Bolt - By Dick Francis Page 0,31

albeit grumbling as she departed that she expected to be reinstated in the bamboo room by the following day at the latest.

‘She’s relentless,’ Danielle said as her voice faded away. ‘She always gets what she wants. And anyway, the bamboo room’s empty, isn’t it? How odd of Aunt Casilia to refuse it.’

‘I’ve slept in there the last two nights,’ I said.

‘Have you indeed!’ Litsi’s voice answered. ‘In accommodation above princes.’

‘That’s not fair,’ Danielle said. ‘You said you preferred those rooms on the ground floor because you could go in and out without disturbing anyone.’

Litsi looked at her fondly. ‘So I do. I only meant that Aunt Casilia must esteem your fiancé highly.’

‘Yes,’ Danielle said, giving me an embarrassed glance. ‘She does.’

We all sat down again, though Danielle came no nearer to me on the sofa.

Litsi said, ‘Why did Henri Nanterre recruit your Aunt Beatrice so diligently? She won’t change Roland’s mind.’

‘She lives on de Brescou money,’ Danielle said unexpectedly. ‘My parents do now as well, now that my black sheep of a father has been accepted back into the fold. Uncle Roland set up generous trusts for everybody out of the revenues from his land, but for as long as I’ve known my aunt, she’s complained he could afford more.’

‘For as long as you’ve known her?’ Litsi echoed. ‘Haven’t you always known her?’

She shook her head. ‘She disapproved of Dad. He left home originally under the heaviest of clouds, though what exactly he did, he’s never told me; he just laughs if I ask, but it must have been pretty bad. It was a choice, Mom says, between exile or jail, and he chose California. She and I came on the scene a lot later. Anyway, about eight years ago, Aunt Beatrice suddenly swooped down on us to see what had become of her disgraced little brother, and I’ve seen her several times since then. She married an American businessman way way back, and it was after he died she set out to track Dad down. It took her two years – the United States is a big country – but she looks on persistence as a prime virtue. She lives in a marvellous Spanish-style house in Palm Beach – I stayed there for a few days one Spring Break – and she makes trips to New York, and every summer she travels in Europe and spends some time in “our château”, as she calls it.’

Litsi was nodding. ‘Aunt Casilia has been known to visit me in Paris when her sister-in-law stays too long. Aunt Casilia and Roland,’ he explained, unnecessarily, ‘go to the château for six weeks or so around July and August, to seek some country air and play their part as landowners. Did you know?’

‘They mention it sometimes,’ I said.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘What’s the château like?’ Danielle asked.

‘Not a Disney castle,’ Litsi answered, smiling. ‘More like a large Georgian country house, built of light-coloured stone, with shutters on all the windows. Château de Brescou … The local town is built on land south of Bordeaux mostly owned by Roland, and he takes moral and civil pride in its well being. Even without the construction company, he could fund a mini-Olympics on the income he receives in rents, and his estates are run as the company used to be, with good managers and scrupulous fairness.’

‘He cannot,’ I commented, ‘deal in arms.’

Danielle sighed. ‘I do see,’ she admitted, ‘that with all that old aristocratic honour, he simply couldn’t face it.’

‘But I’m really surprised,’ I said, ‘that Beatrice could face it quite easily. I would have thought she would have shared her brother’s feelings.’

‘I’ll bet,’ Danielle said, ‘that Henri Nanterre promised her a million dollar hand-out if she got Uncle Roland to change his mind.’

‘In that case,’ I suggested mildly, ‘your uncle could offer her double to go back to Palm Beach and stay there.’

Danielle looked shocked. ‘That wouldn’t be right.’

‘Morally indefensible,’ I agreed, ‘but pragmatically an effective solution.’

Litsi’s gaze was thoughtful on my face. ‘Do you think she’s such a threat?’

‘I think she could be like water dripping on a stone, wearing it away. Like water dripping on a man’s forehead, driving him mad.’

‘The water torture,’ Litsi said, ‘I’m told it feels like a red hot poker after a while, drilling a hole into the skull.’

‘She’s just like that,’ Danielle said.

There was a short silence while we contemplated the boring capacities of Beatrice de Brescou Bunt, and then Litsi said consideringly, ‘It might be a good idea to tell her