Background
Charles and Helen travel to UK to support an ex-RAF friend with funeral arrangements. While they are there, Charles's cottage is burned to the ground in an accidental blaze.
|
Last paragraphs of Chapter 70...
The enormity of the loss took my breath away. I turned to Helen and we clung together, suspended in disbelief until the first raindrops mingled with the tears I fought to hold back.
Helen took my hand and dragged me with her to the shelter of the trees standing at the entrance to Druids Wood. As we turned the corner we discovered, half-hidden at the edge of the bridle track, the sleek green shape of my beloved MGB. Whoever the mysterious Jed might be, I could at that moment have kissed him, an action that would almost certainly have earned me a black eye.
Chapter 71
I felt sure of this when I phoned Mrs. Wilkins. She told me Jed was not only an on-call firefighter with the Dorset and Wiltshire Brigade, but also the village blacksmith, a solitary and taciturn man who related better to horses than their owners.
She called back a short while later to inform me that he'd left the keys under the wheel arch, on the front nearside tyre. It was such an obvious hiding place that he might as well have left them in the ignition.
Meanwhile, Helen and I had taken shelter from the rain under a mighty oak. Long ago, its trunk had been split into three parts by lightning, creating a charred grotto lined with staircases of saffron fungi.
Dog violets carpeted the woodland floor, their ephemeral scent mingling with the earthy aroma of damp leaves. Water droplets glistened on the white berries of a large mistletoe hanging overhead. I half expected Druids to appear, wielding a golden sickle to cull its sprays, while chanting long-forgotten spells to ward off witchery. Instead, Helen drew me into her arms and, following more recent custom, she brushed my cheek with a lingering kiss.
It wasn't long before we were back at Widdershins Farm where we spent a pleasant evening with Nancy and Jack Wilkins. The next morning, after profusely thanking them for all their kindness, we set off to attend Jenny's funeral.
Helen insisted she should drive, on the pretext that I might still be suffering from concussion. Having already experienced her skills in Paris, I battened down the hatches, tightened the seat belt across my chest, and prepared for an exciting ride. I wasn't disappointed. She drove at high speed, handling the car with precision. Since the clothes we had been lent were loose-fitting and casual, we stopped in Reading to buy something more suitable to wear at the funeral. Even so, we arrived at Harpsden-cum-Bolney church in plenty of time.
Bisto was already on the porch, chatting with the vicar. When he saw us, he broke off his conversation and hurried towards us. "Good of you to come." His greeting was effusive. He shook Helen's hand warmly and embraced me like a long-lost brother. "Follow me. I'll show you to your seats." He spoke with a distracted air, scarcely pausing for breath. "I do hope you'll be able to join me at The Willows after the service." I hardly had time to answer before he was off up the path to welcome the next arrivals. We found our own way to our seats.
The reception at The Willows after the service was stiff and formal. Bisto had engaged outside caterers for the occasion. He buzzed from one group to the next playing the perfect host, ensuring everyone had a cup of tea and a full plate. Eventually, the last people drifted away, offering muted condolences as they left, and he joined us with a sigh of relief.
"Thank God that's over. Let's go through to the library and put our feet up." He ushered us through the door. "I think we gave the old girl a good send-off, don't you?"
Helen was quick to respond. "She'd have been proud of you, Ian. You spoke beautifully. It was the most touching eulogy I've ever heard."
"Every word of it true. I shall miss her dreadfully." His bottom lip quivered slightly before he pulled himself together. He brought the whiskey decanter across on a tray with three glasses. "Time for something a bit stronger. You'll join me, I hope."
He poured two generous fingers of scotch into each glass then raised his own in a toast. "Slange Var!"
"Slange Var!" we both echoed, standing around the fireplace under the disapproving eye of the markhor, now restored to his rightful position above the mantel.
"Come and sit down. Make yourselves comfortable." He sank into one of the armchairs. "Tell me about your time at Moonrakers. Such a lovely place. Wish I could have been with you."
As we related the tragic events, his face fell. "You must be devastated. It sounds as if you were lucky to get out alive." He took a swig from his glass. "I imagine the bottom has fallen out of your world and my heart goes out to you. "He paused to stroke Biggles's head before adding, "What are you planning to do now? Of course, you're welcome to stay here as long as you like. I'd welcome the company."
"Good of you to offer but Helen and I are planning a trip to Chitral. We're on our way to Paris this evening to tidy up loose ends, pack and, with luck, catch a flight to Pakistan within a couple of days."
"Chitral? Ah, yes. I remember you saying. I suppose my grandfather's old journal perished in the blaze. Best thing for it really. Full of nonsense."
"As luck would have it, I left it in the car," Helen said. "It's still in the glove box. Would you like me to get it for you?"
"No, my dear. You keep it. I don't suppose you've had time to read it yet." He glanced up at the goat's head above the fireplace. "No earthly good to me, and you may find odd snippets of interest, knowing the place as you do."
Once again, Helen thanked him profusely. "You are a dear. I should like that very much." She got up, her scotch barely touched, and excused herself. "I have to go and powder my nose."
While she was out of the room, I took the opportunity to speak with Bisto privately. "I've a couple of favours to ask of you, old chap."
"Go ahead. Fire away. Of course I'd be delighted to do anything I can. You know that. I imagine the first will be to look after your car while you're away - and the second, let me guess, will be a lift to the station."
"Yes, both of those if it's not too much trouble. But there's one other thing, too. I have a painting in a safe deposit box in Paris. Should anything happen to us in Pakistan, I'd like it returned to its rightful owner."
"What do you mean, 'Should anything happen'? You're being a bit melodramatic, aren't you?"
"Maybe. Nevertheless, I'll leave the key with Helen's landlady on Avenue de Villiers. Name of Madeleine Bisset. Absolutely trustworthy. Salt of the earth. I'll let her know of the arrangement."
Bisto looked confused. "I say, old man. What's this all about?"
"Just a precaution really. The painting could be quite valuable. It rightfully belongs to a man called Alain Gaudin who works as a gardener at Giverny and sometimes as a stagehand at the Moulin Rouge."
I could see Bisto's eyes beginning to glaze over. "Look, I'll leave details in an envelope with the key, and if there's any problem, Helen's sister, Kayla, will know how to contact him. Here's Madame Bisset's address. I've written it down for you."
"Right-ho! I'm beginning to get the drift, but why don't you give him the blessed painting yourself before you go?"
"I will, if I can get hold of him in time. Under normal circumstances, I would leave the key with Helen's sister, but there are reasons why that may not be a good idea. Her details are written down, too, in case you need them."
"If you say so. It all sounds a bit bizarre to me. Cloak-and-dagger stuff." He furrowed his brow." I hope you're not getting yourself into deep water."
"It's probably nothing. We should be back in a couple of weeks, in which case I'll be able to do it myself. I just want to make sure that all my bases are covered. Anyway, here comes Helen. I'd prefer you didn't mention it to her, old chap."
Bisto tapped the side of his nose with his finger. "Mum's the word. Don't want to worry the little lady, eh?"
"Something like that."
Author Notes
List of characters
Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Group Captain Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6 and Air Attache in Paris
Helen Culverson - Also a travel writer, whose relationship with Charles is complicated by her relationship with Jeanne Durand.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor and undercover agent with the French Drug Squad.
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Andre (aka Scaramouche) - an actor in Montmartre and friend of Kayla's
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.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Francoise Gaudin - Alain's an intellectually disabled sister.
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.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Gaston Arnoux - Owner of an art gallery in Paris, recently assassinated by Charles Asserted to be leader of an ISIS network
|
|
