"If he knows how to drive the jeep."
"Oh, murder," said William. "I never thought of that."
I said: "Are they sure it was suicide?"
"Oh, quite. The gun was in his hand, and there's a letter."
"A letter? Léon de Valmy left a letter?"
"Yes. The police have it. Seddon didn't read it, but from what the police asked him he pretty well gathered what it said. It admitted the first two attempts to murder Philippe, involving Bernard, but nobody else. He states categorically that neither Raoul nor Madame de Valmy knew anything about them. He never mentions this last affair of the poison-I suppose that would almost certainly involve his wife. He simply says that Bernard must have let something out to you about the two early attempts, and you got in a panic and bolted with Philippe. I think that's about the lot. You've certainly nothing to worry about."
"No." I was silent for a moment. "Well, I shan't volunteer anything else unless they ask me. I don't somehow want to pile anything more onto Madame de Valmy, whatever she did. He's dead, you see. She's got that to go on living with. Funny, one somehow imagines her snuffing quietly out now, the way the moon would if the sun vanished. Somehow it's like Léon to let her out, and me, and yet to turn the wretched Bernard in… though I suppose it was impossible to hide his part in it. And Bernard failed, after all."
"That's not why," said William. "When Bernard found you both gone and Raoul on the trail he must have realised that Léon de Valmy's bolt was shot and that there'd never be a future and a fortune for him the way he'd been promised. He moved onto the winning side, probably with an eye to the future, and played in with Raoul all day, looking for you and Philippe. Then last night-three or four hours ago-he came and tried to retrieve that lost fortune by putting the black on Monsewer Léon."
"Blackmail?"
"Yes. It's in the letter. He threatened to turn informer. If you ask me, that's what tipped Léon de Valmy's scales towards suicide in the end. I mean, there's no end to blackmail, is there?"
I said slowly: "You're probably right. I was wondering what had made him kill himself instead of waiting to see what Raoul and Hippolyte would do. After all, it was still all in the family. But when one thinks about it… Even if Raoul and Hippolyte and I had agreed to hush the whole thing up for Philippe's sake and the sake of the family-what was there left for Léon de Valmy? Hippolyte would be able to put any sort of pressure on that he liked, and he might have insisted on Léon's leaving Valmy. Even if Léon was allowed to stay, Hippolyte would start sitting down tight on the money-bags, and presumably Raoul would be in a position to stop Léon milking Bellevigne any more… And in any case Léon would have had to get out in five years' time. And we all-even Philippe-knew what he'd done and what he was… And then, finally, the wretched tool Bernard started to blackmail him. Yes, one can see a desperate moment for Léon, and no future. Certainly he wasn't the kind of man to submit to blackmail; he'd literally die sooner, I'm sure of it. It only surprises me that he didn't kill Bernard first, but I suppose Bernard would be on guard against that, and he did have certain physical advantages. What did happen to Bernard anyway? Did Léon kill him?"
"No, he's disappeared. There'll be a hue and cry, but I suppose it's to be hoped that he gets away, and the rest of the story with him."
I said: "Yes. Poor little Berthe."
"Who's that?"
"Oh, nobody. Just one of the nobodies who get hurt the most when wicked men start to carve life up to suit themselves. You know, William, I doubt if I was altogether right about why Léon de Valmy killed himself… I imagine all those things would be there, part of it, in his mind, but it would be something else that tipped him over. I think I knew him rather well. He'd been beaten. He'd been shown up. And I don't think he could have taken that, whatever happened later. He was-I think the word's a megalomaniac. He had to see himself as larger than life…everything that happened was seen only in relation to him… He sort of focused your attention on himself all the time, and he could do it, William; I believe he liked to think he could play with people just as he wanted to. He couldn't ever have taken second place to anyone. To shoot himself, making that magnanimous gesture with the letter… yes, that was Léon de Valmy all right." I leaned back wearily. "Well, whatever his reasons, it made the best end, didn't it? Oh, God, William, I'm so tired."
He said anxiously: "Are you all right? What about some more brandy?"
"No, thanks. It's all right. This is just the anticlimax hitting me.
"D'you want to go now? Perhaps we could-"
"Go. Where to?"
He pushed his fingers through his hair. "I-yes, I hadn't thought of that. They didn't exactly get the red carpets out at the Villa Mireille, did they? Though if you ask me they owe you a ruddy great vote of thanks, and I'll tell them so myself if nobody else does!"
"They know, for what it's worth," I said.
"But you don't want to stay here, do you?"
"What else can I do? When Monsieur Hippolyte gets around to it, he'll see that I get my passage paid back to England."
"You'll go home?"
"Yes." I looked at him and gave a smile of a sort. "You see, when you're in my position you can't afford to make the grand gesture, William. I can't just swep' out. I'm afraid I must wait here till the police have asked all their questions. I think I'll go along and see Berthe now, and then come back here and wait for them."
"Hang on, here's someone coming," said William. "Yes, here they are."
I must still have been in a semi-dazed condition, because, although I remember quite well exactly what the police inspector looked like, I can't recall our interview with any accuracy. I did gather that after Léon de Valmy's death the frightened servants had poured out the story of Philippe's and my disappearance and all the accompanying rumours, but that the suicide's letter, together with what Hippolyte de Valmy had said over the telephone and (finally) an interview with Raoul, had strangled stillborn any doubts about myself. This much I understood soon enough: the inspector's manner with me was gentle and even respectful, and I found myself answering his questions readily and without any anxiety other than the dreadful obsessional one-the fox under my cloak that kept my eyes on the open door all through the half-hour or so of question and answer, and made my heart jump and jerk every time anyone passed along the corridor.
The inspector left us eventually when Hippolyte arrived. I saw them pass the door together on the way to the library. Hippolyte was still pale and tired-looking, but very composed. It was easy to suppose that, once the shock was over, the news would prove a relief.
I wondered fleetingly about Héloïse, and then again, sharply, about Berthe. But as I got to my feet to go in search of her Seddon came in with coffee, and in response to my inquiries told me that the police had dealt with her very kindly, and had (when the interview was over) sent her in one of their cars down to her mother's house in the village. I supposed this was the car that had held us up at the zigzag. There was nothing more to be done for Berthe except to hope that Bernard could be forgotten, so I sat wearily down again while Seddon poured me some coffee. He lingered for a while, asking me about Philippe, to vanish at length in the direction of the hall when Hippolyte came into the room.
William got to his feet a little awkwardly. I put my coffee- cup down on the floor and made to follow suit, but Hippolyte said quickly: "No, please," and then, in English, to William: "Don't go."
I began to say: "Monsieur de Valmy, I-we're awfully sorry-"
But he stopped me with a gesture, and coming over to the sofa he bent over me and took both my hands in his. Then, before I knew what he was about, he kissed them.