Cezanne's Quarry by Barbara Pope Page B

the sequel to the quarrel.
    That’s when the little maid unwittingly rattled Martin to his very core. Mme Solange, she told him, had spent most of the next day and evening at her desk writing. On Sunday night she had asked Arlette to take a large envelope to the Hôtel de la Gare.
    Martin could hardly believe his ears. “A letter? To Westerbury?” Not to the post.
    Arlette nodded.
    That bastard. That lying bastard. Martin felt the blood rushing to his face. He put his head down and closed his eyes. Franc was right again. He should have let the Englishman rot in jail.
    When Martin looked up, Arlette was staring at him, afraid.
    “And M. Westerbury,” he asked, suppressing a shout, “did you see him at the hotel?”
    She shook her head, still staring. Frightened.
    “Why not?” His head was pounding.
    “He wasn’t there. They said he was out. But they took the envelope for him.”
    “So you don’t know what happened to the letter?” Martin could barely get the question out.
    “No, no, sir. And I didn’t see M. Westerbury again until . . . until right before the police came. When I told him Mme Solange had left the afternoon before, he got frantic. He was about to go searching for her when the police came to take him away.”
    “Was he drinking?” Martin remembered the strong scent of alcohol.
    She kept shrinking away from Martin as she answered. “Yes, M. Westerbury was very upset. He poured something into his coffee.”
    “How was he before you told him Mme Vernet was missing?”
    Had she been thinking about that herself? Did she have her own suspicions about Westerbury? Martin’s ears were ringing. He wanted to shake her. Why didn’t she just answer his questions? Finally she said, “Upset, I think. But, then, they had never quarreled before.” He picked up his notebook. His hand was shaking. “Just a few more things,” he said, as much to himself as to Arlette. He glanced down at his notes and saw the words “the boy” and “the message.”
    “Do you know why Mme Vernet decided to go to the quarry?”
    Arlette stared at him as if he was trying to trick her. How many times had she already been asked that question? Finally she sighed and said, “She got a message to go.”
    “From whom?”
    She shrugged.
    “Who brought it?” he said more emphatically.
    “A boy.”
    “Tell me about the boy. Did you know him? Can you describe him?”
    Arlette told him little he did not already know. Her description of the boy was, as Franc had said, applicable to a hundred street urchins in Aix alone.
    “And the message. Did you see it? What did it say?”
    “I don’t read.”
    “What did she say about the message?” he asked impatiently.
    Arlette took a deep breath. “She said it said ‘I love you. Meet me at the quarry.’”
    “Was it signed?” And if it was, would she tell him?
    “No,” almost in a whisper, “I don’t think so.”
    “Then why did she go?”
    “At first she didn’t know what to do. Then she thought that maybe he—M. Westerbury—was too humiliated to come back to the apartment. That maybe he had something to show her. Something he wanted her to be the first to see. Some surprise.” Arlette stopped, her face in a grimace. “I think maybe he didn’t want to come back here because of me. I don’t think he likes me. I don’t think he liked it that I was here when they quarreled.” She could no longer hold back the tears.
    “Why did she go alone?” Martin insisted.
    Arlette wailed, “I don’t know. I don’t know. I asked if she wanted me to go with her. She told me, ‘I have to do this. I have to do this alone. It’s a place where we were happy together.’” By now, Arlette LaFarge’s sobbing was so deep that it came out as a series of groans.
    Why, Martin thought, why did Solange Vernet go? Did she really love and trust Westerbury that much? Even after their quarrel?
    When Arlette finally quieted down, he asked her if she knew where the note was. The maid’s eyes