I was hanging facing out, away from the cliff face, and I couldn’t work out how to turn myself around to use that stump that was digging into my back. I wished I had been more diligent in gymnastics classes at school. The fire was directly below me now and I certainly didn’t relish the prospect of being burned alive. This spurred me into taking the leap of faith and letting go with one hand. The branch bobbed dangerously as I swung myself around. I thought I heard the sound of a branch cracking over the crackling of the fire, but I managed to turn enough to grab hold again with my body now facing toward the cliff. I pulled up my legs and struck out in all directions, trying to find something firm enough to take my weight. My right foot hit a rock. I scrabbled madly and it held firm. Holding my breath, I transferred some of my weight to it, then inched my way back up the branch until I was standing on the rocky outcropping. There was another branch above me. I made a grab for it and tried to haul myself upward. Pebbles showered down around me. I found a clump of grass or weeds growing from the face and dug my other foot into it. Then inch by inch I was making my way upward. I could see the road above. A big racing car had stopped.

“Help!” I yelled, in English. I suppose it would have been more sensible to have shouted in French but one tends to forget logic at times like this. Two men had been walking ahead of me, presumably hurrying toward the site of the fireball. At the sound of my voice they spun around and ran back to me. Hands grabbed at me and I was yanked back up to the road just as the bushes below me burst into flame.

“Merci, monsieurs.” I remembered my French this time, and I looked up at my rescuers. They were the Marquis de Ronchard and Darcy.

Chapter 34

Chapter 34

At a peasant cottage, somewhere high above the
Mediterranean
January 28, 1933

“My God, you look terrible,” Darcy said at the same moment as the marquis said in French, “Mon Dieu, you look terrible.” He ran back to the car.

“Of course I look terrible,” I snapped, the tension of the past hour spilling out. “So would you if you’d been kidnapped by a murderer and nearly fallen down a cliff and been singed to death.”

“I didn’t mean that.” Darcy had dropped to his knees beside me. “I was just horrified by what had happened to you. But you’re safe. That’s the main thing. Rather, it’s not the main thing. What was the last thing I said to you when we parted? Was it not ‘go straight home and stay there’?”

“Yes, but—”