Devil At Archangel. Sara Craven

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СКАЧАТЬ Her cane firmly grasped, Mrs Brandon began a slow ascent of the wide shallow steps up to the terrace. ‘Is everything well?’

      ‘Very well, madame,’ the housekeeper replied in a low voice. ‘There have been no difficulties.’

      Mrs Brandon paused on the terrace to regain her breath and then gestured towards Christina who was following in her wake with Louis, who was carrying their cases.

      ‘This is Miss Bennett, Madame Christophe. You received my cable?’

      ‘A room has been prepared for her.’ Madame Christophe’s dark eyes surveyed Christina indifferently. ‘Welcome to Archangel, mademoiselle.’

      Turning, she led the way into the house. The entrance hall was large and square with a floor coolly tiled in blue and green mosaics. Christina saw that the principal rooms all seemed to open off this hall, and glancing up she saw that the first floor also took the form of a gallery. At the foot of the stairs and dominating the hall was a large statue in marble. Christina gazed at this wonderingly. It was a statue of a young man wearing armour and wielding a businesslike-looking spear with which he seemed about to kill some strange winged creature lying at his feet. The young man himself also possessed wings, she saw, a splendid pair, tipped with gold.

      ‘That is our protector, mademoiselle—St Michael the Archangel, for whom the plantation is named.’ Mrs Brandon’s voice was cool and slightly amused.

      ‘I see,’ Christina said quite untruthfully.

      Mrs Brandon smiled. ‘I did tell you there was a story about it, did I not? It dates from the seventeenth century when the first family built a house here and began to grow sugar. It was all slave labour in those days, you understand. Well, one batch of new slaves brought disease with them. It spread over the island like wildfire—like the plague, it was. People were dying like flies. No remedy, no precaution seemed able to check it. So, as a last resort you might say, the islanders turned to prayer and to St Michael—they were all of the Catholic faith in those days.’

      ‘And did it work?’ Christina asked. ‘And why St Michael anyway?’

      ‘Because when plague had ravaged Italy during the years of the Early Church, the Archangel was said to have appeared on a church in Rome sheathing his sword as a sign that the plague would end.’ Mrs Brandon’s tone was bored.

      ‘Did the same thing happen here?’

      ‘There was no apparition, but the plague vanished almost overnight. The islanders declared it was a miracle, and since that time the plantation has been called Archangel in honour of St Michael. It is a tradition we have maintained. The statue is very old. It was brought from France as a private thanksgiving by the family.’ Mrs Brandon spoke as if she had learned her lines from a guide book of doubtful validity.

      They moved past the statue and up the stairs. Mrs Brandon halted when they reached the gallery. ‘Show Mademoiselle to her room, Madame Christophe. I am going to rest. Tell Eulalie to bring me a tray of iced coffee in an hour’s time.’

      Christina followed the housekeeper’s erect figure along the gallery and through an archway. This led, she discovered, from the main part of the house to a wing running towards the rear. Two thirds of the way along the wide corridor, Madame Christophe halted before a pair of louvred double doors which she pushed open.

      Christina gazed almost unbelievingly at the room within. The walls and ceiling were a warm, vibrant honey colour, but the rest of the decor—carpet, silk curtains and hangings—were in cream. Her immediate impression was that it was all much too luxurious for a hired companion who might not even be going to stay.

      ‘Mademoiselle does not care for the room?’ Madame Christophe had noticed her instinctive hesitation.

      ‘On the contrary.’ Christina made a little helpless gesture. ‘It’s the most beautiful room I ever saw in my life. But does Madame—I mean Mrs Brandon really intend it for me?’

      The housekeeper gave her a calm, rather reproving look. ‘She leaves such details as the allocation of rooms to me,’ she said with a faint shrug. ‘But I can assure you she would approve my choice. Louis has brought up your cases. I will send Eulalie to unpack for you.’

      ‘Oh, no—thank you,’ Christina said hastily. ‘I’d really rather do that for myself. I—always have.’

      Madame Christophe gave her an enigmatic look, then turned to leave. ‘But circumstances change, can they not?’ she remarked over her shoulder: ‘Perhaps Mademoiselle should also be prepared to change with them.’

      The door closed quietly behind her, leaving Christina in sole occupation of her new domain. Her clothes, she decided after a hasty inspection, would occupy about a fifth of the row of louvred wardrobes which occupied the length of one wall. Guests who usually stayed in this room probably brought with them an entire Paris collection rather than two small suitcases. A door in the corner revealed a small but well equipped bathroom tiled in jade green, and for the next half hour Christina revelled in the shower she had dreamed of, then, wrapped in one of the enormous bath sheets provided, padded around putting her clothes away in the drawers and cupboards, and setting out her scanty array of toiletries in the bathroom.

      Her task completed, she dressed in a chocolate-coloured denim dress with a low back and a halter neckline, and still barefoot walked out through the French doors on to the balcony. To her left, a graceful flight of wrought iron steps led downwards so that the occupants of the rooms in this wing could reach the garden below without having to go through the house. Certainly, it was a beguiling enough scene that met her eyes. An attractively paved patio lay below, with a long rectangular swimming pool as its focal point. Beyond the patio more lawns spread away to become eventually lost in a tangled riot of greenery and flowering bushes, which Christina guessed marked the limits of the garden proper. Beyond this barrier she could see the sea.

      She wanted very much to go down the steps and explore the grounds—to see if there was a way through the shrubbery to the beach, but she hesitated. After all, Mrs Brandon might send for her, and if she was missing and no one knew where she was this would cause problems. And as if to make up her mind for her, a telephone buzzed sharply in the room behind her. Christina walked quickly back into the bedroom and over to the elegant bedside table and lifted the receiver.

      ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Christina Bennett.’

      There was someone there, because she could hear them breathing—a light shallow breath as if whoever it was had been hurrying. But they did not speak.

      After a minute, Christina said sharply, ‘Yes? Who is it, please?’

      No one replied, but Christina thought she detected a smothered laugh, as if the alarm in her voice had been registered and appreciated. She felt her temper rise.

      ‘Will you please stop playing games and tell me what it is you want,’ she said very distinctly into the living silence, and nearly jumped out of her skin as a peremptory tap sounded on the bedroom door.

      She swung round with a gasp, still holding the telephone receiver as the door opened. She was confronted by a girl, not much older than herself. She was dazzlingly lovely with dark hair and eyes, and the same smooth café au lait skin as Madame Christophe. In fact, Christina thought instinctively, she was the image of what Madame Christophe must have been like at the same age.

      The girl smiled—a formal, perfunctory smile revealing white and even teeth. ‘If Mademoiselle would care to descend, there СКАЧАТЬ