Pardonable Lie (22 page)

“Darling, whatever kept you? I’ve been waiting for ages, simply ages! And I have left Douglas with the toads—the nanny is still in love and has taken a day off to get up to heaven knows what with her latest
garçon.
Mind you, we did owe her a day off, I must say.” Priscilla barely stopped talking to take a breath, though she did turn to the porter who ran in her wake, to point to Maisie’s luggage. “Now then, how are you, Maisie?” She linked arms with her friend and strode out toward her motor car, which appeared to have been parked indiscriminately outside the station, with one wheel on the pavement and little room for other motors to pass.

“Oh, my goodness!”

“What’s the matter?” Priscilla turned to Maisie, and then to her motor car, a black Bugatti Royale with an eye-catching royal-blue swath of color on the bonnet. “Oh, don’t! It’s an impossibly large motor car and rather fanciful of me. Frankly, I might sell the thing and buy the new smaller version; it’s faster.” Priscilla pointed to the car, and the porter scurried away to stow Maisie’s luggage. “At least the thing starts in the morning!” Priscilla turned to Maisie again. “You know, I promised myself one thing in the war, when I was forcing my old ambulance across the mud, always wondering how many boys I would lose on the way—I promised myself that I would never crank a motor car again in my life. Then later, after the boys were born, I promised us all that, if ever they were injured or hurt, I would always have a decent motor car to get them to a doctor.” The porter opened the passenger and driver’s doors; Priscilla pressed a generous tip into his hand before starting the engine and nosing the Bugatti toward the road. “And
is it
a complete extravagance? Of course it is. And if I felt like it, I would buy another to keep the thing company.”

“You’ve made your point, Priscilla.”

Priscilla looked sideways at Maisie, then back at the road. “Well, I know you too well, Maisie. Any bit of perceived extravagance can send you into sackcloth and ashes again.”

They were silent for a moment, Maisie allowing the ocean air to fill her senses.

“You’re exhausted from your trip. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have jumped on you like that.” Keeping her left hand on the steering wheel, Priscilla flipped open a silver cigarette case with her right, took out a fresh cigarette, snapped the case shut, reached for a matching silver lighter, and lit the cigarette, which she drew on deeply. “I expect it’s because I’m so anxious to know whether you have news of Peter.”

Maisie smiled. From the moment she saw Priscilla running toward her at the station, her friend’s demeanor had revealed her fears, hopes, and expectations. She should keep her waiting no longer.

“It’s a bit more complex than we might have thought, Pris—”

“That’s strange.” Priscilla frowned, distracted for a moment.

“What?”

Priscilla turned her head to look behind, then swung back to face the road. “That’s the first time I have ever encountered another motor car while driving along this road. There are only a couple of houses up here: us, the Crowthers—expats; he was in Mesopotamia—and a Spanish family who’ve already left for the winter.”

Maisie looked behind to see a black motor car some way behind.

“Probably some lost tourist,” added Priscilla, shrugging. “Oh, well, he’ll find out as soon as he comes to the end of the road.”

“Pris, can you stop somewhere—you know, pull in behind some trees or something—around the next bend where he can’t see us?”

“What’s going on?”

“Priscilla….”

Priscilla didn’t notice the color drain from Maisie’s face, but she could not miss the sharp intensity of her voice and the use of her full name. She accelerated the motor car, turned into a driveway, and pulled to a halt behind a tree. They sat in silence while the black motor car went past. They were close enough to see the driver and passenger, an older couple, the man with his hat pushed back as if in exasperation, the woman holding a map and frowning.

“Just as I thought, tourists.”

Maisie closed her eyes and leaned back in the seat.

Priscilla reached out and took her hand, and Maisie squeezed her hand in return.

She was silent for a moment, then turned to Priscilla. “Let’s go home, Pris. Let me have a nice long bath, a cup of tea, and a moment to relax. We have much to talk about.”

Priscilla started the Bugatti’s engine, which roared into life, and pulled out onto the road. “To hell with the tea, Maisie. I believe I need a gin and tonic!”

TWENTY-ONE

Though the journey had been long and grueling, Priscilla’s family gave Maisie no quarter. As soon as the Bugatti drew up outside the white hillside villa, the doors opened and three boys gamboled from the house toward the car. They had heard a great deal about their mother’s friend, and, despite the deep voice of their father in the distance cautioning them not to run, were clearly excited by the new arrival.

“Boys!” Priscilla’s voice was loud and clear and immediately caused her children to cease their rough-and-tumble welcome, which included pressing questions about what it was like to be an investigator. “Your Aunt Maisie has had a long journey and I am claiming her first! Now then, you can go into the house, wash hands and faces—and behind the ears, if you please, Tarquin Patrick Partridge—and then you can make yourselves useful. Tell cook that you’ll be setting the table this evening.
Now!
” Priscilla shook her head and smiled. Maisie noticed immediately that she addressed her sons by both their Christian and middle names, as if to keep alive the memory of the brother for whom each boy was named: Timothy Peter, Thomas Philip and Tarquin Patrick.

The boys began to walk slowly back into the villa. Then Timothy pinched Tarquin on the ear, a scuffle began, and they ran to the rear of the property, toward the kitchen, Maisie supposed. A tall man came down the steps toward the Bugatti, which was being unloaded by a manservant named Giles. Maisie immediately warmed to Douglas Partridge, whose smile was kindly and whose green eyes sparkled. He wore pale beige linen trousers, a white shirt with a burgundy cravat, and a Panama hat to shield his eyes from the sun. The left arm of his shirt had been tailored below the shoulder to accommodate his amputation, without obviously drawing attention to an empty sleeve. He used a cane with his right hand and walked with a slight limp. When he spoke, Maisie detected the wheeze of gas-damaged lungs.

“Maisie, at last. I have heard so much about you. Welcome to our home—though I do hope Priscilla warned you that with our three toads it’s more like a lunatic asylum at times!”

Douglas rested the cane against his thigh for a moment as he shook hands with Maisie, then took up the cane again and bent toward his wife, whom he kissed not on the cheek but on the lips. It was not a long kiss, but Maisie looked away. And as Priscilla laughed and gently held her hand to her husband’s face, Maisie felt, not for the first time, that events of the past two weeks were plunging her deeper into an ever-widening and lonely abyss.

Douglas excused himself, explaining that he had several telephone calls to make to Paris, while Priscilla turned to Maisie and put an arm around her friend’s shoulder. “Come along, let me show you the gardens. We have a lovely view out toward the sea. Douglas will be in his study until supper; his latest book is due out in London in a month and he’s rather anxious about it. He’s also written a not-too-complimentary piece about the German elections for
The Spectator.
”

Priscilla led Maisie along a stone pathway flanked by olive trees and lavender bushes, the walls of the villa on her right ablaze with bougainvillea and passionflower. Steps led up to the broad white-washed terrace, and a more rustic stairway led down to landscaped gardens and a small, not very successful vineyard.

Maisie found it hard to believe that only yesterday she was stealing across a field in Sainte-Marie, her every move probably monitored by someone who might want her dead. And in this idyll, she must now speak of death with her dear friend. The way Priscilla opened and closed her hands with each step, the fact that her fingers shook as she pointed out landmarks below and—as she described the boys taking part in the olive harvest—pushed her wedding ring back and forth over the joint in her finger, all revealed the depth of her anxiety.

“Shall we sit down?” Maisie pushed her fringe back across her forehead, then shielded her eyes from the late-afternoon sun, now low in the sky. The brightness was causing her temples to ache.

“We should get you some of these.” Priscilla pointed to the dark glasses protecting her eyes. “I have some spare pairs, you know.” Priscilla started toward the double-glass doors that led into the villa, but Maisie’s words called her back.

“Sit down, Pris. It’s time we talked about Peter. You cannot wait any longer, and I cannot hold what I have discovered. There are things you must know.”

“I…I….” Priscilla appeared paralyzed by the idea of impending news.

“Come along, my dear friend. Sit with me here.” Maisie smiled and patted the place alongside her on the wooden slatted bench, which was festooned with blue and gold cushions. “Then, when we have spoken, I really must have you show me to my room and I will take a good long bath while you speak with Douglas.”

Priscilla swallowed, her throat dry. “Can I just get a drink?”

Maisie sighed. “All right. But be quick.”

Priscilla rushed inside the villa, and Maisie closed her eyes. From her place on the veranda overlooking the town of Biarritz, the
clink-clink
of ice on glass was clearly audible through the open doors.

“Here you are. And it’s a strong one!” Priscilla handed a glass to Maisie and took a seat next to her.

Maisie held the glass in her left hand and slipped the fingers of her right through Priscilla’s.

“I will tell you what I know; then I will tell you what we will do. And before I begin, Pris, this is one time when I will not have you storming ahead without my say-so. Is that clear?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about, but I promise I will heed your word.” Priscilla took a large sip from her glass as Maisie set her untouched cocktail on a table alongside the bench and turned to face her friend.

“I have made some discoveries that may come as rather a shock. Peter did not die on the day or at the place where he was listed as missing. That was a deliberate subterfuge to protect him. My original investigation, the one that brought me to France, has surprisingly revealed that Peter was a British intelligence agent. He was operating in occupied territory in a small town outside Reims under an assumed name.” Maisie paused, allowing Priscilla time to assimilate the information.

“Oh, my darling, darling Peter.” Priscilla placed her glass on the table to the right of the bench and pressed her hand to her forehead, still holding Maisie’s hand tightly.

“I believe his job was to liaise with an important civilian who had been recruited to muster local support as well as to protect Peter. I believe his field of operation was extremely dangerous, though my knowledge of the service and his actual brief is limited.”

Priscilla pulled a linen handkerchief edged in blue silk from the pocket of her trousers and dabbed her eyes.

Maisie breathed deeply again, her shoulders aching as the weight of her discovered knowledge was moved but not lessened. “There’s more. He had to leave Sainte-Marie after a British aviator crash-landed his aircraft while en route to drop more messenger pigeons for Peter’s group to use. Peter attempted to save the man’s life but had to flee the town for fear his unmasking would reveal the web of activity locally.”

Priscilla shook her head. “Oh, my brave Peter—those brave people!”

“Yes, they were very brave. A year later, three of them were executed.” Maisie paused again, gauging her friend’s demeanor and her capacity to assimilate the information revealed. She went on. “Those killed included Peter’s lover, a young woman named Suzanne Clement.”

“His lover?”

“Yes. Peter was in love.”

“Oh, God.” Priscilla began to cry, removing her dark glasses and pressing the handkerchief to her eyes, her tears now in full flow.

“Priscilla, there’s still more.”

“I don’t know if I can stand it.”

“Yes, you can. You can stand this.”

“What is it?” She turned to Maisie, the tears still running down her cheeks.

“Peter’s lover had a child, a daughter whom she named Pascale. She’s thirteen years old now and lives with her grandmother.”

Priscilla’s eyes opened wide, her tears abated. She released Maisie’s hand and stood up. “Oh, my God! Where is she?” She began to pace, almost hysterical. “I must go to her. I must see her. She is my family; she is all I have of him—”

“No, you must not. Not yet.” Maisie’s voice was soft but firm.

Priscilla sat down, reaching for her glass of gin and tonic, from which she took a hefty swig. Maisie continued, her voice quiet and modulated, so that Priscilla had to lean toward her to hear.

“This is what will happen. I must return to Sainte-Marie in a few days. I am tired, Priscilla, and my work is far from over; as you may remember, you are a secondary client. I will speak to the grandmother, Chantal Clement. I will press her to see you, and I believe I will meet with success. Then I will send for you—expect to come to Sainte-Marie a day or so after my arrival there. You cannot whisk the girl away, for she and her grandmother adore each other. But Pascale knows quite a lot about her father and, I believe, deserves to know even more. And there’s something else.”

“Yes?”

“I do not yet know where Peter perished, though I’ll find out. But I believe you will find Sainte-Marie a fine place for a memorial.”

Priscilla took a final sip from the almost-empty glass and nodded. “Yes, I think you’re right. It’s where he left his heart, isn’t it?” She swirled ice cubes around, the
clink-clinking
almost tuneful, and asked one final question. “What does she look like, Maisie?”

Maisie reached for Priscilla. “She’s just like you, Priscilla. Down to the bone.”

F
OLLOWING A LONG
hot bath, Maisie pulled on a heavy white cotton robe and wandered onto the balcony overlooking the gardens at the side of the house. Though it was now dark, from her vantage point she could see not only the lights of the town but also, to her right, intermittent house lights on adjacent estates. Motor car headlights occasionally swept up a neighboring hillside or went down again. She checked the sweep of gravel driveway that led from the Partridges’ villa out onto the road and down the hill and could see no evidence of another vehicle.

Maisie turned her thoughts to her investigation, which was proceeding like liquid in a funnel, pouring toward an ever-narrowing point until captured in the cup below: In her mind the lives of Peter Evernden and Ralph Lawton were coming together as if orchestrated by the gods of life and death, peace and war. And if she was correct in her decoding of Peter’s journals, Biarritz was the receptacle to which Priscilla unwittingly held the key. She watched the lights for just a moment longer. Then she turned into the room and dressed for dinner.

Priscilla’s welcoming gift to Maisie had been laid out on the bed to await her arrival. Knowing that her friend was nothing if not sensible and would not have thought of packing evening wear even for a place such as Biarritz, she had ordered an ensemble from a Paris couturier that would fit Maisie to perfection. Long heavy silk trousers in a deep midnight blue were complemented by a sleeveless blouse in pale blue and an Asian-inspired thigh-length jacket in matching midnight-blue silk with a sash of the same fabric as the blouse. Should the evening become cool, there were two additional items: a broad pale-blue cashmere wrap and a knee-length knitted coat, also in cashmere, to wear instead of the silk jacket if necessary. Maisie shook her head. Though she might admire such clothing on others, she would never have considered purchasing such items—nor could she have ever afforded such luxury.

The gift caused Maisie to think of her mother and father, and when she touched the fine cloth, her skin prickled as she remembered her mother’s translucent beauty, which needed no augmentation of the kind that riches can buy. Maisie fingered the fabrics, wondering how much the gift she would so graciously accept actually cost. And as she felt the nearness of that lovely spirit once again, she wondered what her father would think about her friend’s expenditure, of a sum of money that might have delivered his wife from indescribable pain being spent on mere clothes. But Maisie understood that the gift was part of Priscilla’s attempt to assuage her own indescribable pain, pain Maisie knew would be made even worse this evening by her attempt to extract information: information Maisie hoped might lead her to the truth about Ralph Lawton.