Cover

A Ghost in Monte Carlo

To MARGERY WEIR who has helped and inspired so many people to overcome evil with good

Chapter One

There was the sound of footsteps crossing the landing, the rattle of a laden breakfast tray being set down on a table, a little rasping cough and lastly a light knock on the bedroom door.

Without waiting for a reply Jeanne entered and crossed the room to draw back the curtains. Watching her figure, bulky and indistinct in the shrouded light, Emilie wondered how many years it was since she had first been wakened by those familiar sounds. It was never the opening of the door which roused her, but the preliminaries to it – Jeanne’s footsteps on the landing, the rattle of the breakfast tray and her cough.

Was it eighteen years that Jeanne had been in her employment? No, nineteen, and they had known each other since childhood.

The curtains slid back to reveal a wintry day, the roofs of Paris grey and damp beneath a dull sky through which a pale sun was striving ineffectually to shine. Emilie sat up in bed with a sharp movement. She had been awake for a long time, indeed it was doubtful if she had slept more than an hour or two the whole night, and glancing at her reflection in the dressing table mirror which faced the bed, she was well aware that the sleepless hours had taken their toll.

She looked old this morning, old and unattractive, although perhaps the colour of her hair had something to do with that. But Emilie had no time to think of herself. There were other and more important things which required her attention.

Slipping her arms into a dressing jacket of thick wool, Emilie patted her pillows behind her and waited until Jeanne had set down her breakfast. She seemed to take an unconscionable time in doing so and then she began to rearrange the tray with care, moving first the coffee pot a trifle to the left, then the cup and saucer a little to the right, and now it appeared that a spoon required her attention.

Emilie was not deceived. She knew well that Jeanne was waiting for her to speak. Sharply, because it always annoyed her when Jeanne forestalled her decisions, she said,

‘Shut the door, Jeanne.’

‘Oui, Madame, I was just about to do so.’

Then hurry, and sit down while I talk, for you must listen attentively. There is much for us to do.’

Jeanne crossed the room, walking as if her legs were stiff and her feet hurt a little. She had the large bones and slow movements of a peasant from one of the Northern Departments. Her hair was grey, but her face was curiously unlined and her eyes were as bright as a child’s. At sixty she had no difficulty in doing the finest and most delicate embroidery.