I let my hands drop from her shoulders.
‘Very well. Have it your own way. I’ll keep my mouth shut.’ I looked at her. ‘But I swear to you that if anything happens to Philippe – or if any attempt is made – I’ll smear this story, and the Valmys, across every newspaper in France until they – and Bernard – get what they deserve.’
‘Nothing will happen to Philippe.’
‘I pray God you’re right. Now go, Berthe. Thank you for coming as you did.’
She slid off the bed, hesitating. ‘The frock?’
I said wearily: ‘Keep it. I’ll have no use for it where I’ll be going. Goodnight.’
‘Miss—’
‘Goodnight, Berthe.’
The door clicked shut behind her, and left me alone with the shadows.
14
Fill the cup, Philip,
And let us drink a dram.
Anonymous Early English Lyric.
There was only one possible plan that would make certain of Philippe’s safety. He had to be removed from Léon de Valmy’s reach and hidden till help came.
There wasn’t a minute to lose. Léon de Valmy might well assume that one-thirty would be a dead hour in the schoolroom wing. And the servants would be coming back from the dance between three and four. If anything was to be done tonight it would be done soon.
I was back at my bedside, tearing off my dressing-gown with those wretchedly shaky hands, while my mind raced on out of control. I couldn’t think; I didn’t want to think; there were things I didn’t want to face. Not yet. But Philippe had to be got away. That was all that mattered. I had decided that I didn’t dare use the telephone; it might somehow betray me to Léon de Valmy, and besides, it was possible that Berthe would wait to see if I approached the pantry – and in her present shaken and terrified mood I couldn’t answer for her reactions. And there was no help in Valmy. Mrs. Seddon was ill; Seddon himself was elderly, conventional and (I suspected) none too bright. Berthe and I between us might have guarded Philippe if we had only known from what danger, but as it was … no, he had to be got away to the nearest certain help, and then, as soon as possible, to the police. I didn’t let the promise Berthe had blackmailed from me weigh with me for a second; being a woman, I put commonsense in front of an illusory ‘honour’, and I’d have broken a thousand promises without a qualm if by doing so I could save Philippe.
I had flung my dressing-gown down and was reaching for my clothes when I heard the sound from the corridor.
Even though I had been listening for it I didn’t at first know what it was. It came as the thinnest of humming whispers through the turmoil of my brain. But at some level it must have blared a warning, for my hand flashed to the bedside light and switched it off just as Philippe’s door opened very quietly, and I knew what the whisper had been. The wheelchair.
I stayed where I was, frozen, one hand still on the light-switch. I don’t think I was even breathing. If there had been the slightest sound from the other room I think I’d have been through there like a bullet from a gun, but the wheelchair never moved, so I stayed still, waiting.
Nothing. No movement. After a while Philippe’s door shut once more, very softly. The whisper was in the corridor again.
I don’t know what instinct thrust me back into my bed and pulled the clothes up round me, but when my bedroom door opened I was lying quite quietly with my back to it.
He didn’t come in. He simply waited there in silence. The seconds stretched out like years. I thought: I wonder what he’d do if I turned over, saw him, and screamed? The employer caught creeping into the governess’s bedroom, the lights, the questions, the scurrying feet in the corridor … could you laugh that one off, Monsieur de Valmy? Tiny bubbles of hysteria prickled in my throat at the thought of Léon de Valmy pilloried in the role of vile seducer – then I remembered how pitifully he was insured against the risk, and lay still, all my perilous amusement gone. In its stead came a kind of shame and a pity that, rather horribly, did nothing to mitigate my fear. There was something curiously vile about the mixture of emotions. My muscles tensed themselves against it and I started to tremble.
He had gone. The door had closed noiselessly behind him. I heard the whisper of the wheels fade along the corridor towards his room.
I slipped out of bed and padded across to the door, where I stood listening until, far down the corridor, I thought I heard another door shut softly. Seconds later, I heard the faint whine of the lift. He had been checking up, that was all. But he had also told me all I wanted to know. The story was true. And I had to get Philippe out of it, and fast. Somehow I was calm again. I shut and locked my door, then with steady hands drew the curtains close and turned on the bedside light. I dressed quickly, picked up my coat and strong shoes, and went through the bathroom into Philippe’s room.
This was going to be the hardest part of the job. I put the coat and shoes down on the chair where I had sat for last night’s midnight feast, then, with a glance at the sleeping child, I crossed to the door and locked it. Deliberately, I refused to hurry. If this was to succeed at all it must be taken calmly.
The room was light enough. The long curtains hung slightly apart, and between them a shaft of light fell, as it had done last night, to paint a bright line across the carpet. Something struck my foot as I crossed the floor, and rolled a little way, glittering. A frosted grape. Berthe had scamped the cleaning today, it seemed.
I pushed aside the heavy curtain, and latched the window. Behind me Philippe moved and sighed, and I paused and looked over my shoulder towards the bed, with one hand still on the window-catch, and the other holding back the curtain.
The shadow falling across me brought me round again like a jerked puppet to face the window. Someone had come along the balcony, and was staring at me through the gap in the curtains. I stood there, held rigid in the noose of light that showed me up so pitilessly. I couldn’t move. My hand tightened on the window-catch as if an electric current held it there. I looked straight into Héloïse de Valmy’s eyes, a foot from my own.
She showed no surprise at my presence, nor even at the fact that I was fully dressed. She merely put a hand to the window-fastening, as if expecting to find it open. She shook it, and then her hands slid over the glass as if trying to push a way in. Then she took hold of the latch once more, rattling it almost impatiently.
I could hardly refuse to let her in. I noticed that there were no pockets to her long ivory-coloured robe, and that her hands were empty. Besides, if she was here to harm Philippe she would hardly demand entry from me in this unruffled fashion. Wondering confusedly how I was going to explain the fact that I was up and dressed at one-thirty in the morning, I opened the window. I said, as coolly as I could: ‘Good evening, madame.’
She took no notice, but walked calmly past me into the room. Her robe whispered across the carpet. She stopped near the head of the bed. In the dim room her shadow threw a yet deeper darkness over the sleeping child. She put out a hand slowly, almost tentatively, to touch his face. It was a gentle touch, a meaningless gesture, but I recognised it. This was Philippe’s nightmare. This had happened before.
If she had had some weapon, if her approach had been at all stealthy – anything but this apparently calm and routine visit – no doubt I would have moved more quickly. As it was, her hand was still hovering over the boy’s face when I flew after her. I reached Philippe just as her fingers touched him. He didn’t move. She drew her hand back, and straightened up. I went round the bed and reached a protective hand to draw the sheet up to the child’s face. I faced her across the bed. Whatever my feelings towards the Demon King, I was not afraid of his wife. I said: ‘What is it, madame? What do you want?’
She didn’t answer. She hadn’t even acknowledged my presence. This was carrying ostracism a bit too far. I began to say something angry, then stopped, bewildered, to watch her.
She had turned to the little table that stood beside the bed. Her hands moved now over the clutter of o
bjects on the table – a lamp, a book, a little clock, the tumbler that had held Philippe’s chocolate, a couple of soldiers, a biscuit … I thought she was going to switch the light on, and made a half-movement of protest. But her hands, groping in a curious blind fashion, passed the lamp, moved softly over the clock and the tin soldiers, and hovered over the tumbler. She picked this up.
I said: ‘Madame de Valmy—’
She turned at that. She had lifted the tumbler as if to drink from it, and across the rim her eyes met mine again. With her back to the moonlight, her face was a pale blur, her eyes dark and expressionless, but as I looked at her, bewildered and beginning once more to be frightened, I understood. The goose-pimple cold slid, ghost-handed, over my skin.
The open eyes, no less than the smooth stealthy hands, were indeed blind … I stared into the woman’s expressionless face for one eerie moment longer, while the child breathed gently between us, then, very quietly, I moved to one side, down to the foot of the bed.
She stood still, with the tumbler held to her face, staring at the place where I had been … You see, her eyes are open: Ay, but their sense is shut… I stood and watched her as if she were a ghost on a moonlit stage. The verses marched on through my brain as if someone had switched on a tape-recorder and forgotten it. I remember feeling a sort of numb surprise at their aptness. Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise, and upon my life, fast asleep …
So Héloïse de Valmy, like Lady Macbeth, had that weighing on her heart which sent her sleepwalking through the night to Philippe’s room. And would she, like that other murderess, give away what she had seen and known? I knew nothing about sleepwalkers except what I remembered of that scene in Macbeth. And Lady Macbeth had talked. Was it possible that I could get Héloïse de Valmy to do the same? Observe her, stand close.
I was gripping the rail at the foot of Philippe’s bed. Without it, I think I would have fallen.
I said hoarsely: ‘Madame.’
She took no notice. She put the tumbler down surely and quietly, and turned to go. The moonlight rippled along the lovely folds of her robe; it caught her face, gleaming back from eyes wide and glossy as a doll’s.
I said: ‘Héloïse de Valmy, answer me. How will you kill Philippe?’
She was on her way to the window. I walked with her. She went smoothly, and at the right moment her hand went up to the curtain. For one fearful moment I thought I had been mistaken and she was awake, but then I saw her fumble the curtains and hesitate as a fold tangled in her robe. The fixed eyes never moved, but she fetched a sigh and faltered. Heaven knows what she has known. The obsessive question burst from me. ‘Is Raoul helping you to kill Philippe?’
She paused. Her head inclined towards me. I repeated it urgently in her ear: ‘Is Raoul helping you?’
She turned away. It wouldn’t work. She was going, and her secrets with her, still locked in sleep. I reached an unsteady hand and drew the curtain aside for her.
She walked composedly past me and out of sight along the balcony.
But she had told me one thing. I saw it as soon as I turned.
God, God forgive us all. I stood over Philippe in the moon-dappled darkness, with the tumbler in my hand.
I woke him quietly. I used a trick I had read about somewhere in John Buchan – a gentle pressure below the left ear. It seemed to work; he opened his eyes quite naturally and lay for a moment before they focused on me in the moonlight. Then he said, as if we were resuming a conversation: ‘I had another nightmare.’
‘I know. That’s why I came in.’
He lifted his head, and then pushed himself into a sitting position. ‘What’s the time?’
‘Half-past one.’
‘Haven’t you been to bed yet? Have you been to the dance in the village. You didn’t tell me.’
‘No, I haven’t been out. I got dressed again because—’
‘You’re not going out now?’ The whisper sharpened so abruptly that my finger flew to my lips.
‘Quiet, Philippe. No – that is, yes, but I’m not leaving you alone, if that’s what you’re afraid of. You’re coming too.’
‘I am?’
I nodded, and sat down on the edge of the bed. The big eyes watched me. He was sitting very still. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. God knows what my voice sounded like. I know my lips were stiff. I said: ‘Philippe.’
‘Yes, mademoiselle?’
‘Do you – feel all right? Not – not sleepy or anything?’
‘Not really.’
‘Quite fit and wide awake?’
‘Yes.’
I said hoarsely: ‘Did you drink your chocolate?’
His eyes slid round in that narrow sidelong look towards the tumbler, then back to me. He hesitated. ‘I poured it away.’
‘You what? Why?’
‘Well …’ he said uncertainly, eyeing me, then stopped.
‘Look, Philippe, I don’t mind. I just want to know. Was it nasty or something?’
‘Oh no. At least I don’t know.’ Again that look. Then a sudden burst of candour: ‘They left the bottle last night and I found it and kept it. I didn’t tell you.’
I said blankly: ‘Bottle?’
‘Yes,’ said Philippe, ‘that smashing lemonade. I had that instead. It wasn’t fizzy any more but it was fine.’
‘You … never said anything when I went to make your chocolate.’
‘Well,’ said Philippe, ‘I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. You always made the chocolate and – what’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. Nothing. Oh, Philippe.’
‘What is it, Miss Martin?’
‘I guess I’m tired,’ I said. ‘I had a late night last night and I haven’t slept much tonight.’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘No, I don’t mind.’
‘Why haven’t you slept tonight?’
I said: ‘Now listen, mon p’tit. Did you know your Uncle Hippolyte is coming home tomorrow – today?’
I saw the joy blow across his face the way a gleam runs over water and felt, suddenly, a deep and calm thankfulness. There was port in this storm, it seemed.
Philippe was saying in a quick, excited whisper: ‘When is he coming? Why is he coming back? Who told you? When can we get to see him?’
‘That’s what I came to wake you for,’ I said, as if it was the most reasonable thing in the world. ‘I thought that we might go straight away. The – the sooner the better,’ I finished lamely, all my half-thought-out excuses dying on my lips under that steady wide stare.
‘Do you mean we are going to the Villa Mireille now? To meet my Uncle Hippolyte?’
‘Yes. He won’t be there yet, but I thought—’
Philippe said, devastatingly: ‘Does my Uncle Léon know?’
I swallowed. ‘Philippe, my dear, I don’t expect you to understand all this, but I want you to trust me, and come with me now as quickly and quietly as you can. Your Uncle Léon—’
‘You are taking me away from him.’ It was a statement, not a question. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were intent, and he was breathing a little faster.
‘Yes,’ I said, and nerved myself for the inevitable. ‘Why?’ But it didn’t come. The child supplied the terrible answer for himself.
He said in that sombre, unsurprised little voice: ‘My Uncle Léon hates me. I know that. He wishes I was dead. Doesn’t he?’
I said gently: ‘Philippe, mon lapin, I’m afraid he might wish you harm. I don’t like your Uncle Léon very much either. I think we’ll both be better away from here, if you’ll only trust me and come with me.’
He pushed back the bedclothes without a second’s hesitation, and grabbed at the back of his nightshirt, ready to haul it over his head. In the act he stopped. ‘The time I was shot at in the wood, that was not an accident?’
The question, coming grotesquely out of the folds of the nightshirt, made me gasp. There was no need, it appeared, to pretend, even about this. I said: ‘No, it w
asn’t an accident. Here’s your vest.’
‘He tried to kill me?’
‘Yes.’ The word sounded so flat that I added quickly: ‘Don’t be afraid, Philippe.’
‘I’m not afraid.’ He was fighting his way into his shirt now. As he emerged from the neck of it I saw that he spoke the truth. He was taut as a wire, and the long-lashed black eyes – Valmy eyes – were beginning to blaze. ‘I’ve been afraid for a long time, ever since I came to Valmy, but I didn’t know why. I’ve been unhappy and I’ve hated my Uncle Léon, but I didn’t know why I was afraid all the time. Now I know, and I’m not frightened any more.’ He sat down at my feet and began to pull his socks on. ‘We’ll go to my Uncle Hippolyte and tell him all this, and then my Uncle Léon will be guillotined.’
‘Philippe!’
He glanced up at me. ‘What would you? Murderers go to the guillotine. He’s a murderer.’
Tigers breed true, I thought wildly, tigers breed true. He had even, for a flash, had a look of Léon de Valmy himself. But he was only a child; he couldn’t know the implications of what he was saying. I said: ‘He’s not, you know. You’re still alive, and going to stay that way. Only we must hurry, and be terribly quiet. Look, your shoes are here. No, don’t put them on. Carry them till we get out.’
He picked them up and got up, turning towards me, then, with a sudden duck back into childhood, he reached for my hand. ‘Where are we going?’
‘I told you. To your Uncle Hippolyte.’
‘But we can’t go to the Villa Mireille till he’s there,’ he said uncertainly. ‘That’s where they’ll look for us straight away in the morning.’
‘I know.’ His hand quivered in mine, and I pulled him against my knee and put an arm round him. ‘But we’ll be quite safe. We’ll follow our star, Philippe. It’ll not let us down. D’you remember Monsieur Blake, the Englishman?’
He nodded.
‘Well, he has a cabin up in Dieudonné woods where he spends the night sometimes. I know he’s there tonight, because I saw his light shining like a star before I went to bed. We’ll go up there straight away, and he’ll look after us and take us to your uncle’s house tomorrow. It’ll be all right, you’ll see. I promise you it will.’