Chapter 1
Swine Before Pearls
Christian Vanallen swept down the elaborate staircase, his patent leather shoes slapping against each marble tread, his fingers failing in their attempt to persuade a pair of silver links through the cuffs of his rumpled shirt. His shock of strawberry blond hair was unusually ruffled and he was unshaven yet he bore little consideration for such modesty in his efforts to escape from the whirlwind that was currently pursuing him with a particularly malevolent brand of vengeance.
“You pig!” she hollered as she reached the top of the staircase. He ducked inadvertently, half expecting a hurtling stiletto heel to connect with the back of his head. He took the final quarter turn sharply with a swivel involving one foot and a tight grip upon the carved oak acorn which formed the top of the corner newel post, arriving upon the black and ivory chequer tiled floor of the expansive hallway as she began her own descent in a swirl of chiffon and a tangle of golden locks. Christian glanced across at the gilt framed portrait of Rembrandt that hung over the entrance to the dining room, as if he would find sympathy in the old master’s stony gaze. None was forthcoming.
“You used me, you liar,” she accused as she reached the foot of the staircase and turned to confront him. Smeared mascara and eyes red and swollen with tears held a promise of a storm which had yet to fully break upon him.
“Oh, come on,” he reasoned with a particular lack of conviction, “you didn’t mind so much last night when you were quaffing Moët like it was going out of fashion and throwing my chips around like confetti!”
“Huh!” she gasped whilst performing a particularly petulant stamp, “and this morning you just throw me out like some common hooker!”
He sighed with exasperation, his head dull with an ache that was certainly borne of the previous evening’s excesses and was steadily worsening as aresult of the present tirade. “I recall neither an engagement proposal or filling your pretty little head with tall stories. You were looking for fun; I was looking for fun; we had fun! Don’t try and tell me you haven’t been there before!”
“You, you bastard,” she yelled, throwing her arms into the air in a demonstration of disbelief, “I thought you were different!”
“What you actually mean,” he retorted as he finally managed to secure the cuff links to his shirt, “is that you thought the gravy train was going to just carry on. A champagne breakfast; luncheon on the yacht; cocktails before dinner. Sorry, but it’s not going to happen. There’s somewhere else I need to be and I won’t be back anytime soon.”
“A train of gravy? I am not understanding you!” she stood there defiantly, hands on hips.
He could only grimace, “You understand full well, Crystal, it’s over and I need you to leave.”
“It’s Christina, you idiot! Christina. You remembered well enough last night when you were whispering it in my ear!” She strode across the hallway, heels clacking as she went, to where a bundle of furs were draped over the back of a chaise longue. As she grabbed at them a string of pearls spilled out across the upholstery.
“Don’t forget those,” Christian prompted, “they’re yours, remember?”
She gathered them up and then spun around to face him, a definite rage quite apparent now on her face. “I don’t want your cheap trinkets,” she shouted as she hurled them in his direction. Ducking out of the way, they impacted with the wall beyond him and, suddenly freed from their chain, proceeded to ricochet in all directions, spinning and bouncing aimlessly across the ceramic floor like the ammunition from some insane pinball machine.
“Well you should,” he shouted back, “it’s a Louis Rochelle piece, or it was! Worth about five thousand Euro's.”
“So that’s my payment is it? Is that what makes you feel better about yourself?”
He turned his back on her to contemplate instead the view through the ornately framed archway that led out to the sun terrace and the swimming pool at the rear of the maison, “whatever you want to think,” he answered resignedly, “it’s up to you.”
There was silence momentarily and then the sounds of her frantic scrabbling across the tiles, collecting up the pearls which occasioned to escape her hold and bounce once more like marbles across the chequer board floor. One came to rest against his shoe causing him to maintain a rigid stance, fearful of prolonging the episode by sending it rolling across the floor once more. Eventually she must have gathered up all that she could find because, with an audible huff, she turned on her heels and strode away from him in the direction of the front door.
Thank God that’s over.
He heard her unlatch and open the massive wooden door but then, rather than the sound of her click-clacking down the stone steps, there was a pause.
“You are welcome to him,” said Crystal or whatever her name was, “he is a horrible pig!”
Christian turned around then to see another figure framed by the sunlight that now streamed in through the front doorway and bathed the entire hallway in a yellow glow, a most definite intention of the house’s particular orientation. The lone pearl at his feet was sent skittering away towards a final resting place against the skirting board beyond the reception table.
“Putting the trash out, Christian?” the new arrival said with a chuckle to herself.
It was Stella. Typical Stella! She strutted down the centre of the wide hallway, her too perfect raven black hair glistening in the sunlight that surrounded her like a heavenly aura. She was dressed in a stylish black and white houndstooth jacket over a tight fitting mustard one-piece cashmere dress that accentuated her ideally proportioned figure. It was a figure that Christian had attempted to become more familiar with on a number of occasions but, following a series of firm and customarily embarrassing rebuttals, he had for the time being condemned those particular desires to the sordid little prison situated at the rear his mind.
“In this day and age, dear Stella,” he said in rejoinder, “I’d rather think of it as recycling.”
She laughed, “then you’ve certainly done your bit for the planet.” She stooped to pick up a lone pearl from the floor before her, “De Bernier?” she queried.
“Close, it’s Rochelle actually, or it used to be.”
She tutted, “that’s an expensive trinket to be throwing around, don’t you think?”
“You don’t seriously think that I actually paid for it, do you?” he replied as he rested his backside on the rear of the chaise longue.
“Not for a single moment,” she scoffed as she looked around the place, taking particular note of the massive crystal chandelier that depended from the ceiling high above her. “Nor do I suppose that you’re paying for the rent on this place.”
“Of course not! It belongs to a particularly wealthy new acquaintance of mine. I let him take a look over my portfolio of virgin mining operations in the Urals. Amazingly he was instantly very keen that I take up a temporary residency in this place - he only uses it occasionally during the summer months, I think.”
“Ahhhh..” Stella mused, “who is he?”
“His name’s Patrice Géroux, really nice chap actually - very generous,” Christian swept his arm around to encompass their surroundings, “keeps some staff here too. ALBÉRT!” he hollered suddenly towards the ceiling as if he were summoning a genie.
“Not of the Lucerne Géroux’s?” she questioned.
He nodded his assent with a broad grin, “the very same.”
“Then you need to be careful, Chris! They’re far from playboy fly by nights, you know. They’re moneyed to the hilt, sure, but they’re very astute with it - even the current generation, from what Uncle tells me. You can’t simply presume to...”
She was interrupted by the appearance of an elderly gentlemen through the panelled door beneath the staircase. With swept back white hair he wore the unmistakable black and white garb that announced him as the butler of the establishment. “Oui, Monsieur?” he enquired of Christian.
“Ah, Albért, well done. Coffee, please - for myself and the lady, make it strong. We’ll take it in the drawing room.”
The man frowned, accentuating the furrows that already creased his forehead, “And the, ah, other...?” he glanced up the staircase.
“No, no,” Christian hurried him along, “just this lady. You really must try and keep up, you know.”
“Oui, Monsieur, du café pour deux, at once.” He then withdrew slowly back through the doorway, causing Stella to ponder what his definition of ‘at once’ might be.
Christian was already making his way through a door on the opposite side of the hallway, one hand waving in the air, beckoning her to follow. So used was she to his unintentionally impertinent mannerisms that a single raised eyebrow represented the limit of her disapproval. They had been there too many times before and life was simply far too short. Stella had acknowledged some time ago that the choice was completely her own - she could either work with Christian and put up with his ignorant foibles or she could make a clean break of it and go her own way. Within the clarity provided by a cold assessment of the situation she had to admit to herself that he did actually have one or two plus points and that they were more effective together than either of them ever could be alone. She had most definitely had occasion to wonder exactly what kind of a predicament she would be in without him.
As she stepped through the doorway after him, she was initially overwhelmed by the ostentatious ornateness of the room. An almost overwhelming greenery surrounded her, each wall resplendent with the leafy boughs of non-descript deciduous trees. If it hadn’t been for the musty air in the obviously underused room, she would almost have thought that she had stepped from inside to outside. The bright sunlight streaming in through the tall south facing sash window did its best to maintain the illusion.
“Don’t think that I haven’t studied this guy, Stella. That I didn’t do my homework on him first,” Christian was saying as he made his way across a faded Chinese rug and settled himself into a chesterfield opposite her. “Do you think I can’t read people, that I can’t spy all those little nuances and tell-tales that provide the essential information - that tells you just how far you can push things?”
As he talked, Stella’s gaze drank in those exquisite walls. Small woodland birds and animals peaked out at her from the greenery; a peacock strutted majestically along the skirting board towards a small iron grated fireplace from which glowing embers permeated the room with a comforting warmth. Although the walls were quite obviously papered, nowhere could she detect a pattern or even the merest hint of repetition. It was not a large room, admittedly, but still - this kind of understated largess spoke volumes to her. Whoever had commissioned this work had certainly not acted on any mere whim or fancy. There had been an acute awareness of exactly what was desired. Maybe it was a woman’s touch, but no matter, it was worth noting regardless of whether the individual behind it was male or female. She glanced down at an ornately gilded and glass topped occasional table that provided the room with a centrepiece. A selection of well thumbed magazines were fanned out upon it. She noted several volumes of National Geographic and New Scientist amongst them. Not a Tatler or a Vanity Fair in sight, she pondered.
“These little giveaways are all over the place,” Christian was saying as he arose and began a circuit of the room, “take his CD collection for instance.” He knelt down beside a small open fronted wooden cupboard which housed a collection of some twenty or thirty albums arrayed uniformly on two levels. “Not my kind of stuff this - all classical by the looks of it, but they’re not in any particular order. Now, if I were to find these arranged alphabetically then that would tell me something about him: something that would cause me concern. I would know that he was an attention to detail person; the kind of character who just wouldn’t be able to accept my mining portfolio at face value. He would have to investigate, cross-examine it, ask all those searching questions that would be obvious prerequisites for you or for me. And, ultimately, he would find himself drawn to the conclusion that the entire thing is an absolute sham and that the individual currently residing in his pockets is a complete charlatan - and, of course, he’d be correct,” he grinned broadly at her. “Thankfully for me though, that isn’t the case!”
The sound of rattling china announced the return of Albért, who struggled to balance a tea tray on one open palm so that he could tap his knuckles lightly against the already open door.
“Ah, good man,” Christian praised him, “pop it down over here,” he said, springing over to the little table and sweeping the magazines to one side. Albért made his way across the room with the tinkling contents of the tray and, once he had set it down, proceeded to pour coffee for the both of them.
“Black for me, Albért. The lady will take hers with cream,” he smiled across at her sweetly.
“Oui, monsieur.”
Once Albért had shuffled out of the room, Christian slumped back into the Chesterfield to sip at his steaming coffee. Stella made her way over to study the music collection, surprised at the out of date sound system that squatted on top of the cupboard, expecting to see something state of the art. Someone who doesn’t discard useful items. Unwasteful. And why not - it’s probably used once in a blue moon anyway.
“So, you see,” Christian continued, “I’ve been fine holed up here for a while - nothing at all to worry about.” He stretched his legs out before him and sighed deeply with an air of feigned relaxation.
“I was just a little shocked, I guess,” she replied absently as her finger flicked across the CD cases, “the Géroux family are extremely successful and particularly well connected. I’m not sure that they would figure in my plans if I was attempting to lie low for a few weeks. That is what you’re meant to be doing, Christian, remember? Not drawing attention to yourself?”
He yawned out loud, a clear indication that he’d prefer her to desist in her questioning of his choices. “Look,” he said, exasperation creeping in, “he’s a nice chap, a trusting kind of guy. We’ve become buddies, or rather he thinks we have. Can’t you have a little faith for a change, Stella?”
She knelt back on her haunches, ignorant of whatever he had said to her. There was something about this music collection; something that hovered fleetingly on the periphery of realisation, evading her grasp. What is it? What am I not seeing here?
“Stella? Are you listening to me?” he asked, sulkily. All that he received in response was the flat of her palm held up in his direction. He huffed with indignation, but said no more.
Holzbauer....Rousseau....Scarlatti, she mentally ticked off the names of the composers, Goldberg....Sacchini....Haydn....Schobert....Giordanello.... She allowed her gaze to drop down to the lower shelf - picking out names as she scanned them from left to right, Capuzzi....Bach....Beethoven.... Some of the names were familiar to her from her childhood, from those seasons spent studiously with the violin or seated before Uncle’s grand piano. She allowed herself to focus on those which she recognised, permitting her knowledge of the theory and history of music to rise to the fore - those teachings which Uncle insisted must accompany any practical lesson.
“Always with the dramatics!” Christian said in resignation, “what is it this time, then?”
“It’s the music collection,” she whispered, as if the old butler was eavesdropping from the hallway.
“Something there you like?” he enquired, “put one on if you have to. I’m quite sure that it won’t be my cup of tea though.”
“Shush!” she ordered, “let me think, will you?”
“What is it?” he asked, unable to comply with her request, concern stealing into his voice. He knew her too well to suspect her of tomfoolery. She had always been too serious for that, much to his frustration.
She looked up, spying a squirrel which peaked out at her disapprovingly from the wall and, higher up, an owl that beamed accusations in her direction. She turned to face Christian. “You’re right,” she told him, “they haven’t been alphabetised.”
He laughed out loud. “Stella, you really had me there, you know! I was almost worried.”
“They’ve been arranged in strict chronological order of the composers’ birth dates.”
He stared at her momentarily, slack jawed. “You’re joking, right?”
“No,” she replied quietly, “I’m pretty certain of it. We can probably check from the blurb on the back of each one if you want to.”
He pondered her suggestion, “er, no. If you’re sure, I believe you. But what does that change, really?”
She stood up and swept her arm around to take in the whole room, “none of this suggests an air of complacency to me. Not the decor, not the reading material and certainly not these CD’s. It smacks of attention to detail, Christian, that’s what it does. And that’s just in this one room! Don’t you think that you might actually have been the complacent one?”
He looked up at her balefully. “You really think I’m in danger here, don’t you?” he asked.
“No,” she replied, deadpan, “I think we both could be. Have you got a suitcase packed?”
“Come on, Stella, you know me better than that,” he said, leaning forward to place his half drained cup upon the tea tray. “I practically live out of a suitcase. I wouldn’t even know what a wardrobe was for.”
“Oh,” she quipped, “I thought you used them for hiding in?”
“Very droll,” he smirked back, “that was just the once and you’re never going to let me forget it are you?”
“Just get your case,” she said, turning to stride from the room, “I’ll meet you out front.”
*
The dazzlingly red Maserati came as a complete surprise to him. It squatted on the drive, nestled purposefully into the gravel as if prepared to make a break for it the moment his gaze was distracted.
“So let me get this straight,” he said as he lugged his case down the front steps of the maison. “I’m the recklessly extravagant one? The one drawing unnecessary attention to themselves? Have I got that right?”
“I’m just borrowing it,” she said from where she stood at the bottom of the steps, “or rather, Lady Jane is.”
“Crikey, is that old alias still working for you? After all these years. I’m amazed!”
“She’s as sound as the day she was invented, thanks all the same - more so in fact. And when her aide phoned their sales director to tell him I was dropping by and that I was most interested, he was over the moon. The poor man couldn’t do enough when I waltzed in there this morning - he was literally tripping over himself. Tea and biscuits; complimentary bag of gifts; the guided tour.”
“So when has it got to be back?” he asked as he reached the bottom step and crunched onto the gravel.
“Oh, two or three days. They’re not overly fussed. I just need to let them know where it is and they’ll send someone to pick it up.”
“Huh! And I thought I was good at living the high life!” he said as he popped the car’s boot, “there’s not a lot of room in here is there?”
“What do you want? A people carrier? It’s only a couple of small cases.”
Having squeezed his case into the boot alongside her own he stood back and turned to consider the house, his brow furrowed in deliberation. “You start the car,” he said. “There’s just one more thing I need to grab.”
When he finally jumped into the passenger seat beside her, Stella was revving the engine throatily in a display of impatience. He reached for his seat belt but before he could secure himself in place she literally stamped upon the accelerator and the Maserati eagerly embraced the offered power, rear wheels spinning momentarily, sending a spray of chippings in all directions before charging down the drive in a surge of exhilaration. The old butler stood in the front doorway, his rheumy eyes observing their hasty departure.
“You pig!” she hollered as she reached the top of the staircase. He ducked inadvertently, half expecting a hurtling stiletto heel to connect with the back of his head. He took the final quarter turn sharply with a swivel involving one foot and a tight grip upon the carved oak acorn which formed the top of the corner newel post, arriving upon the black and ivory chequer tiled floor of the expansive hallway as she began her own descent in a swirl of chiffon and a tangle of golden locks. Christian glanced across at the gilt framed portrait of Rembrandt that hung over the entrance to the dining room, as if he would find sympathy in the old master’s stony gaze. None was forthcoming.
“You used me, you liar,” she accused as she reached the foot of the staircase and turned to confront him. Smeared mascara and eyes red and swollen with tears held a promise of a storm which had yet to fully break upon him.
“Oh, come on,” he reasoned with a particular lack of conviction, “you didn’t mind so much last night when you were quaffing Moët like it was going out of fashion and throwing my chips around like confetti!”
“Huh!” she gasped whilst performing a particularly petulant stamp, “and this morning you just throw me out like some common hooker!”
He sighed with exasperation, his head dull with an ache that was certainly borne of the previous evening’s excesses and was steadily worsening as aresult of the present tirade. “I recall neither an engagement proposal or filling your pretty little head with tall stories. You were looking for fun; I was looking for fun; we had fun! Don’t try and tell me you haven’t been there before!”
“You, you bastard,” she yelled, throwing her arms into the air in a demonstration of disbelief, “I thought you were different!”
“What you actually mean,” he retorted as he finally managed to secure the cuff links to his shirt, “is that you thought the gravy train was going to just carry on. A champagne breakfast; luncheon on the yacht; cocktails before dinner. Sorry, but it’s not going to happen. There’s somewhere else I need to be and I won’t be back anytime soon.”
“A train of gravy? I am not understanding you!” she stood there defiantly, hands on hips.
He could only grimace, “You understand full well, Crystal, it’s over and I need you to leave.”
“It’s Christina, you idiot! Christina. You remembered well enough last night when you were whispering it in my ear!” She strode across the hallway, heels clacking as she went, to where a bundle of furs were draped over the back of a chaise longue. As she grabbed at them a string of pearls spilled out across the upholstery.
“Don’t forget those,” Christian prompted, “they’re yours, remember?”
She gathered them up and then spun around to face him, a definite rage quite apparent now on her face. “I don’t want your cheap trinkets,” she shouted as she hurled them in his direction. Ducking out of the way, they impacted with the wall beyond him and, suddenly freed from their chain, proceeded to ricochet in all directions, spinning and bouncing aimlessly across the ceramic floor like the ammunition from some insane pinball machine.
“Well you should,” he shouted back, “it’s a Louis Rochelle piece, or it was! Worth about five thousand Euro's.”
“So that’s my payment is it? Is that what makes you feel better about yourself?”
He turned his back on her to contemplate instead the view through the ornately framed archway that led out to the sun terrace and the swimming pool at the rear of the maison, “whatever you want to think,” he answered resignedly, “it’s up to you.”
There was silence momentarily and then the sounds of her frantic scrabbling across the tiles, collecting up the pearls which occasioned to escape her hold and bounce once more like marbles across the chequer board floor. One came to rest against his shoe causing him to maintain a rigid stance, fearful of prolonging the episode by sending it rolling across the floor once more. Eventually she must have gathered up all that she could find because, with an audible huff, she turned on her heels and strode away from him in the direction of the front door.
Thank God that’s over.
He heard her unlatch and open the massive wooden door but then, rather than the sound of her click-clacking down the stone steps, there was a pause.
“You are welcome to him,” said Crystal or whatever her name was, “he is a horrible pig!”
Christian turned around then to see another figure framed by the sunlight that now streamed in through the front doorway and bathed the entire hallway in a yellow glow, a most definite intention of the house’s particular orientation. The lone pearl at his feet was sent skittering away towards a final resting place against the skirting board beyond the reception table.
“Putting the trash out, Christian?” the new arrival said with a chuckle to herself.
It was Stella. Typical Stella! She strutted down the centre of the wide hallway, her too perfect raven black hair glistening in the sunlight that surrounded her like a heavenly aura. She was dressed in a stylish black and white houndstooth jacket over a tight fitting mustard one-piece cashmere dress that accentuated her ideally proportioned figure. It was a figure that Christian had attempted to become more familiar with on a number of occasions but, following a series of firm and customarily embarrassing rebuttals, he had for the time being condemned those particular desires to the sordid little prison situated at the rear his mind.
“In this day and age, dear Stella,” he said in rejoinder, “I’d rather think of it as recycling.”
She laughed, “then you’ve certainly done your bit for the planet.” She stooped to pick up a lone pearl from the floor before her, “De Bernier?” she queried.
“Close, it’s Rochelle actually, or it used to be.”
She tutted, “that’s an expensive trinket to be throwing around, don’t you think?”
“You don’t seriously think that I actually paid for it, do you?” he replied as he rested his backside on the rear of the chaise longue.
“Not for a single moment,” she scoffed as she looked around the place, taking particular note of the massive crystal chandelier that depended from the ceiling high above her. “Nor do I suppose that you’re paying for the rent on this place.”
“Of course not! It belongs to a particularly wealthy new acquaintance of mine. I let him take a look over my portfolio of virgin mining operations in the Urals. Amazingly he was instantly very keen that I take up a temporary residency in this place - he only uses it occasionally during the summer months, I think.”
“Ahhhh..” Stella mused, “who is he?”
“His name’s Patrice Géroux, really nice chap actually - very generous,” Christian swept his arm around to encompass their surroundings, “keeps some staff here too. ALBÉRT!” he hollered suddenly towards the ceiling as if he were summoning a genie.
“Not of the Lucerne Géroux’s?” she questioned.
He nodded his assent with a broad grin, “the very same.”
“Then you need to be careful, Chris! They’re far from playboy fly by nights, you know. They’re moneyed to the hilt, sure, but they’re very astute with it - even the current generation, from what Uncle tells me. You can’t simply presume to...”
She was interrupted by the appearance of an elderly gentlemen through the panelled door beneath the staircase. With swept back white hair he wore the unmistakable black and white garb that announced him as the butler of the establishment. “Oui, Monsieur?” he enquired of Christian.
“Ah, Albért, well done. Coffee, please - for myself and the lady, make it strong. We’ll take it in the drawing room.”
The man frowned, accentuating the furrows that already creased his forehead, “And the, ah, other...?” he glanced up the staircase.
“No, no,” Christian hurried him along, “just this lady. You really must try and keep up, you know.”
“Oui, Monsieur, du café pour deux, at once.” He then withdrew slowly back through the doorway, causing Stella to ponder what his definition of ‘at once’ might be.
Christian was already making his way through a door on the opposite side of the hallway, one hand waving in the air, beckoning her to follow. So used was she to his unintentionally impertinent mannerisms that a single raised eyebrow represented the limit of her disapproval. They had been there too many times before and life was simply far too short. Stella had acknowledged some time ago that the choice was completely her own - she could either work with Christian and put up with his ignorant foibles or she could make a clean break of it and go her own way. Within the clarity provided by a cold assessment of the situation she had to admit to herself that he did actually have one or two plus points and that they were more effective together than either of them ever could be alone. She had most definitely had occasion to wonder exactly what kind of a predicament she would be in without him.
As she stepped through the doorway after him, she was initially overwhelmed by the ostentatious ornateness of the room. An almost overwhelming greenery surrounded her, each wall resplendent with the leafy boughs of non-descript deciduous trees. If it hadn’t been for the musty air in the obviously underused room, she would almost have thought that she had stepped from inside to outside. The bright sunlight streaming in through the tall south facing sash window did its best to maintain the illusion.
“Don’t think that I haven’t studied this guy, Stella. That I didn’t do my homework on him first,” Christian was saying as he made his way across a faded Chinese rug and settled himself into a chesterfield opposite her. “Do you think I can’t read people, that I can’t spy all those little nuances and tell-tales that provide the essential information - that tells you just how far you can push things?”
As he talked, Stella’s gaze drank in those exquisite walls. Small woodland birds and animals peaked out at her from the greenery; a peacock strutted majestically along the skirting board towards a small iron grated fireplace from which glowing embers permeated the room with a comforting warmth. Although the walls were quite obviously papered, nowhere could she detect a pattern or even the merest hint of repetition. It was not a large room, admittedly, but still - this kind of understated largess spoke volumes to her. Whoever had commissioned this work had certainly not acted on any mere whim or fancy. There had been an acute awareness of exactly what was desired. Maybe it was a woman’s touch, but no matter, it was worth noting regardless of whether the individual behind it was male or female. She glanced down at an ornately gilded and glass topped occasional table that provided the room with a centrepiece. A selection of well thumbed magazines were fanned out upon it. She noted several volumes of National Geographic and New Scientist amongst them. Not a Tatler or a Vanity Fair in sight, she pondered.
“These little giveaways are all over the place,” Christian was saying as he arose and began a circuit of the room, “take his CD collection for instance.” He knelt down beside a small open fronted wooden cupboard which housed a collection of some twenty or thirty albums arrayed uniformly on two levels. “Not my kind of stuff this - all classical by the looks of it, but they’re not in any particular order. Now, if I were to find these arranged alphabetically then that would tell me something about him: something that would cause me concern. I would know that he was an attention to detail person; the kind of character who just wouldn’t be able to accept my mining portfolio at face value. He would have to investigate, cross-examine it, ask all those searching questions that would be obvious prerequisites for you or for me. And, ultimately, he would find himself drawn to the conclusion that the entire thing is an absolute sham and that the individual currently residing in his pockets is a complete charlatan - and, of course, he’d be correct,” he grinned broadly at her. “Thankfully for me though, that isn’t the case!”
The sound of rattling china announced the return of Albért, who struggled to balance a tea tray on one open palm so that he could tap his knuckles lightly against the already open door.
“Ah, good man,” Christian praised him, “pop it down over here,” he said, springing over to the little table and sweeping the magazines to one side. Albért made his way across the room with the tinkling contents of the tray and, once he had set it down, proceeded to pour coffee for the both of them.
“Black for me, Albért. The lady will take hers with cream,” he smiled across at her sweetly.
“Oui, monsieur.”
Once Albért had shuffled out of the room, Christian slumped back into the Chesterfield to sip at his steaming coffee. Stella made her way over to study the music collection, surprised at the out of date sound system that squatted on top of the cupboard, expecting to see something state of the art. Someone who doesn’t discard useful items. Unwasteful. And why not - it’s probably used once in a blue moon anyway.
“So, you see,” Christian continued, “I’ve been fine holed up here for a while - nothing at all to worry about.” He stretched his legs out before him and sighed deeply with an air of feigned relaxation.
“I was just a little shocked, I guess,” she replied absently as her finger flicked across the CD cases, “the Géroux family are extremely successful and particularly well connected. I’m not sure that they would figure in my plans if I was attempting to lie low for a few weeks. That is what you’re meant to be doing, Christian, remember? Not drawing attention to yourself?”
He yawned out loud, a clear indication that he’d prefer her to desist in her questioning of his choices. “Look,” he said, exasperation creeping in, “he’s a nice chap, a trusting kind of guy. We’ve become buddies, or rather he thinks we have. Can’t you have a little faith for a change, Stella?”
She knelt back on her haunches, ignorant of whatever he had said to her. There was something about this music collection; something that hovered fleetingly on the periphery of realisation, evading her grasp. What is it? What am I not seeing here?
“Stella? Are you listening to me?” he asked, sulkily. All that he received in response was the flat of her palm held up in his direction. He huffed with indignation, but said no more.
Holzbauer....Rousseau....Scarlatti, she mentally ticked off the names of the composers, Goldberg....Sacchini....Haydn....Schobert....Giordanello.... She allowed her gaze to drop down to the lower shelf - picking out names as she scanned them from left to right, Capuzzi....Bach....Beethoven.... Some of the names were familiar to her from her childhood, from those seasons spent studiously with the violin or seated before Uncle’s grand piano. She allowed herself to focus on those which she recognised, permitting her knowledge of the theory and history of music to rise to the fore - those teachings which Uncle insisted must accompany any practical lesson.
“Always with the dramatics!” Christian said in resignation, “what is it this time, then?”
“It’s the music collection,” she whispered, as if the old butler was eavesdropping from the hallway.
“Something there you like?” he enquired, “put one on if you have to. I’m quite sure that it won’t be my cup of tea though.”
“Shush!” she ordered, “let me think, will you?”
“What is it?” he asked, unable to comply with her request, concern stealing into his voice. He knew her too well to suspect her of tomfoolery. She had always been too serious for that, much to his frustration.
She looked up, spying a squirrel which peaked out at her disapprovingly from the wall and, higher up, an owl that beamed accusations in her direction. She turned to face Christian. “You’re right,” she told him, “they haven’t been alphabetised.”
He laughed out loud. “Stella, you really had me there, you know! I was almost worried.”
“They’ve been arranged in strict chronological order of the composers’ birth dates.”
He stared at her momentarily, slack jawed. “You’re joking, right?”
“No,” she replied quietly, “I’m pretty certain of it. We can probably check from the blurb on the back of each one if you want to.”
He pondered her suggestion, “er, no. If you’re sure, I believe you. But what does that change, really?”
She stood up and swept her arm around to take in the whole room, “none of this suggests an air of complacency to me. Not the decor, not the reading material and certainly not these CD’s. It smacks of attention to detail, Christian, that’s what it does. And that’s just in this one room! Don’t you think that you might actually have been the complacent one?”
He looked up at her balefully. “You really think I’m in danger here, don’t you?” he asked.
“No,” she replied, deadpan, “I think we both could be. Have you got a suitcase packed?”
“Come on, Stella, you know me better than that,” he said, leaning forward to place his half drained cup upon the tea tray. “I practically live out of a suitcase. I wouldn’t even know what a wardrobe was for.”
“Oh,” she quipped, “I thought you used them for hiding in?”
“Very droll,” he smirked back, “that was just the once and you’re never going to let me forget it are you?”
“Just get your case,” she said, turning to stride from the room, “I’ll meet you out front.”
*
The dazzlingly red Maserati came as a complete surprise to him. It squatted on the drive, nestled purposefully into the gravel as if prepared to make a break for it the moment his gaze was distracted.
“So let me get this straight,” he said as he lugged his case down the front steps of the maison. “I’m the recklessly extravagant one? The one drawing unnecessary attention to themselves? Have I got that right?”
“I’m just borrowing it,” she said from where she stood at the bottom of the steps, “or rather, Lady Jane is.”
“Crikey, is that old alias still working for you? After all these years. I’m amazed!”
“She’s as sound as the day she was invented, thanks all the same - more so in fact. And when her aide phoned their sales director to tell him I was dropping by and that I was most interested, he was over the moon. The poor man couldn’t do enough when I waltzed in there this morning - he was literally tripping over himself. Tea and biscuits; complimentary bag of gifts; the guided tour.”
“So when has it got to be back?” he asked as he reached the bottom step and crunched onto the gravel.
“Oh, two or three days. They’re not overly fussed. I just need to let them know where it is and they’ll send someone to pick it up.”
“Huh! And I thought I was good at living the high life!” he said as he popped the car’s boot, “there’s not a lot of room in here is there?”
“What do you want? A people carrier? It’s only a couple of small cases.”
Having squeezed his case into the boot alongside her own he stood back and turned to consider the house, his brow furrowed in deliberation. “You start the car,” he said. “There’s just one more thing I need to grab.”
When he finally jumped into the passenger seat beside her, Stella was revving the engine throatily in a display of impatience. He reached for his seat belt but before he could secure himself in place she literally stamped upon the accelerator and the Maserati eagerly embraced the offered power, rear wheels spinning momentarily, sending a spray of chippings in all directions before charging down the drive in a surge of exhilaration. The old butler stood in the front doorway, his rheumy eyes observing their hasty departure.