A Line to Kill

She disappeared in the direction of the hallway. I saw her turn left, presumably heading for the stairs. I looked at my watch and saw that it was ten past nine. I thought of leaving too.

Charles le Mesurier must have been waiting for her to go because the moment she was out of sight, he meandered across to the archway leading into the kitchen. He had noticed Kathryn Harris – in her French-maid costume – standing on the other side, helping herself to the last cheese puff on one of the plates. The crowd was beginning to thin out a little – perhaps people didn’t keep late nights in Alderney – so I saw what happened next quite clearly.

Before Kathryn had managed to eat, le Mesurier sidled up to her, placed his lips very close to her ear and whispered something, then leaned back with a twisted smile. I didn’t need to hear the words to know what he was suggesting. It was virtually a repeat performance of what had happened at The Divers Inn. The girl took a step away from him and now the kitchen wall separated her from me so I couldn’t see her response. But whatever it was, le Mesurier seemed amused. He took another swig of champagne, then lurched into the dining room and another group of guests.

This time I couldn’t just let it go. Despite my misgivings, I went into the kitchen – ultra-modern, of course, with gleaming surfaces and brand-new equipment – to find Kathryn at the sink, plunging glasses into foamy water. There were twenty or thirty lined up on one side. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Are you all right?’

She spoke with her back to me. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

‘It’s just that I saw what happened …’

‘Nothing happened.’ She turned round and I saw at once the tears of indignation pricking at her eyes. ‘Honestly. Thank you for being concerned, but it really doesn’t matter.’

‘He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it … behaving that way. I know it’s his house and his party. But even so—’

‘Please! Don’t say anything.’ She sounded almost afraid. ‘I don’t want to lose my job. He didn’t actually do anything. He’s just a dirty old man. Like they all are.’ She turned back to the sink. ‘I need to get these glasses done. We stop serving at ten.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Well, I’m sorry …’

Feeling very uncomfortable, I walked out of the kitchen and went in search of Hawthorne. I got the sense that the party had developed a stale, sated quality, the sort that comes after two hours of overindulgence. It was time to move on. The Channelers had launched into a jazzed-up version of The Blue Danube, but they were sweating and out of sync. There were plates of half-eaten food everywhere. I looked for Hawthorne in the sun lounge and the living room. Then I went out onto the patio. It was always possible that he had gone out for a smoke.

The evening was cool and very dark. I could see the lights on either side of the path and, almost lost in the shadows, the solid bulk of the building at the end. What had le Mesurier called it? The Snuggery. There was no sign of Hawthorne, but glancing to one side I noticed a solitary figure sitting on a wooden bench and realised it was Elizabeth Lovell. She was on her own, some distance away, lighting a cigarette, which somehow surprised me. There was no reason why a woman who was blind and psychic shouldn’t be allowed a cigarette, but somehow it felt at odds with her public persona. Her husband wasn’t with her and I was glad to be able to slip back inside without being seen.

Hawthorne had left without me. Suddenly, I was glad that this time tomorrow I would be home again. I was missing my wife. There was absolutely no reason for me to be here. An open door led back into the kitchen and from there I continued into the hall, where a pile of books had been set up on a table: Lovely Grub by Marc Bellamy. His photograph, in which he was cradling a mixing bowl with a ladle, was on the cover. It was on sale for £20.

I picked up a copy and opened it at random. I found myself looking at a recipe for Chicken Cordon Bleu, a dish that had revolted me even when I ate it back in the seventies. The ingredients – oil, butter, cheese, cream, breadcrumbs – felt like signposts on the way to a heart attack. I snapped it shut just as Maïssa Lamar appeared, coming downstairs. I don’t know which of the two of us was more surprised. I got the sense that she had hoped not to be seen.

She came over to the table. I handed her the book. ‘Cookery,’ I said.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘C’est un livre de cuisine.’

‘You speak French?’

‘Un petit peu.’

If I’d been trying to impress her, it hadn’t worked. She tried to push the book back into my hands, but I wanted to keep her talking. ‘I enjoyed your performance this morning,’ I said.

‘Thank you.’

‘And I met your friend.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Fair hair. Moustache. He was at the airport.’

She looked at me blankly. ‘I’m sorry. I have no friend.’ Abruptly, she dropped the book onto the table and went into the living room.