The Hunt For Sonya Dufrette Part 12

'Kind of you to say so, but I have wasted your time.' Antonia vaguely wondered whether she wasn't spouting all these negative statements so that he could contradict them and rea.s.sure her. If she had to be honest with herself, she rather enjoyed being rea.s.sured by him.

'Nothing of the sort. I enjoyed every minute of it.' Major Payne reached out and took her hand. She let him hold it. What the h.e.l.l, she thought.

He went on, 'The - what shall we call it? The hunt for Sonya Dufrette hasn't been a failure. Au contraire. All right, we haven't been able to discover Sonya's whereabouts, but we did find out what happened. You had a hunch that there was something wrong and you were proved correct. A crime was committed, no matter how n.o.ble the motive for it. We did uncover greed, skulduggery, intricate scheming and deception. That's an achievement. Truth has prevailed. That's a cause for celebration and that's what we are having now.' He raised his gla.s.s again. 'To Truth.' He looked at her. 'And to Beauty too.'

'You are being silly now. Very silly. I am not really happy about it. In fact I wish we'd let sleeping dogs lie.'

He shook his head with exaggerated disapproval. 'I am surprised at you, Antonia. Judging by your book, I was convinced that you were an uncompromising moralist.'

'What I mean is, I am extremely uneasy about Dufrette - about what he might do next. He won't give up until he has tracked down the Vorodins. And he won't wait until Lena recovers - if she ever does - to get Veronica's address. He will find another source of information soon enough. He said it himself. He looked absolutely determined.'

'Yes.' Payne ran a thoughtful forefinger along his jaw. 'Absolutely, uncompromisingly, insanely determined. He looked like a man possessed by the spirit of a wolf hanged for manslaughter. Does that strike you as completely nonsensical? Why do these things sound so much better in one's head? Am I right in thinking that it rather captures the essence of Lawrence?'

'The hour of the wolf,' Antonia said. 'I hope it never comes ... That's when people die, isn't it?'

'Yes. According to Scandinavian mythology.'

'He has a gun. He is prepared to use it,' Antonia went on. 'He not only wants his daughter back - he wants revenge. You did hear him say, "Paytime." Lena, the nanny, Veronica - are they safe from him? I know this sounds wildly melodramatic, but then Dufrette is a melodramatic kind of person.'

'True ... He does seem to relish the role of the lone vigilante ... He didn't like it one bit when you suggested that the police should be told. Crikey - he actually snarled at you!'

They had been standing inside the Elsnor lobby. Lawrence Dufrette had said he'd be very cross if they told the police. He had patted his pocket suggestively. He had expressed the hope that their paths wouldn't cross again. He had said their meddling days were over, that they should make themselves scarce, that from that moment on he was in charge, that his hour had come. He had spoken in a low menacing voice. He had directed at Antonia a look full of antagonism and scorn and, yes, he had snarled at her. She had been shocked. She had thought they had been getting on really well. Of all the Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde transformations!

'Not a word of thanks either,' Major Payne murmured. 'To think that, but for us, he would never have known his daughter was alive.'

'And he took that letter. We shouldn't have let him. He will get someone to translate it for him ... I wonder what was in it.'

'It may be something totally irrelevant. Veronica saying, I took Sonya to Versailles yesterday. She enjoyed herself an awful lot. We wished you were here with us,'

'I can't imagine anyone wishing Lena were with them anywhere ... Could they be in France?'

'I don't know. V.V. did use French writing paper, but that means nothing ... Shall we order pudding and coffee? What would you like?'

'A peche Melba with chocolate sauce,' Antonia said recklessly. 'How about informing the police?'

'I don't think it will make much difference.' Payne took out his pipe. He went on, 'You see, don't you, that we can't prove a thing? Dufrette will no doubt deny the existence of any letter point blank and express concern over the state of our respective minds. Miss Haywood may break down and confess fully, but there's no guarantee. And I think it highly unlikely that Lena will ever admit to selling her daughter to the Vorodins.'

'What if Lena did tell the truth about Dufrette and Sonya? What if some kind of s.e.xual abuse did take place?'

'Again, nothing that has the remotest chance of standing up in court. It was twenty years ago. A mentally deficient child too. Would Sonya - a.s.suming she were ever tracked down - be able to testify? I rather doubt it.' Payne lit his pipe.

There was another pause.

'We could always report Dufrette for possessing a gun,' Antonia said.

'They are sure to discover that he has a licence for it.'

Antonia sighed.

20.

Interlude The next day Major Payne was called away to his farm in Suffolk, rather urgently, as a sudden crisis had arisen. His manager had been involved in a car crash, not a fatal one, but he was to spend at least a month in hospital, consequently Payne needed to take over the reins. He asked Antonia to go with him and, although she was tempted, she said it would be impossible. She couldn't afford to take any more days off so soon after coming back from her holiday. They agreed to keep in touch either by e-mail or by phone.

'Do let me know if something crops up,' he said.

'Like what?'

'I don't know. Something might. I have a funny feeling ... Somehow I don't think this is the end of the affair,' he said. 'For one thing we haven't found Sonya Dufrette.'

She let him kiss her goodbye.

As it happened, she was very busy herself. It was the day for her monthly report to the club committee and she discovered she hadn't done it. What with the flurry of recent activities, it had completely slipped her mind. She had only remembered the report as she woke up in the morning, and had jumped out of bed in a panic. She did manage to complete it in less than an hour, though it was far from satisfactory - or so she feared. Her only hope was that it wouldn't be scrutinized too closely. That's what she told Hugh, who phoned her at half-past eleven that same morning to see how she was getting on. He was insouciant about it. 'Bluff your way through. They aren't a particularly efficient bunch, from what I have heard.' He meant the club committee. She agreed - they weren't. 'What's that music?' he asked. 'Are you having a knees-up in the library?'

'It's the gardener's radio. History of flamenco.'

At three o'clock in the afternoon she went up the wide sweep of the staircase. She walked along the corridor, beautifully carpeted and decorated with taste but besmirched by a superfluity of signs and directions. The club was a notorious maze and, without the signs, newcomers would get lost and wander around until rescued by club members or staff. Antonia knew the place like the back of her hand, so the signs only annoyed her.

The committee meetings were invariably held in a huge gilded room with long curtained windows that looked over an enclosed formal garden. The walls were decorated with portraits of Nelson, Wellington and George V in his Sailor King uniform. Above the fireplace there was an obscure painting of the Battle of Balaclava.

Antonia was the first to arrive. It always happened that way. The committee weren't famous for their punctuality. For a couple of moments she amused herself idly, standing beside the portrait of George V, bringing her face very close to it and seeing the intricately, even finickily, rendered blue uniform and perfectly trimmed beard disintegrate into a fuzzy, meaningless blur of brushstrokes. She then headed for the rickety, baize-covered card table, around which were ranged some ill-a.s.sorted chairs of good quality. She sat on one of the two Sheratons and, inconsequentially, remembered that last time she had sat on the Louis Quinze.

She opened her folder in front of her. Random thoughts kept revolving inside her head. The true nature and personality of Lawrence Dufrette. (How dangerous was he?) The need for a pair of shoes to go with the dark blue suit she was wearing. (Would Hugh like them?) The possible whereabouts of Veronica and Sonya. (What new names might Sonya have been given?) Hugh's whereabouts at that very moment. (Could he be attending some tea-party organized by one of his numerous well-wishers with the sole purpose of introducing him to some highly eligible local widow? She sincerely hoped not.) Where had Curzon, the giraffe with the bitten ear, disappeared ? The answer to this one suggested itself almost at once: Sonya had missed it and Veronica had contacted Lena and asked her to send it to them, which Lena had done ... So Lena did have a forwarding address ...

Where was it she had heard 'Lavender's Blue' played? And why did she think it was extremely important that she should remember ... Had it been on the radio? She felt sure she had been sitting in the library ... Had Mrs Cathcart hummed it, perhaps? Unlikely. Colonel Haslett? No, she didn't think so. Colonel Haslett often hummed but it was usually some Gilbert and Sullivan tune - or 'Colonel Bogey'.

Antonia shut her eyes. Watch out for that ring, Miss Pettigrew had said.

Suddenly she sat up. She had heard the familiar cackling and shuffling noises outside the door, heralding the imminent arrival of the club committee. They didn't come in at once, though, but started a discussion outside, over whether the sign on the door should be changed from Vacant to Meeting in Progress, or whether doing so would put off any legitimate latecomers. Eventually it was decided to change the sign, and three people entered the room.

Mrs Compton, Mr Reece and Commander Bridges.

They appeared greatly surprised to see Antonia and even more surprised when they heard that she had been waiting since three o'clock. 'Oh dear. We did say half-past, didn't we, Douglas?' Mrs Compton said. She was a tall willowy woman of indeterminate years, dressed elegantly in a light green suit with darker green facings, whose immaculate coiffure the unlikely colour of 'Dutch gold' added to her height and sophistication.

Commander Bridges, thus appealed to, went very pink. He attempted to solve the dilemma between his conscience and manners by saying that it had been half-past three to start with - and that went back at least five years - they must be living in the past! He made it sound like some sort of a joke. He tugged at his intricately tied cravat and beamed and nodded at Antonia. He was clad in a dark blazer and grey trousers. He was seventy-six but looked younger, though sitting down and getting up were a problem. Antonia saw him glance down nervously at the Louis Quinze. He hated being helped either way. Given the option, he would have remained standing.

Mr Reece asked Commander Bridges if he knew the latest cricket score.

'This room needs changing,' Mrs Compton observed, looking around with a critical expression, holding her chin between her thumb and forefinger. 'Don't you think? I don't know what it is. Something - I don't know. Don't you think?'

'We did it only recently, Arabella,' Mr Reece said cheerfully. He was a large, stout man in his early sixties, with a pleasant red face, wearing tweeds. He looked like a gentleman farmer but was in fact a magistrate. 'Can't afford to do it again. The budget -'

'Ah, the budget.' Mrs Compton sounded scornful.

'Afraid so. It's tighter than ever,' Commander Bridges said. 'Heaven knows how we manage.'

'Refreshments coming up,' Mr Reece announced. He rubbed his hands. 'Jolly good.'

A waiter had wheeled in a trolley. Commander Bridges started easing himself into the chair. They all looked away delicately. 'Two messages,' the waiter said. 'One from Mr Beeson, the other from Lady Franks. Apologies, et cetera. They aren't coming, so start without them.'

Mrs Compton waited until he had left the room and said triumphantly, 'This is the third time. I detest counting, but it is the third time. I do think, Douglas, you should say something. It's not as though we have all the time in the world!'

Commander Bridges harrumphed. 'Yes, yes, of course, Arabella.'

'm.u.f.fins. Crumpets.' Mr Reece had started lifting lids. 'Can I tempt you, anyone? Arabella? Antonia?'

Antonia said she would like a cup of tea and a m.u.f.fin.

'It is too hot for m.u.f.fins,' Mrs Compton said.

'Sausage rolls. May I tempt you? Douglas? Ladies? The sandwiches look good.'

Mrs Compton said, 'No, nothing to eat. Just some tea.' She sighed. She opened her handbag in a portentous manner which suggested that some life-saving piece of equipment might be inside, but which merely resulted in her producing her reading gla.s.ses.

'A m.u.f.fin, Robert, thank you ... A cup of tea too, yes. Thank you.'

'It's too hot for m.u.f.fins,' Mrs Compton said again.

Antonia took a covert glance at her watch.

'Let's start, shall we?' Commander Bridges said, smiling amiably over his cup. 'The librarian's report ... Antonia, would you like to -'

'The last report was rather inconclusive, I thought,' Mrs Compton interjected. 'Don't you think?'

'It was the meeting that was inconclusive,' Mr Reece said.

'I don't understand what you mean, Robert.'

Antonia waited politely. The room was getting warmer by the minute. She could see the sun and the blue sky outside. Also the tree - an elm, not an oak. (She wished she didn't keep seeing the oak at Twiston.) Shouldn't they open one of the windows? Her eyes shut and opened. It wouldn't do for her to doze off! For some reason she found herself thinking of the Vorodins and their plan. That carefully premeditated abduction. All very ingenious, but - plans sometimes went wrong, didn't they? That was an interesting line of thought. What if the Vorodins had arrived and found that Sonya wasn't there? Just imagine that that was what did happen. Now, where could Sonya have gone? Well, she had liked hiding - 'Let's start, shall we? Antonia, are you ready?' Commander Bridges said.

'Yes. Sorry.'

Antonia raced through her report. Every now and then she glanced up. Commander Bridges kept beaming at her. Mrs Compton was looking round the room and shaking her head. Mr Reece was eating a sausage roll with a great deal of concentration.

When she finished, Commander Bridges said, 'Well done, Antonia. That was jolly thorough.'

'I have a request,' she said. 'I do need more bookshelves and journal racks.'

'How much money do you want?' Mr Reece asked with a smile, brushing crumbs off his waistcoat with his napkin. 'I think we could rustle up seventy or eighty pounds, can't we, Douglas?'

'Yes, yes. I think we can. Shelves are important.'

Mrs Compton heaved another sigh but raised no objection. Antonia felt herself relax.

The letting of the library to non-club members, to outsiders, for social functions, such as book readings and small wedding receptions, was discussed next. It was always a controversial point. The general feeling was against outsiders. Members, most of them diehard traditionalists, resented intrusions from the outside world intensely. But the fees the club charged were not to be sneezed at, Mr Reece pointed out - they provided them with a goodish income.

As for book donations ...

'I am totally against book donations. Totally. They are so ...' Mrs Compton - the widow of a Whitehall official - searched for a word. 'A bit like a jumble sale, don't you think? A lot of the books people donate are in an appalling state. No better than second-hand junk, really.'

'No, not all the books -' Antonia began.

'I've seen them! Then there is the kind of books some people leave. Don't you remember when the Gloucesters came - that VE Day? When the Duke picked up a book and it turned out to be -' Mrs Compton broke off. 'Don't you remember?'

'Arabella, that was ages ago,' Mr Reece said.

'It was I who had to write a letter of apology afterwards.'

The incident in question had taken place before Antonia's time - Suddenly she was reminded of that other letter. The letter written in Russian and signed V.V. What had Veronica written about, on her characteristic mauve paper with gilded edges? Would they ever know? Dufrette was unlikely to call them up and tell them what was in it. Dufrette didn't want to have anything to do with them. They shouldn't have let him take the letter, just like that. Could they have stopped him though? Would he have used the gun if they had tried?

But perhaps Hugh was right. Perhaps the letter didn't contain anything of importance.

There, however, Antonia was wrong. The letter did contain important information.

It explained the motive for the murder.

21.

A Demon in My View It was the following Wednesday. Temperatures had been soaring since nine o'clock in the morning, and by midday sweltering heat was coming through the open windows of the library. Air-conditioning would have made life bearable, Antonia reflected, but that had never been an option. The rather tight budget would never have allowed it. Besides, how many such days were there in an average English summer?

She drifted drowsily about the library, fanning herself with an ancient gold-edged dinner-party menu she had found inside a dog-eared copy of Thesiger's Marsh Arabs, a.s.sembling a pile of stray magazines. Her feet felt heavy as lead. The usual racing papers. Country Life, National Geographic, Spectator. The Salisbury Review, inside which she had found the latest issue of Playboy. Antonia smiled. Well, she had found worse ...

She remembered the luncheon menu they had had the day Sonya disappeared. Orange c.o.c.ktails, iced, from a jug. Gulls' eggs (two each). Fried salmon with rich sauce. Poussin with red wine. Charlotte russe. Coffee. Lady Mortlock had seen no reason why luncheon shouldn't have been served. Only Lawrence Dufrette had refused to eat. Lena had got drunk. Major Nagle had had a tray sent up to his room ...

The gardener's radio was on once more. It was so loud, it might have been in the room, and she had no other choice but listen to it as she went about her job. She didn't mind. She didn't have the energy to mind anything in this heat.

Two o'clock. The news. She squinted down at her watch. The hottest day on record. Just hearing the weather report made her sweat more. Was it as hot as in the marshes of Arabia?

Thesiger had been to the club once. She had seen him: very tall and unbent despite his great age, with a hawk-like nose, wearing his OE tie, a tweed jacket and twill trousers. Afterwards a club member had come up to her. It transpired he had been to prep school with Thesiger. 'He was an odd fellow. We were nine or ten and awfully keen on Prester John. We were all identifying with David Crawford, the hero, you know. Only Thesiger identified with Laputa, the Zulu chief. An odd fellow. Wasn't a bit surprised when I heard he had made his home at Maralai and become known to the locals as "Mzee Julu".'

She didn't fancy the idea of life at Maralai at all. Too hot. How I'd like to go north, to the Faroe islands, mist-laden Atlantic wonders, Antonia murmured dreamily. It stays cool up there. What had put the Faroe islands in her head? The National Geographic - the picture on the cover. There was an explanation for most things.

Various tasks kept presenting themselves. The cataloguing of the biographies section. An a.s.sessment as to what needed purchasing from Hatchards. She needed to phone the book binders as well. However, none of these tasks seemed very important or worthwhile in this weather. She decided to reduce her movements to a minimum and execute only very light ch.o.r.es, of the kind that didn't involve any degree of physical exertion. That morning she had put on a short-sleeved cotton dress, though it didn't seem to help much. It was a certain cool shade of blue, that was why she had chosen it - no, it was not lavender blue.