Conspiracy Thriller 4 E-Book Bundle

‘You think people round here are going to talk to us? You see their faces whenever you mention his name.’

Ben glanced at his watch. It was just after ten. He wanted to wait a few more hours before paying another visit to Lalique’s house, in case his defensive housekeeper was in the habit of staying up late.

While they were eating, Ben noticed the group of men at the bar break up. The bearded guy and Moustache disappeared into a back room together for a moment. When the bearded man emerged, he was counting through a roll of notes with a wetted fingertip. He stuffed the cash in his back pocket, threw a last curious look at Ben, bade goodnight to his pal Moustache and then batted through the door and out into the snow. A few moments later, Ben glanced through the window and saw the taillights of the Peugeot pickup disappear up the alleyway.

Chapter Thirty-Five

After their meal, Ben and Jude headed back to the Auberge and climbed the stairs to the twin room. It was small and basic, but everything worked and it was warm. The twin beds were neatly made and each covered with a hand-knitted woollen spread. Jude flattened himself on the bed nearest the door, let out a loud sigh and closed his eyes. For all his bravado, Ben could tell he was still completely overwhelmed by the events of the last couple of days.

Ben dumped his jacket on the other bed next to where he’d left his bag earlier, settled himself in an armchair and cast his eye around the room. He liked its simplicity. No television, no radio, no internet connection. No smoke alarm. He liked that too. Civilised. He took out his Gauloises and Zippo. Thumbed the lighter’s flint striker wheel and relished the smell of burning petroleum-based fluid from the flickering orange flame.

There was nothing quite like a Zippo. Made in Bradford, Pennsylvania, U.S.A. since 1933. Simple, rugged, battle-tested, as timeless and dependable as a Browning Hi-Power automatic pistol. Ben touched the flame to the tip of the Gauloise and tasted the welcome sting of the strong smoke at the back of his throat.

‘You shouldn’t smoke so much,’ Jude’s voice came from across the room.

Ben clanged the lighter shut and took another draw on the cigarette. ‘Why?’ he said.

Jude shrugged his shoulders against the bedspread, still lying flat on his back with his eyes shut. ‘You’ll die,’ he said simply.

‘I’m truly touched by your concern.’

‘Who said I was concerned? I just said that people who smoke will die.’

Ben looked at him. ‘So if I stop smoking, I won’t die?’

Jude gave another shrug. ‘No, obviously you’ll still die,’ he said after a beat.

‘So I can either die doing something that gives me pleasure,’ Ben said, ‘or I can die avoiding it out of fear. I think I know which way I’d rather live my life, thanks.’

Jude didn’t say any more. After a while, his breathing settled into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep. Ben turned off all the lights except for the little lamp near his armchair. He finished his cigarette and sat thinking for a few minutes. ‘Fuck it,’ he murmured to himself, tempted by another cigarette. He put one to his lips. Reached for the Zippo. Thumbed the wheel. There was a spark from the flint, but no flame. He tried again. ‘Fuck it,’ he repeated. So much for classic design and utter dependability. The damn thing had run out of lighter fluid.

Remembering that he carried a spare can, he sprang up out of the armchair and went over to root in the depths of his bag.

The first thing he found was the Bible he’d taken from the vicarage. He gazed at it for a moment, then put it back in the bag and continued rummaging. His fingers closed on something small and solid. It wasn’t the lighter fluid, either, but he took it out and held it tightly in both hands.

Until now, he’d completely forgotten about the present Michaela had given him. He carried it over to the armchair, dropping any notion of another cigarette as he turned the Christmas-wrapped object over in his hands and felt a fresh wave of sadness wash over him.

Jude was fast asleep on the bed, snoring gently.

Ben heard Michaela’s words in his mind. Promise me that you won’t open it until you’re back in France. He was in France now. He quietly, carefully pulled away the prettily tied ribbon, then tore open the wrapping.

As he’d thought, the present was a book. Not another Bible, but a very handsome antique miniature leather-bound edition with Works of John Milton embossed in fine gilt letters on the cover.

There was a lump in Ben’s throat as he opened the book. To his surprise, a little envelope fell out from between the pages and dropped in his lap. He popped the seal, expecting a Christmas card. He didn’t know if he could bear to read the cheery inscription Michaela and Simeon would have written inside.

But there was no Christmas card inside the envelope. Instead he found two sheets of neatly folded letter paper. The paper was a delicate shade of sky blue, and smelled faintly of the same perfume Michaela had worn. When he unfolded it, he saw that both pages were filled with her elegant, curvaceous handwriting.

Dear Ben,

Simeon and I hope you had a safe journey back to France. I expect you’re tucked up all warm and cosy at home with a nice glass of wine reading this.

It was a joy to meet up with you again so unexpectedly, Ben. Simeon and I have been so delighted to see you after so long.

Ben couldn’t stand any more. He scrunched the letter up and tossed it on the ground. A few seconds later, with a stab of shame, he picked it up again and went on reading.

And his mouth dropped open.

Twenty years is a long time to wait to tell someone a secret. Simeon and I have often talked about how, when and indeed whether we should reveal to you what I’m about to say. When we met up with you again at the concert, we both agreed that the time had come. You were never one for beating about the bush, Ben, so here goes.

Jude isn’t Simeon’s child. He’s yours.

There. I’ve finally told you what nobody else in the world knows.

I’m not quite sure how you’ll react to the news. All I can tell you is, Ben, I know it for a fact. There’s absolutely no doubt about it, for reasons I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you.

You must have suspected all those years ago, as I did, that even when you and I were an item, Simeon secretly liked me more than just as a friend. When you and I split up – that is, when I dumped you in the awful way I did – and you disappeared from University soon afterwards, Simeon was there for me. He’s known since before Jude was born who the real father was, and been honoured to raise him as his own son. We always hoped that a brother or sister might come along for Jude one day, but sadly that wasn’t God’s will.

Please never think that either Simeon or I would dream of placing any responsibility, legal or otherwise, on you. We just thought it was right that you should be told the truth. I hope you’ll want to meet Jude one day, and that you’ll see what a wonderful and charming young man he’s turned out to be … when he puts his mind to it, that is. If you ever felt he should know who his biological father is, well, that’s a choice we freely leave to you.

Either way, we hope you’ll keep in touch with us all now that we’ve made contact again. If you prefer not to, and don’t want to meet and get to know Jude, we’ll understand. If we don’t see you again, may you have the peaceful and joyous life you’ve always wanted.

Thank you for having spent this Christmas with us. Your presence has made it feel special, and it’s been a long time since I’ve seen Simeon so happy.

Love, and God bless,

Michaela (and Simeon) Arundel

Chapter Thirty-Six

Ben read the letter three times, open-mouthed, then a fourth just to make sure he hadn’t dreamed it. There was no mistake. He stared at Michaela’s handwriting until the words swam before his eyes and lost all meaning.

He was still sitting there gaping at it in utter disbelief when Jude’s voice broke in on his thoughts and startled him. ‘What’s that you’re reading?’ Jude asked, yawning. He kicked out his legs and bounced off the bed.

Ben quickly slipped the letter in between the pages of the book. ‘Poetry,’ he said in a dry, raspy voice. He cleared his throat.

‘Poetry. Give me a fucking break.’ Jude peered at the book cover and let out a snort. ‘Milton. I tried to read that once. Couldn’t be bothered with it. Load of old tat, if you ask me. Where did you get that book from, anyway?’

Ben looked at him for the longest time.

‘What?’ Jude said.

Ben didn’t reply. He didn’t have the words.

‘So I didn’t like Milton. What’s the big deal?’

‘Milton?’ Ben said. His mind wasn’t working. His thoughts were a spinning jumble.

‘Why – are – you – staring – at – me?’ Jude said, making bug eyes. ‘You’re freaking me out.’