The Devil at Archangel (7 page)

'Because when plague had ravaged Italy during the years of the Early

Church, the Archangel was said to have appeared on a church in

Rome sheathing his sword as a sign that the plague would end.' Mrs

Brandon's tone was bored.

'Did the same thing happen here?'

'There was no apparition, but the plague vanished almost overnight.

The islanders declared it was a miracle, and since that time the

plantation has been called Archangel in honour of St Michael. It is a

tradition we have maintained. The statue is very old. It was brought

from France as a private thanksgiving by the family.' Mrs Brandon

spoke as if she had learned her lines from a guide book of doubtful

validity.

They moved past the statue and up the stairs. Mrs Brandon halted

when they reached the gallery. 'Show Mademoiselle to her room,

Madame Christophe. I am going to rest. Tell Eulalie to bring me a

tray of iced coffee in an hour's time.'

Christina followed the housekeeper's erect figure along the gallery

and through an archway. This led, she discovered, from the main part

of the house to a wing running towards the rear. Two thirds of the

way along the wide corridor, Madame Christophe halted before a pair

of louvred double doors which she pushed open.

Christina gazed almost unbelievingly at the room within. The walls

and ceiling were a warm, vibrant honey colour, but the rest of the

decor—carpet, silk curtains and hangings —were in cream. Her

immediate impression was that it was all much too luxurious for a

hired companion who might not even be going to stay.

'Mademoiselle does not care for the ,room?' Madame Christophe had

noticed her instinctive hesitation.

'On the contrary.' Christina made a little helpless gesture. 'It's-the

most beautiful room I ever saw in my life. But does Madame—I mean

Mrs Brandon really intend it for me?'

The housekeeper gave her a calm, rather reproving look. 'She leaves

such details as the allocation of rooms to me,' she said with a faint

shrug. 'But I can assure you she would approve my choice. Louis has

brought up your cases. I will send Eulalie to unpack for you.'

'Oh, no—thank you,' Christina said hastily. 'I'd really rather do that

for myself. I—always have.'

Madame Christophe gave her an enigmatic look, then turned to leave.

'But circumstances change, can they not?1 she remarked over her

shoulder. 'Perhaps Mademoiselle should also be prepared to change

with them.'

The door closed quietly behind her, leaving Christina in sole

occupation of her new domain. Her clothes, she decided after a hasty

inspection, would occupy about a fifth of the row of louvred

wardrobes which occupied the length of one wall. Guests who usually

stayed in this room probably brought with them an entire Paris

collection rather than two small suitcases. A door in the corner

revealed a small but well equipped bathroom tiled in jade green, and

for the next half hour Christina revelled in the shower she had

dreamed of, then, wrapped in one of the enormous bath sheets

provided, padded around putting her clothes away in the drawers and

cupboards, and setting out her scanty array of toiletries in the

bathroom.

Her task completed, she dressed in a chocolate-coloured denim dress

with a low back and a halter neckline, and still barefoot walked out

through the French doors on to the balcony. To her left, a graceful

flight of wrought iron steps led downwards so that the occupants of

the rooms in this wing could reach the garden below without having

to go through the house. Certainly, it was a beguiling enough •settle

that met her eyes. An attractively paved patio lay below, with a long

rectangular swimming pool as its focal point. Beyond the patio more

lawns spread away to become eventually lost in a tangled riot of

greenery and flowering bushes, which Christina guessed marked the

limits of the garden proper. Beyond this barrier she could see the sea.

She wanted very much to go down the steps and explore the

grounds—to see if there was a way through the shrubbery to the

beach, but she hesitated. After all, Mrs Brandon might send for her,

and if she was missing- and no one knew where she was this would

cause problems. And as if to make up her mind for her, a telephone

buzzed sharply in the room behind her. Christina walked quickly

back into the bedroom and over to the elegant bedside table and lifted

the receiver.

'Hello,' she said. 'Christina Bennett.'

There was someone there, because she could hear them breathing—a

light shallow breath as if whoever it was had been hurrying. But they

did not speak.

After a minute, Christina said sharply, 'Yes? Who is it, please?'

No one replied, but Christina thought she detected a smothered laugh,

as if the alarm in her voice had been registered and appreciated. She

felt her temper rise.

'Will you please stop playing games and tell me what it is you want,'

she said very distinctly into the living silence, and nearly jumped out

of her skin as a peremptory tap sounded on the bedroom door.

She swung round with a gasp, still holding the telephone receiver as

the door opened. She was confronted by a girl, not much older than

herself. She was dazzlingly lovely with dark hair and eyes, and the

same smooth
cafe au lait
skin as Madame Christophe. In fact,

Christina thought instinctively, she was the image of what Madame

Christophe must have been like at the same age.

The girl smiled—a formal, perfunctory smile revealing white and

even teeth. 'If Mademoiselle would care to descend, there is tea in the

library. Or would you prefer me to bring a tray to you here?'

'No—oh, no,' Christina said hastily. 'I'll come down. You —you must

be Eulalie.'

'

'That is so.' The dark eyes surveyed Christina andwidened

questioningly as she was holding the telephone receiver.

'Mademoiselle desired something?'

'No—someone phoned me, but they won't answer.' Christina felt

foolish.

'May I?' Eulalie held out her hand and Christina with a feeling of faint

helplessness handed her the receiver.

Eulalie listened for a moment, then turned to Christina. 'There is no

one there now,
mademoiselle.
This is the house telephone. It is easy if

one hurries to dial a wrong number.'

'But why didn't they say so?' Christina felt that she had been put

subtly in the wrong. 'They just wouldn't speak at all. It was horrid.'

'Mademoiselle must have imagined it,' Eulalie said coolly. 'There is

no one in the house who would do such a thing.'

She turned and walked to the door, obviously expecting that Christina

would follow her. Christina snatched up a pair of low-heeled sandals

in natural leather and thrust them awkwardly on to her feet. She felt

gauche and confused. She knew she had not imagined the malice she

had sensed at the other end of the phone, but she was at a loss to know

what could possibly have inspired it.

As she followed Eulalie's studiedly graceful figure along the corridor

towards the main, staircase, she searched in vain for some topic of

conversation. Her position in the household was ambiguous. At the

moment, she supposed she was a guest, but no doubt the staff were

perfectly aware that she had come here ultimately to work. Perhaps

someone had recognised the difference in the way she was being

received, compared with the rest of the staff, and resented it. But

who? So far,-she had only met Louis and Madame Christophe—and

now Eulalie. She could not imagine either of the first two indulging in

spiteful tricks, while it was physically impossible for Eulalie to have

telephoned her. It was disturbing to realise that she had recognised

almost at once that the other girl would be quite capable of the action.

And yet Christina could think of no possible motive—for her or for

anyone else.

As they descended the stairs, the tall figure of St Michael, the gilded

wings gleaming in the sunlight, loomed up in front of them. Christina

paused for a closer look at the statue. Somewhat to her surprise, she

saw that the winged creature at the angel's feet was not a dragon as

she had supposed at first glance, but seemed to have some human

characteristics. It was quite repulsively ugly, she decided, wrinkling

her nose.

Eulalie had crossed the hall by this time and was standing impatiently

at a door on the other side, obviously waiting for Christina to join her.

Christina thrust her hands into the slanting pockets on her skirt and

nodded towards the carved figures.

'Do tell me,' she invited with a fair attempt at insouciance, 'who is the

downtrodden gentleman?'

Eulalie's eyebrows rose and she spared the statue a cursory glance as

if she could not understand anyone taking an interest in such a thing.

But before she could reply, another voice broke in. A voice, instantly

recognisable, . which sent the blood racing into Christina's face and

curled her hands into fists inside the concealing pockets.

'Why it's the devil, my sweet. The devil himself.'

She forced herself to turn. He was standing just inside the front

entrance. He was casually dressed this time in faded denims and a

blue shirt that hung open to the waist, but she would have known him

anywhere. Those incredible silver eyes of his seemed to be dancing

with unholy amusement as he looked her over from head to foot.

'Who else did you expect it to be?' he said gently.

CHRISTINA stared at him unbelievably, unable to break the silence

which seemed to drag endlessly between them. Of all the people in

the world that she had to find waiting for her on Ste Victoire, he had

seemed the most unlikely. She had never imagined, even for a

moment, that she would see him again, and she had to admit honestly

that she hadn't wanted to see him either. She had tried to be grateful

for what he had done for her, yet his whole attitude had made her

seethe with resentment when she considered it later. At the time she

had been too distressed to consider the implications in his words, but

that evening in the hotel, burning under Mrs Brandon's displeasure,

they had returned to anger her as she sat in her solitary room trying to

read a paperback novel she had brought with her. He had treated her,

she thought, as if she had been tried and found guilty. His whole

attitude had suggested that her purpose for being in Martinique at all

was dubious in some way. But above all he had underlined all her

own doubts and uncertainties, making her feel that she was a parasite,

dependent for her very livelihood on a rich-woman's whim. Her peace

of mind had been precarious up to then, but he had given it a further

jolt, and for that she could not forgive him.

'You're very silent, Miss Sort-of-Secretary,' he observed mockingly.

'I hope no further disasters have come your way since we last met.

Your honour—and your money—still intact?'

Christina lifted her chin defiantly. His appearance and the way he had

strolled in uninvited suggested that he was a regular visitor at

Archangel, and she knew it would be more tactful to conceal her

hostility, but something in his words flicked her on the raw.

Her glance and her voice were cold and unsmiling as she said, 'Thank

you—yes. How kind of you to ask.'

His eyebrows rose. 'A touch of English frost. Perhaps a cup of

English tea will thaw it. I presume you are on your way to the

library?'

It was on the tip of her tongue to deny it and retreat back upstairs to

the comparative sanctuary of her room, but she controlled the

impulse, aware that Eulalie was still standing by the library door

listening with astonishment to this interchange. If she ran away now,

she would simply make herself ridiculous, she thought, and forced

herself to walk , casually across the expanse of gleaming mosaic. She

was acutely conscious all the time that his eyes were upon her.

The library was a charming room, if Christina had been in the mood

to appreciate it. It was square and low- ceilinged, with a Persian

carpet. Three of its walls were occupied by shelves of books from

floor to ceiling. The remaining wall was glass—tall French windows

standing open to catch the breeze from the gardens beyond. A cream

leather chesterfield with matching deep armchairs had been drawn up

in front of the windows and a low table placed in front of them. On

this had been placed a tray, complete with silver teapot and hot water

jug, and delicate china cups. Christina observed with a sinking heart