Quest for Alexis (23 page)

I went upstairs at once to Madeleine’s room, open
ing the door quietly. She lay in a deep sleep, and I
couldn’t bring myself to rouse her. A sound behind me
on the landing made me turn. Freda Aiken stood there,
frowning at me.

“I told you your aunt was asleep, Miss Fleming.”

“Yes, but I hoped she might have wakened by now.
I want to see her just as soon as she does.”

“Very well. I’ll let you know.”

I wondered whether to go along to my own bedroom and wait there. But somehow the idea was almost claustrophobic. I needed to get out in the fresh air.

“I’ll be outside,” I told Freda. “Not far away,
down by the lake. Would you mind giving me a call?”

“Very well,” she said again, stonily.

The grounds at Deer’s Leap were as full of poignant memories for me as the house itself. Crossing the ter
race, I recalled how Alexis and I used to play energetic
games of shuttlecock on the lawn—regrettably it was
too uneven to have the makings of a tennis court.

As I went down the flight of stone steps, the winter
jasmine flowering against the wall brought back the
year my uncle had inveigled me into helping him prune
the straggly, overgrown bushes. Afterward, we were
afraid that in our novice enthusiasm we’d been too
drastic—until February came around and the delicate
pale-yellow blossoms appeared in greater profusion
than ever.

The jasmine needed pruning again, I thought sadly.

I followed the wide, sloping path that curved down to the lake. Only a yard from my feet, a brilliantly
plumaged cock pheasant rose out of the dead bracken
in sudden panic flight, startling me, as always, with its
wildly flapping wings and raucous shrieks.

The old dinghy was still there, I noticed, drawn up above the waterline on the tiny pebble beach. Probably
it had not been used since the last time I had rowed
upon the lake, an age ago. Now, the dinghy was awash
with last night’s rain. I tipped it on its side to drain.

The rustic seat by the willow tree had already
steamed dry in the warm sunshine. I sat and gazed
into the lake’s calm water, seeing the dark mirrored
shapes of the conifers that fringed the farther bank.
Suddenly, I saw a movement among the still reflections.
A fallow doe. I looked up quickly. It was a long time
since I had seen one at Deer’s Leap, a long time since I had sat quietly enough. Even from across the water
she seemed to sense the lifting of my head and vanished among the trees, swiftly, with hardly a sound.

Timid creature.

But wasn’t I just as timid? Dawdling here on the
pretext of waiting for Madeleine to waken. In truth, I was thankful for the delay which postponed the mo
ment I dreaded.

With sudden decision I rose to my feet and started
walking up the path, back toward the house. I didn’t
hurry, but I made myself walk on steadily without
pause.

I raised my eyes to look up at the rear facade of
Deer’s Leap, so belovedly familiar. In the clear, bright
sunlight the old house took on many hues. The gray
stone walls were tawny yellow in places where lichen grew, and the dark-green clinging ivy made a striking contrast. Sparrows flitted in and out, already busy with
their nest building. Above the parapet, dotted among
the jumbled peaks and valleys of the roof, soared tall
chimneys built of terracotta bricks.

The long casement windows of Madeleine’s room
were open to the soft morning air, and through them I
saw a flash of white. A quick, darting movement. Mad
eleine came flying to the window, standing framed
there-with her arms outstretched, calling. But it was
not my name she called.

“Alexis! Alexis!”

She appeared to be clambering up onto the low sill.
Behind her, I saw Freda Aiken, trying to hold on to
her, trying to drag her back to safety.

With a horrified gasp, I started to run.

I could see Madeleine struggling with Freda, fight
ing with a desperate strength to shake off her restrain
ing arms. Then suddenly she gave a violent jerk, diving
forward, plunging into space. I heard a long piercing
scream as she fell.

Frantic with terror, I raced across the lawn and up
the terrace steps.

Madeleine lay quite still, her poor crumpled body
like a broken bird. I knew without a doubt that she was
dead. I knelt beside her and lifted her head, cradling it
in my arms.

The hours that followed were a confused blur of time.

Dimly, I remember Freda Aiken reaching Madeleine
only a second after I did. And the others came quickly
—Rudi first, then Sir Ralph and Caterina, gathering
around us. We were all in a shocked daze, numb with
disbelief. Such a dreadful thing could not have hap
pened. And then came the anguished questioning.
What had made Madeleine do it—why, why, why?

Freda Aiken, when she’d checked in vain for Mad
eleine’s pulse and knew beyond all hope that she was
dead, had broken down completely. She seemed to
blame herself.

“I heard her scream,” she sobbed, “and I ran to her
room. She was already out of bed, going to the window,
distraught. For some reason she was crying her husband’s name. I tried to stop her, tried to hold her back,
but she was so strong. She tore herself out of my arms,
and suddenly she was gone. Oh, dear God.”

Later, in Madeleine’s room, we found the answer. A tabloid newspaper, open at a center page, was lying on
the bed. The picture of me, shielding my face. The
story of my encounter with Belle, the cruel innuendo
that Madeleine was out of her mind and would be bet
ter off in a mental home.

Mrs. Cramp’s paper. But how had it reached Made
leine’s room?

Could it have been put there by Freda Aiken, out of malice, as a sick joke? It would explain Freda’s present
desperation. Or had Mrs. Cramp, going up to vacuum
the room and finding Madeleine still asleep, somehow
left the newspaper there? Accidentally or vindictively?

Mrs. Cramp fiercely denied that she had been to my aunt’s room at all that morning.
“I
don’t know how the paper got there,” she said doggedly. “I brought it from
home. I never even took it out of the kitchen.”

But now that Madeleine was dead, neither of them would dare to confess. It was a dark enigma, and in all
probability it would remain so.

The doctor came quickly in response to Rudi’s
urgent phone call. And then the police. We were told
that of course there would have to be an inquest.
Wearily, I answered the questions, dozens of questions.
Yes, I had actually seen it happen. I had watched my
aunt fall to her death. I was in the garden, coming
back to see her, to talk to her, to tell her ...

“To tell her what, Miss Fleming?”

I hesitated. “I was going to tell her that she would
never see my uncle again. I had come to the decision
that I couldn’t put it off any longer.”

The police inspector was a thickset, quiet-speaking
man. He raised his shaggy eyebrows.

“Why hadn’t you told her long ago, Miss Fleming?
Instead, your aunt learned about her husband in a
crueler way. How do you think that copy of the newspaper might have got into her room? Could Mrs. Karel have fetched it from the kitchen herself?”

I didn’t know, I didn’t know! I only knew that Mad
eleine was dead. Somehow, I controlled myself.

“Normally,” I said huskily, “my aunt never looked at a newspaper or listened to the radio. She was always
rather timid. You see, she had been through a great
deal when she lived in Czechoslovakia. News of any
kind of violence upset her, frightened her.” Finally
they left me alone.

The morning passed with agonizing slowness. Ca
terina was wonderfully kind, comforting me, trying to
coax me to eat something. But I couldn’t eat. I seem to
remember swallowing some hot tea.

Reporters kept arriving at the house. Sir Ralph dealt
with them, keeping them away from me. I was grate
ful to him.

In the afternoon I went upstairs to be alone with
Madeleine. Her body had been laid upon the bed, and
in death her face looked strangely calm and serene,
the lids closed upon her lovely golden eyes. I felt I needed these last quiet moments of contact with my
aunt. And through her, with the uncle I had loved so
dearly.

I moved about the room, imprinting every detail
upon my memory. Propped on the easel beside the
window, I saw her latest painting, almost finished. A
work in oils.

Unlike her delicate watercolors, it made a violent impression, the paint laid on the canvas in thick bold
strokes, crude in their intensity. But even so it held a
kind of tenderness. A baby, lying asleep in its cradle. Until, looking closer, I understood its true meaning. A baby laid out in its tiny coffin. The baby she had never had. The baby that was born dead.

I lingered in the room as daylight faded, unwilling to
leave. It would seem like desertion. There was nothing
I could do for Madeleine now except to stay with her,
filling my thoughts with memories of her.

After the clear fine winter day, an afternoon mist
was closing down. As I stood by the window, gazing
out, the shapes gradually softened, growing indistinct.
The lawn, the lake, the trees merged slowly into an
overall grayness.

It was then that Brett found me.

I heard his voice from the doorway and swung
around, startled, suddenly pierced through with fear.

“Gail. I came the moment I heard about Madeleine.”

I stared at him, not speaking, not moving.

He came into the room and stopped at the foot of
the bed, looking down at Madeleine, silently shaking
his head. Then he turned to me and held out his hand.

“Come downstairs now, Gail. I want to talk to you.”

Still I didn’t move. Brett’s hand dropped to his side.

“Do you think I’m some sort of monster?” he said
bitterly. “Do you imagine that I’m going to try and
strangle you?”

My throat felt dry, and I couldn’t speak.

His voice gentled. “We can’t talk here, Gail, and
there’s a lot to be said. Come downstairs.”

I hesitated a few moments longer. Then, moving
stiffly, I walked past him and went out of the room. He
followed me, closing the door with quiet care.

We went down to the Winter Parlor. Rudi was there.
He looked at me anxiously.

“Would you mind leaving us for a while, Rudi,” said
Brett. “I know you understand.”

Rudi glanced at me swiftly, his dark eyes troubled,
questioning. I gave him a tiny nod. Brett could not
harm me here, in his father’s house. Anyway, would he
want to harm me now? As far as he was concerned, it
was all over. I had abandoned my search for Alexis.
He could not know of my determination to go on until
I had exposed the truth.

Rudi was looking at Brett as he spoke, but I knew
his words were really meant for me. “If you want me,
I’ll be just outside.”

After he had left us, we both remained standing, I
beside the sofa, Brett by the fireplace. Ten feet apart.

He said, “I heard the news just before noon. I
couldn’t believe it at first—and then I knew I had to
come home and be with you. I was in Geneva.”

“In Geneva?”

He nodded, his eyes fixed upon me steadily.

“I was snowed in at the
mas
and had a terrible job
getting away. I was mad as hell with you. I thought
you’d done a skip the same as you did in Palma. After
you drove off, I got straight through on the phone to
Dougal’s hotel in Cannes. He’d already left, but I
learned that just a few minutes before he’d put a call
through to the Shackleton number, so I knew he must have spoken to you. They were able to tell me that he
was flying to Geneva, and as soon as I could get my
self back to civilization, I headed straight there. But it
took me the devil of a time.”