The Sibyl in Her Grave

enjoying there the same degree of privacy as if he were indoors. I first saw him two days ago, the morning after I arrived here, when I was having my coffee and croissant on the balcony and he was performing his exercises, dressed only in shorts and a vest — an activity, I think, which an elderly gentleman with a tendency to plumpness would normally wish to engage in, if at all, without an audience.

He seems to spend a good deal of time on the terrace, not only doing exercises but also apparently working. He is from time to time attended on by three ladies, none, I am relieved to say, of scandalously youthful or seductive appearance: one in a black dress and apron, presumably the housekeeper, who brings him occasional refreshments; one in a well-tailored linen trouser suit, obviously Miss Tavistock, whom he summons by means of an old-fashioned handbell to take dictation; one of fairly advanced years and a somewhat equine countenance, no doubt his wife, who favours him with her company for the customary aperitif before dinner.

Today, however, there has been an interruption in this tranquil mode of existence.

The first sign of it was just after midday, when the post and the English newspapers arrive here. I had collected your letter and a copy of today’s Times from the concierge and settled down out here on the balcony to read them. Glancing at the terrace, I saw Sir Robert sitting peacefully in his chair and apparently similarly occupied. Your letter, I need hardly say, engaged my entire attention for several minutes, after which I again looked across at the terrace, just in time to observe a remarkable transformation in his demeanour. I thought at first that something in his newspaper or his correspondence had provoked him to a sudden rage, but decided after a few moments that his mood was one of excitement rather than anger.

He had leapt up from his chair and was brandishing his handbell with such vigour that I almost expected to hear the sound of it all the way across the place. Miss Tavistock came running and seemed to receive instructions, of a brisk and urgent nature, after which she disappeared again. Sir Robert did a few exercises, as if suddenly needing to work off surplus energy, and then also left the terrace.

I too went indoors, with the intention of making myself lunch — a task more difficult than I had envisaged. All the cooking appliances in the flat depend for their operation on a supply of gas, not from the mains but from a replaceable cylinder: I was halfway through cooking myself what might have been a rather delicious omelette with fines herbes when I discovered that the cylinder was empty, and must indeed have been nearly so when I arrived.

There was a note pinned up on the wall beside the stove giving directions on where to find the replacement cylinder: having followed them, I discovered that there was no replacement cylinder. I reminded myself with some effort that Benjamin was my friend and host and it would be unseemly to think unkind thoughts of him.

He had advised me, if I should have any unexpected problems, to seek the assistance of his next-door neighbour — a physiotherapist of some sort, who studied art in her spare time and painted quite interesting watercolours. She was, he said, a very helpful and competent sort of person, and he was on friendly terms with her. Feeling that the difficulty with the gas cylinder was one of the unexpected problems which Benjamin had been expecting me to encounter, I went out and rang on her doorbell.

The appearance of the young woman who answered was something of a surprise to me. For some reason I had pictured Mademoiselle Natasha as middle-aged and rather plain, wearing a sensible suit and perhaps a crisp white overall. In fact she was in her twenties and strikingly handsome, tall, dark eyed, black haired, with a splendidly aquiline profile — the product, one would guess, of a series of exotic alliances between different races and nationalities. She was dressed — well, her clothing is difficult to describe: it consisted largely of items of cream-coloured leather, including a pair of knee-high boots, which somehow left a number of areas uncovered — not at all the sort of garment which one associates with the medical profession.

But when I asked her, rather apprehensively, whether she was Mademoiselle Natasha, she confirmed that she was, albeit in a tone which somewhat suggested that her name was none of my business. On hearing, however, that I was a friend and guest of Benjamin’s, she became quite cordial and proved extremely helpful in the matter of the cylinders. She was about to drive into town for lunch and intended to pass the garage from which replacements were obtained: she said that she would purchase two on my behalf and bring them back after lunch.

The least I could do was make sure of being at hand to unload them. I therefore decided to take lunch in the nearest cafe, which is only a few yards away from the entrance to our block of flats. Having consoled myself for my ruined omelette with a croque-monsieur and a chocolate ice cream, I remained there, reading my guidebook and glancing frequently out of the window to be sure of seeing her as soon as she returned.

And that was how I happened to see Miss Tavistock, driving through the place—a Bentley, as it happens, not a Mercedes — in the direction of Nice; she was alone in the car.

Natasha not only remembered to buy the cylinders but helped me to carry them up to the flat and to install one of them in its proper place beside the stove. After this, naturally, I offered her a drink, which she accepted, and we came and sat out here on the balcony.

Her English, like my French, is serviceable rather than fluent; but between the two we managed to have quite a pleasant and interesting conversation, mostly about painting. I did try asking her about her work as a physiotherapist — she tells me that she specialises in pains of the lower back; but she seemed to be far more interested in her artistic studies — she has promised to show me some of her watercolours. Her work has occasionally been exhibited in one of the small art galleries in the neighbourhood and sold sufficiently well to give her hopes of someday making her living by it.

As she was telling me this, she suddenly pointed towards the place and said, “Oh, there is one of my patrons. Madame Tavistock — she has bought several of my things. She is English, but very intelligent, very artistic — you should meet her, Desmond. Poor Madame Tavistock — she works for a bank and meets only imbeciles who talk about money and motorcars.”

I looked in the direction she was pointing and saw the Bentley on its way back towards the villa. Miss Tavistock was still at the wheel, but no longer alone — she had two passengers. Her journey had taken about the time one would expect if she had been collecting someone from Nice airport: although I was too far away to see them clearly, I somehow at once felt sure that I knew who they were.

Natasha left soon afterwards, saying unenthusiastically that she had a patient arriving for treatment: “Another imbecile, but one must live.”

Her treatments are evidently on the vigorous side — she said that her patients sometimes became rather noisy, and she hoped I would not be disturbed.

Having become rather curious about what was going on at the villa, and hoping to confirm my speculation as to the identity of the two passengers, I remained on the balcony.

Just as I was beginning to write this letter, Sir Robert reappeared on the roof terrace, where he was joined soon afterwards by his wife and Miss Tavistock. And then, a few minutes ago, the party was further augmented by two men in City suits, as if they had come straight from their offices, who I have no doubt at all are Edgar Albany and Geoffrey Bolton. It’s true I’ve only seen them once before, when Sir Robert brought them to see Selena in Chambers, but I’m quite sure I’m not mistaken.

I’m equally sure that their visit was not planned in advance — that they were summoned here by Sir Robert only a few hours ago, as a result of something he received in the post or read in the newspaper this morning. I suppose there may have been something in the financial pages which would provide a reason to convene an urgent directors’ meeting. But is it the real reason or merely a pretext? I strongly suspect, given the similarity of the conditions, that he is trying again to set a trap for the insider dealer, in the same way that he did when Selena was here in the summer. I can’t help feeling that this may be rather dangerous — another attack of food poisoning might have serious consequences.

Well, I shall keep as close an eye on the situation as circumstances permit. I have already, I’m afraid, spent more time on observing what is happening at the villa than is entirely consistent with my other obligations: Terry has rung to say that he is arriving this evening, and I haven’t the faintest idea what to give him for supper — we shall probably have to go out somewhere. If he complains, I shall talk meaningfully of pots, kettles, and unfinished bookcases.

21st December

Do please forgive me if the rest of this letter is somewhat disjointed: there are some rather strange noises coming from the flat next door — if Natasha had not warned me, I should think them very strange indeed — which