Barbara Cleverly (40 page)

A slight flush on Marie-Jeanne’s pale cheeks was the only sign that Maisie’s darts had hit their target and she remained tight-lipped and scornful. Her silence seemed to incite Maisie to deeper fury. ‘Men! We’ve all wanted to line them up in our sights and pull the bloody trigger, haven’t we, love! Who were you really killing? Who were you really seeing when you squinted through your sights? Your father, your brothers?’ She paused for a second and added, ‘All the men who’ve ever looked at you and then looked hurriedly away again? You talk about it as though the act of killing were a gift, a selfless offering to this evil-minded little tart here – it wasn’t! There was nothing generous or even dutiful about it. You enjoyed it!’

‘Maisie! Maisie!’ Joe had been the only one to notice that Alice had visibly winced when Maisie used the word ‘tart’. He was right then. Alice had not told Marie-Jeanne about her past. Incredibly, the devoted Frenchwoman still believed that Alice was Alice Conyers. She would never have told Joe the story of her emerald green underwear had she known of the deception and now, after all that had happened, she was still unaware. And this was what Alice was so anxious to keep from Joe. He had only to reveal who she really was to wreck for ever the only relationship which had any meaning and value to her. She did not want him to give her away to Marie-Jeanne.

In a wash of comprehension Joe began to understand the relationship between these two women. So different and yet so closely linked. He saw that to Marie-Jeanne Alice was still the battered and damaged little girl she had rescued from the Beaune rail crash. The girl she had put together again. Healthy, successful, beautiful but ultimately still in need of protection from her previous life, still in need of a refuge. And to Alice, Marie-Jeanne was that refuge. Someone who asked no questions and who in all circumstances gave her the shelter so brutally denied by others. Marie-Jeanne’s unquestioning belief in her was vital to Alice. Her message to Joe was, ‘Don’t give me away.’ And Marie-Jeanne, so close to Alice, had still no realization of the switch. Alice was Alice Conyers.

He looked steadily into the blue eyes and thought that this was perhaps the first time he had seen the real girl. The nun’s habit, the spectacles were no longer even a distraction. The eyes were pleading with him, fearful, trying to convey her message. Maisie had foreseen this moment. What had she said? – ‘You owe her one, Joe. She knows that. You know that.’ And now, wordlessly, she was reminding him. Suddenly Joe was weary. Weary of the blackmail, the deceptions, the heat. He wanted to be finally free of this woman, owing her nothing, all contact severed. He resented the emotional and professional demands India had made on him and in that moment Alice represented for him the writhing layers of Indian intrigue and he wanted to be rid of it. He wanted his London life with a cold wind blowing off the Thames, the Lots Road power station puthering out smoke, the bells of St Luke’s, Chelsea, waking him. He wanted to be back in bed with Maisie.

He got to his feet. ‘I can’t forgive you, Alice Conyers.’ The slight stress on his use of her adopted name told her what she needed to know. Joe was acknowledging and cancelling his debt. ‘London bobbies aren’t in the absolving business and you’ll have to look to a higher authority for that. You’ve got away with it as far as I’m concerned. For now. For here.’ He took Maisie’s arm and with a nod to each woman he walked away.

At the door Maisie, whose disapproval had been conveyed by the tension in her arm and the tight line of her lips, finally rounded on him. ‘I see what you’re at, Joe, and – all right – there’s not a lot you can do,’ she hissed in his ear, ‘but it riles me that they can get away with murder. I can’t leave it like that.’

She shook off his restraining arm and walked with dignity back to the table to confront the silent pair. They waited, wide-eyed, for her to speak. Maisie paused, head slightly on one side, eyes unfocused as she listened with attention to inner voices. At last she began to speak in a low voice which Joe, standing uncertainly in the doorway, could only just make out.

‘I never did get the chance in Simla to pass on messages which came to me from someone who was desperate to communicate with you, Mrs Sharpe, because of an identity mix-up – you’ll know what I mean, I think. Hannah. That was the name of the departed. Hannah Newton. No one of that name in our circle, was there? A relative perhaps? She seemed very concerned. In fact she had some dire warnings for a young person still on this side of the veil. Awful warnings! My God! I wouldn’t be in your shoes, madam, for all the tea in Assam!’ Maisie shook her head sadly and shivered with dread at things only she could see. Joe saw Alice’s lips almost imperceptibly form the word ‘mother’ but she managed to stay calm and silent.

Back in Maisie’s cabin Joe asked, ‘Hannah Newton? Isobel’s mother? Now how the hell did you find that out? And those warnings of doom! Laying it on a bit thick, weren’t you? Alice is a true believer, you know – she’ll never have another moment’s peace after that little performance! Where did you get all that from, Maisie?’

‘Trade secret, Joe! Don’t ask!’