The Splendour Falls

‘Why not?’

‘The diamonds, honey.’ His tone was dry. ‘Garland has a thing for diamonds. She’d be like a dog with a bone – she’d never let it go. She’d have me out there digging little holes in the hills, hoping to find the damn things.’

Like Simon, I thought. ‘Your mother never told anyone … I mean, she never mentioned—’

‘Where they were?’ He smiled sadly and pushed himself to his feet. ‘She told my father they were stained with blood, they’d only bring unhappiness to anyone who touched them. She didn’t want them to be found.’

I watched him walk across to the hotel, his shoulders very straight as though he’d braced himself to carry something heavy. It must be difficult, I decided, for a man like that to spend his life with Garland. He seemed to have no peace at all – she hadn’t even left him alone long enough to finish his drink. His glass was still half full of Pernod. I looked at it, my forehead creasing in a slight frown. I’d seen a glass like that just recently, I thought. Now where …?

And then I remembered. I remembered coming down from the Clos des Cloches on Sunday afternoon with Paul and Simon, and finding Martine Muret sitting all alone beside the fountain. There had been a glass of Pernod on her table, then – half finished, just like this one. And Garland … my eyes moved thoughtfully to the shadowed figures in the hotel bar … Garland had been in bed with one of her headaches, as she had been on Saturday night. The night Lucie Valcourt slipped away from Martine and her ‘man friend’. ‘He stays at this hotel,’ Lucie had told me. And I’d assumed that it was Neil, or Christian … but I’d never thought of Jim.

The puzzle pieces slid and fitted, locked in place, and I felt the oddest sense of satisfaction, to think that Jim might find some happiness in spite of Garland. He was right, I thought, not to tell her the truth about his mother. Garland was the sort of woman who’d be dazzled by the thought of diamonds, the promise of riches. Like Didier Muret, who’d married for money.

I frowned again. There was something else that Jim had said, that also made me think of Didier Muret. Now what on earth …? Digging little holes in the hills, that was it. François had said that, too, this morning – he’d said Didier had dug holes everywhere, looking for the diamonds. An obsession, François had called it. Only Didier hadn’t found them.

Or had he?

A sudden, creeping thought took hold and turned within my troubled mind. Everything makes sense if you look at it from the right angle, that’s what Paul had promised me. And Paul, last time I’d seen him, had been searching for the right angle from which to view Didier Muret. Unpleasant out-of-work Didier Muret, who still had money left to throw around. That’s what had bothered Paul. But then if Didier had found the diamonds, that might explain a great deal. Where he got his money from, for one thing, and maybe … maybe even why he’d died, last Wednesday.

I heard again Garland Whitaker’s decided voice, saying ‘Nazis’. I’d thought her foolish at the time, but now it seemed less fanciful. Not Nazis, necessarily, but someone who had known the tale of Hans and Isabelle, someone who had come to find the diamonds, and found that Didier Muret had been there already. People did murders for less, I knew, and greed was a powerful force.

Paul, I recalled, had thought that Harry might have been with Didier last Wednesday night – the night Didier died. And if it had not been an accident, if someone had pushed the unpleasant Monsieur Muret down the stairs … what then? Had Harry seen the culprit? Was he now himself in danger, and had he dropped his King John coin on purpose, as a warning to me? And Paul … had Paul perhaps guessed all this yesterday, and pressed too close upon the murderer? I pressed my fingers to my forehead, trying to make sense of things.

A crowd of young men came jostling around the corner and funnelled into the hotel bar, their voices raised in energetic conversation. They were mostly blonde, and their words weren’t French. Germans, I identified them. It all kept coming back to Germans, and the Hotel de France.

The Hotel de France was full of ghosts, this week, so François said. Living ghosts. Like Isabelle’s son, who might have had his own good reasons for wanting Didier Muret out of the way; who might have come back for the diamonds; who had been out somewhere, alone, when Paul was killed. But I couldn’t cast Jim Whitaker as a murderer, somehow, and I doubted he’d have told me who his mother was if he’d wanted to avoid suspicion.

My thoughts turned over, slowly. If Isabelle was here in spirit, through her son, then what of Hans? Was he here, too? In Christian, maybe – of an age to be his grandson, to have heard about the diamonds. It couldn’t be Neil, I thought, with a feeling of relief I preferred not to analyze. Neil’s father worked for British Rail, he’d said. And anyway, he’d been in his room when Paul was killed. I’d seen him there, I’d heard him playing the Beethoven. It couldn’t have been Neil.

The thought was still resonating in my head like the final quavering note of a sonata, when Neil himself came out of the hotel – not through the main door, but the small, half-hidden door beside the garage. The same door I had used last Saturday, when I’d fallen asleep on the terrace and found myself locked out. It made a rather handy escape route, actually – if I hadn’t been looking straight at that corner, I might not have noticed Neil at all.

As it was, he didn’t notice me. Head down, his movements purposeful, he passed by swiftly on the far side of the fountain and vanished up the rue Voltaire, beyond my line of vision. I was unprepared for the sudden stab of longing that twisted in my chest at the sight of his long tall figure, pale hair ruffled by the wind, his hands tucked deep within the pockets of the weathered leather jacket. Oh, hell, I thought. I hadn’t asked for that, it simply wasn’t fair, it wasn’t … I broke off suddenly, in mid-thought, as the significance of what I had just seen finally penetrated.