Clementine

shot him a withering look. “He was upstairs on the landing.”

“Did you ask him what he was doing?”

“He said he was looking for Biscuit.”

“Perhaps he was.”

“Rubbish! He wasn’t looking for Biscuit. He was looking around.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. He looked really shifty.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“You know Harvey took him to the Powells’ house before it was

robbed.”

Clementine gasped. “You’re not suggesting he’s Baffles?”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit of a coincidence that the very house he

visits is later robbed?”

Clementine was too shocked to answer.

“He did a recce to see if it would be a good place to take his painters.

He must have gone into the kitchen and seen the ring on the window-

sill.”“I can’t believe you’re even suggesting such a thing! It’s not in his nature to be dishonest,” Clementine said, horrified.

“Do you really believe he’s an artist happy to spend the summer

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it. What was he doing down here in the first place? Robbing big houses

and hotels. Then he sees Marina’s ad in the local paper and thinks: Aha, I’ll go undercover for the summer and no one will suspect me.”

Clementine narrowed her eyes incredulously, but Jake continued,

pleased with the way his hypothesis was snowballing. “Look, he’s right

in the middle of Devon, surrounded by big, expensive houses, most of

which he has access to because Marina insists on showing him off to all her friends. This is the perfect decoy. No one is going to point the finger at him, are they?”

“I’m not sure about this, Jake.” But Clementine was ashamed to

sense a little seed of doubt taking root.

“I’ve always thought him dodgy. Right from the start, he was too

good to be true.”

“Well, you have no proof.”

“I’ll get it.”

“He’s a very good painter.”

“Coincidence.”

“If he was a robber, wouldn’t he wear an expensive watch, drive a

snazzy car?”

“Only if he was a very stupid robber, which he clearly isn’t.” He

grinned at her. “And
you’ve
fallen for him, haven’t you?”

Clementine was infuriated. “You know, if he was the lowlife you

think he is, he would have seduced me weeks ago.”

“No, he wouldn’t. That would distract him from his purpose.”

“I don’t believe you, Jake. You’ve never liked him because you’re jeal-

ous. He’s more handsome than you, cleverer than you—which, I might

add, isn’t hard—and he’s a great deal more charming. It’s no surprise

that you can’t bear him.”

“I’ve got a good nose for disingenuous people.”

“So, are you going to tell Marina?”

“Not yet.”

“Good, because she won’t believe you.”

“I’ll get proof.”

“The Ruebens are coming this weekend. Don’t give her something

else to worry about.”

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“Ah, the Ruebens.” He pulled a face. “They’ve got their sights on this

place, for sure.”

“If they make an offer Dad can’t refuse, Marina will throw herself

off the cliff.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. She’ll be fine. They’ll buy somewhere else.”

“You just don’t get it, do you?” she rounded on him crossly. “This is

more than a home to Marina. This is her child.” Jake had the decency

to look a little ashamed. “Don’t think she’ll be fine, because she won’t.

She’ll be destroyed and broken, and nothing will ever be able to put her back together again.”

Jake watched in astonishment as she stalked out into the hall.

Clementine sat in her bedroom mulling over what Jake had told her.

Her instincts reassured her that he was wrong. Rafa wasn’t a burglar.

He was gentle and kind and compassionate. If he was a burglar, he’d

be ruthless and duplicitous, which she was sure he was not. However,

she couldn’t ignore the niggling feeling that he was hiding something.

Jake had brought that doubt into the open, and she now admitted that

it had always been there, lying at the bottom of her happiness like clay.

Was he too good to be true? And if he wasn’t the burglar, what was he?

More worrying than Jake’s suspicions about Rafa was the threat to

the Polzanze and what such a loss would do to Marina. She found, to

her surprise, that the thought of Marina being forced to give up what

she treasured most gave her a sharp pain in the middle of her chest.

She put her hand there. If only she could help, but there was nothing

she could do. If her father really was in financial trouble and the Ruebens made a generous offer, he’d sell. Poor Marina would be devastated.

She’d never get over it.

A sudden inspiration assuaged the pain: she’d stay with her and not

go abroad. That’s what she’d do. She’d help Marina set up somewhere

else. They’d build a new place together, a place more beautiful even than the Polzanze.

With that thought she felt happier. She turned her attention back to