The Splendour Falls (19 page)

‘Good Heavens, no!’ My father’s voice came booming down the line, emphatic. ‘No point getting her upset for nothing – and it may well be for nothing, knowing Harry. No, I think you’d better leave it all with me. I’ve still got friends you know, in Paris. I’ll ask some questions, stir around, see whether they can track him down. All right?’

Which meant, I thought, he’d likely make some notes, then forget all about it before tomorrow morning. I smiled. ‘All right.’

‘Just leave it all with me,’ he said again, in charge now, reassuring. ‘And Emily?’

‘Yes, Daddy?’

‘Don’t let it worry you too much, either, will you? Comes sailing clean through any crisis, does Harry. No point in losing sleep over him.’

That, at least, seemed sound advice. I repeated it to myself that night as I lay restless underneath the covers of my bed, my dry eyes fixed upon the mottled shadows dancing on my ceiling.
No point in losing sleep
, I thought firmly, but it didn’t help.

Close by, the bell tolled one o’clock, a solemn sound above the chuckling fountain. Through the open window swept a sudden breath of cold night air, and the shadows on my ceiling stilled their motion as the street lamps were extinguished. All the shadows, that is, except one.

It might have been the moon, passing high among the clouds outside, that made the dim reflection on my wall, and what I heard I blamed on my imagination, or the wind. ‘Follow,’ said the shadow, as it slipped across my bed. ‘Follow …’

A sudden breath of chill air blew my window open wider, and the curtains flapped and fluttered like a wild tormented ghost. My heart leapt, frightened, to my throat, but I forced it back again.
Fool
, I called myself, as I rose and hugged my blanket round me.
There’s nothing there
.

But just to make absolutely certain of that, I leaned
across the window sill and looked down at the sleeping square.

The black-and-white cat moved stealthily between the rustling acacias, from shadow into light and back again, carefully avoiding the spray of the glittering fountain. On soundless feet, the cat traversed the empty square and crossed to sniff the planter set beside the hotel door. My gaze followed, and fell and with a startled jolt I saw that I was not the only one awake and watching the cat.

Neil Grantham’s hair looked white in moonlight. Ruffled by the night breeze, it was the only thing that moved. His hands lay still upon the railing of the narrow balcony, and beneath the leather jacket his shoulders were immobile, carved of stone. He didn’t seem to breathe.

And then his head began to turn and I drew quickly back, away from the window, and the curtains drifted past me on a sigh that was not mine. 

The cat came to me early next morning. How it found me I’ll never know; I’d walked some distance from the hotel to the hushed and peaceful Promenade, where the plane trees grew tall and regal by the river’s edge. But the black-
and-white
cat came to me nonetheless, and curled itself wearily into my lap with a wide indulgent yawn.

He’d had a hard night, from the looks of it.

He looked, in fact, much like I felt: tired and rumpled and out of sorts. I always felt like that when I hadn’t slept well. It was an inherited curse, insomnia. My granddad had it, and my father, and they’d kindly passed it on to me, so that from time to time I found myself counting sheep into quadruple digits, while I tried to will my aching brain to stop its restless thinking. It didn’t happen often any more, but when it did it always brought me to a place like this, a quiet place where I could watch the sunrise. Things seemed
less important, somehow, once the sun was up.

Behind me, on the cliffs, the château bell sang seven times – they’d just be starting breakfast service back at the hotel. I ought to be getting back. But not just yet, I thought. Not yet. I smiled as I gently stroked the sleeping cat, and lifted vague unfocused eyes to gaze along the Promenade.

Row facing row the plane trees stood, ghostly pale and thick with green, mute sentries from an age long past. Beneath the arching canopy of leaves a raked red gravel path invited idle footsteps, like my own, and garden benches beckoned one to pause and watch the world drift by.

From my own bench I could see clear across the Vienne, past the jutting point of the little island to the darkly wooded shore that lay beyond. And in between, cold and still like a sheet of ice, the river breathed a veil of mist that caught and spread the dawning spears of sunlight.

Earlier I’d watched a yellow kayak cleave that mist, dancing the current down towards the bridge. Earlier still, a woman with a dog had passed me by, her step brisk and purposeful. But now there was only me, and the cat, and the ducks chattering noisily along the riverbank.

My mind had begun to drift idly along with the river when the cat suddenly shifted position, claws pricking through my woollen jumper. I winced, and looked to see the cause of its alarm.

I didn’t have to look far. Four trees away a little spotted dog, nose fixed to the ground, came trotting round a metal litter bin. It was obvious that the dog hadn’t yet taken note of us, and even more obvious that it posed no immediate danger to my bristling cat – this because the dog was
attached by a bright red lead to a man standing, slouched, with his back to the river, his face cast half in shadow by the flat morning light.

The gypsy wasn’t alone. Another man had stopped beside him on the blood-red path, a tall long-limbed man with hair so fair it shone in that soft morning light like silver. The gypsy spoke, and gestured, and I saw Neil shake his head, and tossing back some smiling comment he came on towards me.

‘Good morning,’ he greeted me. ‘Mind if I join you?’

There seemed no escaping the man, I thought, despite my best efforts. I shifted to make room for him on the bench and he sat down with a decided thump, angling himself against the armrest so he could look at me. ‘You have a thing for cats, I take it? Or are you out to comfort every stray in Chinon?’

‘Not every stray. Just this one.’

‘Is this your chap from Saturday night, then?’ He reached a careful hand to scratch the dirty black-and-white head. The cat, less nervous, subsided into my lap and stared at him through half-closed eyes. ‘Well, what do you know.’ Neil’s own eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘He gets about, this one. I think I saw him prowling about last night, as well.’ Withdrawing his hand, he stretched his long legs out before him, ankles crossed. ‘He seems rather affectionate, for a stray.’

‘Yes.’ I looked up and past him, to where the gypsy and his dog still loitered. ‘What did that man ask you?’ I wanted to know.

‘He wanted a match, that’s all. I didn’t have one.’

I set a calming hand upon the deeply purring cat. ‘Spoke to you in English, did he?’

‘No, French.’

‘I thought you didn’t speak French.’

He slanted a curious look in my direction. ‘I don’t, beyond the limits of my Oxford phrasebook,’ he said, ‘but when a chap comes up to me with an unlit cigarette in his mouth and pantomimes the striking of a match, I’ve a fair idea what he’s wanting.’

‘Oh.’ My gaze dropped defensively. When I raised my eyes again the path was empty. The gypsy and his dog were nowhere to be seen. I gathered the cat closer and summoned up a cheerful smile to show to Neil. ‘I didn’t expect to see you up and about this early,’ I told him. ‘I thought you did your walking in the evenings.’

‘Dustmen woke me,’ was his excuse. ‘Four o’clock in the bloody morning, they come barrelling round the square like it’s a parade ground.’

I sympathised. I’d heard them myself, that morning. I’d heard a great many things, actually, from the tiniest rustle of a dead leaf scuttling across the asphalt to the quiet talk and measured footsteps of two gendarmes patrolling on the graveyard shift. Sleeplessness always heightened my senses.

‘They wake me every time, those dustmen,’ Neil went on. ‘Most mornings I just drop off again, but this morning …’ He shrugged, and fitted his shoulders to the worn back of the bench. ‘This is a lovely place, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, quite lovely.’

‘The whole town is, really. I always hate to leave it.’

‘Your holiday’s almost over, then?’
Blast
, I thought. I
could hear the trail of disappointment in my own voice.

‘Next week, I think. I’m very nearly back to normal.’ He flexed his hand to demonstrate. ‘Besides, I’m pushing my luck as it is. I’m not paid a salary to sit around and do nothing.’

‘But you’ve been practising,’ I argued in his defence. ‘Every day.’

His eyes slid sideways, unconvinced. ‘Only for an hour or so.’

‘Isn’t that long enough?’

‘Back home my normal work day lasts six hours, sometimes more. I’m only playing at it, here.’

‘Oh. Well, it sounds nice, anyway. I like the sound of a violin.’

He thanked me for the compliment. ‘But you’ll probably think differently in a few days’ time. Even Beethoven loses some of his appeal after the first hundred playings. I’m getting rather bored with him myself, but then I’m only using him for exercise. I know that piece like the back of my hand.’

‘You ought to choose something else, then. You’re learning something by a new composer, aren’t you?’

‘I’d never subject the hotel guests to that.’ The midnight blue eyes crinkled a second time. ‘It’s not the nicest piece to listen to, in my opinion – the composer doesn’t much like harmony. No, I only listen to the tape of that one, to learn it better, and even then I have to watch my step. The first time I put that tape in Thierry’s monster hi-fi I nearly cleared the hotel,’ he admitted with a grin. ‘Sounded like the whole bloody orchestra was playing in my room, it was that loud. I kept it turned low, after that.’

My mouth curved. ‘I’m beginning to think you played the
Salut d’Amour
on purpose on Saturday, so the ghost would break poor Thierry’s hi-fi.’

He looked at me with interest. ‘I did play it on purpose, actually. But not to upset the ghost.’

I didn’t respond to that, but he didn’t look away. ‘You’ve just surprised me, Emily Braden. Some people might recognise Bach, or Mozart, but to spot old Elgar takes a certain depth of knowledge.’

‘Yes, well,’ I glanced down, flushing, ‘my mother quite likes classical music. She was always dragging me to concerts. I didn’t pay as much attention as I should have, but I do remember what I liked.’

‘You’ve put that in the past tense, I notice. Don’t you go to concerts any more?’

I shook my head. ‘Terrible, I know, but I never seem to have the time, these days. My mother goes often enough for both of us. Her boyfriend,’ I explained, with a dry smile, ‘is a conductor.’

‘Oh, really? What’s his name?’

I told him. ‘Do you know him?’

‘I know of him, yes. We’ve never met.’ His eyes were mildly curious. ‘So then your father—’

‘—lives in Uruguay.’

‘I see.’ He looked away again, but I had the distinct feeling that he
did
see; that he saw rather more than I wanted him to. I tried to steer the conversation back to neutral ground, by asking him which orchestra he played with in Austria – which didn’t help much, as I didn’t recognise the name.

‘That’s what everyone says,’ he assured me. ‘We’re
not exactly the Vienna Philharmonic, but we’ve
eighty-six
members and we hold our own. And speaking of conductors, ours is just this side of brilliant.’

‘You like living in Austria, then?’

‘Very much.’

‘No desire to move back to England?’

He raised his shoulders in an almost Gallic shrug. ‘If you had the choice of living in Austria or Birmingham, which would you choose?’

‘If I were a violinist?’ I smiled. ‘I’m not sure. Birmingham has a cracking good orchestra.’

‘And if you weren’t a violinist?’ He asked the question quietly, and slid his serious eyes to mine, and all of a sudden I felt I’d been tossed into deep water, over my head. I found I couldn’t answer him, even in jest, and after a long moment he calmly looked away again, towards the river. ‘Damned noisy this morning, those ducks,’ was his only comment.

The silence stretched. I was just beginning to think I couldn’t bear it any longer, that I’d have to invent an excuse and leave before I did something foolish, when the cat, apparently deciding that I’d suffered long enough, woke from its nap and stirred. Arching its back in a reluctant stretch it dropped gracefully from my lap to the gravel path and stalked off without so much as a backward look, melting like a shadow into the grassy riverbank.

I watched it go. ‘Time for breakfast, I suppose,’ I said. Standing up, I brushed my hands against my legs to clear off the clinging strands of cat hair, suddenly aware of the rattling hum of traffic from the boulevard behind us. It
seemed a harsh intrusion, in the scented stillness of the Promenade.

‘I’ll walk back with you.’ Neil rose and stretched as the cat had done, and fell into step beside me.

The red gravel path led us into the modern world, where cars and lorries lumbered noisily up and down the boulevard. All along the far side of the street the shopkeepers were running through their daily ritual of opening up, polishing windows and scrubbing down awnings and sweeping the pavement in front of their stores.

We kept to the river walk. There were plane trees here, too – not as ancient or peaceful as those of the Promenade, but nearly as tall, and the breeze blowing through them was idle and cool. It had blown the mist from the murmuring river that danced past in sharp sparkling ribbons of light, and the pavement was dappled with shadow and sunlight, both shifting in time with the whispering leaves.

Despite the bustle of the boulevard, no one seemed to hurry on the river walk. Several people had stopped to lean against the low stone wall and watch the yellow kayak I’d seen earlier come smoothly stroking by on its return trip. Further on a young man struggled up a flight of steps in the sloping river wall, fishing rod in one hand and creel in the other, looking well satisfied. And further on still, not far from the steps where Paul usually sat, a little girl skipped down the cobbled boat launch towards the chattering ducks. They let her come quite near, indeed – so near that the older man lounging some distance behind her stirred in mild alarm. Raising his voice, he called her back a few steps from the swift-flowing water.

Beside me, Neil smiled. ‘Just like her mother. She has no proper sense of danger.’

My head jerked round before I remembered that he would know Lucie Valcourt. Lucie could hardly have remembered him from his visits to the house – she wouldn’t have been more than four years old herself when her mother died, and three more years had passed since then. But she obviously knew Neil now, and knew him well. When she came dancing back happily up the ramp to say hello, she greeted me in singing French but spoke to Neil in clear, if halting, English. ‘Good morning, Monsieur Neil,’ she said. ‘I feed the dukes.’

‘Ducks, love. And yes, I see that. No school today?’

The dark curls swung from side to side, emphatically. ‘No. It is Wednesday.’

‘Wednesday already?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘You know in England, children go to school on Wednesday.’

Lucie wrinkled her nose at the thought. It was an expression, I decided, that must have crossed many a French face down through the ages – the civilised person pondering the ways of the barbarian. Even her comment, that she would not like to live in England, was hardly without precedent.

François turned his dry indulgent gaze on Neil. ‘But in England, a man like me would have some rest,’ he said, also in English. ‘Instead this little one, she takes me every Wednesday for a walk, like a dog.’

‘I feed the d … ducks,’ she chimed in, careful with the new pronunciation. She thought of something, looked at me. ‘Mademoiselle, you would like also to feed the ducks? I have much bread.’

If anybody else had asked me that, I’d have said no, but then I’d never learned the knack of saying no to children. Neil stayed behind with François, and Lucie lapsed into French again as she led me down the broad boat launch, her small feet bouncing on the cobblestones. ‘Monsieur Neil is a friend of yours, Mademoiselle?’ she asked, and then without giving me a chance to answer, ‘He was a friend of my mother’s, too. He lives in Austria. Last summer I went there with Aunt Martine, and he came to visit us. He speaks German,’ she informed me, ‘but he can’t speak French. I heard him try to, once, with Aunt Martine, and he got all his words mixed up. It was funny. Do you like him?’

‘Yes, I do. He’s a very nice man.’

‘Is he your boyfriend?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’ She bounced a little higher. ‘He is very pretty, I think. Prettier than my papa.’ With the candid eyes of childhood she looked back at Neil who stood, arms folded, talking now to François. ‘But he is not perfect.’