Hotel du Barry (28 page)

It was late and Jim was doing his rounds when he noticed there were still lights on in the hotel gymnasium. He pulled out a large ring of keys, unlocked the heavy doors and walked across the polished boards. The sound of his footsteps echoed in the empty space. A medicine ball had been left in the middle of the floor but the dumbbells were racked up and skipping ropes had been left coiled and tied. As Jim walked under the acrobatic rings, he was overcome with nostalgia. The smell of leather, athlete's liniment and stale sweat brought back memories of his old school gymnasium.

Jim stripped off his coat and shoes, grabbed the rings and turned a leisurely somersault, landing smoothly on the mats. A passing hotel guest would have been surprised to see this great bear of a man execute the move with such ease and style. Dominating the centre of the gymnasium was a vaulting horse and Jim couldn't resist. He strode to the far end of the gym and then ran as fast as he could towards it. His feet hit the springboard and he flew upwards before gripping the padded top and vaulting over to land on his feet. He bowed to an imaginary audience and smirked. Jim was chuffed that he still possessed the athletic grace that had won many school prizes.

He felt someone watching him. Perhaps Slugger, the gymnasium instructor, was sitting up in his office laughing himself sick at the sight of the hotel dick reliving his youth.

He called out, ‘Hello? Anyone here?'

There was no answer, so he made his way up the stairs. Jim paused when he thought he heard a muffled cough. He raised his voice. ‘Enough. Come on out! I know you're here.'

No answer. Just the sound of a loose rope swaying in the breeze that blew down through the airshafts. He stood there a couple of minutes, every sense on alert. Outside the window a bat swooped past making spitting noises. Jim shuddered; he loathed bats. There was something unpleasant about their vicious little faces, caustic excrement and hooded wings.

Jim climbed to the top of the stairs and made his way towards Slugger's office. He opened the office door but the joint was deserted. Jim turned his torch on before flicking off the bank of light switches. He then stood stock-still and listened again. Something wasn't right. Silence. Perhaps the cleaners had simply forgotten to turn off the lights? Jim turned and made his way back down the stairs.

They came out of nowhere. There must have been at least two of them as he was whacked on both legs simultaneously with Indian clubs. Time slowed right down.
This smacks of payback. Who the fuck have I shafted lately? Perhaps they're Smythe's hard boys?

Jim's knees buckled and he dropped the torch and went for his gun. Too late. Another sharp crack to the kidneys sent him flying head-first down the steep stairs. These fuckers weren't messing around. It wasn't meant to be a quick rap across the knuckles. He thought of Bertha keeping his dinner warm in the oven and wondered if his assailants would beat him to death or shoot him. He prayed for a bullet and hoped God was in a forgiving mood and still had time for lapsed Catholics. Jim hit the floor hard, a sharp pain ricocheted into the back of his skull and he passed out.

His last fleeting thought was of Bertha that morning, straightening his tie and kissing him goodbye.

Edwina woke up feeling like hell. She'd been up half the night scrubbing her hands with carbolic soap and now they were red raw. For some crazy reason she'd kept dreaming that her hands weren't clean. But as the morning sunlight streamed through the open drapes her mood lifted.

Today she was meeting Thomas Columbus Rodd for a private luncheon. No doubt her lover was going to announce his impending divorce. All she needed was a trip to the hotel beauty parlour to restore her equanimity. Hopefully the beautician would have a remedy for her ruined hands, but if not she'd keep her gloves on at lunch.

Thomas loved feminine fripperies, no doubt because his wife was so plain and homely. God knows why he'd married her in the first place. During pillow chat at the Ritz, he'd reluctantly admitted his wife refused to wear the fashionable footwear he designed. Apparently the wretched woman favoured sensible cotton bloomers, chunky hand-knitted cardigans and lace-up brogues. Small wonder Thomas had become obsessed with Edwina's lacy lingerie. Today she was planning on wearing her new satin corset with beribboned suspenders, as inevitably he'd rush her off to the Ritz for some afternoon adultery. Edwina was always deeply flattered when the excitement of having her for dessert, completely ruined Thomas's appetite. And he'd sit impatiently in a restaurant, feigning interest in the menu, while trying to conceal his erection with a napkin. He'd told Edwina,
I've never loved a woman the way I love you
, and she believed him because every time Thomas walked into a room and she was there, he instantly got an erection.

Edwina was about to ring the bell for breakfast when she remembered that Julian had done a runner. Ungrateful little bastard.
She should have dobbed him in to the police months ago. No matter, there were plenty more butlers to be had. One of her informants had told her that Sebastian was having a rotten time with his new boss. With the judicious application of some flattery and financial bribery, Sebastian would be easy to poach. After all, he'd never really wanted to leave the Hotel du Barry in the first place.

Edwina leapt out of bed and padded barefoot to her walk-in wardrobe. She gazed with satisfaction at her naked body in the long mirror. Love's desire had rounded and softened her figure. She was glowing, all lit up with the secret knowledge that she was loved. If only Sean Kelly could see her now. Perhaps at this very moment Sean was lost somewhere in outback Australia? Preferably with no drinking water on hand. No doubt a vision of her beauty would torture him in his final hours and he'd realise what a huge mistake he'd made when he'd rejected her love and humiliated her.

Edwina gazed at herself from every angle and murmured facetiously, ‘Mirror, mirror on the wall . . . who is the fairest of them all?'

Her own smiling reflection answered the question.

And Mary Maguire didn't even get a look-in.

Bertha and Cat sat either side of Jim's hospital bed. Neither spoke. Most of Jim's body was heavily bandaged and only his face was visible. Bertha held his hand and studied it carefully. She couldn't bring herself to look at his bruised eyes, gashed face or broken nose. From the corridor came the sound of a woman wailing and trolleys rattling past.

A doctor entered the ward. ‘Mrs Blade?'

Bertha turned towards him, incomprehension on her face. ‘Yes?'

‘We've done all we can for the time being. Tomorrow morning we'll run some more tests. If you and your daughter would like to
come with me now, I can show you the results so far. It's still too early to be definitive about brain damage. Your husband was lucky to have survived the attack. He's in great shape, which undoubtedly helped.'

Bertha nodded. ‘Yes, Jim's always been athletic. Lifts weights and swims daily.'

Cat said, ‘You go with the doctor and I'll wait here.'

Bertha left the ward.

Cat stood up, stretched and walked to the window. She watched people coming and going until a faint sound attracted her attention. When she turned around, Jim's eyes were still closed but his position had changed slightly.

She rushed back to the side of the bed and whispered, ‘Jim, can you hear me? It's Cat.'

There was no response, so she sat down next to him and took his hand in hers.

‘I know you don't go in for soppy sentiment, but I want you to know that I've always felt completely safe with you. No matter how scary things were, you were there. It gave me the freedom to be a child. You know what? I really need you in my life. And if you don't regain consciousness very soon, I'm going to come in every single day and fill your ears with hotel gossip. I will spare you nothing. I figure you'll have no choice but to come to. In the meantime, I'll split your duties with your understudy. So don't you worry about a thing.'

There was no response but Cat thought she detected a faint smirk.

Mrs Edwina du Barry and Mr Thomas Rodd Esquire were seated in a private dining room at the Jacques Deville Restaurant. The waiters were so discreet that they knocked before entering. Everything was sublime and Edwina was floating on a delightful
cloud of expectation. They'd devoured plump marinated scallops languishing on a bed of cress and now the waiter was pouring Château Lafite into crystal wine glasses. Another waiter placed fresh linen napkins on their laps. The third removed gleaming silver covers from two lobsters thermidor. The chef had presented the lobsters in their shells, resting in an aromatic, creamy sauce seasoned with just a touch of paprika and brandy. The waiters finished their business and were gone.

Even though it was inappropriate and rather odd, Edwina wore gloves, as she didn't dare reveal her ravaged hands. Her day dress of peach silk was a cunning bias-cut sheath that managed to be both demure and provocative at the same time. Thomas made no comment about the gloves, even though it would have been far easier for his darling to butter her bread roll with bare hands. Ah, women. Thomas was the first to admit he knew everything about ladies' feet but virtually nothing about the way their minds worked.

They clinked glasses and smiled secretively as lovers do. Neither made any attempt on the succulent lobsters. Thomas leant across the table and took Edwina's gloved hand. She put down her butter knife and gazed dreamily into his dark eyes. No man alive could resist it when she turned her baby blues on them and read their soul. He caressed her cheek. ‘Darling, you know I adore you, don't you?'

Edwina wanted to scream,
For fuck's sake, get to the point.

Instead she dipped her chin, widened her eyes and murmured huskily, ‘Of course, Tommy darling.'

He swallowed hard. ‘I wish I'd met you before I married Sinead. We could have had at least six children and moved to the countryside. Maybe even bred horses in the Australian outback or grown grapes in the South of France. Always wanted to own a winery.'

Edwina blinked hard and downed most of her champagne. Six children! She could think of nothing worse, except perhaps the
prospect of burying herself alive in the countryside. Imagine all that ghastly fresh air and deathly quiet. No matter, nothing had been decided and at least he was discussing their future obliquely. She maintained a communicative silence and willed him to get on with it.

Thomas was choking on his words. ‘Eddie, you know I'd never deliberately hurt you, don't you?'

A strange sensation started at Edwina's feet and an icy chill crept towards her heart. Obviously her true love was operating on a different schedule. She would maintain her dignity with silence. There was still a possibility that he was merely overcome with emotion at the thought of them spending the rest of their lives together.

Thomas fiddled with a bread roll, tearing a piece off and rolling it between his fingers. ‘I don't think I can leave Sinead. She needs me.'

Edwina drew a deep breath and switched her expression to that of compassion.

‘But dearest, I need you too. Feeling guilty before instigating divorce is only to be expected. It's natural for a man to have second thoughts before he gets the hell out of a failed marriage. Divorce will be the making of you both. You can pack her off to one of those marvellous psychiatric clinics in the Swiss Alps. I've heard Switzerland is very clean and orderly. And just think, you'll have no more scandal, no more sending for shrinks in the middle of the night. Let's face it, darling, the stigma of divorce fades eventually. Especially if the man has been smart enough to marry a woman of taste, wealth, distinction and social standing.'

Thomas finished massacring his bread roll and cracked his knuckles. ‘There's not going to be a divorce. We're moving back to Dublin. That's where my flagship emporium is. Sinead's psychiatrist firmly believes it's the only chance she has –'

‘Dublin? You're moving to fucking Dublin!'

‘Yes, that's where Sinead was born. Her mental health always improves when I send her back home to visit her parents. She's never really liked –'

Edwina leapt to her feet. ‘I don't give a shite what your wretched wife likes or dislikes. Are you telling me that you're dumping me? Just so you can go bury yourself in Dublin with that psychotic girl? You've already admitted she's far too young for you. Even when she's experiencing a rare bout of sanity she can barely string sentences together.'

Thomas drained his wine glass and banged it down on the table. A nervous twitch in the corner of his eye gave the illusion he was winking. ‘That's very unkind of you, Eddie.'

Edwina leant over the table. ‘Unkind? My God, I'll give you unkind, you weak, conniving bastard.'

And with that she seized his lobster, slapped it onto his face, and massaged it into his features. Thomas froze and made no attempt to fend her off. He sat there, stupefied, with sauce dripping down his face and a lapful of desecrated crustacean. A substantial amount of glutinous white sauce ran down his left leg and slithered into his cowboy boot.

Edwina stripped off her soiled gloves and threw them in his face. Then she picked up her handbag, seized the bottle of Château Lafite, tore the door open forcefully and vigorously slammed it shut. The partitioned wall reverberated and a large antique mirror crashed to the floor.

The sound of breaking glass could be heard from downstairs. Diners lifted their heads and all conversation was suspended. Mouths remained open and forks were frozen in mid-air. Everyone stared as an elegant woman, clutching an open bottle of wine, ran down the stairs and out onto the street. The door slammed shut behind her and the windows rattled. The diners promptly downed
tools and shifted their attention to the windows overlooking the street.