She was still laughing when Cantrip returned to the balcony.
“Dear me,” I said, “what a remarkably perceptive young woman. I wonder how she knew that?”
“What do you mean?” said Cantrip, blushing.
“Gabrielle has auburn hair, and she uses Raffiné—I noticed the scent spray in her handbag last night.”
“Oh rot,” said Cantrip; but continued to blush.
CHAPTER 14
At about midday I began the steep but relatively brief ascent of the steps which lead up from the northwestern corner of the harbour, through shrubberies of cacti and bougainvillea, to the summit of the Rock. Upon reaching the plateau, I averted my eyes, in accordance with the advice of one of the more austere contributors to the Guide, from the Disney-esque grandeurs of the Palace and turned somewhat at random into the network of narrow streets which constitutes the old town of Monaco.
The area is not a large one, and although almost every establishment that was not a souvenir shop seemed to be an eating place of some kind, I had little difficulty in identifying the restaurant where Cantrip and Gabrielle were to meet. Some twenty yards down the street, and on the opposite side, was a pleasant-looking bistro. I entered and chose a table close to the window.
Gabrielle was the first to arrive, coming from the direction of the Cathedral several minutes before the appointed hour, wearing a black-and-white dress and a hat of glossy black straw. She sat down at one of the tables on the pavement outside the restaurant.
Soon afterwards I saw approaching from the same direction the tall figure of Mr. Justice Welladay. Though he was dressed in the flannel trousers and cotton shirt which are the customary apparel of the Englishman seeking pleasure abroad, they seemed in the nature of a disguise: there was little in his bearing to suggest the holiday spirit. After an unconvincing pretence of contemplating the purchase of a garment bearing the motto “Kisses from Monte Carlo,” he entered the bistro and sat down a few feet away from me.
Of the three of us Gabrielle was the first to see Cantrip, who must have been approaching from the direction of the Palace. She stood up and called out to him, waving her straw hat, and he went quickly towards her, manoeuvring his way adroitly through a group of jostling sightseers.
The judge, on observing this, half rose from his chair, his expression one of surprise, anxiety, and something like anger — he seemed almost to be considering some physical intervention in the encounter. Evidently perceiving, however, the absurdity of such a course of action, he sank back into his chair. I rose and went across to his table.
“Sir Arthur,” I said, “may I join you? You will perhaps not remember me — we met a few months ago when you were dining on High Table in St. George’s, where I am a Fellow. My name is Hilary Tamar — Professor Hilary Tamar.”
“I’m afraid,” he said, “that I don’t remember the occasion.” I saw that he thought it tasteless of me to presume on so slender an acquaintance, but the civility usually practised between members of the legal and academic professions permitted nothing closer to an outright rebuff.
“I fear that I am contributing,” I said, with a smile which I hoped was disarming, “to one of the hazards of judicial office. It must be difficult for you to take a private holiday without meeting someone who knows you in your public capacity.”
“It does seem,” said the judge, “to be becoming increasingly so.”
“Here you are, for example, in a little back street in Monaco, thousands of miles from Lincoln’s Inn, and you find yourself within a stone’s throw of at least two people who can claim a professional acquaintance with you.”
“Two?” said the judge. “I have seen no one but yourself, Professor Tamar.”
“The dark-haired young man at the table over there is at the Chancery Bar — his name is Michael Cantrip. He is in Basil Ptarmigan’s Chambers in 62 New Square. I don’t suppose that he has appeared before you sufficiently often for you to recognise him, especially without a wig and gown. But he, of course, would recognise you.”
Welladay drew back a little from the window, as if realising that any more than a casual glance from Cantrip might reveal his presence; but he continued to stare intently at the boy, apparently trying to verify what I had said.
“Now that you say it — yes, I believe I may have seen him in Lincoln’s Inn. Are you quite sure, Professor Tamar, that he is who you say he is? It is a matter, as it happens, of some interest to me.”
“Quite sure,” I said. “He is well known to me.”
He sat in frowning silence, evidently weighing up the significance of what I had told him, but showing no disposition to discuss it further.
“But I do not think,” I said after a few moments, “that there is any danger of his seeking to engage you in conversation — he seems very well content with his present company. Understandably so — a most charming and attractive woman. Would you say, Sir Arthur, that she much resembles her mother?”
He made no sudden movement or exclamation of surprise; but he betrayed his astonishment by that instant of perfect immobility which is the one undisguisable sign of emotion in those accustomed to conceal it.
“What an extraordinary question, Professor Tamar — how on earth should I know?”
“I cannot imagine,” I said, “that you will disclaim the acquaintance of Rachel Alexandre.”
“I find you, if I may say so, Professor Tamar,” he said, with a certain grimness, “excessively well informed on matters which seem to me to be no concern of yours.”
“To an historian, Sir Arthur, that can hardly be a reproach.”
“May I know, if you please, for what purpose you have engineered this meeting? After what you have said, you cannot expect me to believe that it is accidental.”
“I will not attempt to persuade you that it is — it was, I readily admit, in the hope of having some conversation with you that I came here this morning. My knowledge of your friendship with Rachel Alexandre is indeed accidental. I learnt of it by chance in the course of some research I was engaged in relating to the last year of the Second World War.” I hoped that he would not remember that I was a mediaevalist. “I believe, however, that the accident may prove to have been a fortunate one. Cantrip, you see, has been telling me a rather extraordinary story, to the effect that during the past three days you have been following the Contessa di Silvabianca across France and that during that time you caused him to be locked up in a wine cellar.” The judge said nothing, but his heavy eyebrows gathered themselves together in a manner which Julia would have found extremely alarming. “He has drawn the conclusion,” I continued, “that you intend some harm towards her.”
“That I…? Oh, that’s preposterous.”
“Knowing what I do, I have no doubt that it is, but he is convinced of it. You, I suspect, entertain a similar notion with regard to him. If you continue in your mutual misapprehensions, I fear that the matter may end in a good deal of embarrassment to both of you, not to speak of the Contessa herself. Sir Arthur, I understand that the reasons for your conduct may well be of a personal and confidential nature and that you would not wish them to be disclosed to Cantrip. Since, however, I already know so much of the story, can there be any grave objection to telling me the rest — in, I need hardly say, the strictest confidence? If I were able to tell Cantrip that I knew your motives and that they were in no way inimical to the interests of the Contessa, I believe that he would accept my assurance.”
The judge was silent, gazing down the sunlit street to where Cantrip and the Contessa were now engaged in a very animated and apparently entertaining conversation over a bottle of champagne. Neither of them looked, at present, to be much weighed down by anxiety. He was plainly inclined to tell me to go to the devil, but he was also reflecting, I suppose, that his conduct of the previous few days had been of equivocal propriety and that I might be a means of extrication from a potential embarrassment. Moreover, a man in his sixties does not easily decline an opportunity to speak of his youth.