Birth Marks (18 page)

In the silence that followed the clock ate further into his life. He sat like a corpse in his chair, his hand still clutched over hers, her eyes still on the floor. I had come here predisposed to disbelieve him. Out-manoeuvred and used, it was in the interests of my bruised pride to keep him and his sexy, slimy assistant in horns and tails. On the other hand, I'm the one who's always telling Frank how women can sometimes get there quicker than men because they're not humping their inflated egos around with them. Everything he had said fitted with the facts as I knew them: the timing, the money, the motivations, the states of mind. Even her
volte face
made its own kind of unsatisfactory sense. Pregnant women are supposed to be volatile beings. Even I knew that much. And nine months is long enough to change your mind. As the baby grew inside her, began dolphin-dipping its way around her womb, so the theoretical would have turned into the real. What had begun as any baby would have become her baby; mother and child, more binding than any legal contract. Which brought us to the very last mystery of all. Why this young woman, so apparently determined and so literally full of life, should run away from one trap only to catch herself in another, this time even more powerful and crushing. The high blood pressure story I could neither refute nor accept. A little research would sort it out, but my instinct was that if a post mortem hadn't found it, it was unlikely. What did that leave? Another seismic emotional shift? Had that last walk been, as Belmont claimed, a series of faltering footsteps in a fog of guilt and fear? Or could it have been a push from behind as punishment for a broken contract? I admit that one got me excited. If it had been a question of adoption rather than surrogacy it might have made sense. But even without the suicide note I couldn't make it fit. Revenge would have been an act of ultimate self-destruction. More than anything, Belmont needed her alive. She was—to use his own phrase—his last chance. Killing her was literally killing a part of himself. But discarding murder still didn't explain suicide. From whichever angle you looked at it, it didn't completely add up. Except in some ways that was what gave it its final credibility. Why go to the trouble of creating such an elaborate tale only to leave loose ends? Life is always messier than fiction. That's why we need stories to tidy it up.

Of course, mythically speaking, this is the moment where the private investigator steps in with the three subtle but penetrating questions which act as the litmus paper between truth and deception. I felt suddenly homesick for store detection and Mrs Van de Bilt's shopping sprees in duty-free ports. And good old English policemen, corrupt in the more predictable ways. I was adrift in a welter of facts. Question number one: was I really such a good private detective?

‘Madame Belmont?' When in doubt over content go for strategy. She looked up at me. And her eyes were clear. Any pain there might have been in the story retold had passed away. ‘Do you have anything to add? Anything that might explain what happened to Carolyn after she left here.' She shook her head. ‘You spent a lot of time with her during the pregnancy. You must have noticed the change as it was taking place. Or have some idea what could have caused it.'

She glanced away, and I noticed she was careful not to look at him. I was getting a clear message from her reticence. The story had been told for both of them. She was just here as window dressing, to be seen but not heard. Except the last time we'd met she hadn't struck me as being the chronically shy type. After a small pause which might have passed for thought she said: ‘I'm sorry. I can't help you any more than I have already. All I can say is that by the time she left I think she had come to see it as her child and not ours. And because of that what had once seemed possible was no longer.'

Belmont flicked a glance at her, a glance and a slight frown. Maybe it was just incomprehension. In which case that made two of us. As an explanation it was one for the birds, or the sybils. It occurred to me that Belmont might again be telling more of the truth than I wanted to believe, and that despite her perfect grooming the lady of the house might indeed have been turned doo lally by loss and the children she couldn't have. I shuffled around for a while in the darkness. The shaft of light when it came was weak and flickering. But it was all I had. Luckily it grew stronger as I got nearer.

‘There's only one thing I don't understand. You said that if you adopted a child it would inevitably lead to some publicity and that was something you were eager to avoid. But when Carolyn had the baby and handed it over to you wouldn't the same thing have occurred? I mean people would have started asking questions about the baby anyway.'

He nodded, almost as if he was pleased by the question. ‘I congratulate you, Miss Wolfe. You're absolutely right. There is one thing I omitted to tell you. When Carolyn conceived so did Mathilde. Officially that is. Of course, there had been too many disappointments for us to risk a full public disclosure. The few—and they were very few—people that we told knew the news had to remain a closely guarded secret. We made it clear that in order to minimize the chance of miscarriage Mathilde would be constantly supervised, and stay close to home for the duration of her pregnancy. It was hardly a great sacrifice. Our marriage has always been more private than public property, and since my heart attacks I have long ceased to be of much interest to the gossip columnists. Daniel is much more profitable fodder.'

Despite myself I let that one go. ‘What about doctors? You could hardly fool them.'

‘In terms of specialists, Mathilde had been seeing an American gynaecologist. That she did or didn't continue to consult him was nobody's business but her own. In fact throughout the process of AID and the pregnancy Carolyn was looked after privately by my own doctor. He has cared for myself and my family for over thirty years. He treated Carolyn with exactly the same expertise and attention he would have given to my wife.'

A faithful retainer? Recently blinded or just loyal and therefore very rich? ‘So how did you explain an eight-month miscarriage? Or did you and the doctor just agree to forget the whole thing?'

‘There was no need. The week after Carolyn's death we let it be known that Mathilde had suffered a miscarriage four months before, and that we kept the news a secret until she had had a chance to recover. As for our doctor—of course you will appreciate that the relationship between patient and practioner is confidential.'

As no doubt was his latest bank statement. I thought of old hatchet face at the front door and big Maurice who had managed to mislay the goose with the golden egg. Presumably they too had much more in their savings account than they used to. Meanwhile poor old Mathilde had become the scapegoat, the potential hysteric to be handled with kid gloves lest any mention of her continued barrenness push her over into permanent illness. It was not a role I would have agreed to play, but then no doubt she was better trained. From translator to Madame Belmont in one easy step; every promotion brings with it responsibilities. Maybe this was part of the contract. Either she loved him more than my imagination (dull and stubborn as it was) could conceive or she was biding her time. Presumably after he died she could do what the hell she liked, could adopt a whole slew of children that weren't his, fill the house with them like a latter-day Josephine Baker. The image was rather comforting: this huge mausoleum of restored good taste disappearing under the onslaught of jammy fingers and pen marks. I wound back the thread to get to where I'd come from and ran into the doctor and his confidentiality. ‘I see. And your wife's medical records?' He gave an apologetic little shrug. Rather coy in the circumstances, I thought. ‘Don't tell me. Unaccountably mislaid, of course. Along with the surrogate contract that never officially was.'

He smiled slightly. Of course. This has been the scam of a life as well as a lifetime. A businessman of his standing would have learnt how to cover his tracks. Except on balance it might have been simpler to do a Henry VIII. Chop off her head and marry a lady-in-waiting. Maybe he wished he had, now. Certainly this level of conspiracy left him all too vulnerable. And, as he himself had said, for a man committed to secrecy he had told me altogether too much. What guarantee did he have that I wouldn't walk out tomorrow and go straight to the police? His name might cut through icebergs in France but, as he himself had said, he was virtually unknown in England. No police buddies to hush it up there. And what wouldn't interest the French police would still fascinate the French press. He must have thought about it and considered it a risk worth taking. But then risks were something he knew all about. What were the odds against surviving the resistance in occupied France and then going on to make yourself a fortune or two? Maybe if you take enough risks you forge a different relationship with fate, start to write your own ticket. I wondered if he was afraid of dying. No bargain there. Except perhaps the one we were engaged in, allowing him to go with his reputation intact.

‘I don't think I need add that I have taken a substantial risk in telling you as much as I have. As I'm sure you know only to well, a man like myself is not without enemies and there are people who would pay a good deal of money to learn what I have just told you. Which brings me to my last request. At the risk of alienating you further—and Daniel has made it clear that in his opinion I shouldn't say this—I would ask that if you should be tempted in any way in that direction I will freely and gladly pay you an equally large sum to protect myself and my family.'

It was not the most tactful way to end a submission, but it was, at least, sincere. What had he said about putting himself at my mercy? Maybe he wasn't such a bad judge of character after all. I let him sweat for a while, but the perspiration wasn't obvious.

‘There's not much I can say. I've been employed to find out certain things. You've told me what you know. Now I have to tell that to my client. What they do with the information is their affair. Your nephew was right. I am not a golddigger, Mr Belmont. But more than that I cannot promise.'

He nodded. ‘Thank you for your honesty, Miss Wolfe. I appreciate it. I am only sorry that you have been put through such distress and intimidation over the last two days.' And if there was any irony I didn't hear it. ‘You are, of course, completely free to leave at any time. I would suggest that you do not return to your pension in Senlis. I fear the room may no longer be in perfect order. Your account and any damage will, of course, be settled for you. Should you wish it we can drive you to another hotel, or you can stay the night here and in the morning we will take you wherever you want to go. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's late and I think we could all benefit from a little sleep.'

I
stayed, because I was tired and because I was fairly certain it wasn't in their interests to murder me in my bed. It was Maurice and not Daniel who was summoned to take me back to the summerhouse. No doubt the golden boy of Belmont Aviation was getting in his beauty sleep. Either that or he was needed for a conference after I had gone. I couldn't have cared less. Now I didn't have to think any more my brain had imploded in on itself. Everything else could wait till morning. This time he didn't lock the door. I heard him stomp down the stairs and out into the night.

Next to the bed was a thermos full of hot chocolate and an exquisite glass decanter half-filled with what looked like that best brandy. One could almost see the bubble coming out of the neck reading ‘Louis XV drank here'. Chocolate versus Cognac. In fact, although I'd never admit it to Frank, I'm quite partial to a little hot chocolate but tonight, given the occasion, there was no contest. I poured a large brandy and swirled it around the glass enjoying the visuals. Considering how much he must have paid for it, it didn't taste as good as I expected—not so much the warm glow as the coal burn at the back of my throat—but then what did my plebeian palate know about vintage Cognac? I drank it anyway, then crawled between the clean smooth sheets and closed my eyes. I was lying where Carolyn Hamilton had lain for months as she grew into her body and away from the deal she had made. If I hadn't been so tired it would have been awesome. With any luck it would still be awesome in the morning.

Sleep turned out to be a good practice for death, instant total extinction with not even the slightest trace of dream. The first notice I had that they hadn't, indeed, murdered me in my bed was a very noisy opening of a door somewhere near by. I prized open an eye to see Hatchet Face hovering at the foot of the bed, tray in hand. From the way she was standing it was sort of clear this was the last call for breakfast. She put it down on the table, sweeping up the brandy decanter and thermos. I dragged myself up on to the pillows and looked at my watch: 9.00 a.m. I thought about making conversation. Now I had been accepted into the bosom of the family a few pertinent questions about that other English houseguest mightn't go amiss, but when I asked her how much she had seen of Carolyn during her stay she threw me her best Medusa look and was out of the door before the stone had had time to set. So much for the faithful old retainers.

I ate fast and was up and ready to go within twenty minutes. But no one came for me. I opened the shutters and windows and looked out on to the world according to Jules Belmont. A hazy sun was filtering through the trees. Off to the left I could just catch the shimmer of the glass-surfaced lake. I was caressed by a sense of timelessness and peace. She must have looked out over this view a hundred times, watched from her window as summer ripened and faded and the world grew dark into winter. It and her. Had she really been so happy about it at first? Sure she needed the cash. But no amount of money was going to have her on her points again, and without that she was still a young woman nursing a soured dream. Maybe with time laying heavily on her hands the memory of one failed career had made her decide to try another, this time less burdened by other people's expectations. After all, anyone can be a mother. I wondered at what point she had realized that—to quote Mathilde—what once seemed possible was no longer? It must have been an awesome moment. And she must have been frightened, of what she felt as well as what they would say. Discovering how much you love and want something can be as terrifying as it is exhilarating. I stretched my fingers across my flat stomach and tried to imagine the sensation, but all I could feel was breakfast disintegrating under the onslaught of gastric juices. There are some things that even female empathy can't reach. I could spend the rest of my life feeling for her but I would still never know how she felt.

I closed the window and gathered my things together. Now I had let the thought of her in, the room unnerved me. I wanted to be out of it, in a car, on a plane, anywhere where I could think clearly without her presence nibbling at the edges of my brain.

Outside the world was quiet and still, the back façade of the house shuttered up from the night. If the château had been mine, each dawn probably would have found me up and out counting the windows, just in case. Still, probably when you're that rich one room more or less doesn't matter.

I wandered over the terrace and through the rose garden. Then I made my way round to the front of the house and walked straight into Daniel, standing out on the front steps surveying the world. Maybe he was practising for the moment when all this would be his. He was dressed for work, the same scrumptious baggy suit that had been the cause of all the trouble. I realized I had never seen him in daylight. It made him a little older, maybe a little more ordinary. No doubt it did the same for me too. If I had given it any thought, and to be honest I had—just a little—I had expected the sight of him to rekindle my resentment. But now when I went looking for it, I couldn't find it. Even the magnetism seemed to have faded. As he said, we had both been doing our jobs. Simple as that.

‘Good morning, Hannah. You look rested. I was on my way to get you. Maurice is ready with the car.'

Sure enough, at the edge of the drive sat the limo, gleaming and self-important. Daylight was kinder to it than to us. Maurice, I noticed, was tinkering under the bonnet.

‘Jules and Mathilde have asked me to give you their apologies. Jules is not well this morning. They're waiting for the doctor.'

‘Unfortunately he's out already. His wife says she's not expecting him back until lunchtime.'

She took us both by surprise, appearing from the door behind him so suddenly that one wondered if she hadn't been waiting in the hall until she heard our voices. She was wearing a pale-blue pleated skirt and a cashmere sweater, quiet but expensive. Her hair was held back in a bandana. But even she suffered under the morning sun, that perfect skin a little less firm and glowing. She walked down the steps over to me and held out a hand. It was a quick grasp, but the look stayed longer. ‘Miss Wolfe. I'm grateful for all your time and patience. I realize this can't have been easy for you. I do hope you have a good journey home.' It struck me as slightly absurd, this arch politeness. Absurd and rather forced. ‘Will you be flying her to London, Daniel?'

Her remark caused him a little trouble, although if you hadn't been looking for it you might not have noticed. ‘I can't imagine that will be necessary. I'm sure Miss Wolfe has her own ticket.'

‘Ah well, it was just a thought.' She smiled at me. ‘We have our own private plane, you see, Miss Wolfe. Belmont Aviation, you understand. Daniel is always going to and fro. Sometimes it's hard to keep track of him. Well, if you'll forgive me, I must go to my husband.'

‘Mathilde.' He waited until she was halfway to the door. And this time his voice was tight. ‘Don't let him get up. He's not as well as he thinks.'

She bowed her head and a look passed between them. Don't tell me how to look after my husband, it said. If this had been a different kind of story, more of the Danielle Steele type, I would have had these two rutting their socks off in the gamekeeper's cottage, while the old man languished in the bathchair on the lawn. And after, as they shared the inevitable post-coital cigarette, they would weave their cunning plots to get rid of the girl carrying the heir that could potentially disenfranchise them both. Frank would have liked that version. But that was all that could be said for it. They might be the best-looking characters in the dramatis personae, but even allowing for great acting there was a good deal less than nothing going on between them. He watched her until she was inside the house, then turned to me.

‘Maurice can drop you back at your Paris hotel or wait and drive you on to the airport—whichever you like.'

It was tempting, but even at this stage it didn't do to tell the opposition exactly what you were doing, even if it didn't matter that they knew. ‘No. No, the hotel will be fine.'

Maurice emerged from the bonnet wiping his hands. I had the briefest of fantasies about the brake cable and a wild screaming bend at eighty miles an hour. But nobody in their right minds doctors a car with the victim standing right by it, particularly not when they're also the one doing the driving. He nodded at me, as if somewhat embarrassed at my change of status, then walked back into the house clutching the cloth.

In the warm still morning Daniel and I stood alone for the first time since last night's journey. It seemed a long time ago. He opened the back door and I slid inside. Here it comes, I thought, the long goodbye. If we were both still doing our jobs he needed to get as much out of it as I did. He leant on the open window. I held his gaze. Go on, buddy, you might as well go for it. After a moment he said, ‘I think it must be hard for you, following in her footsteps but not really knowing who she was. If we had more time I could tell you what she was like.'

‘Would it help me to know?'

‘You'd have to decide that for yourself. They were very fond of her, you know.'

‘So they said. And you?'

‘I don't think “fond” is the right word. She always seemed a bit confused to me. Not really sure what she should be doing with her life. I don't think she ever understood the implications of what she'd taken on.'

‘So you weren't surprised when she changed her mind?'

He paused. ‘No, not entirely.'

‘And, of course, you told all this to your uncle, but he went ahead regardless?'

He smiled. ‘As you must have realized by now, in the end Jules does what he wants, which is usually the same as what he needs, but not always.'

I thought about what it must like, stepping into Belmont's shoes and running his empire. He wasn't the kind of a man to give up power easily, even to his own flesh and blood. It was my turn to make conversation. ‘He told me he sent you to London to look for her.'

‘I went, yes.' We both noticed the substitution of the verb.

‘When did you go?'

‘Saturday night.'

‘What time?'

He smiled. ‘Exactly or approximately? I believe I got in some time between 8.30 p.m. and 9.00 p.m. But no doubt if you check with Heathrow flight control they could give you the exact timing.'

We both knew the post mortem had estimated death between 4.00 p.m. and 6.30 p.m. Which meant that had he arrived any earlier we also both knew he could have been a suspect. I pretended not to be interested in pursuing it. ‘And from the airport?'

‘I went to her house.'

‘And?'

‘She wasn't there.'

‘Hmmn.' I counted to three. ‘You must have been looking forward to having a cousin again, after all these years?'

He shook his head in mock exasperation. ‘You don't give up, do you, Hannah? What are you after now? Motives? I'm sorry to disappoint you. But there was more than enough money to go round. Do you know how much Jules is worth? We could split it ten ways and we'd all still be rich. And by the time “he”—we always called him “he”—had been old enough to step into my shoes I'd already be taking them off for splendid retirement. So you see, even if she hadn't committed suicide there would still have been no reason to kill her.'

There was something catching in my mind, something that didn't quite fit, but I couldn't find it. Maybe later, when I was trying less hard…‘So, she wasn't at the flat. What did you do for the rest of the night?'

‘Tried to find her.' He frowned. ‘I hadn't really expected her to be there anyway. I mean it was the one place we were bound to follow her. I waited for a while, just in case I was wrong, then I went looking. Anywhere and everywhere. I even spent an hour or two on the embankment by Charing Cross. Right river, wrong place, eh? I think I knew what she had done even then. I kept thinking I might find her under the next cardboard box, with a bottle of pills in her hand. Poor kid.'

He stopped, rerunning footage of the homeless in his head. Luckily it hadn't stopped him coming home to his mansion. After a while he said, ‘You know the real tragedy of this story, Hannah? She didn't need to kill herself. He would never really have forced her back. Despite what he might have said to her. I know this may not be the right time to bring it up, Hannah, but whatever his faults Jules Belmont is a remarkable man.'

‘An old war hero who ought to be allowed to die in peace, you mean?'

He smiled. ‘Something like that.' He left a second's pause. ‘But then I'm hardly the one to be asking for favours. You'll do what you have to. I think we all know that. I just hope you make the right decision.
Bon voyage
.' He held out a hand. I hesitated, then took it. And just for that moment, just for that touch, the old flame licked up again, a sweet small burn in the pit of my stomach. I let go first. He withdrew his hand, slowly. ‘As I told you, Hannah, it wasn't all lies. In other circumstances…'

‘Yeah, well, work before pleasure. I gather it's becoming a European disease.'

‘Perhaps some time when I'm in London…?'

But who wants to be just another name in the back pages of an executive's Filofax? A private investigator should have more pride. ‘Yeah, perhaps.'