Mary Stewart: Nine Coaches Waiting

He said anxiously: "Are you all right? What about some more brandy?"

"No, thanks. It's all right. This is just the anticlimax hitting me.

"D'you want to go now? Perhaps we could-"

"Go. Where to?"

He pushed his fingers through his hair. "I-yes, I hadn't thought of that. They didn't exactly get the red carpets out at the Villa Mireille, did they? Though if you ask me they owe you a ruddy great vote of thanks, and I'll tell them so myself if nobody else does!"

"They know, for what it's worth," I said.

"But you don't want to stay here, do you?"

"What else can I do? When Monsieur Hippolyte gets around to it, he'll see that I get my passage paid back to England."

"You'll go home?"

"Yes." I looked at him and gave a smile of a sort. "You see, when you're in my position you can't afford to make the grand gesture, William. I can't just swep' out. I'm afraid I must wait here till the police have asked all their questions. I think I'll go along and see Berthe now, and then come back here and wait for them."

"Hang on, here's someone coming," said William. "Yes, here they are."

I must still have been in a semi-dazed condition, because, although I remember quite well exactly what the police inspector looked like, I can't recall our interview with any accuracy. I did gather that after Léon de Valmy's death the frightened servants had poured out the story of Philippe's and my disappearance and all the accompanying rumours, but that the suicide's letter, together with what Hippolyte de Valmy had said over the telephone and (finally) an interview with Raoul, had strangled stillborn any doubts about myself. This much I understood soon enough: the inspector's manner with me was gentle and even respectful, and I found myself answering his questions readily and without any anxiety other than the dreadful obsessional one-the fox under my cloak that kept my eyes on the open door all through the half-hour or so of question and answer, and made my heart jump and jerk every time anyone passed along the corridor.

The inspector left us eventually when Hippolyte arrived. I saw them pass the door together on the way to the library. Hippolyte was still pale and tired-looking, but very composed. It was easy to suppose that, once the shock was over, the news would prove a relief.

I wondered fleetingly about Héloïse, and then again, sharply, about Berthe. But as I got to my feet to go in search of her Seddon came in with coffee, and in response to my inquiries told me that the police had dealt with her very kindly, and had (when the interview was over) sent her in one of their cars down to her mother's house in the village. I supposed this was the car that had held us up at the zigzag. There was nothing more to be done for Berthe except to hope that Bernard could be forgotten, so I sat wearily down again while Seddon poured me some coffee. He lingered for a while, asking me about Philippe, to vanish at length in the direction of the hall when Hippolyte came into the room.

William got to his feet a little awkwardly. I put my coffee- cup down on the floor and made to follow suit, but Hippolyte said quickly: "No, please," and then, in English, to William: "Don't go."

I began to say: "Monsieur de Valmy, I-we're awfully sorry-"

But he stopped me with a gesture, and coming over to the sofa he bent over me and took both my hands in his. Then, before I knew what he was about, he kissed them.

"That is for Philippe," he said. "We owe you a very great deal, it seems, Miss Martin, and I have come belatedly to thank you and ask you to forgive me for my rather cavalier treatment of you at the Villa Mireille."

I said rather feebly: "You had other things on your mind, monsieur." I wanted to tell him not to bother about me but to go back to his own worries and his own personal tragedy, but I couldn't, so I sat and let him thank me again with his grave courteous charm, and tried not to watch the door while he talked, or to think how like Raoul's his voice was.

I realised suddenly that he had left the past and was talking about the future.

“… He will stay with me at the Villa Mireille for the time being. Miss Martin-dare I hope that after your very terrible experience you will stay with him?"

I stared at him for some time, stupidly, before I realised what he was asking me. He must, in his own tragic preoccupation, have forgotten Raoul's confession concerning me. I said: "I-I don't know. Just at the moment-"

"I quite see. I had no right to put it to you now. You look exhausted, child, and no wonder. Later, perhaps, you can think it over."

There was a queer sound from the corridor, a kind of slow, heavy shuffling. Then I knew what it was, Léon, leaving the Château Valmy. I looked down at my hands.

Hippolyte was saying steadily: "If under the circumstances you prefer not to spend the night here, there's a place for you as long as you choose to stay at the Villa Mireille."

"Why, thank you. Yes, I-I would like that. Thank you very much."

"Then if we can find someone to take you down -?”

He had glanced at William, who said immediately: "Of course." Then he stammered and added awkwardly: "I say, sir, I'm terribly sorry about taking the car. We thought-that is, we were in a hurry. I really am awfully sorry."

"It's nothing." Hippolyte dismissed the theft with a gesture. "I believe you thought you might prevent a tragedy-a worse one than what actually happened." His eyes moved sombrely to the door. "I'm sure you will understand me when I say that-this-was not altogether a tragedy." Another glance at William, this time with the faintest glimmer of a smile underlying the sombre look. "You'll find your own-extraordinary vehicle-outside. And now goodnight."

He went. I picked up my coffee-cup absently, but the stuff was cold and skinning over. I set it down again. A log fell in with a soft crash of sparks. No movement now outside in the corridor. I looked at the clock. It had stopped. The world-without-end hour… Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour, whilst I (my sovereign) watch the clock for you…

"Linda," said William. He came and sat beside me on the sofa. He reached out and took both my cold hands in his. Safe, gentle hands; steady, sensible hands. "Linda," he said again, and cleared his throat.

I woke to the present as to a cold touch on the shoulder. I sat up straighter. I said: "William, I want to thank you most awfully for what you've done. I don't know what I'd have done without you tonight, honestly I don't. I'd no business to call you in the way I did, but I was so terribly on my own, and you were my only friend."

"It's a friend's privilege to be used," said William. He loosed my hands. There was a pause. He said: "If you are going to stay with Philippe, I might see you now and again, mightn't I?"

"I don't suppose I'll be staying."

"No?"

"No."

"I see." He got to his feet and smiled down at me. "Shall I run you down to the Villa Mireille now in the jeep?"

"No, thanks, William. I-think I'll wait."

"Okay. I'll say goodnight, then. You'll look me up before you leave, won't you?"

"Of course. Goodnight. And-thanks a lot, William. Thank you for everything."

I forgot him almost as soon as the front door shut behind him. Someone had come out of the library. I could hear Hippolyte's voice, and Raoul's, talking quietly. They were coming along the corridor together.

My heart was hurting me. I got up quickly and moved towards the door. Hippolyte was talking, saying something about Héloïse. I shrank against the wall to the side of the door so that they wouldn't see me as they passed.

“… A nursing-home," said Hippolyte. "I left her with Doctor Fauré. He'll look after her." There was something more-something about an allowance, a pension, and "somewhere away from Valmy, Paris or Cannes," and finally the words, dimly heard as they moved away along the corridor: "her heart," and "not very long, perhaps…”