Lynda Plante: Sleeping Cruelty

My sincere thanks go to Suzanne Baboneau and Ian Chapman at Simon and Schuster for their constant support in my current and past novels. I am very fortunate to have a strong team at La Plante Productions, Liz Thorburn, Callum Sutherland and Richard Dobbs-Grove who keep me on my toes. Sleeping Cruelty had some very steamy scenes that were deleted at the request of my agent Gill Coleridge, who, like my team, is forever a brilliant and diplomatic censor, and a strong guide to what my fans would feel inappropriate.

I want to make it very clear that all characters and events in this book are fictional. Any resemblance between them and real characters is coincidental and is not intended.

I would also like to thank the following for their generous contribution: Juliet Battersby, Bulgari, Hugo Waring for his wine expertise, Professor John Henry at the Poison Unit at St Mary’s Paddington, the Ritz, West Indies Tourist Office, British Virgin Islands Tourist Office, French Antilles Tourist Office and the Necker Island Office.

Summer 1977

The villa was nestled in a hollow cut into the side of a cliff, overlooking the sea. A strange, low, sprawling building, it was shaded by the massive fir trees that surrounded it, almost encroaching on to the small paved patio at the front. The grounds of the house curved upwards steeply so that you could look in through the windows on the top floor. The nanny could tell that the villa must have had another storey at one time, a third floor, high enough to overlook the forest and give panoramic views of the sea and maybe even a glimpse of the beach below.

Though highly experienced, and with tip-top references, she was surprised when she received a call in answer to the advert she had placed in the Lady magazine, asking if she could start work immediately before she had met either parents or children. The wages were almost double what she had anticipated, and a first-class ticket and travel expenses were sent from a reputable firm of solicitors in Paris. She was told that her duties would be outlined to her on her arrival. It seemed a wonderful opportunity, and she felt fortunate.

The children’s father, a handsome man in his late forties, had shown her in. He was aloof and rather condescending, especially when she had questioned the weight of the household duties he was expecting her to take on. He spoke slowly, not looking into her face but staring over her head. ‘I checked your references. Previously you have been paid a standard rate. I am offering substantially more. Surely it is not asking too much of you to run the household. There will be no interference. I will not be here. I have business commitments in Paris.’ He went on to say that he would spend only the odd weekend at the villa but would always give her warning if there were to be any guests and then, if necessary, he would bring staff from his Paris home to cook and assist with the cleaning.

The interview was brief. She felt guilty about even mentioning the household tasks, especially when she saw her luxurious quarters: a huge bedroom with vast wardrobe space and en-suite bathroom. What a change from her London bedsit! She looked forward to spending days on the beach with the children and perhaps going for rambles and picnics.

No sooner had she unpacked, showered and changed ready to meet her charges than she heard a car departing. He had not even introduced her to his children. There was a sound at her door, a child’s knock. It opened and there they were. The children stood together, sweet and shy. They shook her hand, welcomed her with downcast eyes and, as if rehearsed, said they hoped she would enjoy working at the villa. They looked so vulnerable that she was fired with enthusiasm to make the most of this job.

As she got to know them over the next few days, however, they began to make her feel uneasy, sometimes downright scared. Both children were astonishingly beautiful, but their faces were chillingly devoid of emotion and their wide, clear blue eyes oddly expressionless. Both had ash blond hair, bleached white by the sun. Their slender bodies had a golden tan, and for two such young children they were remarkably clean and poised. She soon realized they were both neurotically fastidious about their clothes. Though she was only eight, the girl changed numerous times during the day. The nanny also noticed that she washed her hands and face repeatedly. The boy, at ten, was just as meticulous about his appearance. But there was nothing feminine about him: he had an unusually mature masculinity, giving the nanny sidelong glances when he thought she wasn’t looking. If she caught his eye, he would give a slow adult smile.

The nursery was always tidy, the toys lined up with military precision. They made their beds without having to be told, and asked for fresh sheets and pillow-slips every two days. The amount of washing and ironing ensured that the nanny’s working day stretched well into the evening. When she questioned them, it soon became clear that they had not been forced into this disciplined lifestyle. It was how they liked it, they said in unison. They were always whispering and giggling together but fell silent when she approached. They ate sparingly, simple food with lots of salads and vegetables. She presumed the menus had been established by their previous nanny. But when she asked, they changed the subject. Once they spoke briefly of their mother, who had died two years before, they said, in the villa, in a fire. They didn’t seem distressed, just stated the fact, then asked if she would like to come swimming. She agreed to meet them in the garden as soon as she had put on her swimsuit.

They were waiting for her, but not in their swimsuits. They were still dressed. The boy strolled ahead, the girl took her hand and led her towards the pool. ‘Dive in,’ she piped.

The nanny was puzzled that the pool should be in such a shaded area, and from where she stood the water appeared murky. But the children told her again to dive in.

‘Go on, close your eyes,’ said the little girl. ‘I’ll guide you right to the edge.’

The nanny’s toes were gripping the edge of the pool when she looked, really looked, at the water. It was infested with wasps and bugs, a seething, green, moving carpet. She was so shocked that she almost lost her balance as the children ran away, laughing.

Later she served them supper and watched them get into their beds before returning to her own room to read. The heat was oppressive and when she opened a shutter to let in some air, she was taken aback to see the children in a dark corner of the garden. The little girl, wearing a white nightdress, dragged a large doll with curly blonde hair behind her. The boy pointed at the ground with a spade. In silence, she watched the children until they came back inside. Then she went out to see what they had been doing. Handmade crosses marked what appeared to be a row of graves. One cross, made from rough twigs and bound with string, had a piece of pink writing-paper pinned to it, with the word ‘Papa’.

The following morning as she served them breakfast, she mentioned that she had seen them playing. The boy pushed his plate to one side. ‘You must have been dreaming. We were in bed.’

‘Yes,’ said the girl. ‘We always do as we’re told. We weren’t outside.’

The nanny didn’t want to make an issue of it, but after breakfast was cleared away, she went in search of the garden graves and discovered they had gone.

She was frightened. She knew she hadn’t imagined it.

She tried to be cheery and inject some fun into their strict lives, but they weren’t interested. They didn’t want to go to the beach, or for walks. They preferred to sit together, reading or whispering. Their routine remained the same day after day, and she felt like an intruder in their world. She hoped their father would return one weekend.