Score!

‘Rannaldini encouraged her,’ said Hortense. ‘She was a bit of a “raver”, I think it’s called, and wanted to escape from her strait-laced family. Maxim detested Rannaldini and that’s why, in revenge, Rannaldini reinvented him as a sex-crazed rapist. Rannaldini persuaded Delphine of the doors Étienne would open, of the exciting life she would lead among the famous, how she’d be immortalized in his paintings.’

‘But what about Maxim?’

‘I always suspected’, Hortense lowered her voice conspiratorially, ‘that he wasn’t Delphine’s father. Her mother had an affaire with some actor called Sammy somebody. They were all Bohemians,’ she added with a sniff. ‘Maxim certainly doted on Delphine and immediately recognized Rannaldini as a rotter. He was even more distraught when she married Étienne, a notorious womanizer, even older than himself.’

‘So he wasn’t sectioned as a mad psychopath?’

‘Certainly not, he went a bit dotty at the end, as we all do, and died in a perfectly respectable nursing home.’

Thank goodness Wolfie was downstairs, not hearing more evidence of his father’s fearful lies.

‘What happened to Laurent’s mother?’

Hortense stroked her little greyhound reflectively.

‘She was Étienne’s third or fourth wife. Played bridge all day and, when Étienne pushed off, graduated to gin. Tripped over a black Labrador coming out of her bedroom in the dark one night and broke her neck falling down the stairs. Wonderful way to go.’

‘So that disposed of one granny,’ giggled Lucy. ‘I don’t mean to laugh, the whole thing must have been terrible.’

‘Terrible. Étienne was so excited about his new baby, then a fortnight later we heard Laurent had died in some explosion — friendly fire, it’s called. Étienne was inconsolable, so was Delphine, naturally, which touched Étienne because he felt she was sharing his unhappiness and at least they had a new life to look forward to together.

‘Then Laurent’s things were sent home, with all Delphine’s letters and, cruellest of all, Étienne’s little drawing. Étienne went on the rampage, found all Laurent’s letters locked in her jewel case, and nearly killed her. Next day she took an overdose, sent me a note begging my forgiveness and asking me to bring up Tristan.’

A farm dog bayed down in the valley. The little greyhound pricked up its velvet ears and stretched.

‘Everything was locked in Laurent’s room just as it was when he went off to Chad. Everyone thought Étienne was heartbroken, but it was the far more painful heartbreak of betrayal.’ Hortense lay back exhausted, her face very grey. ‘I probably shouldn’t have told you.’

‘You should. Tristan has to know, so he can understand Étienne and forgive him.’ Then, as she heard wheels on the gravel, banging doors and voices outside, ‘I must go.’

‘Dupont et cetera must be here,’ grumbled Hortense. ‘They’ll be devastated I’m not worse. You’d better escape out the back.’

‘I’ve been doing that all day. Look,’ Lucy plumped up Hortense’s pillows, ‘I wish I didn’t have to go. It’s been a privilege…’

‘Don’t go all sentimental on me,’ snapped Hortense. ‘Look after my boy.’ She handed Lucy a square package that felt like a picture. ‘Give this to him. You’ve got all the letters, haven’t you? Show them to him when the time is right, but don’t let them fall into other hands.’

‘You’ll see him again,’ said Lucy reassuringly.

‘Hurry,’ gasped Hortense. ‘The others will try to stop you.’

Still Lucy lingered, then tugging off her gold locket, she hung it round Hortense’s neck.

‘There’s a lovely dog inside,’ she stammered. ‘He’ll bring you luck.’

‘I’ll need it where I’m going,’ said Hortense wryly. ‘There’s no return ticket.’

‘D’you think Tristan will fire us?’ asked a worried Lucy as Wolfie considerably shortened the hired car’s life, jolting it over dusty cart-tracks.

‘Hardly, he’s still in prison.’ Wolfie swung into the road to the airport. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll be home by the tea break.’ Then, seeing the crowd of gendarmes round the Gulf, ‘On second thoughts perhaps we won’t. I’d better drive.’ He swung the car round again.

‘We can’t leave the Gulf,’ said Lucy aghast.

‘It’s Cecilia’s now. At least I’ve flown it over half-way to Rome for her.’

‘But it’s nearly lunchtime, we won’t get home until early tomorrow morning.’

‘Or until tomorrow midday, if we stop somewhere nice for the night. You’ve pulled off a miracle and we’re going to celebrate.’

75

The moment he was released on Monday morning, Tristan showered away every speck of prison dirt and drenched himself in Eau Sauvage. To match his mood, he then selected black jeans, a black shirt and, because the temperature had dropped fifteen degrees, a dark brown cashmere jersey he’d never worn before.

Pale and more shadowed than ever under the eyes, he had shed another half-stone in prison, and looked as dramatically elongated and demon-haunted as an El Greco saint.