She’d turned on her back, with a knee crooked and waving. Her arms were folded behind her head, her eyes thinned, lips parted. Venus inviting. And I couldn’t be certain if she was covering-up or not.
‘Have you been to this part of England before?’
‘I am a Parisienne, Monsieur.’
‘Meaning yes, or no?’
‘Would that be likely? I have not even heard of it before this time.’
‘Then you have no friends here?’
‘None.’
‘Nobody to speak to on the phone.’
She hesitated. ‘Now you ask something different. It is not only to friends that one speaks on the phone.’
‘Then who was it on Friday?’
She re-composed her legs; crooking both knees, letting them spread.
‘Don’t you want to answer?’
‘Just thinking, Monsieur. Let us say it was Friday when I phoned the theatre.’
‘The theatre!’
‘But yes. They have a theatre in the town. One day I feel desolate, think it will amuse me. Perhaps Friday, I do not know.’
‘Only, of course, there were no suitable seats.’
Her lips twitched. ‘Monsieur knows.’
‘And you gave no name, so they wouldn’t remember you.’
She released a hand to make a gesture.
‘And I am supposed to believe this.’
She came coiling across to me. ‘Monsieur will believe what he likes, won’t he?’ She hung on my shoulder. ‘But it doesn’t matter. Because perhaps it was another day, after all.’
‘Though having no connection with Peter Robinson.’
‘Aha! I think that man makes you jealous. But there is no need, my fierce friend. I can truthfully say I have not met him.’
‘Not then or later.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Not, for example, today at lunch.’
I felt her tense: the weight of flesh grew a little less on my arm.
‘Now I think you are teasing me.’
‘Really? How long has your launch been moored over there?’
‘One hour, two. How would I know? I am beginning to feel it is too long.’
‘Where does the lane lead?’
‘You must ask a map.’ She broke from me quickly and got to her feet. ‘This talk of lunch makes me hungry again, Monsieur. It is sad, but I fear our game is over.’
I didn’t budge. ‘Au r’voir, Madame.’
She paused to give me a sharp stare. Then she tossed her hair with superb disdain and set off for the staithe. She didn’t look back.
CHAPTER SEVEN
T HE LAUNCH LEFT; I watched it make its turn and go creaming away up the Broad; then I sat beneath the hawthorn a few minutes longer, moodily sorting out my results.
They were not encouraging.
In the first place, I couldn’t link Peter Robinson to the crime. He had turned up
a propos
, giving a false name and address, but otherwise he wasn’t implicated. True, I had made a pass with him at Madame Deslauriers and seemed to have got a small bite; but it was a very small one, and the reaction may not have been due to Peter Robinson.
Bringing me to the second place. If Madame Deslauriers had a secret, it didn’t necessarily link with the crime either. In fact it probably didn’t, because she had no motive: Quarles had been no obstruction to her. Her secret, if she had one, was probably a lover whom she felt it injudicious to produce at this moment: whether Peter Robinson or another villain who might come gratefully to our hand.
All very semi-innocent. And yet . . .
I rose and went back to stare at the lane.
It was such an
excessively
discreet place for a rendezvous. You would almost say it would be wasted on a pair of lovers.
I got over the stile and continued to the bend. Beyond it the lane entered a plantation; then it stretched away between ranks of wild parsley to meet a minor road a quarter of a mile distant. The surface was dried, rutted mud, and the straggling parsley suggested little use. But here and there a frond was broken, and the damaged leafage had not yet shrivelled. A car? A car must have turned. The only place for that would be the plantation. I checked back till I found a gap between trees, then the plain marks of wheels in
‘Have you been to this part of England before?’
‘I am a Parisienne, Monsieur.’
‘Meaning yes, or no?’
‘Would that be likely? I have not even heard of it before this time.’
‘Then you have no friends here?’
‘None.’
‘Nobody to speak to on the phone.’
She hesitated. ‘Now you ask something different. It is not only to friends that one speaks on the phone.’
‘Then who was it on Friday?’
She re-composed her legs; crooking both knees, letting them spread.
‘Don’t you want to answer?’
‘Just thinking, Monsieur. Let us say it was Friday when I phoned the theatre.’
‘The theatre!’
‘But yes. They have a theatre in the town. One day I feel desolate, think it will amuse me. Perhaps Friday, I do not know.’
‘Only, of course, there were no suitable seats.’
Her lips twitched. ‘Monsieur knows.’
‘And you gave no name, so they wouldn’t remember you.’
She released a hand to make a gesture.
‘And I am supposed to believe this.’
She came coiling across to me. ‘Monsieur will believe what he likes, won’t he?’ She hung on my shoulder. ‘But it doesn’t matter. Because perhaps it was another day, after all.’
‘Though having no connection with Peter Robinson.’
‘Aha! I think that man makes you jealous. But there is no need, my fierce friend. I can truthfully say I have not met him.’
‘Not then or later.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Not, for example, today at lunch.’
I felt her tense: the weight of flesh grew a little less on my arm.
‘Now I think you are teasing me.’
‘Really? How long has your launch been moored over there?’
‘One hour, two. How would I know? I am beginning to feel it is too long.’
‘Where does the lane lead?’
‘You must ask a map.’ She broke from me quickly and got to her feet. ‘This talk of lunch makes me hungry again, Monsieur. It is sad, but I fear our game is over.’
I didn’t budge. ‘Au r’voir, Madame.’
She paused to give me a sharp stare. Then she tossed her hair with superb disdain and set off for the staithe. She didn’t look back.
CHAPTER SEVEN
T HE LAUNCH LEFT; I watched it make its turn and go creaming away up the Broad; then I sat beneath the hawthorn a few minutes longer, moodily sorting out my results.
They were not encouraging.
In the first place, I couldn’t link Peter Robinson to the crime. He had turned up
a propos
, giving a false name and address, but otherwise he wasn’t implicated. True, I had made a pass with him at Madame Deslauriers and seemed to have got a small bite; but it was a very small one, and the reaction may not have been due to Peter Robinson.
Bringing me to the second place. If Madame Deslauriers had a secret, it didn’t necessarily link with the crime either. In fact it probably didn’t, because she had no motive: Quarles had been no obstruction to her. Her secret, if she had one, was probably a lover whom she felt it injudicious to produce at this moment: whether Peter Robinson or another villain who might come gratefully to our hand.
All very semi-innocent. And yet . . .
I rose and went back to stare at the lane.
It was such an
excessively
discreet place for a rendezvous. You would almost say it would be wasted on a pair of lovers.
I got over the stile and continued to the bend. Beyond it the lane entered a plantation; then it stretched away between ranks of wild parsley to meet a minor road a quarter of a mile distant. The surface was dried, rutted mud, and the straggling parsley suggested little use. But here and there a frond was broken, and the damaged leafage had not yet shrivelled. A car? A car must have turned. The only place for that would be the plantation. I checked back till I found a gap between trees, then the plain marks of wheels in
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