of that. Thisnew mystery usurped everything, even his blackmailer. When the desk telephone shrilled, he jumped like a salmon before snatching up the receiver. ‘Who is this?’
‘Please may I speak to M. le Comte de Charembourg?’ A young voice, shy.
‘You are doing so.’
‘Monsieur, it’s me, Alix Gower.’
‘Alix?’ Was this a trick?
‘I … I hope I’m not troubling you and I’m sorry to call you at home, I know I shouldn’t,but I really want to speak to you. I – I have something to confess.’
Chapter Nine
On Saturday, 3 rd April, carrying his worldly goods in a wooden vegetable box, Verrian Haviland rode the funicular up to the basilica of Sacré-Coeur on the Butte de Montmartre. Reading the directions supplied by the accommodation agency, he wandered into a square brimming with artists, tourists and those who must be locals, from the way they slouchedon café chairs. He made an unhurried scan of the area: cobbles, peeling shutters, trees bouncing into leaf. Yes, Place du Tertre would do fine for now.
His prospective landlady was called Mme Konstantiva, and the girl at the agency had told him that ‘long ago’ she’d danced with the Ballets Russes. So when a majestic woman opened the door to him, he addressed her in his best Russian, a languagehe’d picked up during an unpaid apprenticeship on a Moscow newspaper. The woman stepped back with a graceful gesture and invited him in.
Verrian thanked her in Russian.
‘English or French, ducks, else find an interpreter. I’m asRussian as cod and chips. You can call me Rosa.’ She eyed the crate Verrian carried on his shoulder, with its label declaring ‘Quality Savoy cabbages’. ‘What are youthen, the Archduke of Austria? Where’s your retinue?’
She spoke English, so he answered the same. ‘Some way behind, carrying my robes of state.’ Because she kept staring at the crate, he added, ‘I’m not as poor as I look. Will a month’s rent in advance be acceptable?’
‘Whatever suits, ducks. Come on in. Watch the carpet – bit of a death trap.
C’
était la guerre. You’re a good-looking boy, ain’tyou? Dark for an Englishman. What is it, Welsh?’
‘Cornish, on my mother’s side.’
She took him upstairs and opened a door, saying, ‘You can have the double, since you’ll fall off the end of a single. I only let two rooms, and this is the biggest.’ The bedroom smelled faintly of cat and the last occupant’s hair cream. ‘View of the square at no extra charge and you can see Sacré-Coeur from thebathroom. You’ll be staying long, Mr … um … ?’
‘Haviland. A month, probably.’
‘Writer, are you?’
‘Of a kind.’
‘Thought so. Illegal for writers to shave properly, ain’t it?’
He grinned. ‘No – merely discouraged.’
‘I’ll give you a gander at the facilities. Usual terms – you get your own key, you tiptoe inside after ten, twenty francs for abath, no girls upstairs unless you can give me thenames of all four grandparents. Fancy a cuppa?’
‘I could murder one.’
*
At home in St-Sulpice, Alix sat on her bed, sliding silk stockings over her knees. What to wear though? She’d screwed up every ounce of courage to telephone the Comte de Charembourg the previous day, and he’d been so kind, inviting her to lunch today, but he hadn’t said what style of place he was taking her to. Alix pushedopen her window, testing the air. Warm, but not sunny. How very unhelpful.
She reviewed her choices. One could not call her clothes a ‘wardrobe’; though this was supposed to be a furnished flat, the wardrobes had never arrived. Alix’s garments hung from a broom handle balanced on ratchets.
She wished she had something in white linen, to be worn with a little cashmere cardigan, but reality wasthat same pink cotton dress, forever blighted by the memory of fish and Mlle Lilliane. Her amethyst? No, the amethyst dress was too sexy for a man who’d known her as a small girl.
She took down a
‘Please may I speak to M. le Comte de Charembourg?’ A young voice, shy.
‘You are doing so.’
‘Monsieur, it’s me, Alix Gower.’
‘Alix?’ Was this a trick?
‘I … I hope I’m not troubling you and I’m sorry to call you at home, I know I shouldn’t,but I really want to speak to you. I – I have something to confess.’
Chapter Nine
On Saturday, 3 rd April, carrying his worldly goods in a wooden vegetable box, Verrian Haviland rode the funicular up to the basilica of Sacré-Coeur on the Butte de Montmartre. Reading the directions supplied by the accommodation agency, he wandered into a square brimming with artists, tourists and those who must be locals, from the way they slouchedon café chairs. He made an unhurried scan of the area: cobbles, peeling shutters, trees bouncing into leaf. Yes, Place du Tertre would do fine for now.
His prospective landlady was called Mme Konstantiva, and the girl at the agency had told him that ‘long ago’ she’d danced with the Ballets Russes. So when a majestic woman opened the door to him, he addressed her in his best Russian, a languagehe’d picked up during an unpaid apprenticeship on a Moscow newspaper. The woman stepped back with a graceful gesture and invited him in.
Verrian thanked her in Russian.
‘English or French, ducks, else find an interpreter. I’m asRussian as cod and chips. You can call me Rosa.’ She eyed the crate Verrian carried on his shoulder, with its label declaring ‘Quality Savoy cabbages’. ‘What are youthen, the Archduke of Austria? Where’s your retinue?’
She spoke English, so he answered the same. ‘Some way behind, carrying my robes of state.’ Because she kept staring at the crate, he added, ‘I’m not as poor as I look. Will a month’s rent in advance be acceptable?’
‘Whatever suits, ducks. Come on in. Watch the carpet – bit of a death trap.
C’
était la guerre. You’re a good-looking boy, ain’tyou? Dark for an Englishman. What is it, Welsh?’
‘Cornish, on my mother’s side.’
She took him upstairs and opened a door, saying, ‘You can have the double, since you’ll fall off the end of a single. I only let two rooms, and this is the biggest.’ The bedroom smelled faintly of cat and the last occupant’s hair cream. ‘View of the square at no extra charge and you can see Sacré-Coeur from thebathroom. You’ll be staying long, Mr … um … ?’
‘Haviland. A month, probably.’
‘Writer, are you?’
‘Of a kind.’
‘Thought so. Illegal for writers to shave properly, ain’t it?’
He grinned. ‘No – merely discouraged.’
‘I’ll give you a gander at the facilities. Usual terms – you get your own key, you tiptoe inside after ten, twenty francs for abath, no girls upstairs unless you can give me thenames of all four grandparents. Fancy a cuppa?’
‘I could murder one.’
*
At home in St-Sulpice, Alix sat on her bed, sliding silk stockings over her knees. What to wear though? She’d screwed up every ounce of courage to telephone the Comte de Charembourg the previous day, and he’d been so kind, inviting her to lunch today, but he hadn’t said what style of place he was taking her to. Alix pushedopen her window, testing the air. Warm, but not sunny. How very unhelpful.
She reviewed her choices. One could not call her clothes a ‘wardrobe’; though this was supposed to be a furnished flat, the wardrobes had never arrived. Alix’s garments hung from a broom handle balanced on ratchets.
She wished she had something in white linen, to be worn with a little cashmere cardigan, but reality wasthat same pink cotton dress, forever blighted by the memory of fish and Mlle Lilliane. Her amethyst? No, the amethyst dress was too sexy for a man who’d known her as a small girl.
She took down a
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