The Perfume Collector(95)

‘Like some sort of fishwife. Right in the middle of the courtyard.’

‘I almost felt sorry for Kay. And for Lord Lambert.’

‘I suppose they’re in love.’ Leaning forward, she lowered her voice. ‘I hear he hasn’t been back to the hotel yet.’

‘That young girl has no mother,’ the other concluded. ‘A mother would have instructed her in how to handle the situation. One should never give the other woman the satisfaction.’

‘It’s best to simply ignore it,’ her sister agreed. ‘And of course to find a lover of your own.’

(They were both old campaigners and had survived many marital skirmishes in their time.)

‘Yes,’ the old woman chuckled, reaching for another slice of fresh brioche, ‘men can only focus on one lover – either yours or theirs. And after they’ve made their conquest, yours becomes considerably more interesting.’

Valmont sipped his coffee too, but inside he felt lacerated by the strength of Eva’s feeling for Lamb. Ever since Kay Waverley had arrived in Monte Carlo, she’d been distracted and elusive. The woman who was once his keenest advocate could barely spare him a few words. The conversation moved on, but he sat miserably.

After they’d parted company, he tried to send a message to Eva’s room but was informed that Mademoiselle Dorsey had left the hotel that morning, without leaving a forwarding address.

Valmont sat on his bed, staring out at his newly acquired sea view.

She was gone. And it had never even occurred to her to let him know.

His hatred of Lamb hardened into a knife in his heart. He found himself searching the casino and bars for him, unsure of what he would do when he found him, only that it would be as violent as he was capable of making it. But with no luck.

Lamb had not emerged from the pink villa in the hills.

In fact, Valmont never saw him again.

Two days later he received a telegram from Paris.



YOUR SHOP INTERIOR IS HIDEOUS STOP ARE YOU PLANNING TO SELL PERFUME OR RAW MEAT STOP



Within the hour, he was on a train.



It was months later that Valmont read, quite by chance, of the death of an Englishman in the South of France. The body of Viscount Charles Lamb, aka Charles Alexander Haveston Lambert, only son of the Earl of Royce, and the recipient of the British Victory Medal for his service in the Great War, was discovered early one morning reclining in a deckchair on the beach at Cap Ferrat, staring out towards the sea. The coroner concluded that he’d gone there deliberately to overdose, which he’d accomplished with a substantial amount of morphine, to which he’d been addicted ever since he’d suffered a serious leg injury in the war.

He’d just won 20,000 francs at roulette a few hours earlier. The money was nowhere to be found. Theft was ruled out when it was discovered that he’d posted a letter in the early hours of that morning, a fact that had been noted by the night receptionist at the hotel.

During the post-mortem that took place in Cap Ferrat shortly afterwards, when the medical examiner was asked if he suspected any foul play, he surprised the court by answering an unequivocal ‘no’. When pressed as to what reason Lord Lambert might have had for taking his own life, he paused, looking around the crowded courtroom, before he answered.

‘I’m afraid that the man known as Charles Lamb was very seriously ill, Your Honour.’

‘Really?’ The Coroner adjusted his glasses. ‘Can you elaborate? What was the nature of his illness?’

Again, the medical examiner hesitated. Then, clearing his throat, he continued. ‘Mr Lamb, or rather, Lord Lambert, suffered from an advanced case of syphilis. His liver was already inflamed, indicating hepatitis, peritonitis, and possible kidney disease. His prognosis would not have been good. And he probably suffered a great deal of pain. Further manifestations would most likely include seizure, meningitis, dementia, not to mention horrendous pains in the lower extremities and possible deformity.’

And so the case was concluded.

The money and the letter were never traced.

Lambert’s family refused to collect the body or pay his outstanding bills and so the local people gave him a burial at sea as a civic kindness.

Sitting in the dining room of his Paris apartment, Valmont read the story over and over.

He thought of Eva’s face the first night she’d seen Kay Waverley and the argument she’d had with Lamb on the terrace.

‘She likes you. It will be easy.’ Her words resounded in Valmont’s head.

Without knowing why, he had the sickening feeling that Eva had manipulated the situation to her own particular ends. Had her jealous hysterics been just another deftly played con – one that even he had fallen for?