Chapter Nine
Nine
Coffee was served in the drawing room. Miriam set out tiny enameled cups and saucers on the low table in front of the sectional, while Baxter poured glasses of water that the guests hadn’t asked for, but which seemed a sensible precaution for the following morning.
The women were clustered around one end of the couch, having an animated discussion about what Francesca should wear for her press junket.
Miriam let out a sudden cry, and Baxter turned to see the contents of the cream jug cascading over the table. Miriam’s hands flew to her face.
Baxter tutted. “Oh, Miriam …”
“Oh, Miriam …” echoed Alec, shaking his head in mock admonishment.
He was sitting on his own, Carter and Damian engaged in the important task of selecting that evening’s cigars from the silver box on the mantel.
Alec made no effort to contain the cream, which was now dripping into the deep pile of the rug beneath the table.
Miriam seemed rooted to the spot. Baxter was about to chivy her to fetch a cloth, when he saw the sly leer on Alec’s face, and noted the proximity of the man’s right arm to where Miriam had been setting out cups.
Miriam’s cheeks were aflame not with embarrassment, Baxter realized, but with rage.
He caught her eye. “I’ll deal with this.” Miriam fled gratefully from the room.
Alec smirked. “She needs a steadier hand.”
“On the contrary, sir.” Baxter dropped a cloth over the worst of the spillage. “I believe she would prefer none at all.” He fixed his gaze squarely on Alec, holding it until the other man looked away.
Baxter found Miriam sitting on a wall at the back of the garage, pulling furiously on a cigarette.
“Quel connard!” she said as soon as she saw him.
“I’m assuming that insult isn’t directed at me?” Baxter sat next to her. “Are you okay?”
She shrugged.
“What did he do?”
“Put his hand up my dress.” She shuddered. “I feel dirty.”
“Do you want me to call the gendarmes?”
“What is the point?” Miriam blew out her cheeks. “Men like that never get what they deserve.” Despite her bravado, her bottom lip trembled.
“Let me get Thierry for you.” Baxter stood, but Miriam pulled at his arm.
“Mais non! He will have such anger … It is better if he doesn’t know. I am okay.” She sniffed, nodding vigorously as though she were trying to convince herself as much as Baxter. “I will handle it.”
Baxter hesitated, then sat back down. “At least let me speak to Anya Kovács, so she can warn other agency staff. Maybe she won’t take another booking from Prescott.”
Miriam nodded. “It is a good idea.”
“You and Thierry can call it a night.” Baxter glanced at his watch. “I’ll finish up.”
“Merci.” She gave him a small smile. “You are one of the good ones.”
He stayed sitting on the wall for a few minutes, but the beautiful view, with its shimmer of lights and expanse of sea, seemed somehow tarnished tonight.
All Baxter could see was the grime beneath the glitter.
The pickpockets, the gangs of thieves, the men like Alec Prescott, who took what they wanted without fear of repercussions. He stood and went back to the house.
At midnight, Damian declared he was going to bed, prompting Francesca to do the same.
“He snores like a stuck pig,” she told the others, laughing at her husband’s outraged expression. “Darling, you know it’s true! If I don’t get to sleep before you, I’m awake all night.”
The others drifted away soon after, leaving only Carter and Jade sitting by the pool, blankets tucked around their shoulders against the evening chill.
Baxter stifled a yawn. He yearned to be in bed.
Some butlers would leave their guests with a full decanter and a tray of snacks, but Baxter was always the last to retire and the first to rise, and if that meant operating on only a few hours’ sleep, so be it.
He had perfected the art of the catnap; a restorative twenty minutes here and there would sustain him until the job was over and he could sleep for twelve hours straight.
Baxter left the young couple to their conversation and went to clear away the table settings. The floral displays needed to be different every day, so he put last night’s blooms in water. He would take them to the Cimetière du Grand Jas and find an unloved grave on which to place them.
Baxter moved methodically through the villa, emptying ashtrays and gathering discarded glasses, repositioning cushions with just the right depth of karate chop.
Miriam and Thierry had left the kitchen in good order before finishing work, and the dishwasher was humming quietly in the corner.
Baxter washed the cut-crystal champagne flutes by hand, the suds darkening the cuffs of his pale blue shirt.
The glasses wouldn’t be needed until the following evening, but he didn’t like to leave anything undone.
In the unlikely event a guest should rise early, everything must be in order.
Baxter dipped his cloth into the hot soapy water and wiped the stem of a glass.
He looked out of the window at the lights down in Cannes, and he couldn’t help but compare it with the view from the Ashcombes’ kitchen.
Even all these months later, Baxter could still picture the garden borders edged with Hidcote lavender, the vivid yellow rape in the fields beyond.
Lord Ashcombe breaking with convention, insisting on helping Baxter clear up.
“You wash, I’ll dry.” He had stood so close that Baxter could smell the woody base notes of the Penhaligon scent he had seen in his employer’s dressing room.
So close that when Baxter had turned to hand him the next glass, their kiss had seemed the most inevitable thing in the world.
“Just drop it, will you?”
As Jade’s voice drifted from outside, Baxter rinsed the glass he was holding, glad of the interruption to his thoughts.
“And you’ve definitely never met him?” Carter said. A chair scraped against stone, and Baxter dried his hands. It sounded as though the pair of them were finally going to bed.
“He was just being a dick. I’m sorry, I know he’s your dad, but he really is a dick.”
“Tell me about it. I’m barely making the minimum repayments on my credit cards as it is; if Dad cuts off my allowance, I’m screwed.”
“He’s an arsehole.”
“Yeah, but he’s a rich arsehole.” Carter laughed, and Baxter stayed very still, listening intently.
He would do as he had promised Miriam, and tell Anya Kovács about Alec’s behavior, but he knew she would simply reiterate the message she had sent that morning.
What have you found out about Prescott’s investments?
Why did she want to know?
The voices died away, and Baxter heard Carter’s and Jade’s footsteps heading toward the bedrooms. He breathed a sigh of relief.
Now he could go to bed. He swiftly reset the pool terrace, then locked the external doors, checking the handles and tucking the keys out of sight.
Many a luxury home had fallen victim to the fishing-rod-through-a-window trick.
As Baxter turned off the lights, he heard a sound from outside. He stopped and listened but heard only the usual creaks and whispers of a large house. He flicked on the outside lights and stood in the darkness of the drawing room for a moment, watching the wind stir the trees on the hillside.
Nothing.
Baxter shook his head. It was time for bed.
Although his body was exhausted, his mind was still alert, and so he poured himself a large whiskey from the crystal decanter and swirled the amber liquid around the heavy glass.
In his first few years as a butler, he had developed the habit of enjoying a drink after the guests went to bed.
His clients were often generous, and wine paired with that night’s meal would not be wanted the following evening.
Baxter would be told to dispose of whatever he couldn’t make use of.
He took a sip of whiskey, recalling with a smile one evening in Santorini where he and the other domestics had “disposed of” several half bottles of Pouilly-Fumé over a raucous card game. Baxter had been decidedly green about the gills the following morning.
Now that he was older and less able to push through a hangover, and the perk of free drink was no longer a novelty, Baxter restricted himself to the occasional nightcap. Although this whiskey was particularly fine … He contemplated his empty glass, then poured himself another double.
In the marble-tiled bathroom next to his bedroom (even the servants’ quarters at Villa Sérénité were more opulent than Baxter’s modest apartment on the outskirts of London), Baxter washed his face and brushed his teeth.
He sighed with pleasure as he climbed into bed.
The whiskey had mellowed his thoughts, and his muscles sunk gratefully into the goose-down topper.
The cotton pillowcase was cool beneath his cheek.
Before Baxter could begin running through the menus for the following day in his head, sleep enveloped him.
When Baxter woke, it was still dark. He felt too sluggish for it to be morning, and he wondered if a noise had woken him—if he should go and investigate.
But his limbs were leaden, his head thick and slow.
The darkness seemed to press against him, dense and heavy, and when he tried to lift his head, it flopped uselessly back against the pillow.
Somewhere in his room there was a strange noise.
A faint, insistent hissing, like a snake, or … or …
Baxter fought to finish the thought, but it eluded him. Sleep was dragging him down, a greedy, relentless pull. As he opened his eyes for a final time, he saw what looked like mist, ghostly and ephemeral, drifting from somewhere near the door.
Then everything went black.