Fiona Grant pushed a tendril of wet hair out of her eyes and held out her hand. “I don’t know about Anne, but speaking for myself I’ll try not to learn too fast.”
The launch was no more than twenty or thirty feet away now and its occupant cut the engine and it drifted in towards Foxhunter.
“Who’s this, for goodness” sake?” Anne demanded.
Fiona slipped a wet arm in hers. “A simply marvellous man, Anne. He’s French. Staying here for a week or two to paint and do a little skin-diving.”
“But I thought Owen closed the hotel last week?”
“He did, but luckily I was on the jetty when he came in. I persuaded Owen to change his mind.”
The launch bumped against the side and Mallory caught the thrown line. As he looped it round the rail, the Frenchman vaulted on to the deck. He wore a slim-fitting jersey that left his sunburnt arms bare, and the dark glasses gave him the same slightly sinister and anonymous look the peaked military cap had done in the photo in his file.
Fiona took his arm and turned to face them. “Anne, I’d like you to meet Raoul Guyon,” she said.
CHAPTER SIX
the ancient, grey-stone house was firmly rooted into a hollow in the hill, great beech trees flanking it on either side. At some time a large glass conservatory had been added, running along the whole length of the building, and a series of shallow steps dropped down to a stone terrace.
From the terrace the cliffs fell a good two hundred feet into a small funnel-shaped inlet that would have made a wonderfully sheltered mooring had it not been for the jagged line of rocks stretching across the entrance.
Anne Grant leaned on the wall, a cool drink in her hand, and looked out to sea. It had turned into a beautiful day, surprisingly warm for September, with a scattering of white clouds trailing to the horizon. She felt completely relaxed and at peace, happy to be home again. A foot crunched on gravel. When she turned, her father-in-law stood at the top of the steps.
Major-General Hamish Grant, d.s.o., m.g. and bar, had been well named Iron Grant. Six feet four inches in height, with a great breadth of shoulders, his hair was a snow-white mane swept back behind his ears. He wore an old pair of khaki service trousers and a corduroy jacket.
He probed at the top step with his walking stick. “You there, Anne?”
“Here I am, Hamish.”
She went up the stops and took his arm and his great, craggy face broke into a warm smile. “Fiona seemed tremendously excited about the new boat, but she was hardly in the house for a moment before she was changed and off out again.”
In a corner of the terrace stood a table containing a tray of drinks and shaded by a large striped umbrella. She led him across and he eased his great bulk into a wicker chair.
“She’s gone down to the hotel to meet Raoul Guyon, this young French painter who’s staying there. She promised to show him some of the island before lunch.”
“What about this fellow Mallory?”
“He should be here at any moment. I asked him to pick up the diving equipment. There was no real hurry, but I thought you might like to meet him.”
“I certainly would if only to thank him for the way he handled this Southampton affair.” He frowned. “Mallory. Neil Mallory. There’s something familiar about that name. Irish, of course.”
“He certainly doesn’t have an accent.”
“And you say he was cashiered for cooking the mess books? That certainly doesn’t fit in with the sort of man who’d take on a couple of thugs in a back alley.”
“That’s what I thought. He’s a strange man, Hamish. At times there’s something almost frightening about him. He’s so curiously remote and detached from things. I think you’ll like him.”
“I’d love to know why they slung him out,” the General said. “Mind you, the War Office, God bless “em, do some pretty daft things these days.”
“I’d rather you didn’t raise the subject,” she said. “Promise?”
He frowned for a moment and then shrugged. “I don’t see why not. After all, a man’s past is his own affair. Can he sail the boat, that’s the main thing?”
She nodded. “Perfectly.”
“Then what have we got to grumble about?” He squeezed her hand. “Get me a brandy and soda like a good girl and tell me some more about Foxhunter.”
She didn’t get the chance. As she was pouring his drink, Jagbir appeared at the top of the steps, Mallory a yard or two behind him.
The Gurkha was short and squat, no more than five feet tall, and wore a neat, sand-coloured linen jacket. He had the ageless, yellow-brown face of the Asiatic and limped heavily on his left foot, relic of a bad wound received at Cassino.
He spoke good English with the easy familiarity of the old servant. “Mr. Mallory’s here, General.”
The General sipped a little of his brandy and put the glass down again. “What’s on the stove?”
“Curried chicken. When would you like to have it?”
“Any time you like. Serve it out here.”
Mallory stood at the top of the steps waiting, cap in hand, and Anne smiled up at him. “Would you care to have lunch with us, Mr. Mallory?”
He shook his head. “It’s good of you to offer, but I’ve already arranged to eat at the hotel.”
She dismissed Jagbir with a quick nod, trying to hide her disappointment, and Mallory came down the steps.
“This is Mr. Mallory, General,” she said formally.
Hamish Grant turned towards Mallory, his head slightly to one side. “Come a bit closer, man. I don’t see very well.”
Mallory moved to the table and looked down into the cloudy, opalescent eyes. The General reached out and touched him gently on the chest. “My daughter-in-law tells me you’re a good sailor?”
“I hope so,” Mallory said.
“What was your last ship?”
“An oil-tanker. S.S. Pilar. Tampico to Southampton.”
The General turned to Anne. “Did you check his papers?” she shook her head and he looked up at Mallory again. “Let’s see them.”
Mallory took a wallet from his hip pocket, extracted a folded document and union card and tossed them on the table.
“See when he last paid off and check the union card. There should be a photo.”
She checked the documents quickly and nodded. “Paid off S.S. Pilar, Southampton, 1st September.” She smiled as she handed them back. “It isn’t a very good photo.”
Mallory didn’t reply and the General continued: “The terms Mrs. Grant agreed with you, you’re quite satisfied with them?”
“Perfectly.”
“There’ll be a bonus of one hundred pounds for you on top. Some token of my gratitude for the way you handled this Southampton business.”
“That won’t be necessary, sir,” Mallory said coolly.
Blood surged into the General’s face in an instant. “By God, sir, if I say it is necessary it is necessary. You’ll take orders like everyone else.”
Mallory adjusted his cap and turned to Anne. "You mentioned some diving equipment you wanted me to take down to the boat?”
She took a hurried glance at the General’s purple face and said quickly: “You’ll find a station wagon in the courtyard at the rear. Jabber’s already loaded it. I’ll be down later this afternoon.”
Til expect you.” Mallory turned to the General. “Anything else, sir?”
“No, damn your eyes!” the General exploded.
A smile tugged at the corner of Mallory’s mouth. His hand started upwards in an instinctive salute. He caught himself just in time, glanced once at Anne, turned, and ran lightly up the steps.
The General started to laugh. “Pour me another brandy.” Anne uncorked the bottle and reached for his glass. “Am I right in assuming all that was quite deliberate?”
“Of course/ Hamish Grant said, “and I’ll add to your mystery, my dear. There goes a man who once was used to command, and high command at that. I didn’t spend forty years in the army for nothing.”
High on the cliffs on the western side of the island Raoul Guyon and Fiona Grant topped a steep hill and paused. Before them the island seemed to tumble over the cliffs and the great jagged spine which joined them to St. Pierre was visible under the water.