Tess Gerritsen: In Their Footsteps

There was a long pause. Then Beryl asked, “Did she have a lover?” The question was asked softly, so softly it was almost swallowed in the gloom of that library.

The silence that followed stretched on so long, she thought perhaps her words had gone unnoticed. But then Helena said, “It shouldn’t surprise you, should it? Madeline had that magic about her. That certain something the rest of us seem to lack. It’s a matter of luck, you know. It’s not something one achieves through effort or study. It’s in one’s genes. An inheritance, like a silver spoon in one’s mouth.”

“My mother wasn’t born with a silver spoon.”

“She didn’t need one. She had that magic, instead.” Abruptly Helena turned to leave. But in the doorway she caught herself and looked back at Beryl with a smile. “I’ll see you in the morning. Good night.”

Beryl nodded. “Good night, Helena.”

For a long time, Beryl frowned at the empty doorway and listened to Helena ascend the stairs. She went to the hearth and stared at the dying embers. She thought of her mother, wondered if Madeline had ever stood here, in this library, in this house. Yes, of course she would have. Reggie was her oldest friend. They would have visited back and forth, the two couples, as they had in England years before…

Before Helena had insisted Reggie accept the Paris post.

The question suddenly came to her: Why? Was there some unspoken reason the Vanes had suddenly left England? Helena had grown up in Buckinghamshire; her ancestral home was a mere two miles from Chetwynd. Surely it must have been difficult to pack up her household, to leave behind all that was familiar, and move to a city where she couldn’t even speak the language. One didn’t blithely make such a move.

Unless one was fleeing from something.

Beryl’s head lifted. She found herself staring at a ridiculous statuette on the mantelpiece-a fat little man holding a rifle. It had the inscription: “Reggie Vane-most likely to shoot his own foot. Tremont Gun Club.” Lined up beside it were various knickknacks from Reggie’s past-a soccer medal, an old photo of a cricket team, a petrified frog. Judging by the items on display, this must be Reggie’s private abode, the room to which he retreated from the world. The room that would hold his secrets.

She scanned the photos, and nowhere did she see a picture of Helena. Nor was there one on the desk or on the bookshelves-a fact she thought odd, for she remembered her father’s library and all the snapshots of Madeline he kept so conspicuously in view. She moved to Reggie’s cherry desk and quietly began to open the drawers. The first revealed the expected clutter of pens and paper clips. She opened the second and saw only a sheaf of cream-colored stationery and an address book. She closed the drawers and began to circle the room, thinking, This is where you keep your most private treasures. The memories you hide, even from your wife…

Her gaze came to rest on the leather footstool. It appeared to be a matched set with the easy chair, but it had been moved out of position, and instead sat at the side of the chair where it served no purpose…except to stand on.

She glanced directly up at the mahogany breakfront that stood against the wall. The shelves were filled with antique books, protected behind glass doors. The cabinet was at least eight feet tall, and on top was a matched pair of china bowls.

Beryl pushed the footstool over to the breakfront, climbed onto the stool, and reached up to retrieve the first bowl. It was empty and coated in dust. So was the second bowl. But as she slid the bowl back onto the cabinet, she met resistance. She reached back as far as she could, and her fingers met something flat and leathery. She grasped the edge and pulled it off the cabinet.

It was a photo album.

She took it over to the hearth and sat down by the dying fire. There she opened the cover to the first picture in the album. It was of a laughing, black-haired girl. The girl was twelve years old perhaps, and sitting on a swing, her skirt bunched up hoydenishly around her thighs, her bare legs dangling. On the next page was another photo-the same girl, a bit older now, dressed in May Day finery, flowers woven into her tangled hair. More photos, all of the black-haired girl: clad in waders and fishing in a stream, waving from a car, hanging upside down from a tree branch. And last-a wedding photo. It had been torn jaggedly in two, so that the groom was missing, and only the bride remained.

For an eternity, Beryl stared at the face she knew from her childhood-the face so very much like her own. She touched the smiling lips, traced the upswept tendrils of black hair. She thought about how it must be for a man to so desperately love a woman. To lose her to another man. To flee from those memories of her to a foreign city, only to have her reappear in that same city. And to find that, even fifteen years later, the feelings remain, and there is nothing you can do to ease your anguish, nothing at all…so long as she is alive.

Beryl shut the album and went to the telephone. She didn’t know how to reach Richard, so she dialed Daumier’s number instead and was greeted by a recorded message, intoned in businesslike French.

After the beep, she said, “Claude, it’s Beryl. I have to speak to you at once. I think I’ve found some new evidence. Please, come get me! As soon as you-” She stopped, her hand suddenly frozen on the receiver. What was that click on the line?

She listened for other sounds, but heard only the pounding of her own heart-and silence. She hung up. The extension, she thought. Someone had been listening on the extension.

Quickly she rose to her feet. I can’t stay here, not in this house. Not under this roof. Not when I know he could have been the one.

Clutching the album firmly in her arms, she left Reggie’s library and hurried across the foyer. After disarming the security system, she stepped out the front door.

Outside, it was a cool night, the sky clear, the stars faintly twinkling against the distant haze of city light. She looked across the stone courtyard and saw that the iron gates were closed-no doubt locked, as well. As a bank executive in Paris, Reggie was a prime target for terrorists; he would install the very best security for his home.

I have to get out of here, she determined. Without anyone knowing.

And then what? Thumb a ride to the nearest police station? Daumier’s flat? Anywhere but here.

She traced the perimeter of the courtyard, searching the high wall for a doorway, an exit. She spotted another gate, but it, too, was locked. No way around it, she thought. She’d have to climb over. Quickly she scanned the trees and spotted an apple tree with a branch overhanging the wall. Clutching the photo album in one hand, she scrambled up onto the lowest branch. It was an easy climb to the next branch, and the next, but every movement made the tree sway and sent apples thudding noisily to the ground. At the top of the wall, she tossed the album down on the other side and dropped to the ground beside it. At once she scooped up the album and turned toward the road.

The blinding beam of a flashlight made her freeze.

“So it’s not a burglar after all,” said a voice. “What on earth are you doing, Beryl?”

Squinting against the light, Beryl could barely make out Helena’s silhouette standing before her. “I…I wanted to take a walk. But the gate was locked.”

“I would have opened it for you.”

“I didn’t want to wake you.” She turned her gaze from the flashlight. “Please, could you drop the torch? It hurts my eyes.”

The beam slowly fell, and stopped at the photo album in Beryl’s arms. Beryl had clasped the album to her chest, hoping Helena hadn’t recognized it, but it was too late. She had already seen it.