The House Above the River (17 page)

Reluctantly he tore open the envelopes, looked again at the postmarks to get them in the right order, and began to read.

As soon as he reached the foot of the first page he forgot all about the writing. When he had finished both letters he rushed back on deck.

“Things have been moving in Penguerrec,” he told his friends, “and fast, too. Miriam has gone off to Paris. That's in the first letter, so she must have decided to go immediately after we left. Yesterday the police arrived at the château, and they're combing the woods for Henry's body. Susan thinks Francine got them in, but the old woman doesn't tell her anything. We'll have to go back there. Would you mind, terribly?”

“Of course not,” Tony answered, and Phillipa nodded agreement.

“We don't mind where we go,” she said. “Why don't you ring Susan up and go over and see her tomorrow?”

“Bless you both,” Giles said.

Susan was delighted to hear his voice. He learned that Miriam was still away and the police were still at the château, turning out all the drawers and cupboards, including those in her own room. But they were perfectly polite and considerate, she said, and had asked her very few questions. There was still no sign of Henry.

Giles passed this over. He did not want to discuss Henry on the telephone. He told her that
Shuna
was ready to go to sea again and that he intended to bring her back to Tréguier at once.

“When will you start?”

“Tomorrow morning, about six from the dock, I think it will be. We shan't get in till after dark, I don't suppose. That's if we can make it on one tide.”

“You won't, will you? Why not stop on the way?”

“At Perros, you mean? It's an idea. I could get over from there to Penguerrec tomorrow evening, couldn't I? On a bus, or something?”

“Yes. It would be better than coming here very late, after dark.”

She heard him laugh.

“I feel I know the Tréguier river pretty thoroughly now. But you're perfectly right. Anyway, it would make a change for Tony and Pip. They're having a very thin time this cruise, I'm afraid. Though they don't complain.”

“Why should they?”

He wanted badly to tell her about Henry. It seemed unfair to leave her in ignorance of the latest development. But if he told her, she would feel bound to send word to Miriam, and until he had seen the police himself and explained to them the whole situation, as he saw it, he did not want Miriam to know that Henry was alive.

So he ignored Susan's last question and said, simply, “I can't wait for tomorrow evening. Take care of yourself, darling. Good night.”

He hung up, and walked back to the dock with her answering endearment echoing in his heart.

Giles arrived at the château the next evening. Francine opened the door to him,

He found her very much changed, even in the three days since he had last seen her. Then, she had been suffering from the sudden shock of Henry's disappearance. Now she seemed to have accepted disaster in a mood of dull despair. Her former, confident air of authority had gone, and with it her neat well-preserved appearance. She looked an old woman, and a slovenly one at that. Giles was considerably shocked.

He inquired first for Susan.

“Mademoiselle is in her room,” Francine told him.

“And Madame? I was told she is in Paris. Has she come back yet?”

Francine clasped her hands in a sudden access of emotion.

“Oh, monsieur!” she wailed. “If only you had taken her away! If only you had understood her need, and taken pity on her! We are afraid for her. She is not at the address she gave.”

“Don't tell me she's disappeared as well!” he cried, in exasperation. “That really would be the end!”

Francine looked at him with hatred in her dark eyes. “You have no heart,” she said, bitterly. “I will see if Mademoiselle is allowed to speak to you.”

This roused some alarm in Giles.

“What d' you mean by that?” he asked, quickly.

But Francine would not tell him. To punish him for his hard-heartedness she took him to the library, showed him in, and still without speaking, shut the door on him.

“She's going round the bend, too,” he thought, gloomily. “What's the matter with this hellish place, to unhinge the lot of them?”

But he decided to humour Francine, for he saw clearly that there was no other way of managing her. A few minutes later the door opened again, and Susan was in his arms.

He knew at once that something had upset her badly, and before long he heard the latest developments. Miriam had sent a long statement to the police in which she accused Susan of contriving Henry's death. The motive was stated to be jealousy. The girl, according to Miriam, was madly in love with her cousin. He had responded to this passion and promised her he would get rid of his wife. Having failed in this, Susan, according to Miriam, became furious. She saw that he was half-hearted, that he would never leave his wife. So she had destroyed him.

“Did you ever hear such fantastic nonsense?” Susan said. “But the police inspector was here all the morning.”

Her voice quavered. It had been a day of hideous surprise and strain, and the relief of having Giles with her at last nearly broke her resolution.

“Of course it's ridiculous,” said Giles, steadily. “But altogether in keeping with her extraordinary character. They can't really believe a word of it.”

“I don't know. The inspector told me he had tried to get in touch with Miriam at once after he got the statement, but she seems to have left Paris.”

“That was worrying Francine, too,” said Giles.

“Poor old thing. It's Henry she's chiefly upset about.”

Giles could no longer keep his secret. He was going to find the police directly after he had reassured Susan. All the same, he made sure there was no eavesdropper at the door before he told her, in a lowered voice, that Henry was alive and in England.

She was utterly bewildered.

“Then nothing makes sense,” she said, faintly.

“On the contrary, I think we've got a very considerable case against Miriam. And this latest ridiculous attack on you only helps it along.”

“Poor thing. You mean, she tried to kill Henry, because of her imaginings about him? Like a little girl inventing romantic melodrama, with herself as heroine?”

“Little girls of thirty-two can be dangerous, it seems.”

“You'd better see Inspector Renaud at once, hadn't you?”

“The sooner the better. Come with me.”

“I'm not supposed to leave the château. So he said this morning.”

Giles was furious.

“Francine hinted at something of the sort. It's preposterous. Where is the man, anyway? Where shall I find him?”

“I don't know. We could ask Francine.”

The old woman was able to help them. Two uniformed police, she said, were guarding the château. They might know where Inspector Renaud could be found.

“
Guarding
the château?” Giles repeated, incredulous. “What for? What against?”

But Francine would make no suggestion. She merely gave him a stony look, and walked away.

Giles got in touch with the inspector at last, very late that evening, in Tréguier. He told him everything he knew, from the time of his first visit to the château. He told him about discovering Henry in Southampton, and about the probable cause of his illness. He finished by asking what the hell they meant by ordering his fiancée not to leave the house.

“Your fiancée?” asked Renaud, with raised eyebrows. “Tiens!”

He considered Giles for a few seconds, and then said, “She told me nothing about that.”

“Why should she?” Giles did not add that he had not had time yet actually to fix the matter. “The point is you have no possible motive for restraining her actions.”

“Oh, yes, we have. And perhaps now you have explained your position in regard to her, I can tell you. It is for her own safety.”

Giles stared. The inspector went on, in a gentle explaining voice. “We are not so stupid, monsieur, even in Tréguier. And now we have the advice of the Sûreté. You see, we already know where this Monsieur Davenport is staying. We have known for two days. It was reported to us by the skipper of the
Marie Antoine
.”

Of course, thought Giles. What a fool I am. The fellow's own friends were naturally anxious about him. And in all probability Henry had also told them his suspicions about the cause of his illness.

“We have daily reports of his progress,” Renaud went on. “He does not improve. He may die. Either during the next few days, or, if he survives this period, in a year or two from now. We are waiting for the immediate news.”

“But you have not told his wife? Or have you? You have not told anyone at the château.”

“It is not necessary to tell anyone at the château.”

He looked straight at Giles, who stared back, considering this ambiguous statement.

“Do you mean, they know? But I'm sure they don't. Or didn't, earlier today. Naturally I told Susan, Miss Brockley.”

“Naturally,” repeated the inspector, softly.

“Are you telling me Francine knows, and the maids know, and kept it to themselves?”

“I am not telling you anything.”

“Very well,” said Giles, stiffly, getting to his feet. “I'm sorry I came. You know it all already, and I can be of no use to you. But I shall see the nearest British consul tomorrow about your treatment of Mademoiselle Brockley.”

Inspector Renaud also rose to his feet.

“If what you tell me of your relations with Mademoiselle is true, then it is indeed necessary to protect her. But are you correct in what you say? It would be natural for her to mention this important fact when I was questioning her about your former engagement to Madame Davenport. She did no such thing. I ask myself if you invent it for your own protection.”

“Do you, indeed? I see.”

Giles saw, only too clearly. Henry had obviously put forward his suspicions of his wife. Someone, perhaps Susan, in her innocence, or Francine, who seemed to blame him for not championing Miriam, had explained his earlier tie. The logical French mind, used besides, to strong emotional reactions, would conclude, accurately enough, that Miriam, out of love with her husband, might wish to renew that tie. It would not seem altogether strange to this inspector that she might try to poison her husband; or even that Giles might be willing to help her.

Watching Renaud Giles was sure he regretted the further complication of Susan's presence in all this. As a man of the world he could accept Giles's fresh attachment, but he found it tiresome, all the same, and an added responsibility. Which must mean that he agreed with the possibility of Miriam's guilt.

“You think Madame Davenport did poison Henry, don't you?” Giles asked him. “And might go for Susan, now. If so, why don't you arrest her?”

“First, because I do not know where she is,” answered the inspector, suddenly abandoning his official manner. “And second, because I expect her to come back to Penguerrec. They always return.”

He uttered this platitude as if it were a new discovery of his own, with a return of his former pompous authority. But seeing the gleam of amusement in Giles's expression, allowed himself to laugh softly.

“Eh bien,” he said, leading the way to the door. “It is no good trying to impress an English yachtsman. They are all stubborn and reckless; a terrible combination.”

“I am never reckless—I hope,” said Giles, piously.

“You must not be so in this case,” the inspector told him, solemnly. “It is important that you keep your mouth shut. Madame Davenport is not to know that her husband lives. Not yet. No one is to know. Mademoiselle Brockley must tell no one.”

“She promised to keep it secret until I had seen you. But if Francine knows, and all the village …”

“Madame Francine is very discreet. The girls obey her.”

“What will you do next?”

“Wait, monsieur. I have no evidence of attempted murder. Or of any other crime. There has not, so far,
been
any murder. Therefore I must wait. We must all wait.”

Miriam arrived back at the house the following morning, in a hired car. The driver carried her two suitcases into the hall and put them down, looking about him nervously. He had heard about the situation at the château. His wife had read him an account that morning of the disappearance of this Monsieur Davenport. The facts were meagre, but several interesting theories were put forward. When he was engaged at the railway station to take the lady to the château, he felt quite excited. He did not know who she was, but he thought it would be amusing to see the place. Now he was regretting his enthusiasm. It was not at all amusing.

In the first place he had been surprised and a little alarmed when a gendarme came out of the bushes beside the closed main gates, and asked him what he wanted. It did not help to reassure him when Miriam, lowering the window of the taxi, declared that she was the mistress of the place, and demanded to be allowed in immediately. After that the gates were opened, with no delay and no further questions. But the taxi driver had been quite startled by the incident.

The atmosphere of the grounds had done nothing to lessen his forebodings. His wheels bumped over the uneven, weed-grown surface of the drive; the overhanging trees in places scraped the roof of the car. He felt profoundly depressed. The newspaper had used the word “sinister” in connection with Davenport's disappearance. He felt this was completely justified.

His opinion was confirmed when he carried Madame's suitcases into the deserted hall. She had opened the door herself, simply by turning the knob. So it was not locked. But the house seemed to be deserted. There was no one in the hall when he followed her in with the luggage. No one came in response to the noise of their arrival. The only sounds in the house were of their own making. He felt scared, and it did not help him to notice how pale Madame had become in the subdued light of that silent hall, and how hurriedly she found her purse and paid him for his services. He drove away convinced that the newspaper had understated, rather than exaggerated, the case.