Sea of Lost Love (18 page)

“He was a ladies' man, that's for sure,” said her grand-father. “There's no crime in that.” Celestria reached for her bag and delved inside for the bills. She placed then on the table in front of her grandfather.

“I found these in her sitting room. She's addicted to morphine, clearly. She was drinking, too, out of a bottle of gin, neat. Must have been disgusting. This Salazar person obviously pays her bills, perhaps a salary, too, and what's more, he lives in Puglia, the same place as Freddie. Coincidence? I don't think so. He's the one Papa was sending all that money to. I want to know why, and I want the money back. It's our money. Do you think he was blackmailing Papa? Perhaps Papa was paying to keep him quiet about something. The point is, I think this Salazar creature is the person responsible for Papa's death. Maybe he was having an affair with this Freddie and paying Salazar to keep quiet. One thing is very clear—Papa didn't want us to know any of it.”

Richard Bancroft studied the papers for a while, lost in thought. He sipped his wine, then leaned back in his chair to allow the waiters to place a plate of foie gras in front of him. Celestria looked down at her own dish of veal scallops and felt her stomach rumble with hunger. She hadn't eaten since the night before. Her spirits rose, thanks to the reassuring presence of her grandfather, and she merrily tucked in.

“Well, Fox-Holmes, I now know for sure that your best qualities you've inherited from me.”

“And my worst qualities?” she asked with a smile, for she already knew the answer.

“From your mother.” Celestria would have laughed heartily, had she not suddenly remembered her mother's fight with her father the night he disappeared:
“He said the sooner you married, the better, because you were only going to turn out like me, driving him insane with your demands.”
Her grandfather's joke was no longer funny.

“Do you agree that it all sounds rather suspicious?” she asked.

He shrugged, handing her back the bills. “You're the detective. It might be nothing, but on the other hand, it might be a great deal.”

“I want to go to Italy and track down this Salazar creature.”

“I thought you might.”

“Am I wrong?”

He took her hand and his wise old eyes looked at her with understanding. “Perhaps, but you're never wrong to follow your instincts. Where would I be today if I hadn't followed mine?”

“Did you start with a hunch, Grandpa?”

“I started with a hunch, just like you. You don't realize where I come from. You wouldn't believe what I have done to get to where I am today.” He considered his empire. From coal mines in Pennsylvania to oil in California, newspapers in Chicago, and the ski resort he was building in Colorado. “I would have achieved nothing had I not followed my instincts. Gone with the hunch.” He paused and smiled the smile of a gambler. “I'll fund your investigation, Fox.”

“You will?” she exclaimed brightly. “What will I tell Mama?”

“As little as possible. You're taking a holiday. You need to get away from it all.”

“I knew you'd look after us, Grandpa,” she said happily.

 

“What? Going to Italy? Whatever for?” Pamela was indignant.

“Grandpa says I need a break.”

“Your whole life is a break,” said Pamela, feeling a stab of jealousy. Her father wasn't sending
her
to Italy.

“I need to recover from Papa's death.”

“Don't we all? It's hell down here. We're all in a dreadful limbo. I'm longing to come back to London next week and put darling Harry in school. He's out all day with David and the boys. Thank God for David. I don't know what I'd do with Harry if David weren't around to distract him. I'm suffering the most terrible headaches. The shock of it has done me in.”

“Grandpa will look after us. We're not going to be poor.”

“Money can't heal the sense of betrayal. I feel cut to the quick. The man I loved, with whom I shared the best years of my life, has lied to me and squandered my fortune. I thought I knew him. You have no idea how that feels. Lord, he's shared my bed for over twenty years. So when are you planning on leaving and where are you going to stay?”

“I'm going next week.”

“You're not going before I've seen you. Anyway, why the rush?”

“Why not? London's dead at the moment. There's no one around. It's frightfully dull.” She thought of Aidan asleep on the sofa and wondered whether he'd been trying to call her while she was out having lunch with her grandfather.

“Where are you going to stay?”

“In Puglia.”

“Puglia? Where is Puglia?”

“Southern Italy. Down on the heel.”

“Why don't you go somewhere civilized, like Tuscany? I'm sure your grandfather has friends you can stay with.”

“He has friends in Puglia who live in the Convento di something or other, I can't remember. Apparently, it's very beautiful there and cut off, which is what I need. It's by the sea.” She bit her lip, hoping her mother wouldn't catch her out.

“So is Pendrift,” said Pamela dryly. She sighed heavily. “Who's going with you?”

“No one. I can go alone.”

“You certainly cannot. I'm not having my twenty-one-year-old daughter traveling across the world on her own. You'll be abducted or something.”

Celestria's heart sank. “Who could come with me?”

Pamela hesitated. For a terrible moment Celestria thought her mother might suggest herself. “Waynie,” she said finally, clearly pleased with the idea. “You can take Waynie. I don't think she's had a holiday in years.”

“But she's never been farther than Yorkshire!”

“She's the perfect chaperone. No greasy Italian will get past Waynie.”

“She can't read or write!” Celestria protested.

“What difference does that make? It'll all be in Italian.”

“Suppose she won't come?”

“I pay her salary.” Pamela hesitated, remembering she had no money. “Your grandfather can pay for her to take a holiday, too. She can consider it a bonus!” Celestria visualized Waynie getting in the way of her investigation and felt her enthusiasm deflate.

“How long is Grandpa staying at Claridge's?” Pamela asked, changing the subject.

“He didn't say.”

“I'll probably see him before he goes up to Scotland, then.” She didn't sound too excited by the idea. “Maybe now I've lost my husband, I'll get my father back.”

“How's Aunt Julia?” asked Celestria, ignoring her mother's barbed comments.

“Smoking like a chimney. Even she is finding it hard to smile at the moment, so imagine what it's like for the rest of us, without her natural buoyancy. Archie spends a lot of time with Elizabeth. She refuses to believe Monty's dead. She had a meeting with Father Dalgliesh and told him in no uncertain terms that he wasn't to presume her son's death. Until there is a body she won't hear of it. She says she's wearing black to mourn his disappearance, not his death. Lord knows what she thinks has happened to him. Running around the country with amnesia, I suspect—shoeless! Really, these have been the worst few weeks of my life. I don't think I'll ever recover.”

“You could try going to Mass.” Celestria didn't know why she bothered to suggest religion to a woman who believed in nothing, even though it was clear that, with Monty gone, the only person capable of lifting her mother out of her depression was God Himself.

“Maybe,” she replied. Celestria was surprised. Pamela's response was uncharacteristically benign. “I really must go. Telephone me tomorrow, darling.”

Pamela put down the receiver with a sigh. She couldn't possibly tell her daughter that she had already had a meeting with Father Dalgliesh. She couldn't admit the degree of her desolation. Standing at the window, she watched the sunset. It was a beautiful evening. The sky was watery blue, the sun a rich amber gold, melting into the horizon like liquid honey. She remembered Father Dalgliesh's advice:
“Next time there is a beautiful sunset, stop a while to look at it.”

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” asked Penelope as Pamela rushed past her in her dressing gown. Pamela hadn't emerged from her bedroom for the last three days.

“I'm going to watch the sunset,” she replied, making for the cliffs.

Good God, Penelope thought to herself. The woman's finally gone mad.

C
elestria discovered that the events she had put into motion the previous night were now gaining a momentum of their own. Aidan turned up at her house weighed down by the most enormous bouquet of roses. She smelled their sweet perfume long before she saw him, which brought on a vague memory of a proposal. Celestria wasn't a person easily forced into doing something against her will. In fact, she was quite ready to make her excuses, blame the wine, her confused heart, whatever it took to erase the agreement she might have made. However, Aidan's expression was so full of anxiety that she buckled.

“You're not regretting last night, are you?” he asked, the words he'd carefully rehearsed tumbling out in a hurry. “You weren't there when I woke up. I telephoned you constantly. No one answered. I've been sick with worry. I hope you don't think I took advantage of you. I would never—”

“Silly old thing! Waynie doesn't work on weekends, and I was asleep,” Celestria chided affectionately. “It wasn't proper for a young lady to wake up in a man's bed. I'm not that sort of girl.”

“Of course you're not,” he said, his shoulders dropping with relief. “You'll still marry me?”

She hesitated a moment before shaking her head of any misgivings. “Yes. I do and all that. You see, you needn't have worried.” She took the flowers and walked back into the hall. “These are lovely. I adore roses.”

Perhaps last night hadn't been such a mistake, she conceded. Aidan would make a fine husband, after all. He was rich, handsome, charming, funny, and well respected. What did it matter that she didn't love him? She could always take a lover further down the line if she felt so inclined. Practically speaking, he would look after her, and that was the most important…She would want for nothing, and he was awfully good at the preliminaries, which was the second most important requirement of a husband. Her mother would be relieved to be shot of her, and, besides, they all needed something happy to distract them from the recent horror of Monty's suicide. She placed the roses on the table and turned to face her fiancé. She allowed him to take her in his arms.

“Are you happy, my love?” Aidan gazed down at her and stroked her face with his eyes.

“Very,” she replied. It was true. She no longer felt shoddy about the night before; Aidan was to be her husband, after all, and her grandfather had arrived just in time, like a lifeguard with a rubber ring to stop her from sinking. She was as happy as she could be in the circumstances. She returned his gaze in rather the same way she had looked at those adoring adults in her childhood, her eyes full of affection, her heart as empty as a pretty bubble. Aidan smiled with pride. She really loves me, he thought with gratitude.

“I can't wait to spoil you, darling. We'll buy a glorious house together and fill it with children. You'll be Mrs. Cooney. How does that sound?” Honestly? Not very glamorous, she thought, but the Mrs. part appealed to her. “I need your mother's permission,” he added seriously. “When does she come back from Cornwall?”

“Ah,” said Celestria, pulling away. “I need to talk to you.”

“What's the matter?” He followed her into the sitting room.

“Mama gets back on Tuesday, but I'm going to Italy.”

“Italy?” He was shocked. “When?”

“Next week.”

“You never told me.”

“I only thought of it today. My grandfather's in town, and he suggested I take a holiday.”

“You're not going on your own, surely?”

“Mrs. Waynebridge, our housekeeper, is coming with me, though she doesn't know it yet. Grandpa will organize everything. I'll be taken care of. Don't you think I need time to get over my father's death?” She sank into the sofa, spreading herself across it like a sleek white cat.

“Of course you do. I'm being selfish. How long will you be away?”

“Not long. A fortnight, a month. I don't know. No longer than a month.”

Aidan relaxed. “I suppose I'll manage without you.”

“Of course you will, darling.” Celestria pulled him onto the sofa and covered his face in small kisses.

“You won't fall in love with an Italian while you're out there, will you?”

“I don't like Italians,” she said, unsure whether or not she had ever met one.

“I'll just have to wait until you get back, then. It'll be the worst month of my life. Knowing I'm engaged to the most beautiful girl in the world and unable to tell anyone.”

“You can't possibly tell anyone,” Celestria gasped in horror, unconsciously carving a little hole in their arrangement in case she might need to escape through it.

“My parents will love you,” he continued. “I can't wait for them to meet you.”

His enthusiasm was a little disconcerting, the idea of meeting his parents rather alarming. If one considered the food chain, he was certainly near the top as far as wealth and class were concerned, but she wasn't sure he was a lion. It didn't matter. Lion or stallion, at least he wasn't a wildebeest. Anyway, she didn't have to think about it now. For the time being she could ignore her doubts. She was leaving for Italy in a week.

“Where shall I take you for dinner?” he asked.

“Later,” Celestria murmured. Aidan pressed his lips to hers and began to kiss her deeply. Later, she thought to herself, I'll think about it later.

 

Pamela stood on the cliff top, staring out over the sea that had swallowed her husband only a week ago. It was still incomprehensible. She felt as if she were walking in a nightmare, waiting to wake up, but that blessed moment never came. She was incarcerated in it forever. The water below her was calm, lapping innocently onto the sand as if it were incapable of drowning anyone. She raised her eyes to the sky, which exhibited the magnificent colors of sunset. The sun itself was a rich gold, enflaming the horizon with blood reds and fuchsia pinks, setting alight the wispy clouds that wafted across it like puffs of smoke. She waited to feel something, but her heart was heavy with the hatred she felt for all around her: for the duplicitous sea and her careless husband. She expected God to appear in the sky in an angel-drawn chariot or a flash of light like Paul saw on the road to Damascus. She expected to feel the weight lifted off her shoulders at the very least. But she felt nothing, just the same wearing sense of desolation.

Julia watched the sunset, too, from the terrace where she was alone with Purdy. She smoked a cigarette in the still evening air and reflected on the terrible repercussions of her brother-in-law's suicide. She and Archie had little money. The aid that Monty had promised had all been castles in the sky. He had had nothing to give them, just empty promises. Is that why he killed himself? Because he had pledged so much to so many and couldn't live with the shame of not being able to deliver?

There was no one they could turn to. Elizabeth did not have much, either. There were cottages on the farm, but they brought in a meager rent. Pendrift Hall was a terrible burden. Part of the roof needed mending, for a start. The upkeep of such a house was a struggle, not to mention the children's school fees. And yet they all loved it so much. It was the only home the children had ever known, and little Bouncy just adored the seaside. He was growing in confidence, beginning to explore the house and its many corridors and rooms on his own. She smiled at the recollection of finding treasures posted in strange places: pieces of jigsaw puzzle slipped into drawers in the spare room; a fluffy toy under a bed; Nanny's reading glasses dropped carelessly into a flower pot; a trail of mischief she was able to follow all over the house. Julia began to cry. She didn't bother to restrain the tears that now welled in her eyes and spilled over her cheeks.

What were they going to do? The prospect of having to sell Pendrift Hall had already seeped into her subconscious a long time ago, but now it surfaced as a shocking reality. If only they could find the money to pay off Archie's debt. But that sort of money wasn't easily come by. She considered working herself: she had a good eye for decoration and design, but where to start at her age? Besides, it would take a while to build up the business; they needed the money now. She thought of Wilfrid and Sam and her darling Bouncy. What future did they have if Pendrift Hall was sold off? It was all very well for Pamela, crying poverty for no reason. Her father would undoubtedly step in and give her bank account a hefty cash injection. Julia had no father to bail her out. The only person who could help them now was God.

 

Father Dalgliesh watched the gradual fraying at the heart of Monty's family with sadness. He prayed for them and did his best to comfort them when they sought him out in the presbytery. Elizabeth Montague expected him to know whether her son was alive or dead, and had looked appalled when he had told her that his communications with God were only one-way. “I feel God in my heart,” he explained. “He doesn't give me news bulletins.”

Elizabeth didn't understand. “He was my favorite, you know,” she had said, her steely gray eyes glittering with emotion. “He was so like his father. I will have little to live for if God has taken Robert, too.”

Pamela Bancroft Montague wanted someone to lean on. Her husband was gone, she was estranged from her father; there was no one left but the Church, for which she had previously felt contempt. She hadn't attended Mass following their meeting, probably out of fear or pride, having ridiculed it in front of her husband's family for so many years. Father Dalgliesh prayed she'd open her heart and let God in during the silence of her own contemplation. Maybe then would she feel ready to join her family in the front pew without embarrassment.

Julia Montague, of whom Father Dalgliesh had grown fond, was a godly and kindhearted woman. She visited him frequently to unburden her thoughts. “I worry about Harry; he's so young. As for Celestria, she's like her mother, far more worried about herself.”

Father Dalgliesh recalled his last meeting with Celestria. He could still see her running off into the fog, her face enflamed. He had heard nothing since, but something told him she was no longer in Pendrift. He couldn't
feel
her there.

“She's not a bad person,” he said carefully. “She's just lost.” He felt the color burn his cheeks as he spoke of her.

“Oh, I don't think she's bad, Father, she's just too pretty for her own good. The trouble is she's been terribly spoiled by her mother. She's never had to think of anyone but herself.”

“Life has a funny way of molding us. She's young, and the death of her father must have hit her very hard. If she hasn't grieved for him yet, she will later.”

“Her grandfather has arrived in London. That's a huge relief. He's an extraordinary man. A wonderful man. He's taking care of her. Pamela tells me he's sending her off to Italy for a holiday.”

“Italy?”

“Yes. Poor darling Harry will languish at boarding school while his sister basks in the sunshine in Italy.” She shook her head. “I don't think that's fair, do you?”

“School is probably the best place for Harry at the moment. He'll be surrounded by his friends, and the routine of classes will be a distraction.”

“Celestria's like her mother, Father Dalgliesh. Every time Pamela has a problem she goes to bed with a headache. Celestria's just avoiding facing up to Monty's death by hiding out in Italy.”

“We all react in different ways. However far we run, we can never run away from ourselves.”

“But she's so selfish.”

“She has a big heart, Julia.”

Julia gave him a wry look. “That's because you're a priest. You see the good in everybody.”

If you had seen the desolation in her eyes as I had, you would understand that she is in a dark place, he thought to himself, but instead he said, “To every black cloud there is a silver lining.”

Father Dalgliesh wished he knew the truth about Monty's death, but he had to remind himself that he wasn't a detective; his job was to pick up the pieces for those the man had left behind. The job would be a whole lot easier, however, if there was a body to bury. It was all very distressing for the whole community. The only person deriving pleasure from the scandal was Miss Hoddel, who had her own explanation. “If you ask me,” she said, ignoring the fact that nobody had, “he's killed himself to be rid of Mrs. Pamela.”

“Now why would he want to do that?” asked Father Dalgliesh patiently.

“Well, if you were married to Mrs. Pamela, wouldn't you want to kill yourself?”

Father Dalgliesh had to leave the room. He'd never heard anything so preposterous in his life.

 

Mrs. Waynebridge was astonished and a little nervous when Pamela telephoned her to request that she accompany Celestria to Italy the following week. She flushed pink, then turned gray before her color settled into a pasty white, like mashed potato. She put down the receiver and waited at the kitchen table until Celestria returned home at teatime. She placed her crocodile handbag on the sideboard. Mrs. Waynebridge got up slowly. “You don't look well, Waynie. What is it?”