The penultimate entry related to a withdrawal on 1st May from a bank in St. Malo. When I saw it my blood seemed to turn to ice.
CHAPTER 16
From the entrance to the Grand Hotel there is an admirable view across St. Aubyn’s Bay to Elizabeth Castle, named by Sir Walter Raleigh in honour of his formidable sovereign and built on the islet where the hermit Helier, patron saint of Jersey and its capital, was martyred in the sixth century by marauding Norsemen. Alighting from my taxi on the following morning, however, I spared the historic fortress no more than a glance before turning to make my way towards the reception desk.
Weary though I was from rising before dawn and from the rigours of my journey, my steps were quickened by an anxiety more urgent than the desire for rest. My attempts to communicate by telephone with Cantrip, directly or through any of our mutual acquaintance, had all proved fruitless. Eventually, finding that I chanced to have in my possession a letter bearing the telex number of Julia’s Chambers, I had prevailed on the telex operator at the Clair de Lune to transmit a message to her; but I had been obliged to express myself in terms more guarded than I would have wished, and in any case had little hope of its being read in time to be of the slightest use.
I had no need to enquire the whereabouts of Clementine Derwent, for she was standing at the reception desk, engaged in what seemed to be a mildly acrimonious conversation with a member of the hotel management. She looked flustered, like a schoolboy who has been overoptimistic about the time required for his homework, and despite the civility of her greeting I was not entirely sure that she was pleased to see me.
“It’s awfully good of you to come, Professor Tamar, but I really didn’t mean to drag you all the way back from Monte Carlo. That’s why I didn’t send you a telex about the meeting.”
“My dear Clementine,” I said, “that was most thoughtful of you. The fact is, however, that I am not here solely for the purpose of the meeting. There is something I have to discuss with Cantrip, as a matter of some urgency, and I was expecting to find him here. Perhaps, however, you thought his presence unnecessary at this particular meeting?”
Her answer dashed such slender hopes as I had that the boy might still be safely in London.
“Oh no, I asked him to be here and he is. Well, here in Jersey. He’s invited Gabrielle to go out for breakfast somewhere.”
“Do you happen to know where?”
“No, Professor Tamar, I don’t,” said Clementine with a certain peevishness. “And I don’t quite know why everyone expects me to act as some kind of keeper. Oh dear — I’m sorry, but Gabrielle’s husband has turned up and he’s in a bit of a stew because I don’t know where she is. He says awful things keep happening at Daffodil meetings and he’s had a sort of premonition of something that she’s in some kind of danger. So I’m feeling a bit—”
“Your telephone call from Geneva, Miss Derwent,” said the switchboard operator behind the reception desk.
“Oh lord — Professor Tamar, will you excuse me? Would you like to go and join the others in the coffee lounge? I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”
In the coffee lounge three men were sitting round one of the low tables: Patrick Ardmore, Gideon Dark-side, and Count Giovanni di Silvabianca. My last encounter with Ardmore and Darkside having taken place, as my readers may recall, in somewhat unconventional circumstances at the Remnant Club, it was with some degree of misgiving that I renewed the acquaintance. My explanation of my presence at the Grand Hotel — namely that I had been retained by Clementine to trace the descendants of Sir Walter Palgrave and had thought my attendance to be of some possible value — met with a mixed response: Ardmore expressed his pleasure at meeting me again and enquired warmly after the Colonel; Darkside made various observations with which I need not trouble my readers—“nosy-parkering academic” was among the least offensive of the expressions he employed. I treated these, I need hardly say, with the dignified indifference becoming to the Scholar.
“I am afraid that Mr. Darkside must think me also an intruder,” said the Count apologetically. After giving me a courteous greeting he had kept a troubled silence. “And Gabrielle, too, will say I ought not to have come. But last night I had suddenly a feeling that she was in danger here, and I do not think one can ignore such feelings — you will think perhaps, Professor Tamar, that I am too superstitious?” I shook my head, having found that such apparently irrational presentiments are often the product of some perfectly efficient process of unconscious reasoning. “Well, perhaps I am, but I could not stay in Monte Carlo when I thought she was in danger — I have been travelling almost all night. And now she is not at the hotel where she was staying, she has not arrived here for the meeting, and no one knows where she is.”
“Giovanni,” said Patrick Ardmore with gentle impatience, “she’s simply having breakfast out somewhere. Our meeting’s not due to begin until nine o’clock, and it’s only just after half past eight.”
“It’s nearly quarter to nine,” said the Count, “and she knows everyone is here. And she is always so conscientious about her business engagements.”
“Young Michael Cantrip’s with her — he’ll take good care of her.”
“I know he will do his best,” said the Count, but the anxiety remained in his dark eyes.
After glowering in silence for a while Gideon Dark-side found further food for his displeasure. He pointed to the far corner of the room.
“What’s that girl doing here? Haven’t we even got this room to ourselves? This is supposed to be a private meeting, even if we are keeping open house for freeloaders from Oxford.”
Looking in the direction he indicated, I saw that there was indeed another person present, though sitting in a large armchair in such quiet and timid obscurity as readily to escape notice. It was Lilian.
“She is employed as a secretary at 62 New Square,” I said. “Since it cannot be supposed that she is here by coincidence, presumably Miss Derwent has some reason for thinking her presence desirable.”
“A secretary? What do we need a secretary for? We’ve never needed a secretary at Daffodil meetings before. And if we do, why can’t we hire one here in Jersey instead of flying her in from London and putting her up at the most expensive hotel in St. Helier? Oh, I know what it is—62 New Square. That’s young Cantrip’s Chambers. She’s his little bit of fluff, I suppose, and the Derwent girl’s let him bring her over here at the expense of the trust fund. Well, he’s not getting away with it.”
“Do be quiet, Gideon, she’ll hear you,” said Patrick Ardmore.
It appeared indeed that she was aware of being an object of discussion, for her cheeks had grown pink and she was studying a magazine with the intensity of one who wishes to be thought unaware of her surroundings. Plainly, however, it was a pretence — the instant that Clementine entered the room she looked up and smiled as if at a potential rescuer. Clementine went straight across to her, stooped and squeezed her hand, and seemed to be uttering words of encouragement.
When the young solicitor finally joined us at the coffee table, Darkside renewed his objections to my presence at the meeting.
“Well,” said Clementine a little wearily, “I don’t quite see what it is you’re worrying about, Gideon, but if that’s how you feel about it, I don’t suppose Professor Tamar will mind leaving us once the meeting’s properly started.”
“My dear Clementine, not in the least,” I said. “I merely supposed that it might be helpful to those attending to hear what progress I have made.”