“Dear friend, I rejoice in your happiness. Such a sweet child. All that—and heaven too, with this splendid new work.”
“You are most kind, Frida.”
“Ah, I had a premonition that we should lose you, even when I was at Baden and you did not write.”
“I always knew you were intuitive,” he said guardedly.
“Unfortunately, yes. But all that is past. Now is the time to be practical, to show the value of a true friend who also is, as you say, matter-of-fact. Your déménagement in so short a time will be most difficult. You will need help, and if you wish I can give it. Your little one tells me she leaves with her splendid Willie tomorrow. I would wish to come then, but as you may be at the airport . . . yes? . . . very well, shall I come the day after?”
“You’re most thoughtful,” he said, realising after a moment’s reflection that nothing could be more acceptable. She was so capable, and already he had begun to worry about the complexity of the arrangements that must be made. “I shall expect you. And thank you.”
She smiled, and passed through the door.
Immediately he hurried back to rejoin Kathy and Willie in the salon. He took the salver from the hall table with him.
“Well, was it a success?” he asked gaily.
“It went ever so well,” Kathy said, looking flushed and happy.
“Did you think so too, Willie?”
He nodded. He was sitting down, looking tired.
“They were all very kind.”
“Let’s just see how kind,” Moray said slyly. He was in tremendous spirits. With the air of a conspirator he handed the salver to Kathy and, while she held it, began to count the money. There was a respectable heap of fifty- and hundred-franc bills and one coin—a two-franc piece.
“I bet that’s from little Gallie,” Moray laughed.
“Then it means a lot,” Willie said, unexpectedly.
“Oh, yes,” Kathy agreed warmly. “I liked her much the best.”
There was a pause, then Kathy said again:
“Haven’t you forgotten that bit of paper at the bottom?”
“Have I? Good lord, don’t tell me someone’s chipped in with a bad cheque. Take a look, Kathy.”
She gazed at the cheque, quite speechless, then she handed it to Willie. Still silent, she looked at Moray, then suddenly put her arms around his neck and kissed him.
Chapter Fifteen
Next day, at two in the afternoon, Moray arrived back from Zurich, still rather cast down by the departure of Kathy and Willie for Edinburgh on the noon plane, yet charged with vigorous purpose. Only eleven days remained before he would join them at London Airport, and much must be accomplished in that brief span; the need for immediate action was imperative. As he let himself into the house—following the departure of his guests he had given Arturo and Elena the afternoon off—he felt glad of Madame von Altishofer’s promise of assistance and hoped she would not fail to turn up next morning.
However, he had only begun to go through his mail in the study when, to his surprise, he heard the beat of her litle Dauphine in the drive. Leaving unopened the Journal of Tropical Medicine, to which he had just subscribed, and a parcel of lightweight nylon camping equipment that promised to be interesting, he went to meet her.
“Am I too prompt?” She spoke briskly, looking extremely workmanlike in a grey linen skirt and knitted grey cardigan. “I happened to see you pass in the Humber and thought not to waste the afternoon.”
“You’re quite right,” he agreed heartily, leading the way into the library. “There’s so much to do, the sooner we start the better.”
“Tell me then, what, roughly, are your plans?” She sat, not in the chair, but on the arm, indicating instant obedient readiness.
“The villa, of course, will be put on the market. Arturo and Elena will move into the chalet and act as gardiens of the property until it is sold.”
“And your things?”
“My pictures and silver must go provisionally to the bank. Their ultimate disposition will be in my lawyer’s hands—Stieger is a most reliable man. My furniture and books can remain here temporarily—quite safe if the house is shuttered.”
“These lovely books,” she exclaimed, looking at the long double rows of fine Sangorski bindings. “You cannot leave them so, in a shut-up house, or they will become altogether foxed. Every one must be separately wrapped, and that is something I can do for you.”
“Arturo . . .” he began.
“No.” She got up smilingly. “He will have enough on his hands. And he is so overthrown by your going, he is not fit for anything extra. Besides, I love books; my father had a famous library at Kellenstein. So off to your own work and leave this to me.” As he moved towards the door, she added, tactfully, but with a glance both ironic and approving: “By the way, I suppose you have read Mr Stench’s article in the Tageblatt.”
“I haven’t seen today’s papers. What article?”
“It is a piece about your party for the Mission, but there is much in it about you, and of your courage in going out there, in spite of this tribal affair. It is most flattering.”
He reddened, chiefly from pleasure, thinking of his friends in Melsburg and so many others in the canton who would read of him.
“Archie is rather a nuisance,” he said. “Though basically good at heart. I hope he didn’t overdo it. And what’s this tribal affair?”
“Apparently an outbreak of some sort, probably no more than the general unrest your friend referred to in his lecture. Now tell me, where may I find lots of wrapping paper?”
“In the pantry. Elena has stacks of it in a cupboard.”
When she went off he stirred himself and set about his first important task, to make the inventory of his antiques. This was something after his own heart and as he toured the house with paper and pen, noting down this piece and that—the Charles II red lacquer cabinet bought at the Antique Fair in London, the exquisitely mellowed Queen Anne bureau listed in Macquoid’s classic The Age of Walnut, the Louis XVI fauteuils he had bid for successfully at the Parke-Bernet Galleries—waves of recollection, of bitter-sweet nostalgia, flowed over him. It was hard to part with these costly trifles, yet never had he felt so spiritually elevated, so convinced of the merit of his renunciation. Archie Stench was right. He was doing a worth-while thing.
The tabulation was not quite complete when, at five o’clock, Madame von Altishofer found him brooding over his Elizabethan buffet in the dining-room.
“Time for tea,” she announced.
He looked up.
“Have you finished?”
“Not nearly. The books alone will take at least another half day. But workers of the world require refreshment. And I have presumed to make a few amaretti.”
The break was in fact most welcome.
“What good biscuits,” he remarked. “I never associated you with the domestic virtues.”
“One learns from necessity—and disappointments, of which I’ve had many. Please take another.”
“I shouldn’t.” He smiled deprecatingly. “The impression I’ve received lately is that I’m rather over-addicted to the pleasures of the table.”
“What nonsense,” she said spiritedly. “Now especially, to build your strength, you should be eating well. Goodness alone knows what wretched fare you will get out there.”
“I’ll be all the better for it. I supped plenty of porridge in my youth.”
“In your youth, yes, dear friend.” She smiled tolerantly. “But now?”