Katerina's Secret (2 page)

‘Extraordinary,' said Edward Jonathan Somers. He got out and peered at the trees and shrubs crowding the gentle ascent. He detected neither movement nor sound. He
turned and inspected the downward slope on the other side of the road. Scented pine trees covered the ground. He advanced. One did not shrug off a running man and a rifle shot. Somewhere, fairly close, was the person who had fired the shot. Because he was curious and intrigued, he began a slow and cautious ingress into the profusion of pines. Caution was commonsensical, slowness a necessity.

The descent was not steep, but even so he could not go too far because the return would be a climb, which would mean an uphill effort for him in more ways than one. Reaching a break in the trees, he saw the high stone wall that bounded the Villa d'Azur. The villa itself, nestling amid palms at a distance of some seventy yards, showed only its pink roof tiles. He noticed the jagged array of broken glass cemented into the top of the wall. Villa owners were not usually inclined to seal themselves off as uncompromisingly as that. Intruders intent on burglary or pillage were rare in the quieter areas of the Riviera, although confidence men and gigolos operated with smooth efficiency in Nice and Cannes.

Edward turned at the lightest of sounds and saw, not a rifleman, but a slender and quite lovely woman, a brimmed white hat in her
hand. Her silk dress was also white, and with it she wore black silk stockings and white shoes. She came to his eyes as a vision unexpected and enchanting. Her hair was a mass of dark, rich auburn; long lashes framed eyes of deep, clear grey, eyes that were startled as she beheld him. He thought her about thirty, but there was something of the magic of never-forgotten youth in those eyes of striking clarity. They held him mesmerized. He was as silent as she was. It was a moment when his tongue lay still, a discovery more fascinating than anything which might have been said. But he spoke when the silence began to bring a slight flush to her oval face,

‘I heard someone fire a rifle,' he said with a smile.

‘M'sieur,' she said, ‘you are regarding me with so much earnestness that I fear you think I am the guilty one.' Her voice was warm and mellow, with an undercurrent of amusement, her responsive English so fluent that she might have been a compatriot. But he had a certainty she was not English.

‘Have I been staring?'

‘Indeed, m'sieur, and earnestly.'

‘I do apologize—' Edward broke off as a man appeared.

Tall and strong-looking with an iron-grey beard and an impassive countenance, he was dressed in a white shirt, grey tie and black trousers. Without either jacket or hat, he looked as if he might have been interrupted while relaxing in the sunshine. He turned dark eyes on the slender woman. She, taller than average, lifted her chin and Edward thought he glimpsed a flicker of imperious defiance. The bearded man said nothing. He merely shook his head in reproach. She turned without a word and walked away, elegant and graceful, to become a flutter of white amid the pines.

The bearded man regarded Edward sombrely.

‘This is private property, m'sieur,' he said in French.

‘Are you sure?' said Edward in the same language. ‘It isn't fenced.'

‘It is private property, m'sieur. Please go.'

‘My only reason for being here is that I heard a rifle shot,' said Edward.

‘A rifle shot?' The bearded man was unresponsive.

‘I think it was fired over the head of a running man.'

‘I'm not that man, m'sieur. Nor, as you see, do I have a rifle.'

‘Even so,' said Edward, ‘I'm sure one was fired, and that isn't something which happens every day.'

‘I think, m'sieur, you will find rifles being fired every day in many parts of the world. Please have the goodness to go on your way.'

‘Very well,' said Edward, and left, making a slow climb back to the road. He was breathing a little heavily by the time he reached his car, but he was thinking more about the striking vision of elegance than his chest.

The doors of the Corniche swung open for him a few minutes later as he pulled up outside the hotel. Jacques, the porter and handyman, came down the wide steps to take care of his luggage.

‘Welcome,
mon Capitaine
. You are well?' That was how Jacques, an old soldier, always greeted him.

‘I'm in excellent health, Jacques.' That was how Edward always responded, although it was never precisely true. He was no longer in the British Army, and nor was he resplendent with health. He had been gassed in Flanders in 1917. Any exercise in advance of a slow walk put a strain on his poisoned lungs. He had not been as badly gassed as some, but he had breathed in enough of the deadly stuff to reduce him from
a vigorous man to a disabled one. His doctor assured him he was not in danger of dying unless he indulged in activities fatally foolish, like mountain-climbing or hundred-yard sprints. All in all, anything of a robust nature was out. Providing he walked where others ran, providing he paced himself, he could live his allotted span – and providing he escaped the hazards of severe and foggy winters. So he spent his winters at the Corniche, where there was neither fog nor snow to endure.

At thirty-five, he considered he had already enjoyed eleven years that might have been denied to him. To live at the Corniche during its out-of-season periods was an added enjoyment. Its comfort, peace and quiet made him feel he could not count himself an entirely unfortunate man. He always stayed until April, returning then to England and an appreciation of its burgeoning spring, and the endearing vagaries of its summer, in his little cottage near Guildford.

He had been invalided out of the army in 1919, but someone had taken an interested note of the fact that he had a degree in history, for he was invited to become a member of the team responsible for preparing the official history of the Great War. This entailed absorbing
research work, which fascinated him. The department concerned was accommodating, not minding where he was as long as he was doing what he was drawing his pay for.

As usual, he had brought a trunkful of material that would enable him to complete his current assignment by May. This was an account of the first battle of Ypres. While the weather remained warm he would be able to work outside, to do his writing by the little summer house in the garden at the rear of the hotel. Young Celeste Michel, daughter of Madame Michel, would bring him coffee or Pernod from time to time. He had acquired a taste for Pernod.

He mounted the steps to the open doors, leaving Jacques attending to his luggage. In the cool, shady lobby, with its strip of carpet leading to the stairs, a girl came from behind the little reception desk, a delighted smile on her face and her blue eyes alight.

‘Monsieur Somers! Oh, how happy I am to see you.' And Celeste Michel, Latin-black hair bobbed, flung her arms around him in welcome. He planted a kiss on her cheek. They were old friends. He had known her for eight years. Celeste, sixteen now, was devoted. Edward was her confidant, recipient of her
imaginative outpourings concerning the hotel, the village and herself.

‘Sweet soul of innocence, how you've grown,' he smiled. ‘You're up to here.' He touched his chin.

‘But of course. Almost I'm fully grown. I'm sixteen.' Celeste, quite without inhibitions, stood back so that he might better observe what she had accomplished since he had last seen her in April. She had put two inches on her height and acquired roundness where she most desired it. Having every French girl's unashamed consciousness of physical development, she was extremely proud now that she had a figure. She wore a neat black dress, stylishly short, with a white collar and white cuffs. ‘I've left school and am now Mama's invaluable help. I'm in charge of the reception desk, the telephone and the allocation of rooms. Do you wish me to call a number for you?'

‘I can't think of one at the moment,' said Edward.

‘Never mind,' said Celeste, ‘but I'm at your service whenever you're desperate to communicate. Did you have a good journey? The roads were not too bad for you?'

‘My journey was very good.'

Jacques entered the lobby with a trunk weighing down his shoulders.

‘To room three, Jacques,' said Celeste.

‘I know, I know,' said Jacques, and hefted his way through the lobby.

‘M'sieur, you have your usual ground-floor room,' smiled Celeste, ‘and Marie has put it into perfect order for you. Oh, I'm so happy you've come again. Mama herself says it's a pleasure to have you.'

She looked him over with care and affection. He was thin, of course, he was always thin, and a little hollow-chested because of his complaint. His light salt-and-pepper tweed suit was the same one he had arrived in last year, and the year before, but it was very well cut and good-tempered. His face was lean, with hollows, but he did not look ill. Indeed, the sun had touched him during his drive in the open car, and there was colour in his cheeks. With his tweed cap removed, his thick dark brown hair showed its widow's peak. His eyes, brown, were those of a kind and amiable man. Celeste felt sad that he had no wife to look after him. She thought very little of all the unmarried Englishwomen who must know him, for not one of them, apparently, cared to take him on. Or perhaps he had not asked any of them. She
had spent the last two years casting around for a suitable French lady, one who would make him an affectionate and caring wife. Her interest had pointed her in the direction of the only two ladies in La Roche who were eligible. After some consideration, she dismissed both of them. Whether either of them would have suited Monsieur Somers was not a point uppermost in her mind, for she was quite sure they did not suit her. She thought one too stupid, the other too gushing.

Celeste smiled. She accompanied him to his room on the ground floor. It was square and spacious, with a shining floor of parquet
à l'anglais
and a colourful bedside rug. Double casement doors opened out on to the well-kept garden. He always had this room, so that he did not have the stairs to negotiate. He did not mind stairs, he said, but what was the point of making him walk up and down unnecessarily? Her mother, who was fond of him, would not have that at all. Since she was a war widow, her mother could have made him a very good wife, but perhaps she was rather old at forty.

‘This is splendid, Celeste,' said Edward, regarding the room with satisfaction. Its furniture and walls were friendly and familiar
to him. Jacques had deposited the trunk and gone to fetch another.

‘It's as you like it?' said Celeste.

‘It always is. So is everything else, including you, my angel.'

She laughed.

‘Oh, for you, m'sieur, I will even grow wings.'

Madame Michel entered through the open door. Running to matronly fullness, she was a handsome woman, her black hair parted down the middle and braided around her head. She extended a warm hand to Edward, who took it.

‘I am happy of your arrival, Monsieur Somers,' she said in English. She was proud of her English, though not always accurate with it. ‘It is most of a pleasure to see you again. How well you are looking, but you must take care when the evenings become cold. You need not say when you are needing to be on fire. Marie will light it each evening from next month.'

‘Ah, my very good Madame Michel,' said Edward gravely
,
‘I'm in contented expectation that all will be taken care of, including when I'm needing to be on fire.'

Madame Michel smiled.

‘M'sieur, I'll bring you tea,' said Celeste, ‘and then Marie will fill the bath for you.'

She knew he liked to take baths. Celeste was satisfied to soak herself once a week, as was her mother, but many visitors had acquired the habit of bathing every day. There were sixteen guest rooms, and when the hotel was full a glut of daily bathers put a great strain on the old boiler. During the winter season, however, when the hotel averaged only half the number of summer guests, the boiler made few complaints.

Celeste lingered after her mother departed. Jacques brought the second trunk and Edward tipped him. Celeste still lingered.

‘M'sieur – '

‘Tea,' said Edward.

‘Oh, yes, at once.' She sped away. In a little while she took the tray to him, in the garden, where he sat relaxing at a table near the summer house. Blooms festooned the poinsettia bushes with colour, and the afternoon was still warm and sunny, though the evening might bring a touch of coolness when it arrived.

‘Thank you, Celeste.'

‘You will inspect the pot?' she invited, lifting the lid. He peered. The tea leaves swam in the steaming water.

‘I think it'll do,' he said.

‘It would be calamitous if it did not do,' said Celeste, very aware that Edward was as critical as all English people about the quality of a pot of tea. ‘May I pour, m'sieur?'

‘Please do, my infant.'

Celeste poured.

‘Oh, m'sieur, what do you think? I am now friends with Madame. You remember her?'

‘I remember you telling me of her. I remember you were very inquisitive.'

‘No, no, interested, that's all,' she protested. ‘You aren't too tired to talk?'

‘I'm not too tired to listen. I feel you've got a thousand words on your tongue. If you're not too busy, entertain me, Celeste. I made my journey in wise stages, and have only motored a hundred miles today. I'm ready to be entertained.'

‘It's always been so intriguing,' said Celeste.

‘My motoring?'

‘No, m'sieur, the mystery of Madame, who came to live at the Villa d'Azur two years ago and hid herself behind its walls, even though she was so beautiful. I saw her only twice, each time through the
pylône grille
.' That was the wrought-iron gate that fronted the road at the beginning of the villa's drive. ‘She smiled at me. But three months ago, you see, the little
green gate in the wall overlooking the sea was open. I couldn't resist peeping, and there she was, m'sieur, gathering flowers from her garden.'