Daughter of Riches (40 page)

Paul. Her stomach lurched as she thought of him, catapulting her back to the present and her own dilemma. Should she tell Dan what she had discovered? Yesterday afternoon, sitting on her heels in the attic she had decided against it, for the moment anyway. She would talk to Paul first and see what he had to say – tonight she was having dinner with him and Viv, and it might give her the opportunity to raise the subject of Louis, she had thought. Now, however, she found herself wondering if perhaps it was wrong to stay silent. She had, after all, asked for Dan's help and he had been good enough to give it. Wasn't she being just a little dishonest – and unfair – keeping to herself the one piece of information that, when put together with whatever he was able to find out, might at least begin to solve the puzzle?

But it really wasn't that clear cut. Juliet had not realised how protective she would feel of her family's secrets. However indebted she might be to Dan Deffains she was not ready to trust him completely.

She glanced quickly at him, half afraid suddenly that he might somehow have been able to read her mind and know she was keeping something from him. He was looking at a display set up on the wall of the tunnel and the electric strip lighting threw his face into sharp relief – the jutting lines and planes that could be so hard and uncompromising, the full mouth and creases at the corners of his eyes that worked such a transformation when he smiled – and with a shock she realised for the first time what a very attractive man he was. How could she have failed to notice it? Because she had been so bound up in herself, she supposed, able to think of nothing but getting to the bottom of the family mystery. Now, quite suddenly, she was startlingly aware of him as a man and the awareness made her awkward, especially when he turned unexpectedly.

‘You saw this? Violette Szabo, the British Agent? Her daughter lived in Jersey. She was just a little girl when her mother was shot.'

‘Yes. Her father was killed in the war too, wasn't he? Etienne Szabo.'

‘You've obviously heard of them before.'

‘Yes.'

There was a poem she had once read, which Etienne had written to Violette. She couldn't remember where she had seen it but it had stuck in her memory as being quite beautiful: ‘ The life that I have is all that I have; And the life that I have is yours; The love that I have of the life that I have; Is yours and yours and yours. A rest I shall have, and a peace I shall have, But death will be but a pause; For the peace of my years in the long green grass Is yours and yours and yours …'

They were almost back at the entrance to the Hospital. Outside the sun was shining, early summer bright in a cloudless blue-sky, but none of it reached into the cold grey passages. Juliet shivered suddenly. She had got cold almost without realising it; now she wanted to be outside in the fresh air and the warmth.

‘Can we go now?'

‘Of course, if you're ready.'

‘I'm ready.'

‘Well, did you enjoy it?' he asked as they emerged into the sunshine.

‘I don't think enjoy is quite the right word.'

‘An experience, then.'

‘Oh, certainly that.' But she wasn't only thinking of the museum pieces. She was thinking of the sharp thrill of awareness she had experienced when she had seen him, quite literally, in a different light.

‘What do you say we look for somewhere doing cream teas?' he suggested.

She looked back at him. His eyes were on her, his mouth half-smiling. Nothing hard about that face now, just a strength that made her stomach lurch suddenly. But the unexpectedness of the emotion, twice repeated in such a short space of time, panicked her.

‘I think I ought to be getting back.'

Even as she said it she knew she was perversely half-hoping he would try to persuade her to stay. She had the unmistakeable feeling she would not take much persuading. But pressure was not Dan Deffains's style.

‘I guess you know best.'

‘Yes. Thank you for a lovely afternoon.'

‘And you'll be in touch.'

‘Yes.' She hesitated, wondering again if she should tell him at least that she was going to dinner with Paul and Viv tonight. But again she decided against it. Better to keep her own counsel for the moment. Later, when she had heard what Paul had to say, she would decide what to do. ‘I'll phone you tomorrow,' she said and walked away across the car park to where she had left her hire car.

Dan watched her go, watched the scarlet Metro streak out of the car park in the opposite direction to St Helier, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

Was he going soft or what?
Cream tea!
He hadn't had a cream tea since … He broke the thought mid-stream and waited for the pain to come rushing in. Marianne had loved cream teas. They'd used to stop off on summer afternoons at one of the little cafes that served them, and he'd always been amused at her childlike enjoyment, scraping the last bit of strawberry jam from the pot, licking her lips like a little cat until the very last taste of cream had gone. He'd never been that keen on cream teas himself, give him a good juicy steak any time, but he'd eaten them to please her. Now … He narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun, surprised to discover that he was remembering without wanting to bury himself in a deep dark hole, without wanting to get his hands around the neck of the bastard who killed her, without burning up with love and anger and grief. He felt sad, yes, but it was a sweet sadness, nostalgic almost rather than ravaging.

And oddly he knew that part of the sadness was regret that Juliet had not accepted his invitation.

Dinner at Paul and Vivienne Carteret's was always a patchy affair. Viv had never been much of a cook and left to her own devices the food she served up ranged from the unappetising to the inedible. When entertaining she invariably hired someone in to prepare the meal and see to the clearing up afterwards, but tonight she had been badly let down – Fenny le Grove's son had telephoned during the afternoon to say his mother had gone down with a stomach bug and Viv had had no option but to roll up her sleeves and take over.

‘I'd never have decided on coq-au-vin if I'd known I had to do it myself,' she complained to Paul when he arrived home from the office to find her in the kitchen hacking away at a chicken in an effort to cut it into joints. ‘ I do think it's very inconsiderate of Fenny to be ill today just when I need her.'

‘Never mind, Friday would be even more inconvenient,' Paul comforted her. ‘You haven't forgotten half the Tourist Board are coming to dinner then?'

‘Oh my God, I had forgotten! Well, if Fenny's not better we shall have to have something sent over from one of the hotel kitchens.'

‘We could do that tonight if you like,' Paul said hopefully. Even had Viv been completely sober he doubted the chicken would be worth eating and as it was she had been fortifying herself with gin and tonic during her lengthy preparations and was beginning to get decidedly slap-dash.

To his disappointment, however, Viv dismissed the idea.

‘No, it's only Juliet, and it would be a pity to waste the things I've bought for the coq-au-vin. The mushrooms won't keep, the chicken is a fresh one and there's a bottle of red wine I got especially.'

‘I can't imagine the red wine going to waste when you're around,' Paul said, and Viv snorted indignantly, pulling at chicken skin with her long red nails.

‘It's only plonk! That's why I bought it – I thought you'd object to my using good stuff in a casserole.'

‘Very true,' Paul said, resigning himself to a less-than-Cordon Bleu meal.

When Juliet arrived at seven Viv was still wearing her old slacks and struggling to prepare a salad while the potatoes boiled over onto the hob.

‘Don't worry, Viv,' Juliet said when her aunt apologised. ‘You go and get changed – I'll take over here.'

‘Really?' Viv sounded relieved but amazed that anyone should actually volunteer for such a chore.

‘I don't mind at all,' Juliet said, handing Viv her gin and tonic. ‘I do quite a bit of cooking at home.'

‘All right. I'll be as quick as I can.'

‘No hurry. Have a nice long soak,' Juliet said. ‘The chicken will be at least another half hour if we're not all to risk getting salmonella.'

‘Bless you!' Viv sipped her gin and disappeared out the door. ‘You're a good girl, Juliet!'

Juliet smiled wanly. She wondered if Viv would think she was quite so wonderful if she knew what was in her mind – half an hour with Viv out of the way meant half an hour alone with Paul, perhaps the best chance she would have to ask him a few pertinent questions.

‘A glass of sherry, Juliet – or would you rather have a g and t?' Paul asked when Viv had gone.

‘A g and t I think.' Juliet was not looking forward to what she had to do; a gin might, she thought, help her through it. She adjusted the heat under the potatoes – they would be more than done by the time the chicken was ready – and cut the French bread into thick slices for the croutes. But it was an effort to keep her hand steady and when Paul returned with the gin she sipped it gratefully, wondering how best to broach the subject. Thankfully he made it easy for her.

‘How is your grandmother today? Better?'

‘Better than she was. I'm still concerned about her …' Juliet hesitated then plunged in. ‘Paul – there are a few things I was hoping to ask her about but obviously if she's poorly I really can't. I don't want to upset her.'

‘Oh and what are they?' Paul asked, but Juliet could tell from his expression and the way he took a gulp of his Glenfiddich that he knew already.

‘Louis,' she said.

‘Louis? You mean my nephew Louis?'

‘Well of course. I'm curious about him. What was he like?'

For a moment Paul looked startled. That wasn't the question he had been expecting.

‘What was he like? Well, he had a lot of charm. No one could deny that. The ladies certainly fell for him. You could say he had a devilish streak they found irresistible. And he liked them. A little too much.'

‘He never married though.'

‘Oh no, not Louis. Sensible man, he knew how to love 'em and leave ' em. But then he knew how to make the most of all life's little pleasures. He was fond of good food, good wine, good living generally.'

‘And gambling? Did he gamble?'

‘He was a bit of a one in that direction, yes. He used to go over to London and even the States to the casinos. He couldn't gamble here, of course. It's illegal – though if he had his way he'd have had the law changed. He'd have liked to open a casino or gambling club of his own as an extension to one of the hotels.'

‘You talked about it then?'

‘Well yes. But I couldn't see that he'd ever get anywhere with something like that. Jersey can be pretty set in its ways and even Louis wouldn't have stood much chance of getting the law changed so drastically.'

‘If he was so keen I expect he found ways to gamble himself,' she persisted and from the corner of her eye noticed that Paul had begun to sweat a little.

‘There's nothing to stop anyone gambling in the privacy of their own home, obviously,' he said shortly. ‘Good God, plenty of people do that.'

‘I suppose they do.' Juliet hesitated, unsure how to go on. She could hardly ask Paul outright about the money he had owed Louis and whether Louis's death had saved him from having to pay it. Judging by the fact that the entries had never been ruled out in Louis's little account book she rather suspected it had. But so what? Juliet was suddenly overcome with repugnance for what she was doing. Standing here in her uncle's kitchen pretending to cook his dinner and asking questions with a view to proving that he had had the motive, and perhaps the opportunity, to kill Louis. All very well to argue that her original intention had been good, to clear her grandmother's name, but the road to hell, they say, is paved with good intentions. Suddenly Juliet felt very strongly that she had somehow inadvertently taken that road.

‘You're right, of course,' she said, shifting the subject. ‘It certainly sounds as if Louis enjoyed life. I should imagine he was very popular.'

A short laugh from the doorway made her look up. Viv was standing there, holding her glass high so that it almost looked as though she was about to drink a toast. She had changed into a bright green dress; the colour reflected in her eyes and vied with the scarlet of her lips.

‘Did I hear you say Louis was popular?' she asked loudly. ‘If so I have to tell you you are very much mistaken.'

Her voice was slightly slurred; Juliet, embarrassed, wondered just how much gin she had drunk.

‘Come on now, Viv, let's not speak ill of the dead,' Paul urged her, mock jovial. ‘We were just saying Louis liked the good things in life, and so he did.'

‘You can say that again!' Viv shrieked. ‘But
this
good thing didn't like him – and neither did anyone else much. Louis made plenty of enemies inside the family and out. It was his way, you know that. He loved being top dog. Loved making others look small. Loved taking from them what little they had. Loved creating mayhem. Cuckolding, boozing, greedy, mean-spirited Louis – God bless him!'

‘Viv!' Paul said sharply. ‘That's enough. You don't mean what you are saying. Louis wasn't that bad.'

Viv giggled. In a younger woman her demeanour would have been unpleasant. At her age it was quite grotesque.

‘You're a fine one to talk, Paul! Louis wasn't that bad, was he? You hated his guts! No one was more pleased than you when he …'

‘Viv, that will do!' Paul thundered. A pulse was beating at his temple, and Juliet, guilty and embarrassed, leaped in:

‘Viv – I've cut the bread for croutes. Would you like me to fry them? Where's the oil?'