Page 6

THREE

T he sun was rising on another perfect day in the South of France – but then, when was the French Riviera anything but perfect? Swiftly, the shadows were pushed away. The sea glittered. The palms and olive trees seemed to wake up and stretch out their arms. The first fishing boats appeared, skimming across the surface as they returned to the harbour, and the seagulls hung expectantly in the air, hoping there had been a good catch.

The Chateau Belmar had been constructed on a promontory overlooking the Bay of Villefranche, a front seat in this glorious natural theatre. It was a splendid building, designed in the belle époque style with the emphasis on geometry and elegance. It was painted in that deep yellow which can only be truly appreciated in tropical climates, with white shutters and porticos and a terracotta roof that extended over two wings connected to the main body of the house. It was surrounded by nine acres of gardens designed by the great Achille Duchêne so that the view from every bedroom would have at least one unique feature: a fountain, a statue, a gazebo, the swimming pool or the beehives.

It was not a huge chateau, nowhere near the size of its near neighbour, the Villa Ephrussi de Rothschild (also created by Duchêne). But with its seven bedrooms spread over three floors, its two salons , its banquet-sized dining room, the patios and terraces, it was certainly spacious enough. It had been bought by Henry Chalfont, who had been born rich and had multiplied his fortune by creating the private bank that carried his name. He had expressed the hope that the chateau would remain in the family for generations to come.

Tucked away in a small bedroom on the top floor, Béatrice Laurent was woken by the sound of hammering at the door.

It happened often and she knew even before she opened her eyes that it was only a dream. As always, she had heard the cars arrive, the shouting in German, then the men pouring into the house, a series of confused images that made no sense to her nineteen-year-old eyes. At the time, she had been a kitchen maid working for a wealthy family in Paris – the Steiners. It was 16 July 1942, the first day of the mass arrests that came to be known as the Vel d’Hiv after the sports arena where the prisoners would be held. Béatrice had seen Monsieur and Madame Steiner and their three children taken away. It was something she would never forget. She had liked the family. They had always been kind to her.

The soldiers had told her to pack her bags and leave, along with the other servants. The house on the Boulevard Haussmann was to be requisitioned, but already it was being emptied. The last thing Béatrice witnessed was the family’s silver being swept off the sideboards and the painting – a vase of red tulips on a table – that had always hung over the fireplace in the living room being lowered from the wall …

Now, thirteen years later, Béatrice shook off the memories that sleep had brought and forced herself to get out of bed. Her room was small, built into the roof of the chateau, with a slanting ceiling and a skylight that offered no view. There was a shower and toilet on the other side of the corridor and once she had washed, she dressed in the grey and white uniform of the femme de ménage . A service staircase, invisible to the rest of the house, led all the way to the kitchen and she made her way down as quietly as she could, the stairs creaking beneath her feet.

Béatrice had a morning routine, starting with the dining room. The supper had already been cleared away, the plates and dishes washed, but often the family would stay drinking port and Cointreau until late and there would be glasses and ashtrays (all four men liked cigars) to deal with. Then she went into the petit salon , where the family would take breakfast overlooking the rose garden and the steps down to the sea. The baker’s van would arrive soon with fresh croissants and brioches still warm from the oven, and in the meantime, Béatrice would lay the table, then cut up and squeeze oranges in the kitchen, filling a jug that would go into the fridge. Finally, she would make coffee for Lady Chalfont. Madame Claudel, the cook, did not live in the chateau and would not be in until ten.

She heard the crunch of tyres on the gravel and knew that the boy had arrived on his bicycle with the morning newspapers. He would never have rung the doorbell at this early hour, but she was standing outside the front door as he pulled in and took them from him.

The newspapers had come from London, Zurich and New York and their stories might be several days late, but what did time matter in a house where nothing ever seemed to change? People died, politicians argued, the queen of England did this, the weather did that. None of it seemed at all relevant in the C?te d’Azur. The newspapers went onto the big table in the grand salon . Béatrice arranged them neatly, then fetched the dustpan and brush to clean the grate. It was the first week of June and the days were warm and sunny, but the evenings could be cool, so Lady Chalfont had asked for a fire to be lit. The cinders were still warm as Béatrice swept them into a metal bucket, all the while keeping her eyes fixed on her work. She had to be careful not to look up. Never once did she allow herself to glance at the chimney breast.

Monsieur Waysmith had hung the new picture there three weeks ago. It would eventually be put on sale in his gallery in Nice, but he often liked to display the art in his own home first. He was particularly pleased with this new acquisition, Spring Flowers , by Paul Cézanne.

Béatrice could not look at it. Turning her back on the brightly coloured tulips in their Delft pottery vase, she walked out of the room.

*

Lady Chalfont had the largest bedroom in the house, a magnificent suite that her second husband had once called the Lounge of Nations on account of its Venetian marble floor, its Chinese silk curtains, its French mirrors and furniture and its collection of German porcelain. To this, she had imported an English walnut bed manufactured by Waring & Gillow. It had belonged to her mother and gave her comfort, perhaps in the thought that the two of them would soon be reunited.

She never drew the curtains. Three slender archways stretching from the floor to the ceiling led out onto a white marble balcony. From here it was possible to see the entire garden and the sand-coloured path leading down to the magnificent Hippodamia fountain – a riot of centaurs, soldiers and wedding guests, with a naked woman (the bride) being stolen away, water exploding all around her. It was, in part, a copy of a work by Michelangelo and of uncertain provenance.

The sun had not risen fully and Lady Chalfont shivered slightly in the cool morning air, even though she was well protected by two thick blankets and a hot-water bottle still generating a little heat behind her neck. Propping herself up on the pillows, she looked out to sea, enjoying the sound of splashing water and the warbling of les chardonnerets – the goldfinches – which had built their nest under a loose tile in the roof. Every year, she had watched the father flying in and out with grubs for the newly born chicks. She had scolded Bruno, the gardener, when he had suggested removing the nest and mending the roof. Nothing gave her greater pleasure, she told him, and it was true. Very soon, she would see the whole family take flight.

For the last time. She had to face up to the fact that she would not be here for another spring. She was unlikely to live even until the winter. Looking past the colonnades, she gazed at the flowers bursting into colour: deep red poppies, white peonies, Spanish broom in clumps of brilliant yellow and a great carpet of mauve lavender. All of life continuing without her.

There was a knock at the door, interrupting Lady Chalfont’s train of thought, and Béatrice came in carrying a tray with a steaming cup of ginger and lemon tea, as she did every day.

‘ Bonjour, madame ,’ she said, laying the tray down on the side of the bed.

‘ Bonjour, Beátrice. Comment ca va? ’ Lady Chalfont spoke a little French, but she did so in the manner of an English aristocrat, with little interest in accent, rhythm or even sense.

‘ Très bien, merci, madame . J’ai votre thé – et un télégramme est arrivé hier. ’

‘Why did you not give this to me yesterday?’ Lady Chalfont demanded. She was too annoyed to continue in a language that was not her own.

‘I am sorry, madame. I did not see it. Someone had placed it with the newspapers …’

The housekeeper fluffed up the pillows and removed the lukewarm hot-water bottle, then left as quickly as she could. The moment the door closed, Lady Chalfont reached for the telegram, ignoring the tea. She picked up the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper.

DEAR LADY CHALFONT. ARRIVING FRIDAY 3 JUNE ON LE TRAIN BLEU. HAVE BOOKED ROOMS AT GRAND-H?TEL. WILL CALL AT YOUR CONVENIENCE. ATTICUS PüND

At her convenience? What time would that be? Lady Chalfont had taken Le Train Bleu often enough to know that it would have left Paris, Gare de Lyon, at eight o’clock in the evening, travelling through the night to arrive early morning in Marseille. It might be there now. Then it would continue along the coast, through Toulon and Saint-Rapha?l to Cannes and on to Nice, the nearest station to Cap Ferrat. Mr Pünd would be at his hotel by lunchtime. Why had he chosen not to stay at the Chateau Belmar? That wasn’t important. All that mattered was that he had come.

Lady Chalfont put down the telegram and rested her head against the pillows, relieved. The cup of tea was still steaming on the tray that Béatrice had left on the bed, but she didn’t drink any of it. She was aware that something was wrong. She thought back to what had just happened: the knock at the door, the entrance, the message. She picked up the envelope a second time and examined it. Yes. That was what it was. She hadn’t torn open the envelope. It had been open when it was delivered to her. She could see where the knife had been drawn across.

Someone had read the telegram before it had been delivered to her. They had taken it and then put it back in the wrong place. They knew that Pünd was here, which meant they would also know she had invited him.

But who?

*

‘Are you getting out of bed?’ Lola Chalfont asked her husband.

‘What time is it?’ The voice came from under the covers, disembodied and tetchy.

‘Almost half past eight. You know Elmer hates it when we’re late for breakfast.’

‘Why should I care what Elmer thinks? This isn’t his house and I’m not his damn servant. You go down. I need to sleep.’

A hand with a gold signet ring appeared, pushing back the sheets and revealing a pockmarked face with a sprawl of bright red hair that almost made it seem as if his head was on fire, sideboards slicing into his face, a flat nose and puffed-out lips. Jeffrey Chalfont, now the 7th Earl Chalfont and aged thirty-seven, was running to fat, his thick neck and fleshy shoulders resting against a mountain of pillows. He had begun to resemble his father – but, unfortunately, when Henry Chalfont had been twenty years older than Jeffrey was now. He was short-tempered. He seldom smiled. When Lola woke up, it sometimes took her a few moments to remember she was married to the man lying beside her. They had been together for ten years and had an eight-year-old son, but saw less and less of each other as the days went by.

The 7th Earl was not completely at home in the South of France. He would much rather be in the 11,000-acre estate he had inherited in Norfolk, rattling around in his trusty Massey Ferguson, barking orders at workers who had been with the family for generations. He liked to dress in a flat cap, tweed jacket and waistcoat and would march along country lanes surrounded by his four dogs, two Labradors and two Pinschers, forming a pack around him. He was the master of the local hunt and at weekends he would invite friends over for a shooting party. By the following Monday, not a single bird would be seen in the sky. He enjoyed fishing too. A river ran for half a mile through his estate and fortunate the salmon or perch that would make it from one end to the other.

‘What hour did you get in?’ Lola demanded.

‘Damned if I know. I don’t remember. About twelve o’clock.’

By which he meant one or two o’clock in the morning. Lola had learned to adjust any answer Jeffrey gave her, adding or subtracting as necessary. He had gone out after dinner, supposedly meeting some chums in Nice. He had met them, of course, at the casino – not that she had asked him that. Why invite another lie? But now, in the light of the morning, she couldn’t resist challenging him.

‘How much did you lose?’ she asked.

‘What makes you think I lost?’

‘Old habits die hard,’ Lola muttered, reaching for her eau de toilette.

Lola Chalfont was already dressed and sitting at her dressing table, in front of an antique mirror that unfolded like a triptych on a church altar. The three reflections in their separate panels showed a woman who was still beautiful but who was fighting her thirty-three years and the disappointments of her life. She and Jeffrey had met at the Theatre Royal in Norwich. He had been in the audience, she on the stage, in the lead role, performing as the exotic spy Mata Hari. When she had found a young and enthusiastic Jeffrey Chalfont at the stage door with an impressive bouquet of flowers, she had been swept away, particularly when she had found out about the title he would one day inherit along with his Norfolk estate. Lola Chalfont, countess! That was a part she could certainly play.

It was only after their marriage that she realised she had made the mistake of her life. She had swapped glamour and greasepaint for bridge parties and long, muddy tracks. The title role for a supporting part. Nor could there be any going back. Producers and directors were nervous of her. She was a member of the aristocracy now, not one of them, and they didn’t even return her calls. She knew she had nobody to blame but herself. Even so, she blamed her new husband and quickly came to despise him.

‘So how much?’ she demanded a second time.

‘How much what?’

‘You know what I’m talking about, Jeffrey. The casino.’

Jeffrey grunted. ‘A couple of hundred francs,’ he admitted at last.

He meant three or four hundred, then. It had been the same the night before – and the night before that. Lola had a sick feeling in her stomach. Where was all this money going to come from? Their bank manager, Mr Spurling, had been on the phone several times – and with every call he’d become less deferential, more demanding.

‘Who were you with?’ she asked.

‘Harry and Charley and Algy …’ All Jeffrey’s friends had names that ended in ‘y’.

‘I suppose they all lost.’

‘You’re wrong. Charley had a fantastic run of luck on the roulette wheel. Champagne all round.’

‘Good old Charley!’

Lola picked up the hairbrush and adjusted the jet-black locks that tumbled over each other, crowning a face that was at once vulnerable and imperious. Born and brought up in Seville until her parents moved to London, she felt completely at home next to the Mediterranean. Her reflections in the mirrors showed intense eyes, a slender neck and a smile that could dazzle across a room, even if that room contained six hundred people. It’s not over yet, she thought to herself. If the producers wouldn’t ring her, the solution was simple. She would become a producer herself.

Grab Me a Gondola was going into rehearsal at the end of the year and hadn’t yet been cast, but Lola had read the script and listened to the songs, played for her by a rehearsal pianist she had hired out of her own pocket. She was certain the show was going to be a hit and the part of Virginia, a starlet at the Venice Film Festival (where the musical was set), could have been made for her. She had met the writers at a cocktail party at the Dorchester and when she had mentioned she was thinking about investing money, they had shown an immediate interest. She had told them how much she loved the story of Grab Me a Gondola and all the wonderful characters – particularly Virginia Jones. Did they think there was any chance that she might audition for the part? And how much was she thinking of investing? How about two thousand pounds? Suddenly it seemed to be a perfect fit.

She’d had to tell Jeffrey, of course – he was the lord of the manor – and of course he had objected. Had she forgotten who she was, what she had become? A return to the stage would be utterly demeaning, to him, to her, to the family name. She should have realised she had left all that behind her.

But just for once she had stood up to him and he had been shocked by the vehemence of her resistance. He would never have understood, of course, but Lola had come to a realisation. It was as if her two worlds had swapped places. The Chalfont estate, her title and Norfolk society were just an illusion. It was her life on stage that was real.

‘I’m going to call Dino today,’ she said. Dino Wolfe was the manager of Strand Productions, who were mounting Grab Me a Gondola . ‘I thought I might ask him to join us here.’

‘At the chateau?’

‘Why not?’

Jeffrey said nothing. Lola twisted round and saw that her husband had disappeared back under the bedclothes.

For a brief moment, Lola was angry. This was not the man she had met. She thought of the champagne and caviar, long drives in his SS Jaguar 100, that visit to the estate in Norfolk, how enthralled she’d been by the beauty of the landscape – so much land, all owned by him. Everything had seemed so perfect at the time. Was that what marriage and motherhood always did? Carve out the joy and ambition of young life and replace it with this … emptiness?

Lola put down the hairbrush, took one last look in the mirror and got to her feet. Right then, she could imagine herself in her dressing room, about to go on stage. The orchestra was warming up. The audience was murmuring excitedly. In a few moments, the lights in the auditorium would go down.

It was going to happen. She was going to make it happen. She had a plan and if it all worked out, everything would change.

There was just one problem. Where was she going to get two thousand pounds?

*

The sunlight was streaming in through the double windows of the petit salon , glinting off the glass and silverware and turning the tablecloth into a blaze of pristine white. There were six people sitting around the antique dining table, which dated back to the seventeenth century and the time of Louis XIV, and it would have been easy to imagine them posing for a classical painting with perhaps Vermeer or Boucher standing in front of an easel, brush in hand, on the other side of the doorway. Béatrice had served the coffee and the breads, still warm from the bakery, along with honey (made by their own bees), toast, fruit and yoghurt, and quietly excused herself.

Elmer Waysmith had taken his usual seat at the head of the table with his son, Robert, on one side of him. Judith Lyttleton – Lady Chalfont’s daughter – was on the other, with her husband, Harry Lyttleton, next to her. Lola Chalfont had come in with her eight-year-old son, Cedric, who was staring out of the window, moodily swinging his legs.

It was not a comfortable scene. There was a distinct yet undefined tension in the air, as if they were all characters in a play, not quite sure of their lines and waiting for the curtain to come down so that they could all go their own way. But for the time being they were going through the motions, each playing their own part.

Elmer was sixty-seven, two years older than his second wife and still handsome, although his hair had turned a premature white and no longer matched his eyebrows. He had the physique and bearing of a military man even though he had never seen action, having spent much of the war in Washington, overseeing the vast export programme supplying thousands of tanks, planes, weapons, uniforms, chemicals and food to the beleaguered Soviet Union. He had been a personal appointment of President Roosevelt: he claimed that the two of them had been close friends.

Elmer had come to the breakfast table in an ivory-coloured suit and bow tie with a pair of gold half-frame glasses balanced on a connoisseur’s nose. He was reading an edition of the New York Times that was spread out on the table beside him. He didn’t seem to have noticed that the news was out of date, but nor did it matter to him. ‘So I see Churchill’s back,’ he muttered, spreading jam on his croissant and examining the front page at the same time. Sir Winston Churchill had resigned as prime minister in April.

‘I didn’t know he’d been away,’ Robert Waysmith said.

‘He was at the opening of Parliament. Everyone cheering him to the rafters.’ Elmer read another paragraph before making his next pronouncement. ‘The trouble is that these people never know when to stop.’

‘Well, he’s still very popular …’

Robert Waysmith, Elmer’s son from his first marriage, had inherited his father’s good looks. Slim and athletic, he had the waywardness of a poet, an adventurer or a Lothario, with a full head of hair and dark eyes that sparkled with intelligence. He had been educated at Winchester and Oxford and spoke with a perfect English accent, unlike his father, who had been born in New York and might never have left. Hearing what Elmer had just said, he smiled as if at some private joke. It was so typical of his father to stir up trouble for no reason at all.

‘I think Winston Churchill is quite wonderful,’ Judith said. ‘We certainly wouldn’t have won the war without him.’

‘You wouldn’t have won the war without us ,’ Elmer corrected her.

‘Oh come on, Pa. Don’t start that again.’ Robert never called him ‘Daddy’ or ‘Father’. The two of them had lived together in New York and subsequently in London ever since the death of Elmer’s first wife, Marion. Tragically, she had taken her own life when Robert was just eleven. There were no other children and the two of them had the closeness that comes from years of living within the same walls. As a child, Robert had dreamed of becoming an artist, but that had never happened. His father had insisted he should train as a lawyer in his twenties, but that hadn’t suited his temperament either and, in the end, Elmer had taken pity on him and brought him into his business, putting him in charge of the day-to-day running of the two galleries in London and Nice. He was now thirty-two and still unmarried.

Judith Lyttleton’s husband, Harry, had overheard Elmer’s comment. ‘If he starts going on about Lend-Lease one more time, I’m going to chuck myself into the Med,’ he whispered to his wife.

Judith ignored him. As usual, she was studying a book she had brought with her to the table: Geoglyphs from the Paracas Phase in Peru and South America . It was a dusty volume, at least two inches thick. She picked up a pen and made a note in one of the margins.

‘What did you say?’ Elmer snapped.

‘Nothing, Elmer,’ Harry Lyttleton exclaimed, with a smile. ‘Can you pass the marmalade?’

The Lyttletons made a decidedly odd couple. Judith was shorter than her husband but she was also stouter, more masculine. Slightly built and elegant, Harry took great care with his appearance. Today he was dressed in white trousers, an oyster pink jersey and the white tennis shoes he often preferred. He was a keen cricketer as well as a member of the Wimbledon tennis club, which, along with his visits to the South of France, might have accounted for his year-round tan. He had wavy fair hair that tumbled down in a way that looked careless but which was almost certainly the result of careful grooming. His eyes were a piercing blue, full of life if not quite intelligence.

His first connection with the Chalfonts had been with the older son, Jeffrey. The two of them had been best friends at Eton, sharing a study, and there had been some wags who had joked that he had only married Judith because it was the next best thing to marrying her brother. The two men still spent as much time as they could together. In Norfolk, they went hunting and shooting. In the South of France, they ate good food, drank too much wine, gambled and smoked cigars until the early hours of the morning.

Harry had been an only son with four sisters sharing the family home in Essex and he alone had been sent to boarding school. He had never been very wealthy, but marrying Judith had put him on an almost equal footing with the 7th Earl. She was, after all, a future heir to her late father’s considerable fortune, which included houses in London and Cap Ferrat and part ownership of Chalfonts, the exclusive bank in the City of London. At least some of this money would come to her and, frankly, Harry needed it. He was a developer, building a hotel between Cap Ferrat and Beaulieu that he insisted would rival even the Grand-H?tel itself for luxury and comfort, but after three years of construction only a skeleton stood in place, disfiguring the landscape.

‘Where’s Jeffrey?’ Elmer demanded, noting his absence for the first time.

‘He’s not up yet,’ Lola said. ‘He was out late.’

‘Out where?’ Elmer demanded scornfully. ‘Beaulieu, Monte Carlo or Le Palais?’ He had named three casinos.

‘You know perfectly well. Jeffrey works very hard when he’s in England.’ Lola might not approve of her husband’s gambling habits, but there was no way she was going to let her stepfather-in-law criticise him in front of the family, particularly with Cedric at the table. ‘He’s on holiday now. He’s allowed to let his hair down.’

‘If he lets his hair down, how does he see?’ Cedric asked.

‘That’s not what it means, Cedric,’ Lola explained. ‘It just means he’s enjoying himself.’

‘Can I go with him?’

‘No. You’re too young.’ Lola glanced out of the window. ‘It looks like it’s going to be a gorgeous day. Why don’t we all go to the beach for a picnic?’

‘I hate the beach,’ Cedric announced. ‘Sand in the sandwiches and melted ice cream.’

‘I’m going into the gallery later on,’ Elmer muttered. He turned to Robert. ‘Is the Sisley being delivered today?’

‘Yes, Pa. I thought I’d take it myself. You know what Dorfman is like.’

Alfred Sisley was an Impressionist painter who, although British by birth, had lived in France until his death at the end of the nineteenth century. Dorfman was an avid collector with a handsome villa in Antibes, further down the coast. He would appreciate the personal attention and it might be an opportunity to talk about further purchases.

‘Good idea.’ Elmer didn’t smile. He only offered praise reluctantly. ‘Just don’t forget we’re meeting at the gallery at half past twelve. Don’t be late.’

‘I’m never late.’ It was true. Elmer Waysmith hated unpunctuality and in all their years working together, Robert had learned to keep a careful eye on the clock.

‘I say, Elmer. I was wondering if you might have time for a quick chat.’ Harry Lyttleton sounded nervous.

‘What about?’

‘Well …’ He hadn’t wanted to have the conversation here, not in front of everyone else, but realised he had no choice. ‘Actually, it’s about the hotel …’

‘I don’t want to talk to you about the hotel. How often do I have to tell you that? I warned you at the time that it would never come to anything. A bad business plan, bad associates and a bad idea. Anyway …’ Elmer turned back to his newspaper. ‘I don’t discuss business at the breakfast table.’

‘Why do you have to be so unpleasant?’ For the first time, Judith lifted her eyes from her book and fixed them on her stepfather. ‘Harry was only asking to talk to you. He wasn’t asking for money.’

‘Although there are still a few investment packages available, if you’re interested,’ Harry added, hastily.

Judith pretended she hadn’t heard him. ‘Ever since you married our mother, nothing has been the same,’ she said. ‘And quite soon she won’t be here any more either. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

Elmer scowled at her. ‘I love your mother,’ he said. ‘I would do anything for her, and that includes protecting her from all of you.’ He’d had enough. He folded the newspaper shut and got to his feet. As he left the room, he glanced briefly at Robert. ‘Twelve thirty,’ he reminded him, then walked out of the room.

‘Eurgh! A seagull just did its business on the window!’ Cedric exclaimed, half repulsed, half amused. Lola looked at him disapprovingly, although it occurred to her that in some respects what he’d said was an appropriate comment on everything that had passed.

*

After he had left the petit salon , Elmer Waysmith climbed the stairs to the first floor. He had a suite at the front of the house: a bedroom, a bathroom and a study where he was putting together a new catalogue of Impressionist paintings. It was his habit to work here every morning until eleven o’clock, when he would drive into Nice and visit his gallery tucked away beneath the arches in the Place Masséna.

First, however, he turned the other way and knocked twice on the door of his wife’s bedroom. There was no answer. Thinking she might be asleep, he opened the door gently and saw at once that the bed was empty, the tray with her breakfast untouched. He continued into the room and found her sitting outside on the balcony, wearing the crêpe de Chine dressing gown he had bought her in Paris. She did not seem to have heard him. Her eyes were fixed on the garden and, in particular, the fountain with the water splashing around its throng of stone figures.

‘Margaret?’ he called out.

She turned and smiled. ‘Elmer. Come and sit by me.’

She gestured to the empty seat beside her. There had been a time when they shared the bedroom and they had often sat together on the balcony, particularly at night, when they would each have a glass of cognac and Elmer would smoke a cigar, listening to the dying fall of the cicadas and watching the stars.

Margaret Chalfont had first met Elmer when he had been invited to Chalfont Hall in Norfolk to advise on the family’s extensive art collection. Many of the paintings had hung on the walls for more than a century and he had identified the artists, researched the history of the works and, most importantly, provided valuations. The two of them had quickly become friends and it was hardly surprising that, after the death of Margaret’s husband, this should have developed into a romance. They were similarly aged and both had lost their first partners in tragic circumstances.

Margaret’s children had never forgiven them for daring to get married. Elmer was an American. He was an outsider. He might be working in the rarefied world of nineteenth- and twentieth-century art, but he was still a merchant – after all, a gallery was only another name for a shop. What right did he have to ingratiate himself into the sphere of an English family with five hundred acres in Norfolk and a history that went back to the time of Queen Elizabeth I? And then there was the memory of Henry Chalfont, a war hero who had helped bring Jewish refugees into Britain, killed by a bomb as he walked through Whitechapel. Nobody had ever believed that Margaret would marry again, and the fact that she had kept her old name suggested she wasn’t entirely serious about the new relationship, that she was still living in the past.

‘How are you feeling today?’ Elmer asked the same question every morning, although he tried to find different ways to formulate the words.

‘I’m very well.’ Margaret had never answered otherwise, even after a bad night. ‘It’s lovely of you to look in and see me. What are you doing today?’

‘I’m still working on the catalogue.’

‘I thought I might take tea in the gazebo. Will you join me?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t. I have lunch with Robert in Nice and then I must work.’

‘Well, I’ll ask Judith and Harry.’

Elmer scowled. ‘They’re still asking me for money for that damn hotel.’

Margaret reached out and rested a hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Maybe you should help them a little, Elmer. Just a little. Harry means well and he’s not as clever as you.’

‘I warned him against it, Margaret. He didn’t listen to me. If I help him now, it’ll just be throwing good money after bad. And what about the rest of them? Lola’s investing in a musical – as if that isn’t the fastest way to lose money on the planet. Judith wants to spend thousands preserving a desert in Peru. And Jeffrey’s worse than any of them, throwing cash away at the casino.’

‘I do worry about them, I admit it. You will look out for them, won’t you, after I’m …’ She didn’t finish the sentence, but she loosened her grip and her hand fell away.

‘My dearest, that’s all I’ve ever tried to do – from the minute I walked into your life.’ Elmer took hold of her, his face close to hers. ‘To look after them if they’ll listen to me, which sadly they never do. But I’ll never stop trying and I promise you, you don’t need to worry about any of them.’ He tried to smile. ‘Anyway, I don’t like this talk about you leaving me or going anywhere. Right now you look as beautiful as the day we met. The sunshine down here does wonders for you, and who knows, maybe you’ll prove the doctors wrong and live to be a hundred. The important thing is to enjoy every minute we have together, and that’s what we’re going to do.’

‘You still haven’t got time to have tea with me.’

‘You know how much work I have.’ He sighed. ‘Why don’t we have an early supper together, just the two of us? I can ask Béatrice to lay a table out here on the balcony and we can watch the sun set.’

‘I’d like that.’ Margaret tried to smile, but Elmer could see she was uneasy. There was something holding her back.

‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’

She turned away. ‘I had a bad dream last night,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to tell you, Elmer, but sometimes I’m afraid. It’s so beautiful here, but I feel the shadows closing in. I’m not talking about my illness. It’s something else. Don’t you feel it too?’

She shivered. Elmer gazed at her, his eyes full of concern. ‘You’re cold,’ he said. ‘Maybe you should come inside.’

‘No. Please. Let me sit here.’

‘I’ll fetch you a blanket.’

Elmer got up and went into the bedroom. As soon as he had gone, Margaret Chalfont allowed one hand to drop to her dressing-gown pocket and felt for the single sheet of paper that she had placed there and which she knew would bring her comfort. It was the telegram from Atticus Pünd. He had said he was arriving on 3 June. That was today. So where was he? When was he going to come?