“Shall we?” Merle said as they stood at an opening, possibly one of many in the state of the maze. The yews were bushy and tangled. They would have to double over to go through.
“Doesn’t seem like a good idea,” Elise said. “Too scary.”
Merle laughed. “Afraid of getting lost?”
“Always.”
Pascal drew Merle back. “Me too. Let’s go around. Examine it first.”
They walked to the left, around the outside of the maze, batting branches and the occasional thorn bush. The afternoon was misty again, with a promise of more snow. The chill turned their noses red.
When they turned the second corner Pascal, in the lead, stopped abruptly, holding up a hand.
“Wha—” Merle began. He put a finger to his lips for quiet. In the silence the voice was clear. A female, speaking French.
Pascal stepped carefully forward, signaling for Merle and Elise to wait. He stopped again, leaning close to the hedgerow. The voice was there, then silent, then whoever it was spoke again. Merle strained to listen but she was too far away, and the French was fast and low.
“Who is it?” Elise whispered.
Merle shrugged. “French.”
After several minutes the speaking stopped. Sounds of thrashing through bushes could be heard, light cursing, then the snapping of twigs. Pascal waved them forward.
“We should go around this way,” he whispered. “To see who exits the maze.”
They walked quickly, circumnavigating the scraggly yews. At the last corner Pascal stopped them and peered around the hedge.
“Who was it?” Merle asked.
“I see no one,” he replied.
“Could they be lost in the maze?” Elise asked. “Should we get help?”
Pascal smiled. “Let’s go that way, then back to the pond.” He struck out across the hillside, away from both the maze and the cottage. “Quickly now.”
After making a big circle they returned to the bench by the pond and sat to catch their breaths. The fog emanating from the pond was a good metaphor for the many questions of the week, Merle thought.
She turned to Pascal. “What did you hear?”
“It was in French,” he said. “A woman. She was talking to someone on a mobile. She said, ‘le travail est fait.’ ‘The job is done.’”
“That’s all you heard?” Merle asked. He shrugged.
“So maybe the chef?” Elise asked. “Telling her agency the job is done here?”
“Aren’t they still working?” Merle asked.
“Be still now,” Pascal told them. “Wait.”
They sat silently, gazing at the calm gray water of the pond, watching as a large white duck with black markings landed with a splash and paddled around. “Cuddy duck?” Elise whispered to Merle who shrugged then snapped a photo of it with her phone.
Elise sighed, leaning back on the bench, turning up her collar and adjusting her scarf. “I’m freezing,” she whispered.
Pascal replied, “Patience, petite.”
Finally, without warning, they saw her. Ten minutes had passed. Pauline appeared from behind the hedges and walked in long strides up the hill, her coat flapping around her knees, her big black shoes almost comical. She picked a leaf off her sleeve. She had her knit cap pulled low and didn’t look their way, oblivious to being watched. At the top of the hill she crossed the terrace and slipped in the back door of the cottage.
Pascal stood up. “Well.”
“Pauline?” Merle said. “What is she up to?”
“More importantly, what job has she finished?” Elise wondered.
“And why did she have to hide out in the maze to make that phone call?” Merle said.
“Exactement,” Pascal said. “Back to the warmth of the fire now. I have work to do.”
Chapter Ten
Isabelle and Evans sat stonily in their chairs, staring at the floor. Aubrey had described what Duncan did to Elise in the hallway in precise, dispassionate terms. Conor was too angry. He simply couldn’t articulate when he was so mad. Aubrey had rounded her leather armchair. With her hands on its back she told the story plainly, without dramatics. She added that similar tales had come from acquaintances who saw the nightclub behavior.
“Not a one-off, I’m sorry to say.” She frowned at her parents. “And not unknown boorish nightclub behavior in general. Plenty of bad actors under the influence. But to do it here, amongst us all, knowing he might get caught, against one of us, seems like an escalation. Maybe even a cry for help.” She looked at her mother who met her eye and gave a small nod. “We are concerned about his drinking. Maybe that’s all this is, drunken lewdness, a dropping of any pretense of civility, his social filters which are pretty frayed. But something—”
“Must be done,” Conor interrupted. “We waited to tell you about it for days, so as not to spoil the entire holiday. But with Sabine’s death—”
“Already spoiled,” Evans said. He looked sympathetically at Conor. “And your own girlfriend. The balls. Heinous. Despicable.”
Conor felt a little lighter. His father understood. That was a change for the better. His mother would always understand, back him up. But his father was a wild card. He always covered for Duncan. Maybe he realized that was doing nobody any good, especially Duncan himself.
“What exactly has happened at the firm?” Isabelle asked Evans.
“And what has been done about it?” Aubrey added.
Evans squirmed in his desk chair, smoothing back his immaculate hair. “Uh, well. I believe there were complaints, one or two that I am aware of, from women at the firm. Secretaries. Oh, and one bond trader. Comments he made that made them feel uncomfortable. The odd shoulder massage, I think.”
“Comments of a sexual nature?” Isabelle asked.
Evans gave a curt nod. “So I’m told.”
“And he was drunk at work?” Aubrey asked.
“I believe last year. Once that I know of,” Evans replied.
“Has he been cautioned, or breath tested, or put on leave? Have there been any consequences?” his daughter continued.
“No. I, ah, I intervened.”
“Seriously?” Conor asked, cursing under his breath. “And never told any of us? Did you tell Mum?”
It was obvious from the look on Isabelle’s face that this was all news to her. Her nostrils flared and she tightened her grimace. “As
