The Smell of Evil Page 2

  I was strongly tempted to climb it and make some pretext for a call on the sequestered Lebruns, who had aroused my curiosity, in common with that of the remainder of the tiny community, but I could think up no suitable excuse for so doing. Accordingly, I walked on, wracking my brain in vain for inspiration and dreading my return to the typewriter, and did not get back to the Golden Ball until half past five, when I cancelled immediately the beneficial effects of my exercise by consuming a whole plateful of Mrs. Varcoe’s scones which were heaped, with baneful threats to my already expanding waistline, with Cornish cream and homemade strawberry jam.

  It was in the Public Bar after supper that the talk turned again to the subject of the Lebruns. It transpired that during the afternoon their French cook had come in to Trezarth in search of cigarettes for the Baron. It was early closing day, and she had made her way to the Golden Ball. She spoke some English and Mrs. Varcoe had gathered that the tenancy of Angdon was shortly to be terminated, after which they would all be returning to their own country. Made more forthcoming by the glass of sherry which Mrs. Varcoe had insisted on pressing on her, and becoming a victim of that good lady’s skilful questioning, she also let fall other items regarding her employers.

  The Baron, she said, had been engaged in compiling a volume on the lost continent of Atlantis, upon the geographical location of which he held strong views, belonging to the school that believed the Isles of Scilly to have been an outpost, and he had come to Cornwall to complete his treatise, a task that was all but finished. Sari Lebrun was indeed their niece, and unfortunately her health was failing rapidly, which was sad as she had everything to live for, being a great heiress. The Baron and his wife had nursed her with a devotion as if she had been their own daughter, with no thought for themselves, but had finally been forced to admit defeat and had decided to take her back to Paris for her last few months, a city, which, as everybody knew, led the world in medical science. It was true, also, that the poor Mademoiselle was unable to speak, for she had been dumb since birth, but was, nevertheless, extremely intelligent and of considerable education. Should she succumb to her illness there was no doubt that her benefactors, as she was an orphan, would inherit her fortune unless she should marry, which was most unlikely.

  “Seems odd to me,” Mrs. Varcoe said after she had finished telling me this news, “their taking the poor girl all the way to Paris just to die. Globe trotting’s very tiring at the best of times. If their doctors are as brilliant as that woman claims, why on earth didn’t they leave her over there in the first place—in a hospital or nursing home—where she could have had proper attention? If you ask me,” she pursed her lips in disapproval, “there’s more in it than meets the eye. I never did trust these frogs, especially where money is concerned.”

  Given such a promising lead speculation ran rife through the smoky bar, the upshot of it being that I, as a brother author, should be the one to call upon the Baron on the next day and report back on anything peculiar that I might learn concerning the conduct of the household.

  “Yes, Mr. Ives,” Sam Varcoe agreed, “Dorothy’s right. You’re the one to go. Being a gentleman they could hardly refuse to let you in, particularly as you’re in the same line in a manner of speaking. They couldn’t bar you, not without appearing more singular than they’d like, and so causing talk.”

  I grinned, wondering if the Lebruns were aware of the speculation about themselves which was already raging through the village. “But I know so very little about Atlantis,” I protested.

  Sam tucked his thumbs into the armholes of his leather waistcoat and beamed at me benignly. “That won’t signify,” he said comfortingly. “You’ve got the gift of the gab and that should see you through, and what with being of good schooling I daresay as how you speak a bit of their lingo.”

  “Not a word,” I said untruthfully.

  Sam Varcoe gave an unbelieving chuckle. He leant down to draw another pint and the big silver shield on his watch chain clinked against the bar as he did so. “Talk the hind leg off a donkey if you’ve a mind to, as we all know,” he said cheerfully, making it sound like a compliment. “Dorothy and Luke were saying so not an hour ago,” he went on. “Mind you, it can come in very useful.” He pushed across the pewter mug. “This one’s on me,” he said, “and the best of luck to you.”

  “All right,” I said as I raised the tankard, “I don’t mind having a bash at it—but it will be your fault if I come back with a black eye for my impertinence.”

  “We wouldn’t be put out by that, Mr. Ives,” said Mrs. Varcoe. “We’ve seen many a shiner in this bar, haven’t we, Sam?”

  I felt that she might have shown more concern on my behalf.

  Of course in the morning I was full of regrets for having allowed myself to be cornered into undertaking an act of such meddlesome intrusiveness, but knew that if I went back on my word I would have to face a barrage of largely unspoken and sorrowful criticism. However, it was made easier for me by the fact that the sheet of paper in my typewriter obstinately remained unsullied, and also by the enticement of the spring sunshine that washed over the lime green of the bud-laden orchard beneath my window. I decided that the afternoon would be a more civilized time for my unwarranted encroachment into the privacy of Angdon.

  I took the cliff road in preference to plodding along the beach, intending, if all went well, to make the return journey along the sands, and as I idled along my mission became more and more bizarre and I felt like some silly adolescent embarking upon a foolish prank. When I came in sight of the gates my enthusiasm for the visit grew even less, and I climbed on to a gate where I perched, swinging my legs, and filled my pipe and planned my opening remarks.

  Like most exposed gardens, that of Angdon was not ambitious, neither was it large, and the drive to the house was less than forty feet in length. A few shrubs sheltered under cover of the gray stone walls and a climbing rose had not done too badly on the house itself, although it faced north. The tulips which Mrs. Varcoe had admired had lost their vivid petals and stood like an army of green and skeletal phantoms, deploring their nudity.

  I rang the bell and after a pause the door was opened by a manservant who was still in the act of shrugging on his white coat. I had my card ready in my hand and on the back of it I had pencilled: “Dear Baron Lebrun, as a co-author I would much appreciate a brief talk with you on the subject of Atlantis—upon which you are such an authority.” I became aware that “co-author” was not correct, as I was not his collaborator.

  The servant did not ask me to enter, but took my card and reluctantly disappeared with it towards the back of the house, leaving the door ajar. Presently he returned, his expression wooden. “S’il vous plaît, Monsieur,” he said, motioning me to follow him. He was swarthy and dark and I guessed that he was a Corsican. We went through a large hall and he opened a door into a long and pleasant sitting-room with wide windows looking out over the sea.

  Baron Lebrun was busy at a writing table whose top was strewn with manuscript, but he put down his pen and rose to greet me as I came forward. He was tall and thin, with an ascetic’s mouth, and what remained of his hair was blond. He gave me a faint smile and his eyebrows were arched inquiringly. “Please be seated, Mr. Ives. I would be delighted to give you any help that is within my power.” He held out a gold cigarette case. “You, too, are writing a work on Atlantis?” His tone was reproachful and a shade derisive. “You are my rival?”

  “No,” I said. “I am a novelist, and the subject is really only incidental in my forthcoming book. But in it, during a discussion about reincarnation, there is a reference, and I like to get my facts right, or I will receive a lot of disagreeable letters! One of my characters argues that the capital city had four, and not three, inner walls.”

  The Baron laughed. “I fear that will always be a matter for surmise,” he said, “at any rate until we can excavate on the floor of
the ocean!” He spoke with only a vestige of accent.

  Beyond the windows was a colonnaded terrace on which long chairs had been placed, and one of them was occupied by a pretty woman of about fifty years of age who lay back motionless, with her face turned to the warm spring sun. She wore dark spectacles, and beyond her, and at the far end of the flagstones, stood an invalid carriage in which Sari was sitting, her legs wrapped tightly in a cocoon of rugs. The sea and sky made a backcloth of contrasting blues. The Baron went on talking. “The popular theory is that there were three walls,” he said, “and that the innermost, which contained the temples, was plated with gold or bronze. If it is not to be a serious book—a work for les savants—I should stick to that. I imagine it would mean but a trivial alteration?”

  We discussed the matter for a few more minutes and then I got up. “You have been most kind,” I said. I drifted over to a window. “Before I go might I admire your wonderful view? As a matter of fact, since it’s such a glorious afternoon I thought of walking back to Trezarth along the beach.”

  For a moment his handsome face darkened. “You should be careful of the tide,” he said. “It can be dangerous in the cove.” He had spoken without thinking and stopped abruptly in case I might be aware that he was trying to put me off.

  “It won’t be high tide until late this evening,” I said. “I was at the foot of your path at about half past four yesterday afternoon. I don’t think there’ll be any danger.”

  “You may well be right.” He came over to join me. “I do not pretend to be an authority on such matters.” The thin lips curved. “I am a writer, Mr. Ives, not a sailor.” He flung up one of the high windows and we stepped outside. The woman on the chaise longue opened her eyes at the sound of our approach. “This is my wife,” Baron François said. “Gaby, I would like to present Mr. Ives who is interested in what you regard as my boring research, in which, as I am sure he will not resent my saying, he is an enthusiastic amateur. He is also a novelist,” he added drily.

  The Baronne, who was maybe a year or two senior to her husband, smiled at me but did not get up. She possessed great elegance and was extremely soignée. “I would like to ask you to stay with us for a cup of tea, Mr. Ives, but I have to confess that it is one of your English customs to which I have not taken. I hope that you will excuse us? Besides,” her head half turned in the direction of the girl in the invalid chair, “my niece is not well and tires easily, which is why we discourage callers. I’m sure that you will understand.” It was a firm dismissal. In repose her mouth was as prim as a cat’s.

  “Of course I understand.” I walked a few paces along the terrace, as if better to enjoy the vista, until I was standing quite near to the girl. There was a sketching pad on her knees and she was toying with a pencil. She did not acknowledge my presence, although she must have heard my footsteps, but kept her eyes resolutely down.

  I complimented the Baronne on the beauty of the scene that lay before us and retraced my steps to say good-bye. “It is rumored in the village that you will be leaving here soon,” I said. “Now that I have met you, may I say that I am sorry?”

  The Baronne smiled in acceptance of the courtesy. “The rumor is correct,” she said, “and you are most polite. It has been a pleasant interlude.” She gave a little Gallic shrug. “But now we must go home.” As I bent down to take her hand I saw from behind her that the girl in the chair was staring at me fixedly, and as I stared back she crumpled the sheet of drawing paper upon which she had been working into a ball and let it drop on to the paving. Her look was imploring and filled with meaning.

  “It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Baron François said. “Good-bye, Mr. Ives.” He was obviously impatient for my departure. “I shall look forward to reading your novel.”

  I made him a bow. The way to the top of the cliff path was beyond where the girl was sitting and as I passed her chair I stood still for a moment to light my pipe and while thus engaged I allowed the box of matches to fall from my hands. When I retrieved them I collected also the scrap of paper on which she had been drawing and thrust it into my pocket.

  At the gate I turned my head and raised an arm in a gesture of farewell. The Baronne was standing by her husband’s side and both of them were looking after me. They made a distinguished couple between the pillars of the colonnade.

  I waited until I reached the beach before I took the paper from my jacket, leaning back against the cliff face where I could not be spied upon from above.

  Sari Lebrun had sketched a portion of the foreshore, the focal point being a triangle of large rocks surrounding deep pools, and one of these she had shaded; at the bottom of the page she had scrawled: “Au secours, je vous implore, Monsieur. Ce soir. 22.00 heures.”

  The rock formation shown in the drawing was to my right and some distance below the high tide mark. There was no mistaking it. I thought of walking down to make an inspection but rejected the idea in case there should be watchers above me at Angdon. 22.00. That must mean ten o’clock tonight. I would return shortly before that hour and discover if anything might occur to elucidate Sari’s reckless and cryptic message. I saw again her alarming pallor and the desperation in her eyes. Probably she would try to send another letter. But who would be her emissary? It could only be the cook who had called on Mrs. Varcoe for cigarettes.

  Back at the Golden Ball I was greeted by the entire Varcoe family, reinforced by the presence of a cousin, Jack, a young giant of a fisherman. My report of the situation at Angdon fell rather flat until I came to the acquisition of the sketch, which I produced and translated the message, at which Dorothy cast a look of great significance towards Sam.

  “I knew that there was something wrong,” she said, “terribly wrong. You will go back to the pool tonight, Mr. Ives, won’t you? Sam and Luke shall go with you. Jack, too. Maggie and I can manage the bar for once.”

  “Certainly I will go,” I said, “but I don’t see the need for such an escort. If it is to be an assignation with Mademoiselle Sari I don’t want any competition and would be better off alone,” I made a face at the good-looking cousin, “although I can’t imagine how she could possibly get down to the beach unaided, unless one of the servants is helping her.” I tried to sound facetious. “There’s no necessity to call out the militia!” I laid the sketch face down on the bar.

  Mrs. Varcoe said no more but the line of her chin was purposeful and she was quite clearly unconvinced by my nervous levity. Sam must have sensed that I thought that his wife was erring on the side of melodrama, for he said quietly: “Dorothy’s not often wrong, Mr. Ives. Like a lot of us in these parts she’s almost got second sight where wickedness is concerned.”

  I started off in what I judged to be good time to keep my watchful vigil, the Varcoes clustering outside their door to witness my departure. It would be wise to arrive well before the hour which the girl had jotted down on the sketch, for then I would know whom it was that she had enlisted for an ally.

  I had omitted to allow, however, for the difference of walking on a nice afternoon and covering the same distance in moonlight, when caution had to be taken in negotiating obstacles, and my watch told me that if I did not hurry I should be late. I broke into a run, jumping from one precarious rock to another, but luck was not with me and my haste proved disastrous, for one over agile and ill-timed leap landed me on a slope of slippery weed, which brought me to my knees, and when, swearing, I managed to struggle to my feet, a sharp pang of pain made it plain that I had sprained an ankle rather badly, which so impeded my progress that when I came eventually in sight of the pool it was to find a little procession which was wending its laborious way not down, but up, the cliff path.

  It was too far away for me to make out details, but I could discern that the party comprised four persons. Sari herself was seated in the wheel chair, her head bowed forward on to her chest, but her back was to me and I wa
s unable to see her face. There were also the manservant and, to my surprise, the Baron and his wife, Gaby.

  I waited in the shadows until they had completed the ascent and had disappeared through the swing gate into the garden before I hobbled forward to the pool, hopeful that Sari might have managed to leave a further message for me there, but search carefully as I did I could find nothing. I sprawled on the rocks, groping down among the seaweed in case a note could have been anchored in some container, but the pool appeared as innocent of communication as any other.

  Looking up from these investigations I saw a figure of a man outlined on the summit of the cliff, and from his build and the set of his shoulders I knew it was Baron François Lebrun. I lay still, but he could not have failed to see me in the moonlight, for I had no cover. He remained as motionless as a statue and after an interminable minute he moved away.

  My return to the hotel was arduous and uncomfortable and by the time that I had limped as far as the main street of Trezarth my ankle was swollen and throbbing and giving me hell. I felt that I had messed things up by my clumsiness and had been a fool in insisting on going off on my own.

  The bar was closed when I reached the Golden Ball, although light shone from the windows, and I let myself in by the private door to tell the Varcoes about my misadventure and of the failure of my mission.

  Mrs. Varcoe clucked maternally when she saw my drawn face, and Sam pressed a glass of whisky into my hand. The bar-room was very snug in the flickering firelight as Luke walked quietly round turning down the lamps and closing the shutters for the night. Maggie was polishing the glasses in readiness for the next day.