Background
Charles and Helen, who have been investigating the mystery of the French letter, have gone their separate ways. Charles is now in England, and on his way to his cottage in the West Country.
|
...the last paragraphs of Chapter 38
As invariably seems to happen, I narrowly missed my connection to the Bakerloo Line, and had to wait a few minutes for the next westbound train. How irritating it is to hear the dwindling rumble of carriages disappearing into the darkness just as one reaches the platform. However, I wasn’t unduly worried, as there is a frequent service to the West Country from Paddington.
I spent the five wasted minutes contemplating the peace and quiet of my little cottage. A few days of solitude were just what I needed.
Chapter 39
There is a bleakness about Paddington station that is only partially dispelled by souvenir bears wearing hopeful expressions, sou'westers, and pairs of wellies - appropriate clothing, as all the world knows, for any right-minded bear bound for the West Country.
I stopped to scan the departures board. A fast train to Chippenham was due to leave from Platform 3 in twenty minutes, time enough to purchase a ticket and find a comfortable window seat. I looked forward, with pleasure, to the prospect of an uninterrupted journey that might give me the chance to read more of Helen's journal.
Jeanne's eagerness to lay her hands on the journal still puzzled me. Perhaps she felt evidence of her association with Bukhari would compromise her. Perhaps there was other information that would incriminate her if it fell into the wrong hands. It was with a feeling of anticipation that I felt its rectangular outline in my jacket pocket as I boarded the train.
If I was worried about interruptions, then I needn't have been. All my fellow passengers were lost in their own little bubbles of cyberspace. As I sat down, I glanced at the West Indian lad opposite me. He was tapping his feet on the floor and writhing rhythmically. Occasional grunts suggested he might be in tune with the animal world - a view reinforced by the slogan, Save the Hedgehogs, which was splashed across his chest.
I made the mistake of holding my gaze a fraction too long. He looked at me with aggrieved defiance, and wrenched the bud from his ear.
"What you starin' at, man?"
I was caught off guard and lost for an answer. "Nothing. Sorry. I didn't mean to be rude." This obviously wasn't good enough for him, so I continued rather lamely, "I just wondered what you were listening to. You seemed to be ...right into it."
"List'ning to der music, man. Don't you ever list'n to music?"
"Yes," I said uncertainly. "Actually, I do enjoy a tune now and again."
"Oh, man! 'Enjoy a toon now 'n again'! Wot a larf." He gave me a pitying look. "You got ter absorb der toon. Let dat rhythm run right thru' your body. You got ter live der music, man."
I decided to change the subject, taking my cue from the slogan. With a conciliatory smile, I said, "I see you like hedgehogs."
"No, I don't."
I was taken aback by his flat denial, and he seemed amused by my puzzled expression. "...but my girlfren' does. She's crazy 'bout dem."
"Did she give you the T-shirt then?"
He threw his head back and chortled. "Nah! Don't be daft! I bought it fer meself."
"But, if you don't like hedgehogs, why would you do that?"
"Playin' her music, man." He gave me a pitying look, as if he knew I wouldn't understand. "Sometimes you got ter play her music, man - even when it's not your groove. Know what I mean?"
"Yes," I said, half to myself. "I know what you mean."
Putting the bud back in his ear, he shifted his gaze to the middle distance to signify that our brief social contact was at an end.
His words still echoed through my mind as we broke out of the drab London suburbs into the neat fields and copses of Berkshire.
I slid Helen's journal from my pocket and started to flip through its pages. In the light of Kayla's revelation, I could hear a musicality in her words that I hadn't noticed before. Casual references to Jeanne took on a new meaning, and I began to see hints of the strengthening bond between them. Jeanne's eventual proposition to pay for her flight to Paris - and to put her up in an apartment - began to make more sense.
Knowing Jeanne's connection with Bellini and the drug trade, I had no doubt that her original intention had been to set Helen up as a courier. Was this closer and more intimate relationship part of an elaborate ploy to gain Helen's confidence? Or had Jeanne changed her mind?
The kidnapping of Helen by Bellini's men and their callous use of Jeanne - tying her to a chair in her studio and torturing her in front of Helen - would be explained if Jeanne had decided to back out of her deal with Bellini. This was a warning to them both. Jeanne had promised him a courier, and a courier he would have.
Jeanne obviously wouldn't have wanted Helen's journal to fall into Bellini's hands if it contained evidence of the bond between them. It would only make it more certain he would continue to exert pressure, using the strength of their mutual love as leverage. The message was clear: Do as I say, or Jeanne will suffer. Do as I say, or Helen will suffer.
However, he had miscalculated, underestimating Helen's resourcefulness. Thanks to her martial arts skills, both she and Jeanne had made their escape, and now Bellini had been arrested. Could that have been because of an anonymous tip-off by Jeanne, I wondered?
Of course, there was still the other alternative. Maybe Jeanne's feelings for Helen were feigned. They might be an elaborate subterfuge to gain her confidence while she drew her further and further into the network until there was no possibility of escape. Only time would tell.
As I continued to read, I became increasingly repulsed by the intimate details Helen revealed in her writing. A new question began to form in my mind. At first, it was a small thought bubble but, by the time I reached the final page, it had become a hot air balloon sustained in its flight by the fires of my righteous indignation. Knowing what the journal contained, and knowing that I would read it, why had Helen left it in my possession? One thing was crystal clear. Her music was definitely not being played in my groove.
***
It was dark by the time the train reached Chippenham and the station was almost deserted. Yellow pools of light flooded the forecourt before draining away into the shadows. I gave an involuntary shiver, imagining what might be lurking in the half-light beyond. The silhouette of a cat stalking her unseen prey unnerved me momentarily. The events in Paris had left me alert and on edge, and it was with an illogical sense of relief that I climbed into the safe cocoon of the cab.
My destination was only a few miles away. We followed the main Bath road until we reached The King's Head. I tapped the driver on his shoulder.
"This will do," I said. "Pull in here."
I waited outside the pub until he was out of sight, then crossed the road. A narrow lane lay partly hidden between high banks held together by gnarled and twisted roots. Soon after turning the first corner, the bitumen ran out, giving way to a farm track which plunged steeply into a long valley or dene.
Moonraker Cottage lay sleeping in a hollow at the far end. It was a solitary, low-slung building that butted hard into the hillside, as if anxious to evade notice. Only a rutted bridle track lay beyond. This meandered along the side of a babbling brook, before disappearing into the dark recesses of Druid's Wood.
I paused when I reached the front door and looked up at the gaunt limbs of long-dead elm trees on the eastern ridge. The moon was nearly full, throwing an eerie light on the huge rookery in their branches. I knew that, by November, the dark shadows of hundreds of rooks would begin to gather like harbingers of doom, wheeling and swooping with hideous cries each evening before they finally settled for the night.
At the onset of winter, Druid's Wood becomes a different place. The wind howls through the trees at night, and disembodied voices echo with agonised groans. Suddenly and without warning, these sometimes give way to high-pitched screams - enough to freeze the marrow of anyone foolish enough to be caught abroad after dark.
However, at this time of the year, the valley was tranquil enough. In the morning, I would be awakened by a myriad of small birds twittering. Their cheerful orison would greet the dawn as they flitted down from among the golden autumn leaves, swooping hungrily for wayside berries and insects on iridescent wings.
I closed the door, knowing that, for the moment at least, all would be right with my world.
Author Notes
Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Sir David Brockenhurst - a chance acquaintance, met at St Pancras Station
Helen Culverson - a woman of some mystery, also a travel writer, who seems to have become Charles's girlfriend.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor, who was involved in a serious accident, and seems also to be involved with the Mafia in some way.
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Francoise Gaudin - an intellectually disabled woman living in Versailles.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Gaston Arnoux - an unknown quantity at this stage, a dilettante. Owner of an art gallery in Paris.
|
|
