Finding Margo (18 page)

“But what about you?” Margo suddenly asked. “What are you doing here? Are you taking a load of horses somewhere?”

“Me? Oh, I’m on my way to pick up two horses down south. My boss has just bought two young showjumpers. So I thought I’d spend the night here and then head off early tomorrow morning. I have a new truck,” Gráinne said proudly. “It’s parked over by the barn. You’d like it. Brand new, with air-conditioning, and a jacks and everything.”

“Sounds great. Your boss must be very nice.”

“Nice?” Gráinne laughed raucously. “You think he got it for me? Nah, it was for these fancy French horses. They’re used to being pampered. My boss wouldn’t give a shit if I was dying from the heat. He even told me not to waste fuel by having the air conditioning on when I’m on my own. That’s why I’m sleeping in the tent. Thought it would be cooler here under the trees.”

“I see.”

“But I’m feeling a bit hungry,” Gráinne announced. “I’m going over to the truck to get my tea. Want to join me? I have pork chops and potatoes and some great soda bread. And I put a couple of cans of lager into the stream to cool earlier.”

“Sounds fabulous,” Margo replied, thinking it seemed a lot more inviting than Agnès and Bernard’s boiled food. “But I better go back to the château and see if I’m needed first. I’ll be back in about half an hour or so. I could bring back some raspberry tart that was left over from lunch. I saw a big piece in the fridge.” She got to her feet, brushed off the back of her trousers, and picked up the book from the ground. “See you in a little while, then?”

“Make it an hour,” Gráinne said. “It’ll be a bit cooler then, and I’ll have had a chance to tidy up and get the stove going.”

“Right.” Margo walked back the way she had come with a feeling of happy anticipation. But, as she approached the château, she saw something that made her forget all about Gráinne and the evening ahead. Her heart sank as she spotted two police cars outside the main entrance of the château. Fiona, Margo thought, the bitch. She told Alan.

***

M
argo went in through the back door, through the kitchen, and opened the door to the hall. She listened for a while. The sound of voices was coming from upstairs. She tiptoed through the hall and started up the stairs, afraid to breathe, her brain on high alert for any mention of her name. When she was nearly on the landing, she heard a man’s voice saying something about ‘
un cambriolage
’. A break-in, Margo thought. So they’re not here about me, then. Relieved, she let out her breath and continued upstairs and in through the open door.

Milady was standing in the middle of her bedroom which looked as if it had been hit by a bomb. Clothes, shoes, and jewellery were spread over the bed, chairs, and floor. Milady looked equally dishevelled, her hair messy and her dressing gown wrinkly. Two policemen were walking around the room trying to assess the damage.

“Are you all right, Milady?” Margo asked as she stepped into the room.

“All right?” Milady exclaimed. “Yes, I’m fine. Of course. It’s just that we have been broken into, and a very valuable piece has been stolen.”

“What happened, Madame?” one of the policemen asked. “When did you discover—” He gestured around the room, “this?”

“This?” Milady stared at him. “What do you mean,
this
?”

“This—this disorder,” the policeman explained. “There seems to have been a terrible struggle here.”

“
Maman
? Are you all right?” Jacques arrived, breathless, at the door. “I saw the police arrive and—” He paused when he saw the state of the room. “
Merde
,” he whispered. “What happened here? Who did this? Who tore your room apart?”

“Why are you all so hung up on the state of the room?” Milady demanded. “I was robbed, do you hear? At first I thought I was mistaken, that I had mislaid it and I would find it, so I had to pull everything out, that’s why there’s a bit of disorder here.”

“You did this yourself?” the policeman asked.

“Yes, yes!” Milady snapped. “I did. I had to go through everything to make sure—”

“Why don’t you start from the beginning,” Jacques suggested. “But I think we should go down to the library and have a drink while you tell us what happened.” He put his arm around his mother and led her out of the room, followed by the policemen and Margo.

“
Alors, Madame
,” the policeman said when they had settled Milady in an armchair in the library and given her a large cognac. “Could you please tell us what has been stolen. Is it money? Jewellery? Or perhaps, a work of art?”

“Yes, that’s it.” Milady said. “A work of art. An original. Worth over ten thousand euros.”

“Not that little Chagall drawing,” Jacques exclaimed. “I told you not to keep it in the bedroom!’

“No, not that,” Milady snapped. “This is a lot more serious. It’s the Galliano.”

There was a brief, puzzled silence.

“I don’t think I’ve heard of this particular artist,” one of the policemen said. “But if you could describe the item to me?”

“It’s black,” Milady started. “And it has tiny seed pearls around the neckline. Pure silk, of course. I was going to wear it tonight. A bit extravagant, I know, but it’s a special occasion, so—”

“Hold on,” Jacques interrupted. “You were going to
wear
it? Are we talking about a dress?”

“Yes, of course,” Milady said impatiently. “I told you. A Galliano from this year’s collection. It was in my wardrobe yesterday, but when I looked for it after my shower it was not there anymore. I couldn’t find it anywhere. There are only two like it in the world. So you can imagine how—”

The policeman snapped his notebook shut and looked sternly at Milady.

“I’m sorry, Madame la Comtesse,” he said, his voice cold, “but I really don’t think this is a matter for the police. We do not usually deal with missing, uh, items of clothing. When you called, you said this was a matter of utmost urgency. As this is the home of the Comte Coligny de la Bourdonnière, we thought—”

“By the way, where is François?” Jacques suddenly asked. “Why isn’t he here to sort this out?”

“Because he is in Paris,” Milady said. “He left early this afternoon for some emergency at the ministry. He’ll be back at the weekend.”

“Right,” Jacques mumbled. He turned to the policemen. “I’m really sorry,
Messieurs
. My mother made a mistake. I hope you can forgive her and not press charges for this little incident.”

“Little incident?” Milady snapped. “A dress of great value has been stolen from my room. If that’s not a major crime, I don’t know what is.”

But the policemen were already leaving. They bowed and mumbled their farewells.

“But wait,” Milady exclaimed. “You’re leaving? What about my dress?”

“I’m sorry, Madame,” the policeman said. “But we cannot—” He backed out of the room. Apologising again, Jacques went out to see them off.

Milady sighed and took another large gulp of cognac. She looked across the room and suddenly noticed Margo. “You!’ she exclaimed in English. “Where were you when this happened? What have you been doing all afternoon?”

“I—I went for a walk,” Margo stammered. “You said you didn’t need me, so I—”

“You should have been here in the house. If you had, this would not have happened.”

“I’m sorry,” Margo said hotly. “But I really think that’s a little unfair. I worked very hard helping out with your lunch party. I felt I’d earned some time off, actually, and I—”

She was interrupted by Jacques coming back into the room, his face white and his eyes flashing. “Never mind,” he snapped at Margo. I have to speak to my mother.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned to Milady, who looked at him coolly over the rim of her brandy snifter.

“Ten thousand euros’ worth of a dress? First of all, I can’t
believe
you spent that amount of money on a dress!”

“No,” Milady said coolly, draining her glass. “I didn’t pay for it. It was a gift. From Monsieur Galliano himself. He gave it to me to wear at the fashion gala last spring, and then he told me I could keep it.”

“But,
Maman
,” Jacques sighed. “Why did you call the police? What are they going to think?

Milady looked up at her son with a puzzled look in her eyes. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, putting the now empty brandy glass on the table beside her chair and taking a cigarette from an inlaid box.

“But don’t you see?” Jacques groaned. “We have an awful lot of things in this house that are very valuable. Paintings, furniture, silver. Not to mention my horses and all the equipment in the stables. If we were to have a real emergency and needed the police, they will think twice about coming here next time we call them. They might decide not to turn up at all.”

Milady lit her cigarette and blew out a plume of smoke. “Calm down,
chéri
. I don’t know why you get so upset about it.”

“
Nom d’un chien,”
Jacques moaned. “Why do I bother?”

“Oh, put a sock in it,” Margo snapped in English. “Can’t you see that your mother is very upset? She’s had a bad shock. You seem to forget that her dress was stolen. I think that’s a very serious matter.”

“A serious matter? Somebody stole a dress. Big deal. Maybe it was Agnès? She might have wanted to impress her relatives at that wedding she’s going to next Saturday. Or maybe it was you? Did you want to wear it to go out with your girlfriend when you go back to Paris?”

“I don’t have a—” Margo stopped. She wanted to hit him. “You’re a bully,” she said.

“And you’re a prissy old maid,” he retorted. “And I’m wasting time standing here talking rubbish with women.” He turned and started to walk out of the room.

“Oh Jacques,” Milady said in a sad voice. “You’re becoming more like your father every day.”

Jacques stopped and turned to look at his mother. “Which one?” he asked.

His words startled Margo. But not as much as the bitterness in his voice.

***

“A
re you serious?” Gráinne exclaimed as she handed Margo a plate of food in the cabin of the truck. “She called the police because she couldn’t find a
dress
? Is she a bit of a fruitcake?”

“No,” Margo said, suddenly regretting she had told Gráinne the whole story. “You don’t understand. Fashion is her life. A dress like that is worth a lot more than just the money to her. It’s a statement. It’s telling the world she is still to be reckoned with and that she’s still young and attractive.”

“But she isn’t?” Gráinne sat down on the seat opposite Margo and picked up a pork chop with her fingers.

“Not young, no. I think she must be around sixty, but she is very elegant and well preserved. And she has great guts. She went out to that dinner party tonight despite the fright she must have had. I suggested that she should go to bed and that I would bring her a nice cup of tea, but she snapped at me not to be silly and ordered me to tidy up her room and help her get ready.”

“No sign of the missing dress?”

Margo shrugged. “No. I have no idea what happened to it. I know it was in the wardrobe because I put it there myself when I unpacked Milady’s luggage. But maybe she lost it. Took it out and then put it away somewhere and forgot about it. It’s such a huge place that it could easily happen. But she was really upset. White as a sheet and shaking like a leaf until she got that cognac into her. I felt really sorry for her.”

“But she pulled herself together?”

“Oh, yes. She put on another dress, did her hair and makeup, and then off she went to the party like a ship in full sail in Bernard’s old jalopy.” Margo smiled. “She’s a real trooper, I have to say. And the way she changed from frightened old woman to elegant society lady in just a few minutes was amazing.”

“But why did she have to go in an old jalopy?” Gráinne bit a chunk of meat off her chop.

“Because Jacques’ car is too messy and smells of dogs. And François has taken the Jaguar to Paris.”

“The other son?” Gráinne mumbled her mouth full of meat.

“That’s right.” Margo sawed at the chop on her plate.

“What’s he like? Just as big a bastard as his brother?” Gráinne asked, taking a slug of beer from her can. “Go on, pick it up with your fingers. This isn’t Buckingham Palace, you know.”

“OK.” Margo gnawed at her chop. “This is good,” she added. “Really nice, Gráinne.”

“Glad you like it. Not like some of that fancy French stuff you must be used to but quite tasty, even though I say so myself. But go on, what about the brother?”

“François?” Margo stopped eating. “Oh, he’s a real gentleman. Very considerate. Good-looking too. And so well dressed. Always perfectly turned out.”

“A bit of a hothouse flower?”

“I suppose you could call him that. But he’s a real Parisian and very intelligent and well educated.”

“Just your kind of guy?” Gráinne enquired.

“No. I mean—” Margo paused and picked up the pork chop again. She laughed suddenly, thinking how wrong Gráinne was. “He’s a total contrast to his brother.”

“I’m sure he is. I hope you stay out of his way. Jacques, I mean.”

“Oh I will, don’t you worry,” Margo said hotly, sipping the beer Gráinne had poured into a glass for her. “I thought he was quite nice but I have just seen him treat his mother like shit. You have no idea how mean he was.”

“Must have been if he makes you say things like ‘shit’.” Gráinne laughed.

They ate in silence until they had both cleared their plates.

“This was lovely,” Margo sighed, licking her fingers. “A real treat.”

“Yeah, the pork wasn’t bad.”

“The black pudding was very good too.”

“Should be. It’s from Clonakilty. They make the best black pudding in the world there. So how do you like the new truck, then? A bit of all right, don’t you think?”

“Fantastic,” Margo agreed, looking around the cabin. “And the little kitchen is great. Stove, microwave, fridge.” She burped loudly. “Excuse me. Not used to drinking all that beer.”

“I know. Kind of recurs on you.”

“You have everything anyone could possibly want in here,” Margo said.

“Want to try the jacks?”