In Their Footsteps and Thief of Hearts Read online

  “Where’s Philippe?” snapped Hugh.

  “I believe he was headed out to the garden,” said Helena. “Is something wrong?”

  “This whole evening’s turned into a disaster,” muttered Hugh. “I just got a call from Paris. A bomb’s gone off in Philippe’s flat.”

  Richard and Helena stared at him in horror.

  “Oh, my God,” whispered Helena. “Is Marie—”

  “She’s all right. A few minor injuries, but nothing serious. She’s in hospital now.”

  “Assassination attempt?” Richard queried.

  Hugh nodded. “So it would seem.”

  It was long past midnight when Jordan and Uncle Hugh finally found Beryl. She was in her mother’s old room, huddled beside Madeline’s steamer trunk. The lid had been thrown open, and Madeline’s belongings were spilled out across the bed and the floor: silky summer dresses, flowery hats, a beaded evening purse. And there were silly things, too: a branch of sea coral, a pebble, a china frog—items of significance known only to Madeline. Beryl had removed all of these things from the trunk, and now she sat surrounded by them, trying to absorb, through these inanimate objects, the warmth and spirit that had once been Madeline Tavistock.

  Uncle Hugh came into the bedroom and sat down in a chair beside her. “Beryl,” he said gently, “it’s time…it’s time I told you the truth.”

  “The time for the truth was years ago,” she said, staring down at the china frog in her hand.

  “But you were both so very young. You were only eight, and Jordan was ten. You wouldn’t have understood—”

  “We could’ve dealt with the facts! Instead you hid them from us!”

  “The facts were painful. The French police concluded—”

  “Dad would never have hurt her,” said Beryl. She looked up at him with a ferocity that made Hugh draw back in surprise. “Don’t you remember how they were together, Uncle Hugh? How much in love they were? I remember!”

  “So do I,” said Jordan.

  Uncle Hugh took off his spectacles and wearily rubbed his eyes. “The truth,” he said, “is even worse than that.”

  Beryl stared at him incredulously. “How could it be any worse than murder and suicide?”

  “Perhaps…perhaps you should see the file.” He rose to his feet. “It’s upstairs. In my office.”

  They followed their uncle to the third floor, to a room they seldom visited, a room he always kept locked. He opened the cabinet and pulled a folder from the drawer. It was a classified MI6 file labeled Tavistock, Bernard and Madeline.

  “I suppose I…I’d hoped to protect you from this,” said Hugh. “The truth is, I myself don’t believe it. Bernard didn’t have a traitorous bone in his body. But the evidence was there. And I don’t know any other way to explain it.” He handed the file to Beryl.

  In silence she opened the folder. Together she and Jordan paged through the contents. Inside were copies of the Paris police report, including witness statements and photographs of the murder scene. The conclusions were as Nina Sutherland had told them. Bernard had shot his wife three times at close range and had then put the gun to his own head and pulled the trigger. The crime photos were too horrible to dwell on; Beryl flipped quickly past those and found herself staring at another report, this one filed by French Intelligence. In disbelief, she read and reread the conclusions.

  “This isn’t possible,” she said.

  “It’s what they found. A briefcase with classified NATO files. Allied weapons data. It was in the garret, where their bodies were discovered. Bernard had those files with him when he died—files that shouldn’t have been out of the embassy building.”

  “How do you know he took them?”

  “He had access, Beryl. He was our Intelligence liaison to NATO. For months, Allied documents were showing up in East German hands, delivered to them by someone they code-named Delphi. We knew we had a mole, but we couldn’t identify him—until those papers were found with Bernard’s body.”

  “And you think Dad was Delphi,” said Jordan.

  “No, that’s what French Intelligence concluded. I couldn’t believe it, but I also couldn’t dispute the facts.”

  For a moment, Beryl and Jordan sat in silence, dismayed by the weight of the evidence.

  “You don’t really believe it, Uncle Hugh?” said Beryl softly. “That Dad was the one?”

  “I couldn’t argue with the findings. And it would explain their deaths. Perhaps they knew they were on the verge of being discovered. Disgraced. So Bernard took the gentleman’s way out. He would, you know. Death before dishonor.”

  Uncle Hugh sank back in the chair and wearily ran his fingers through his gray hair. “I tried to keep the report as quiet as possible,” he said. “The search for Delphi was halted. I myself had a few sticky years in MI6. Brother of a traitor and all, can we trust him, that sort of thing. But then, it was forgotten. And I went on with my career. I think…I think it was because no one at MI6 could quite believe the report. That Bernard had gone to the other side.”

  “I don’t believe it, either,” said Beryl.

  Uncle Hugh looked at her. “Nevertheless—”

  “I won’t believe it. It’s a fabrication. Someone at MI6, covering up the truth—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Beryl.”

  “Mum and Dad can’t defend themselves! Who else will speak up for them?”

  “Your loyalty’s commendable, darling, but—”

  “And where’s your loyalty?” she retorted. “He was your brother!”

  “I didn’t want to believe it.”

  “Then did you confirm that evidence? Did you discuss it with French Intelligence?”

  “Yes, and I trusted Daumier’s report. He’s a thorough man.”

  “Daumier?” queried Jordan. “Claude Daumier? Isn’t he chief of their Paris operations?”

  “At the time, he was their liaison to MI6. I asked him to review the findings. He came to the same conclusions.”

  “Then this Daumier fellow is an idiot,” said Beryl. She turned to the door. “And I’m going to tell him so myself.”

  “Where are you going?” asked Jordan.

  “To pack my things,” she said. “Are you coming, Jordan?”

  “Pack?” said Hugh. “Where in blazes are you headed?”

  Beryl threw a glance over her shoulder. “Where else,” she answered, “but Paris?”

  Richard Wolf got the call at six that morning. “They are booked on a noon flight to Paris,” said Claude Daumier. “It seems, my friend, that someone has pried open a rather nasty can of worms.”

  Still groggy with sleep, Richard sat up in bed and gave his head a shake. “What are you talking about, Claude? Who’s flying to Paris?”

  “Beryl and Jordan Tavistock. Hugh has just called me. I think this is not a good development.”

  Richard collapsed back on his pillow. “They’re adults, Claude,” he said, yawning. “If they want to jet off to Paris—”

  “They are coming to find out about Bernard and Madeline.”

  Richard closed his eyes and groaned. “Oh, wonderful, just what we need.”

  “My sentiments precisely.”

  “Can’t Hugh talk them out of it?”

  “He tried. But this niece of his…” Daumier sighed. “You have met her. So you would understand.”

  Yes, Richard knew exactly how stubborn Miss Beryl Tavistock could be. Like mother, like daughter. He remembered that Madeline had been just as unswerving, just as unstoppable.

  Just as enchanting.

  He shook off those haunting memories of a long-dead woman and said, “How much do they know?”

  “They have seen my report. They know about Delphi.”

  “So they’ll be digging in all the right places.”

  “All the dangerous places,” amended Daumier.

  Richard sat up on the side of the bed and clawed his fingers through his hair as he considered the possibilities. The perils.

 
; “Hugh is concerned for their safety,” said Daumier. “So am I. If what we think is true—”

  “Then they’re walking into quicksand.”

  “And Paris is dangerous enough as it is,” added Daumier, “what with the latest bombing.”

  “How is Marie St. Pierre, by the way?”

  “A few scratches, bruises. She should be released from the hospital tomorrow.”

  “Ordnance report back?”

  “Semtex. The upper apartment was completely demolished. Luckily Marie was downstairs when the bomb went off.”

  “Who’s claiming responsibility?”

  “There was a telephone call shortly after the blast. It was a man, said he belonged to some group called Cosmic Solidarity. They claim responsibility.”

  “Cosmic Solidarity? Never heard of that one.”

  “Neither have we,” said Daumier. “But you know how it is these days.”

  Yes, Richard knew only too well. Any wacko with the right connections could buy a few ounces of Semtex, build a bomb, and join the revolution—any revolution. No wonder his business was booming. In this brave new world, terrorism was a fact of life. And clients everywhere were willing to pay top dollar for security.

  “So you see, my friend,” said Daumier, “it is not a good time for Bernard’s children to be in Paris. And with all the questions they will ask—”

  “Can’t you keep an eye on them?”

  “Why should they trust me? It was my report in that file. No, they need another friend here, Richard. Someone with sharp eyes and unerring instincts.”

  “You have someone in mind?”

  “I hear through the grapevine that you and Miss Tavistock shared a degree of…simpatico?”

  “She’s way too rich for my blood. And I’m too poor for hers.”

  “I do not usually ask for favors,” said Daumier quietly. “Neither does Hugh.”

  And you’re asking for one now, thought Richard. He sighed. “How can I refuse?”

  After he’d hung up, he sat for a moment contemplating the task ahead. This was a baby-sitting job, really—the sort of assignment he despised. But the thought of seeing Beryl Tavistock again, and the memory of that kiss they’d shared in the garden, was enough to make him grin with anticipation. Way too rich for my blood, he thought. But a man can dream, can’t he? And I do owe it to Bernard and Madeline.

  Even after all these years, their deaths still haunted him. Perhaps the time had come to close the mystery, to answer all those questions he and Daumier had raised twenty years ago. The same questions MI6 and Central Intelligence had firmly suppressed.

  Now Beryl Tavistock was poking her aristocratic nose into the mess. And a most attractive nose it was, he thought. He hoped it didn’t get her killed.

  He rose from the bed and headed for the shower. So much to do, so many preparations to make before he headed to the airport.

  Baby-sitting jobs—how he hated them.

  But at least this one would be in Paris.

  Anthony Sutherland stared out his airplane window and longed fervently for the flight to be over and done with. Of all the rotten luck to be booked on the same Air France flight as the Vanes! And then to be seated straight across the first-class aisle from them—well, this really was intolerable. He considered Reggie Vane a screaming bore, especially when intoxicated, which at the moment Reggie was well on the way to becoming. Two whiskey sours and the man was starting to babble about how much he missed jolly old England, where food was boiled as it should be, not sautéed in all that ghastly butter, where people lined up in proper queues, where crowds didn’t reek of garlic and onions. He’d lived too many years in Paris now—surely it was time to retire from the bank and go home? He’d put in many years at the Bank of London’s Paris branch. Now that there were so many clever young V.P.s ready to step into his place, why not let them?

  Lady Helena, who appeared to be just as fed up with her husband as Anthony was, simply said, “Shut up, Reggie,” and ordered him a third whiskey sour.

  Anthony didn’t much care for Helena, either. She reminded him of some sort of nasty rodent. Such a contrast to his mother! The two women sat across the aisle from each other, Helena drab and proper in her houndstooth skirt and jacket, Nina so striking in her whitest-white silk pantsuit. Only a woman with true confidence could wear white silk, and his mother was one who could. Even at fifty-three, Nina was stunning, her dark, upswept hair showing scarcely a trace of gray, her figure the envy of any twenty-year-old. But of course, thought Anthony, she’s my mother.

  And, as usual, she was getting in her digs at Helena.

  “If you and Reggie hate it so much in Paris,” sniffed Nina, “why do you stay? If you ask me, people who don’t adore the city don’t deserve to live there.”

  “Of course, you would love Paris,” said Helena.

  “It’s all in the attitude. If you’d kept an open mind…”

  “Oh, no, we’re much too stuffy,” muttered Helena.

  “I didn’t say that. But there is a certain British attitude. God is an Englishman, that sort of thing.”

  “You mean He isn’t?” Reggie interjected.

  Helena didn’t laugh. “I just think,” she said, “that a certain amount of order and discipline is needed for the world to function properly.”

  Nina glanced at Reggie, who was noisily slurping his whiskey. “Yes, I can see you both believe in discipline. No wonder the evening was such a disaster.”

  “We weren’t the ones who blurted out the truth,” snapped Helena.

  “At least I was sober enough to know what I was saying!” Nina declared. “They would have found out in any event. After Reggie there let the cat out of the bag, I just decided it was time to be straight with them about Bernard and Madeline.”

  “And look at the result,” moaned Helena. “Hugh says Beryl and Jordan are flying to Paris this afternoon. Now they’ll be mucking around in things.”

  Nina shrugged. “Well, it was a long time ago.”

  “I don’t see why you’re so nonchalant. If anyone could be hurt, it’s you,” muttered Helena.

  Nina frowned at her. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “No, really! What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing,” Helena snapped.

  Their conversation came to an abrupt halt. But Anthony could tell his mother was fuming. She sat with her hands balled up in her lap. She even ordered a second martini. When she rose from her seat and headed down the aisle for a bit of exercise, he followed her. They met at the rear of the plane.

  “Are you all right, Mother?” he asked.

  Nina glanced in agitation toward first class. “It’s all Reggie’s bloody fault,” she whispered. “And Helena’s right, you know. I am the one who could be hurt.”

  “After all these years?”

  “They’ll be asking questions again. Digging. Lord, what if those Tavistock brats find something?”

  Anthony said quietly, “They won’t.”

  Nina’s gaze met his. In that one look they saw, in each other’s eyes, the bond of twenty years. “You and me against the world,” she used to sing to him. And that’s how it had felt—just the two of them in their Paris flat. There’d been her lovers, of course, insignificant men, scarcely worth noting. But mother and son—what love could be stronger?

  He said, “You’ve nothing to worry about, darling. Really.”

  “But the Tavistocks—”

  “They’re harmless.” He took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I guarantee it.”

  Three

  From the window of her suite at the Paris Ritz, Beryl looked down at the opulence of Place Vendme, with its Corinthian pilasters and stone arches, and saw the evening parade of well-heeled tourists. It had been eight years since she’d last visited Paris, and then it had been on a lark with her girlfriends—three wild chums from school, who’d preferred the Left Bank bistros and seedy nightlife of Mont-parnasse to this view
of unrepentant luxury. They’d had a grand time of it, too, had drunk countless bottles of wine, danced in the streets, flirted with every Frenchman who’d glanced their way—and there’d been a lot of them.

  It seemed a million years ago. A different life, a different age.

  Now, standing at the hotel window, she mourned the loss of all those carefree days and knew they would never be back. I’ve changed too much, she thought. It’s more than just the revelations about Mum and Dad. It’s me. I feel restless. I’m longing for…I don’t know what. Purpose, perhaps? I’ve gone so long without purpose in my life….

  She heard the door open, and Jordan came in through the connecting door from his suite. “Claude Daumier finally returned my call,” he said. “He’s tied up with the bomb investigation, but he’s agreed to meet us for an early supper.”

  “When?”

  “Half an hour.”

  Beryl turned from the window and looked at her brother. They’d scarcely slept last night, and it showed in Jordan’s face. Though freshly shaved and impeccably dressed, he had that ragged edge of fatigue, the lean and hungry look of a man operating on reserve strength. Like me.

  “I’m ready to leave anytime,” she said.

  He frowned at her dress. “Isn’t that…Mum’s?”

  “Yes. I packed a few of her things in my suitcase. I don’t know why, really.” She gazed down at the watered-silk skirt. “It’s eerie, isn’t it? How well it fits. As if it were made for me.”

  “Beryl, are you sure you’re up to this?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “It’s just that—” Jordan shook his head “—you don’t seem at all yourself.”

  “Neither of us is, Jordie. How could we be?” She looked out the window again, at the lengthening shadows in Place Vendme. The same view her mother must have looked down upon on her visits to Paris. The same hotel, perhaps even the same suite. I’m even wearing her dress. “It’s as if—as if we don’t know who we are anymore,” she said. “Where we spring from.”

  “Who you are, who I am, has never been in doubt, Beryl. Whatever we learn about them doesn’t change us.”