Devil At Archangel. Sara Craven

which occupied the length of one wall. Guests who usually stayed in this room probably brought with them an entire Paris collection rather than two small suitcases. A door in the corner revealed a small but well equipped bathroom tiled in jade green, and for the next half hour Christina revelled in the shower she had dreamed of, then, wrapped in one of the enormous bath sheets provided, padded around putting her clothes away in the drawers and cupboards, and setting out her scanty array of toiletries in the bathroom.

      Her task completed, she dressed in a chocolate-coloured denim dress with a low back and a halter neckline, and still barefoot walked out through the French doors on to the balcony. To her left, a graceful flight of wrought iron steps led downwards so that the occupants of the rooms in this wing could reach the garden below without having to go through the house. Certainly, it was a beguiling enough scene that met her eyes. An attractively paved patio lay below, with a long rectangular swimming pool as its focal point. Beyond the patio more lawns spread away to become eventually lost in a tangled riot of greenery and flowering bushes, which Christina guessed marked the limits of the garden proper. Beyond this barrier she could see the sea.

      She wanted very much to go down the steps and explore the grounds—to see if there was a way through the shrubbery to the beach, but she hesitated. After all, Mrs Brandon might send for her, and if she was missing and no one knew where she was this would cause problems. And as if to make up her mind for her, a telephone buzzed sharply in the room behind her. Christina walked quickly back into the bedroom and over to the elegant bedside table and lifted the receiver.

      ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Christina Bennett.’

      There was someone there, because she could hear them breathing—a light shallow breath as if whoever it was had been hurrying. But they did not speak.

      After a minute, Christina said sharply, ‘Yes? Who is it, please?’

      No one replied, but Christina thought she detected a smothered laugh, as if the alarm in her voice had been registered and appreciated. She felt her temper rise.

      ‘Will you please stop playing games and tell me what it is you want,’ she said very distinctly into the living silence, and nearly jumped out of her skin as a peremptory tap sounded on the bedroom door.

      She swung round with a gasp, still holding the telephone receiver as the door opened. She was confronted by a girl, not much older than herself. She was dazzlingly lovely with dark hair and eyes, and the same smooth café au lait skin as Madame Christophe. In fact, Christina thought instinctively, she was the image of what Madame Christophe must have been like at the same age.

      The girl smiled—a formal, perfunctory smile revealing white and even teeth. ‘If Mademoiselle would care to descend, there is tea in the library. Or would you prefer me to bring a tray to you here?’

      ‘No—oh, no,’ Christina said hastily. ‘I’ll come down. You—you must be Eulalie.’

      ‘That is so.’ The dark eyes surveyed Christina and widened questioningly as she was holding the telephone receiver. ‘Mademoiselle desired something?’

      ‘No—someone phoned me, but they won’t answer.’ Christina felt foolish.

      ‘May I?’ Eulalie held out her hand and Christina with a feeling of faint helplessness handed her the receiver.

      Eulalie listened for a moment, then turned to Christina. ‘There is no one there now, mademoiselle. This is the house telephone. It is easy if one hurries to dial a wrong number.’

      ‘But why didn’t they say so?’ Christina felt that she had been put subtly in the wrong. ‘They just wouldn’t speak at all. It was horrid.’

      ‘Mademoiselle must have imagined it,’ Eulalie said coolly. ‘There is no one in the house who would do such a thing.’

      She turned and walked to the door, obviously expecting that Christina would follow her. Christina snatched up a pair of low-heeled sandals in natural leather and thrust them awkwardly on to her feet. She felt gauche and confused. She knew she had not imagined the malice she had sensed at the other end of the phone, but she was at a loss to know what could possibly have inspired it.

      As she followed Eulalie’s studiedly graceful figure along the corridor towards the main staircase, she searched in vain for some topic of conversation. Her position in the household was ambiguous. At the moment, she supposed she was a guest, but no doubt the staff were perfectly aware that she had come here ultimately to work. Perhaps someone had recognised the difference in the way she was being received, compared with the rest of the staff, and resented it. But who? So far, she had only met Louis and Madame Christophe—and now Eulalie. She could not imagine either of the first two indulging in spiteful tricks, while it was physically impossible for Eulalie to have telephoned her. It was disturbing to realise that she had recognised almost at once that the other girl would be quite capable of the action. And yet Christina could think of no possible motive—for her or for anyone else.

      As they descended the stairs, the tall figure of St Michael, the gilded wings gleaming in the sunlight, loomed up in front of them. Christina paused for a closer look at the statue. Somewhat to her surprise, she saw that the winged creature at the angel’s feet was not a dragon as she had supposed at first glance, but seemed to have some human characteristics. It was quite repulsively ugly, she decided, wrinkling her nose.