Chapter 18
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the onset come…
Shakespeare: Sonnet 90.
The Villa Mireille stood right on the shore of Lac Léman. It was one of a row of large wealthy houses-châteaux, almost- which bordered the lakeside, being served to landward by a narrow pretty road some two hundred feet below the town's main boulevards. Most of the houses stood in large gardens plentifully treed and guarded from the road by high walls and heavy gates.
It was dark when we reached the Villa Mireille. The gate was shut and as our steps paused outside there was the rattle of a heavy chain within, and a dog set up a deep barking.
"That's Beppo," whispered Philippe.
"Does he know you?"
"No-I don't know. I'm frightened of him."
Here the door of the concierge's lodge opened, and the light from it rushed up the trees that made a crowded darkness beyond the gate. A woman's voice called something, shrilly. The barking subsided into a whining growl. The door shut and the trees retreated into murky shadow.
I said: "Is there another way in?"
"You can get in from the lake-shore. The garden runs right down, and there's a boat-house. But I don't know the way down along the lake."
"We'll find it."
"Are we going further?" His voice was alarmed and querulous; tears of pure fatigue were not far away.
"Only to find a way down to the lake. We can't go in past Beppo and Madame-what did you say her name was?"
"Vuathoux."
"Well, unless you'd like to go straight to her-“
"No.”
I said: "You'd be safe, Philippe."
“She would telephone my Uncle Léon, wouldn't she?"
"Almost certainly."
"And my cousin Raoul would come?"
"It's possible."
He looked at me. "I would rather wait for my Uncle Hippolyte. You said we could."
"All right. We'll wait."
"Would you rather wait for my Uncle Hippolyte?"
"Yes."
"Then," said Philippe, swallowing, "perhaps we will find the way quickly?"
We did-three houses along from the Villa Mireille. A small wicket, swinging loose, gave onto a dim shrubbery, and as we slipped cautiously inside we could see the dim bulk of a house looming unlighted among its misty trees. No dog barked. We crept unchallenged down a long winding path, along beside a high paling bordering an open stretch of grass, and eventually once again between big trees towards the murmur of the lake.
Neither moon nor stars showed tonight. Over the water mist lay patchily, here thick and pale against the dark distances, here no more than a haze veiling the lake's surface as breath mists a dark glass, here as faint as the sheen that follows a finger stroking dark velvet. Long transparent drifts of vapour wreathed up from the water and reached slow fingers across the narrow shore towards the trees. The water lapped hollowly on the shingle beside us as we crunched our way back towards the Villa's garden. The night was not cold, but the water breathed a chill into the air, and the slowly-curling veils of mist brushed us with a damp that made me shiver.
"That's the boat-house," whispered Philippe. "I know where the key's kept. Are we going to go in?"
The boat-house was a small square two-storeyed building set, of course, over the water, at the head of an artificial bay made by two curving stone jetties. The shore was very narrow here, and from the yard-wide strip of shingle rose the steep bank crowded with trees that edged the grounds of the Villa Mireille. The rear wall of the boat-house was almost built up against this bank, and the beeches hung their branches right over the roof.
Mist and darkness blurred the details, but the general effect of desertion, looming trees, and lapping water was not just exactly what the moment demanded for Philippe and me.
I said briskly: "I want to go up through the garden and take a look at the house. For all we know he's already here. Would you like to stay in the boat-house? You could lock yourself in, and we'd have a secret signal-"
“No," said Philippe again.
"All right. You can scout up the garden with me. Very carefully, mind."
"Madame Vuathoux is deaf," said Philippe.
"Maybe. But Beppo isn't. Come on, petit"
The bank was steep and slippery with clay and wet leaves that lay in drifts between the roots of the beeches. Above it was the rough grass of a small parkland studded with more of the great trees. We crept softly from one huge trunk to the next; the spring grass was soft and damp underfoot, and there was, incongruously, the smell of violets. Elms now, and horse-chestnuts. I could feel the rough bark of the one, and the sticky buds of the other licked at my hand. The hanging fronds of willow brushed us wetly, clung, hindered us. We pushed through into a grove of willows as thick as a tent, and paused. We were almost at the house now. The willows curtained the edges of a formal lawn; the terrace of the house lay beyond this, thirty yards away. Near us was the metallic gleam of a small pool and I could see something that looked like a statue leaning over it.
I took Philippe's hand and we crept softly up behind the plinth of the statue, where the willows hung like an arras down to the water's surface. I pulled the trailing stems aside and scanned the facade of the house. None of the windows showed light, but there appeared to be a lamp over the front door, illuminating the drive. The door itself was out of our range of vision, but the glow of the lamp showed part of a circular gravel sweep, and banks of rhododendrons. Up here the mist was still only a blurring of the air, a thickening of the lamplight that lay like hoar-frost on the wet leaves.
I said softly: "The windows on the terrace. What room's that?"
"The salon. It's never used. My Uncle Hippolyte has his study upstairs. The end window. There's no light in it."
I looked up at it, "Then I'm afraid he's not home yet."
"Are we going in?"
I thought for a moment. "Where's the back door?"
"Round the other side, near the lodge."
"And near Beppo? Then that's out. And I doubt if there are any windows open. And there's that light over the front door… No, Philippe, I think we'll wait. What do you think?"
"Yes. I-there's a carl"
His hand gripped mine almost painfully. The road was not more than twenty yards away on our right. A car was coming along it, slowing down rapidly through its gears. Brakes squealed. A door slammed. Footsteps. A bell clanged. Seconds later through the clamour of the dog we heard the chink of iron and the squeak of a hinge, as Madame Vuathoux hastened to open the gates.
Philippe's grip tightened. "My Uncle Hippolyte!" A man's voice said something indistinguishable beyond the banked shrubs. "No," I said on a caught breath. "Raoul."
The cold hand jerked in mine. I heard the concierge say, in the loud toneless voice of the very deaf: "No, monsieur. Nothing, monsieur. And has there been no trace of them found?"
He said curtly: "None. Are you sure they couldn't have got in here? This is where they'll make for, that's certain. Is the back door locked?"
"No, monsieur, but I can see it from my window. Nobody has been there. Or to the front. Of that I am sure."
"The windows?"
"Locked, monsieur."
"No telephone call? Nothing?"
"Nothing, monsieur."
There was a pause. In it I could hear my own heart hammering.
"All the same," he said, "I'll have a look round. Leave the gates open, please. I'm expecting Bernard here any minute.”
Another heart-hammering pause. Then the car started up and the lights turned in slowly off the road, slithering metallically across the sharp leaves of the rhododendrons. He parked it in front of the door, and got out. I heard him run up the steps, and then the door shut behind him. The dog still whimpered and growled a little. Back at the lodge, the concierge called something to it, and after a few moments it fell silent.