The Seven Letters Page 11

  ‘What is he doing here, are they staying all night?’

  ‘Yes, some of them pay Madame for “exclusivity”. I can assure you it costs a lot of money. That one pays for Eva – you haven’t met her yet. She tends not to eat with the others; in fact, if you ask me, she doesn’t seem to eat at all. Perhaps he brings her food, that’s what Bella thinks. He’s called Rechtstein. It’s best if you give him a wide berth, a really nasty piece of work. He’s very high up, organises retribution killings. He just gives the order and they round men up off the street. One minute they are delivering food to a café or coming out of the office for lunch and the next they are in a lorry on the way to Drancy if they turn out to be Jewish, or God knows where if they are French.’

  ‘Drancy?’ Claudette was still brushing as she spoke.

  ‘They have a holding centre in offices that they commandeered. The police ran it when it first opened, but then the SS took it over completely and the prisoners are being evacuated more quickly. I only know because my brother told me he saw some people being rounded up in the Marais. They weren’t allowed to take so much as a rucksack with them. They seal the houses up after they’ve helped themselves to all the valuables, that is.’

  ‘Only Jews?’ asked Claudette. There was a hollow in the pit of her stomach, up until now she had only heard the rumours of the evacuations.

  ‘No, they’ve started exporting Poles, Communists, The Resistance.’

  Claudette sat back on her haunches, her heart was pulsing under her ribs. ‘What happens to them?’

  ‘That’s the thing, nobody knows, no one has ever come back. I don’t even think the Boches here know, how could they? Wherever it is it will be hellish. I can’t think that they are going to be re-educated as Madame F. thinks they are, but we really don’t know. Surely Jacques has told you this? Didn’t he write to you?’

  ‘No, not about that, anyway, perhaps he was sparing me the details.’ Perrine looked at Claudette, her head tilted a little, but before she could say any more there were the sounds of various movements in the household. It was eleven o’clock.

  ‘We need to finish this and go to fetch breakfast. It’ll be ready.’ They quickly finished the carpet and hurried downstairs. They both washed their hands and faces and put on white aprons, then Claudette took the baskets of freshly baked bread and croissants up to the dining room. Perrine followed, carrying a silver tray of jams served in delicate crystal bowls.

  Bella was there on her own, her head in her hands. ‘Do be dears,’ she said, without raising her head, ‘don’t make such a lot of noise.’

  Perrine smiled and raised an eyebrow at Claudette. ‘A good night, Bella?’ she asked wryly.

  ‘Long night,’ Bella replied, looking up under heavy lashes. Her hair was down around her face, her make-up smudged and black around her eyes, but the skin was still white and smooth as marble. ‘Make me some coffee, Perrine, I can’t stand up, my gown is too loud.’ Perrine poured a cup and handed it to her. ‘I’m going back to bed, I can assure you it’ll be nothing short of a miracle if you see anyone else. They had us in the salon playing their dreadfully dull, childish games. Thank God for Courvoisier, is all I can say.’

  Perrine and Claudette watched her go, then Perrine grabbed a croissant from the basket and tore it in half. She handed one end to Claudette and they both stuffed their mouths. Even though they were bolting it down, the soft doughy bread felt like heaven.

  ‘Bella would have wanted us to,’ laughed Perrine. ‘I just know it.’

  ‘I saw that, you two!’ They spun round, eyes wide. It was Freya. She was entering the room with her face cleansed and clear of make-up, looking nowhere near as beautiful as she had done the night before. She had a broad grin on her face. ‘Have mine too, if you like, I’m still full from last night.’ Neither of them moved. ‘Oh, come on, I’m not telling anyone,’ she said with a yawn. She stretched her arms above her head, linking the fingers. ‘I need only a coffee… and a bidet.’ Perrine handed her a coffee; snatching a glance at Claudette, she pulled a disgusted face. ‘It’s all right for you two,’ she yawned again. ‘You only clean up after them, we have to do it with them, it makes my skin crawl. I hate them. Bastards.’ She poured cream in her coffee and stirred the spoon around and around. ‘I’d give up tomorrow,’ she said, her voice laced with melancholy, the spoon still stirring. ‘I would, I’d give it up tomorrow.’ Claudette moved towards the door. ‘They’re moving Jürgen, anyway, he’s going to Belgium again. He’s the only one I enjoy, the others are just Boches to me, dirty, filthy, stinking Boches.’

  Claudette walked back. ‘Is there anything I can get you?’

  ‘Is it true you mend things?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘What can you do for hearts?’

  Claudette looked down on her with pity, Freya was miserable. ‘Nothing, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Then you can’t help me.’

  Jacques was in the kitchen when Claudette returned downstairs. She looked down the corridor to see if Madame F was around, or Marie. ‘Someone called Jürgen is moving back to Belgium.’ She told him, sotto voce. ‘Freya knows him, she seemed to be very fond of him.’

  ‘I doubt it, she’s only trying to make herself feel less bad,’ replied Jacques and then surprising her, he said. ‘Well done, I have other information on Jürgen Wahl, I’ll pass it on.’ Claudette checked again to see if anyone was around. ‘They’re at Mass,’ he told her, lighting a cigarette. Pollo’s bell rang at that moment, the tinkle of it light and old-fashioned in the dullness of the kitchen. ‘She’s in number seven, floor four.’ He drew deeply on his cigarette, lazy eye almost closed.

  Claudette made her way up the stairs to the fourth floor, wishing Perrine was around to help her. A shaft of sunlight caught the filigree of brass on the lift shaft and diffused into a myriad of curling patterns on the pale grey walls.

  Room seven had the same door as everyone else, including Madame Odile’s, just as heavy to open too. Pollo was inside lying on her bed, reading a magazine. She was nude and terribly beautiful.

  ‘Draw me a bath,’ she ordered without looking up. She flicked the page of the magazine over, a cigarette between her fingers, the plume of smoke rising towards the ceiling. Claudette averted her eyes and looked for the bathroom door. ‘Through there,’ Pollo nodded towards the bedroom wall where Claudette caught sight of a small door handle. She realised that the door was disguised as part of the wall. Inside was a Lion’s Claw Bath with two big taps at the centre. Whilst the water was running Claudette turned to look back at Apollonia’s room from the threshold of the bathroom doorway; it was extraordinary. The walls were papered in a leopard skin print, the floor black as ebony. The chairs and sofa were covered in animal skin fabrics, a tiger and something like leopard, but it was smaller, more densely spotted. On the floor was a massive Polar Bear skin, its big open mouth containing yellowed teeth. The head was disfigured with flecks of black in the white fur, it reminded her of Joubert. The room smelt of musk and warm fur, the windows were all closed, claustrophobic and cloying.

  ‘I have salts in my bath,’ said Pollo and as she spoke she had moved like a cat so quickly that she was suddenly standing in front of Claudette, looking into her eyes. Her breasts were firm and round, her mouth sensuous, hair the colour of topaz falling away from her face.

  Claudette was speechless and rooted to the spot, unable to move.

  ‘I’m guessing it’s all a bit much for you?’ said Pollo, almost kindly. ‘We’re quite a tribe, aren’t we, we girls? A bit too much for a good Catholic girl, are we?’ She stepped closer and examined Claudette’s face intimately with something akin to childlike fascination, then she blew softly on her cheek. ‘Why,’ she mocked, ‘you are a startled rabbit, aren’t you?’

  Claudette didn’t know what to do. The water was thundering into the bath behind her, echoing around the bathroo
m; she was aware it must be fairly full by now. Apollonia had a lazy smile on her face under a magnetic, hypnotic stare. She reached up and ran a finger down Claudette’s cheek, the touch light as a butterfly wing, it travelled down her neck and on to the buttons of Claudette’s blouse. Pollo watched her face intently as she placed the finger into the loop of fabric between the buttons. Claudette was suddenly aware that it was stroking the inside of her breast, inside the cup of her bra. She wanted to gasp as Pollo’s lips came closer until her breath was right there, soft against Claudette’s ear. Her breath was warm and sweet and the smell of her perfume close up was exotic, intense and rich.

  The laugh was harsh, suddenly cruel and the finger that had been inside Claudette’s blouse was being snapped before her eyes. ‘Virgin!’ she barked. ‘I knew it!’ Her laugh was haughty; she reminded Claudette of the Alsatian dog at the Gare du Nord. ‘You won’t even know yet if it’s men or women that excite you,’ she carried on, her voice derisive. ‘My advice is not to care, do as you please! Maybe I could fix you up with one of the little grunts that sit outside all night in the cars freezing their balls off. There they are waiting until Herr Kapitän comes out with a self-satisfied grin on his face. Why, you could warm up the pasty-faced youths for us.’ She threw her head back and laughed again.

  Claudette turned away without a word and went back to the bath. She stopped the flow and dipped a finger into the steaming bathwater, it was boiling hot, the cold tap had barely been running. She unwrapped and dropped a cube of lilac bath salts into it and returned to the bedroom.

  ‘Your bath is ready for you.’ She said the words without so much as a glance at Pollo, and with that she left the room.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘It’s just a hunch, but I think when the Puritans said lucid, they meant sober,’ said Matt as we walked across the green to the car. It had tickled us both to watch Bertie down another gin and tonic and become quite merry.

  ‘She’s a game old girl,’ I said as we clipped on our seatbelts. ‘I’m going to be exactly like her when I’m old, no wonder she got on so well with Freddy.’

  ‘What a very false looking wig though, and the make-up is applied with a trowel, isn’t it?’ Matt added. ‘I’ve never met anyone like that before.’

  As we left and Bertie had finally slumped into an alcoholic fug, I thanked Lucy and asked her to call me if Bertie ever did remember Freddy’s mother’s name. When I’d given her one of my newly printed business cards, she picked up the three letters and the photo and slid them back into the envelope handing them to me at the door.

  ‘Keep these,’ she said. ‘They’ll only be put in that hatbox and forgotten more likely than not. Someone else should have that photo for certain.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, I appreciated her kindness. She gave us both a hug and told us we’d made a dull afternoon far more enjoyable for Bertie who seldom had visitors.

  ‘Well, talk about two sides of a coin,’ said Matt as we drove past the big house and the lane leading to the almshouses.

  ‘You’re telling me,’ I replied. The rest of the village was sporadic and only bits of a roof here and a gable end there could be seen in gaps between the tall roadside hedges. Taking the turn for Tewkesbury at the next junction, the rain was now falling and splashing onto the road. I continued; ‘You know I’m half tempted to ring Channel Four right now.’

  ‘Me too, what an experience,’ Matt was fishing for his phone from his jacket pocket. ‘So, we’ve got Elwyn, Dafydd and Alberta, a strangely un-Welsh name, and only two offspring, the Puritan Sisters, and Freddy who’s a ward of court. What exactly is a ward?’ He was trying to get a reception on his phone, holding it in the air then squinting at the screen.

  ‘Well, it’s like a guardian, I think.’

  ‘In loco parentis, you mean.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘I can’t Google, there’s no reception.’

  ‘So poor Freddy’s mum dies and the boss man takes him on and gives him all the money, whilst Uncle Daffyd and Alberta are in the almshouses.’

  ‘Well, it’s not uncommon that son number one inherits the lot.’ I was running it all through my mind.

  ‘Except he wasn’t son number one.’ Matt pointed out. ‘He was ward number one. That must have smarted a bit, no wonder they’re asking their solicitor to sell Freddy’s house. They want out of the poor house. I wonder who lives in the big house now, we should have asked.’

  ‘I can’t see the puritans and the game old girl wanting any money, unless they have to pay rent now or something.’

  Then we both remembered Daniel in Paris, we said it at the same time.

  ‘Daniel!’

  ‘Where does Daniel fit in?’ asked Matt

  I could tell he was dying to Google, all this had to be on the Net somewhere.

  ‘And why are we so interested?’ I asked as we passed the large army base with two tanks on show either side of the gates.

  ‘Because we watched Scooby Doo when we were kids?’

  ‘You mean we are Those Meddling Kids?’

  ‘’Sactly,’ Matt was laughing. ‘It’s just fascinating, isn’t it?’

  ‘Daniel is.’

  ‘Well, I’m googling now and that name is not coming up in association with Freddy, March or Elwyn. In fact there is nothing about an Elwyn March at all.’

  ‘I’ll ask Hat,’ I told him.

  Hat was none the wiser. She didn’t know Freddy’s mother’s name, he referred to her as Mama and nothing else and Daniel was “just a member of the family”.

  ‘Tell you what,’ she said, ‘I’ll ask the family solicitor, he’ll know.’ She and I were sitting in the garden, there was rich, full sun beginning to drop behind the trees and the insects were threading triangular paths in the last of the light. ‘So, they were weird, eh?’ She passed me a plate of nibbles.

  ‘It was a strange old afternoon, but actually a lot of fun, Aunt Bertie is a scream, she certainly likes her gin.’

  ‘She came to the funeral propped up by her housekeeper, you know.’

  ‘You told me she was there.’

  ‘The housekeeper, Lucy, is lovely.’

  ‘Yes, we talked for quite a while. She’s very fond of Alberta,’ I agreed, then I said; ‘I do wish I’d gone to see Freddy off, but I didn’t want to intrude.’

  ‘I know, we’ll do something here to remember him. For all of us, I mean, instead.’ Hat spoke with a renewed resolution. ‘I promise.’

  ‘And who was there?’ I asked.

  ‘At the funeral?’

  I nodded. ‘The vicar, of course, the local doctor, lovely man, Bertie, Aeronwen, Merioneth, a couple from the village who knew Freddy very well, they often came here to see him in the sixties. That actress who was in the comedy about the old people’s home, with the posh voice, looks like Annette Bening –’

  ‘Oh God, Hat, you’ve lost me.’

  ‘– and her husband, oh, and one of the Windmill Girls; she was eighty odd and quite beautiful even now.’

  ‘Daniel?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know.’ She was trying to recall, her lips pressed firmly together. ‘There were a few people I didn’t connect with. Jon and I had a quick cup of tea and then we came away, I was finding it pretty tough. Come to think of it there was another man at the end of the aisle, one back, behind us and along, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Old? Young?’

  ‘Freddy’s age I would say, very white hair.’

  ‘French looking?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t say that, old English, tweedy.’

  I sighed, what was I asking all this for? I felt less fired up without Matt and not for the first time Hat appeared to be a mind reader.

  ‘How are things with you and Matt, any developments?’

  She said
“developments” in a silly voice.

  ‘He nearly kissed me tonight when we got home.’

  ‘Really?’ She shifted in her seat. ‘Do tell.’

  ‘I dropped him outside his house and we did that thing where you talk trying to put off the kissing goodbye thing.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I put it off.’

  ‘Oh, Connie.’

  ‘I know, he would have kissed me, but I just can’t.’

  ‘Some day you have to let all that go, you know, and consign the bad times to history.’

  ‘I know and I will some day.’ I said. ‘But it’s still too soon.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Madame Odile looked Claudette up and down as she walked around her in a slow circle. ‘Do you have anything to say?’ her words were clipped, economical.

  ‘No, Madame,’ Claudette replied.

  ‘So you are saying it was simply a mistake?’

  ‘Yes, Madame.’

  ‘Apollonia is a very valuable asset to this house, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Madame.’

  ‘If this or anything like it happens again I shall dismiss you without question, do you hear?’

  ‘Yes, Madame.’ Claudette’s cheeks were stinging, her stomach churning.

  ‘And another thing, that uniform. You know what I am going to say, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Madame, I haven’t had time yet to take it in.’

  ‘Well, get it done, and your hair, it’s awful. Ask Nannette to run a colour through it for you, tell her I said so.’ Madame Odile walked back to her desk. ‘I want the private room cleaned from top to bottom and I want it done by five o’clock.’

  Claudette nodded and turned away, biting her lip. Perrine was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, by the kitchen door. ‘How was it?’ she whispered.

  ‘I thought she was going to sack me, she said Pollo is a “valuable asset”.’

  ‘The foot will heal, silly bitch, she should have checked the water before she got in,’ said Perrine defiantly. ‘They’re not that helpless.’