know how much you must disapprove of what probably seems to you my libidinous nature. How feeble I must sound if I plead strong temptation and very weak flesh! Someone so physically attractive as yourself must have had – must still have – endless opportunity to indulge his baser passions, but I am sure your sense of probity and power of will are both strong enough to make sure you never stray. But that is why I, the weak, must always be turning to you, the strong, in search of strength.
Dierick is the key, of course. I looked for him to open negotiations, but he was nowhere to be found. So I'll have to sweat on it, but I've resolved on one change of plan.
I will finish my packing now, then go and tell Linda that I will not after all take up her invitation to visit Strasbourg but instead will complete my researches in Zurich and Basel, then move on to Frankfurt and Gottingen prior to heading off to sunny California.
Ain't I the laid-back jet-setter then! Ain't I the Citizen of the World!
Of course, even without the threat of Dierick, if Mouse gives Linda any hint of what has just taken place, it may be that I shall no longer have any reason to jet anywhere except home. My claim to be Sam Johnson's literary executor only exists through her goodwill, which might survive or indeed be increased by the memory of our New Year celebration. But the idea that just over twenty-four hours later I'd extended the courtesy to her favourite daughter was not going to go down well.
Once more I ask you to wish me luck.
Dear God, how soon fate exacts payment! Truly no man can call himself happy till he takes his happiness to the grave with him. My visit to Fichtenburg, so successful in many ways, now looks like it might end as badly as it began.
Let me put my thoughts in order.
I went up the castle, as explained above.
On my way there I met Jacques returning to the chalet. We took our farewells as, with a two-day drive ahead of him, he wanted to be off as soon as he could.
In the castle I found no such haste, however. There seemed to be a general reluctance to break up such a successful house party.
Linda expressed what seemed like genuine disappointment when I said I'd have to skip Strasbourg this time round, but it was balanced with huge delight at my news from America. Mouse came in as we were talking and listened with apparent indifference as her mother relayed my news, but I was perfectly content with indifference. Things move on. Perhaps defloration isn't the big thing in a girl's life it used to be!
Finally I said goodbye to Linda, promising to keep in close touch. Incidentally, her parting kiss, much to my relief, had nothing of strenuous tongue in it but was back to full-blooded Henry Cooper hook mode.
Mouse shook my hand. No significant pressure, nor anything in her tone as she said, 'Goodbye, Franny. I'm pleased things are going so well. I do hope you can keep it up.' Then she winked at me! And suddenly it felt like I was the late virgin being encouraged on his way by the voice of old experience.
Perhaps that's what gave me the stimulus to work out what I'm sure your professionally incisive mind spotted instantly, my dear Chief Inspector, to wit, the significance of Mouse's strange cry as I penetrated. One hundred and eighty! The triumphal cry a darts scorer sends up as the third dart enters the treble twenty.
'What are you two grinning at?' asked Linda. But her tone was indulgent.
So, nothing to fear from Mouse. Which only left Dierick, who, I thought with relief, was probably on his way north with Jacques by now.
Then Jacques came into the room and asked impatiently if anyone had seen him.
At first the guy's absence was just a cause of irritation. But soon, when he couldn't be found anywhere, it became a matter of real alarm.
Concern that he might have slipped and hurt himself sent us out into the pine forest, looking for tracks and calling his name. We all tried to recall when last we'd seen him, and established that since Jacques and I said goodnight to him in the chalet the previous evening, nobody had had sight of him. Except of course me, and I could hardly explain about that. The weather, after the brief interlude of clear frosty skies we had on New Year's Eve, has returned to low cloud and swirling mist and temperatures high enough to turn the snow soft and mushy. Darkness will be upon us even earlier than usual this afternoon. It was time, Linda decided, to call off our amateur search and inform the authorities. So now I'm back here in the chalet, turning to you for comfort again, Mr Pascoe. Everyone else is back in the castle, waiting for the police. Only Jacques is still out there with a couple of local forestry workers, refusing to give up the search.
I can hear shouting outside, perhaps they've found him, I hope to God they have.
This is truly dreadful. I went out and saw that the disturbance was coming from the lake shore. Jacques was in the water up to his waist and the forestry men were having a hell of a job to drag him out.
It seems one of the men spotted tracks leading out on to the ice and, without a thought for his own safety, Jacques had rushed out there. The ice, weakened by the thaw, soon gave way. Jacques, thank heaven, is safe and well. We got him into the chalet and dried him off. Half an hour later the police arrived with proper equipment. As they started work, the snow stopped and the clouds thinned enough for the dying rays of the declining sun to cast a sickly pink patina across the lake's surface. Blutensee, I thought. At that moment I knew the worst, and a minute or two later, the cries of the leading policeman confirmed it.
A little beyond where Jacques had reached, only a few inches beneath the water, rested the body of Frere Dierick.
What had induced him to walk on the lake we can only surmise. Perhaps in the swirling snow he wasn't even aware he was walking across ice. I feel full of guilt lest it was the sight of Mouse and myself naked on the bed which had so distracted him he did not pay heed where he was going. But I comfort myself with the memory of his smile, and his careful closing of the door, neither of which suggested any great mental distraction.
Whatever, it is another tragedy. How they seem to follow me around. Or perhaps it is Thomas Lovell Beddoes they follow. Remember Browning's strange superstitious fear at the prospect of opening the Beddoes box? Perhaps he was right. Could it be that Death, who was such a close and well-loved companion of Beddoes for so many years, still stays close to those who would uncover his friend's secrets, and that his company is the price that must be paid for understanding?
But enough of horrors. There will be an enquiry, of course, and we shall all have to make written statements, but I do not doubt that the combined weight of authority to be found in Linda and her guests will expedite matters and we should all be on our way tomorrow at the latest.
I'll write again soon. And, by the way, if you get any enquiries from the CIA or FBI or whoever does the immigration checking at the US Embassy, I know I can rely on you of all people to assure them that I'm leading a blameless life!
Yours fondly,
Franny
Ellie Pascoe didn't know whether to feel happy or sad as she opened her front door. January 7th, first day of waking to a Christmas-free house after the traditional Twelfth Night clearance, and also the first day of the new term. So now the place felt empty in every way as she returned from dropping Rosie off.
She stooped to pick up the mail from the hall floor and sorted through it quickly. There was one with a Swiss postmark. She made a face as she put it on the hall table with the rest of Peter's mail. Despite her public indifference to, tinged with amusement at, the Roote letters, she wished they would stop. To see a rational man irrationally troubled was a trouble. Plus, the longer they went on, the more she began to question Franny's motivation.
What was he getting out of writing them? At first she'd seen them as a snook-cocking joke. But now the joke was wearing thin, and when Roote talked about the correspondence becoming a necessary part of his life, she half believed him. So now she had two cases of obsessive behaviour to be concerned about.
Perhaps, being further removed from it, she would have a better chance of understanding Roote's than her husband's.
She looked down at the letter, felt tempted to open it, resisted. Women who opened their husband's mail deserved everything they read. She knew how she'd react if she found Peter had been at hers. If she were going to do anything, best to throw it in the fire. But no doubt there'd be more and there was no way to guarantee she'd get to the others first.
