Finding Monsieur Right (2010) (27 page)

And anyway, Clothaire himself would no doubt laugh at the whole preposterous story - when Isabelle got around to telling him about it. He had called her last night but she had thought it more prudent not to bring it up. It was far more sensible to wait until they saw each other again in Paris, tomorrow.

The most difficult aspect of the situation had been the temptation to speak to Agathe about it. That had been Isabelle's first impulse. But after thinking it over, she had decided not to confide in her friend. Agathe would certainly be scandalised. But - and this was an odd realisation - Isabelle was not entirely sure that she could trust her friend to be scandalised on her own behalf. She was, in fact, far more likely to leap to Clothaire's defence. As for Marie-Laure ... Well, it was obviously impossible to talk to her, because, although Isabelle's suspicions were bound to be unfounded, there was just the tiniest chance ...
Bon, ca suffit comme ca
, Isabelle thought, shaking her head impatiently. She would put the whole thing out of her mind for now.

There were more important things to think about. Encouraged by Tom Quince, she had been exploring the attic in Meredith's house over the course of the last week or so, and although it now looked considerably cleaner and tidier, she had not found a trace in it of the manuscripts, nor indeed of
The Splodge
. She had, however, rather enjoyed organising the contents of the attic along more rational lines. And it had been gratifying to show Tom the results of her hard work.

'I can't believe this transformation, Isabelle.'

'I like to be systematic.'

'Evidently,' Tom had said, looking at the orderly piles of boxes, now all neatly labelled with a marker pen. 'Actually,' he had added, turning his attention to the opposite end of the attic, 'some of this furniture doesn't look so bad now you can see it properly.'

'Some of it is really pretty. This chest of drawers is lovely. And that bed, the one with the booby-trapped mattress: it's a
lit a baldaquin
, I think.'

'A four-poster?'

'Yes, that's it. It has been taken apart but all the bits are there.'

'You know, I have an idea that this was all Meredith's furniture from her old room. Naturally you checked the posts - in case any of them are hollow?'

At this Isabelle had turned quite breathless with excitement. Together, they had tapped the oak columns hopefully, but in vain. The wood was solid.

'Oh well, it was worth a try,' Tom had said philosophically.

So that was the attic taken care of. Today, Isabelle would turn her attention to the library. Tom, who was doing something garden-related with Rosie outside, had shown Isabelle in and left her to it, promising to come and fetch her in time for some tea.

Isabelle looked around the quiet room, wondering where to begin. Remembering Meredith Quince's portrait, she summoned, not entirely in earnest, the spirit of the author to guide her in her treasure hunt. Meredith might find a way of indicating if Isabelle was getting warmer - by making a discreet tapping sound, perhaps. Briefly, Isabelle wondered about Jules' Ouija board. Perhaps Tom wouldn't mind helping. The presence of a relative could only be an incentive for the writer to manifest herself.

But perhaps she should exhaust more rational possibilities first. It made sense really to start with the desk. Gingerly, Isabelle opened the drawers. They were all empty, except for a bottle of black ink, quite ancient and almost used up. Isabelle picked it up and stared at it: was this a reminder of
The Splodge
, a sign left over by Meredith that Isabelle should persevere in her quest? Well, why not choose to read it that way? She pulled the drawers out of the desk with great care and laid them on the rug. There sometimes
were
such things as secret compartments in desks. Isabelle ran her hand slowly and systematically inside the desk's every recess. She gave a little sigh. Not a
sausage
, darling, as Chrissie might have put it.

Looking up and through the French windows, she was greeted by the sight of Tom and Rosie side by side, cheerfully digging and planting things. It looked like quite hard work, and in the cold weather, too, but at least, unlike her, the pair knew precisely what they were doing. Isabelle let herself drop into the primrose yellow armchair and leaned back, her eyes roving over the walls of bookshelves. This exasperating Rosie person was certainly a fixture in Tom's garden. Really Isabelle wouldn't have been surprised to hear that she intended to settle permanently in the greenhouse.

Anyway, Isabelle thought impatiently, it was time to test her theory about the bookshelves. She considered for a moment. To her right was the wall in which the door stood: beyond it was the hallway. Behind her was the wall pierced with French windows leading into the garden. On the other side of the wall facing her was another sitting room, which had served the Quince family as a television room. This left only one wall behind which a secret room might possibly be concealed, the one to her left. She noted the absence of a candlestick or other very obvious lever but she did not let that put her off. Most likely the key lay in one or several books. Either something happened when you pulled them off the shelf or there was a switch of some sort hidden behind them. There were dozens of books on that wall and she would have to try them all. But first she would tap and test the shelves themselves for clues. Starting at the far end away from the French windows, she began to work her way across the room, knocking on the wall wherever it was exposed above the books and tentatively pulling at the shelves for signs of 'play'. So far, everything appeared to be screwed into place. Of course there was always the possibility that the whole thing, shelves, wall and all, would revolve on some sort of axis.

Remembering a black and white film in which this happened quite suddenly, swallowing the heroine, Isabelle felt a small pang of apprehension. In the film the girl's disappearance was only noted much, much later. That really would not be much fun, even if it meant laying her hands on the manuscripts. It might have been wiser after all to tell Tom about her theory, however fantastic it sounded. That way he would have been on the alert. Otherwise, if she vanished, he might perhaps think that she'd had to leave in a hurry. Too late now, Isabelle thought, resolutely continuing her progress towards the windows.

And then, as she reached the central tower of books, it happened. As she rather mechanically gave one of the top shelves a little pull, she felt the whole thing move slightly.
That was it
, she thought triumphantly, she had been right! The central panel of the bookshelves
was
a doorway, and in just a moment, she would walk through to the other side ... It was marvellous. Her heart beating fast, Isabelle grabbed the shelves with both hands and pulled with all her might. Then she barely had time to throw herself out of the way as the whole thing came crashing down in a terrifying avalanche of heavy tomes.

Once some of the dust had settled, Isabelle, who had been crouching with her hands over her ears, slowly looked up. Where she had expected to find a doorway, there was only an expanse of solid wall.
Zut de zut
. Meanwhile, she had been wrong to suppose that Tom wouldn't be paying attention to what was going on in the library. He burst into the room, still holding his trowel.

'What happened? Are you all right?'

Isabelle nodded. 'Tom, I'm so sorry. It was completely my fault.'

Rosie came in and stood surveying the scene. 'I
told
you she'd be fine,' she said coolly.

'Did the shelves suddenly collapse?' Tom said.

'No ... I pulled them down.'

'Oh, for God's sake.'

'Rosie, Isabelle could have had a serious accident.'

'Yeah, she could have,' Rosie said, looking at Isabelle as if to deplore her failure to achieve this desirable result. 'You are
exceptionally
disaster-prone, aren't you?'

'It was because I wanted to know,' Isabelle said in a small voice, looking at Tom, 'if there was another room behind the books.'

'Another room?'

'I thought maybe that was where Meredith had hidden her manuscripts.'

'Oh,
what
?' Rosie said.

'I know it sounds really stupid.'

'It's a very romantic idea, Isabelle,' Tom said, as seriously as he could. 'But I think perhaps you overestimate my great-aunt's capacity for this sort of plotting in real life. I'm sure she would have loved it in a novel.' He looked down at the collapsed shelves. 'Still, at least now we know that these were not
quite
secure.'

'They would have been all right if I hadn't ... Oh, Tom, let me help you pick everything up.'

'No, look, we can do it later. Right now I think we could all do with some tea.'

They filed down the stairs towards the kitchen.

'So what's your garden like at home, Isabelle?' Rosie suddenly asked. 'I presume it's very French, all chic and perfect with little symmetrical flowerbeds.'

'I don't have a garden.'

'Oh dear. Bad luck.'

'Actually,' Isabelle went on, annoyed with herself for being defensive, 'private gardens are quite rare in Paris.'

'Oh, really?'

'But I can see a tree from my bedroom window, so I can follow the change in the seasons.'

'How nice. What sort of tree is it?'

'Um ... I don't know.'

'You don't know?' Rosie said with an incredulous laugh. 'You've never wanted to find out?'

'I've never thought about it,' Isabelle said truthfully. 'I suppose I just like the idea of a tree.'

Rosie raised her eyebrows slightly, looking in Tom's direction. Then she tried again: 'So what kind of gardens do you like?'

Isabelle was dismayed. How many different kinds of gardens
were
there? 'I don't know. I think all gardens are pretty.'

'Really? How very odd.'

'Do you approve of
my
garden?' Tom said gently.

Isabelle turned to look at him, noticing once again the beautiful and unusual colour of his eyes. 'I think your garden is lovely.'

'Do you like what I'm doing at the moment? It's a sort of Christmas garden, really, with all the winter plants - yew, ivy -'

'And holly, of course, for colour,' Rosie interjected. 'I'm crazy about this new holly I got for you, Tommy. The one we planted yesterday, with orange berries - Firethorn.'

A thorn of fire, Isabelle thought distractedly, that was quite a surreal image. She drank the last drop of her tea. The room suddenly felt very warm. In a minute she'd go and get herself a glass of water.

'Do you know it, Isabelle?'

Isabelle shook her head, looking with some fascination at Tom's honey-coloured hand, which lay on top of his thigh.

'We still need to train that other big one to the garden wall,' Rosie went on, beginning to stand up. 'We should get on with it as soon as you're ready.'

'Holly is one of those plants that's either male or female,' Tom said without moving, addressing Isabelle. 'Male holly is a bit dull on its own because it doesn't bear fruit, just flowers. But you want one in your landscape so that the female holly will be able to receive pollen and produce some fruit. Ideally you bind the two together, one male and one female holly. That way you get both flowers
and
berries.'

Isabelle nodded, thinking privately that there was something wildly erotic in the way Tom carried himself, even when just sitting like this, immobile and relaxed.

'And we're also putting in some Christmas roses,' Rosie said, sitting down again. 'Aren't we, Tommy?'

'These really are lovely flowers,' Tom explained, 'white tinged with pink. They bloom in the darkest months of the year when everything else is frozen solid. I love hellebores,' he went on, smiling vaguely at Isabelle, 'because they're so wonderfully promiscuous. I just know they'll seed all over the garden.'

Within Isabelle something that had been kept carefully compressed suddenly broke loose and began to erupt.

'What
is
the matter with you?' Rosie asked curiously. 'You've gone all red.'

'I think,' Isabelle said, slowly rising to her feet, 'I should go outside for a breath of air.'

Tom reached out as if to steady her but she waved him away and picked her steps, like a dignified drunk, towards the garden door. By the time she reached it, she had already got fairly pronounced tunnel vision and it took her a minute to locate the doorknob and turn it in the right direction. She stepped into the garden, vaguely aware of rapid footsteps behind her. There was a wooden bench somewhere in the vicinity, she remembered. The tunnel was closing fast. Then her legs gave way and everything went black.

When she came to, she was lying on the bench with her head in Tom's lap.

'Take deep breaths,' he said, fanning her with his hat.

'Tom,' she whispered, looking up at him. 'What ...?'

'You fainted, my dear. It was very dramatic. In Victorian times I would have loosened your stays, but you don't appear to be wearing any.'

Isabelle sat up shakily and rubbed her face. 'But this is ridiculous. I have never fainted before.' She thought for a moment, then added: 'Rosie must be having a good laugh.'

'Actually, Rosie went home. She has no patience with people who are unwell.'

Isabelle looked down and sighed. Then, appearing to change the subject, she said sadly, 'I don't know anything about gardens or gardening.'

'Don't worry about that. I've never read any of my great-aunt's books, remember?'

'Yes, of course.' Isabelle straightened up a bit more. 'I'm fine now. Thank you for looking after me. I'd better go home, too.'

Tom suddenly locked eyes with her. 'Stay,' he said, stroking her hair away from her face. 'Stay here with me.'

Isabelle's throat tightened. She must not cry. Instead, she made her hands into fists and hit him on the chest a few times, not very hard.

'I can't. I can't. I can't.'

He held her lightly for the briefest of moments, then let go. 'OK. I'll drive you home.'