The Click of the Gate: A Golden Age Mystery

By Alice Campbell

Clare-her Clare-was gone.

Mystery in Paris! A disappearance as surprising and baffling as if it had been done by magic. A young girl, barely fifteen, beautiful yet shy and under constant protection, disappears in the one moment that is offered. Between the click of a garden gate and the opening of a door. Fifteen seconds! The quie

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean Street Press
• Release date: Jun 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781915014931

Alice Campbell

Alice Campbell (1887-1955) came originally from Atlanta, Georgia, where she was part of the socially prominent Ormond family. She moved to New York City at the age of nineteen and quickly became a socialist and women's suffragist. Later she moved to Paris, marrying the American-born artist and writer James Lawrence Campbell, with whom she had a son in 1914.Just before World War One, the family left France for England, where the couple had two more children, a son and a daughter. Campbell wrote crime fiction until 1950, though many of her novels continued to have French settings. She published her first work (Juggernaut) in 1928. She wrote nineteen detective novels during her career.

Book preview

Chapter One

A taxi driven at demoniac speed hurtled southward along the Boulevard Raspail, slithered dangerously round a few sharp turnings, and burst like a rocket into a secluded passage.

Here, in front of a tiny pavilion, a man and a woman alighted. The former, a tall, angular Englishman of soldierly bearing, fingered over a medley of the strange coinage France has produced since the war, while his companion, slight, black-clad, unobtrusively smart, cast a searching glance this way and that, then quickly entered the gate and, with an air of ownership, began fumbling in her bag for a latchkey.

It was the early edge of an October evening. Street-lamps threw bright splashes upon an empty pavement along which the chill breeze rattled a handful of dancing leaves, but round the pavilion itself dense gloom gathered like a pall, giving its spick-and-span front a look of desolation.

Detached houses are rare in Paris, and it was odd to come upon this little row of them in the heart of a populous flat district, snuggled together like forgotten toys. A very small row indeed, for the passage from end to end measured but a scant two hundred yards. Opposite, brooding and dark, stretched the blind wall of an Oratory and convent-school. Aloof, austere, it dominated the view, stern censor of its neighbours’ harmless frivolity.

The taxi clattered away, and in the sudden hush the Englishman’s tread echoed on the flags. At the doorstep he looked back, vaguely distrustful.

Picturesque and all that, he admitted grudgingly, but I don’t know that I like your living here. It’s too remote—and what you have to pass through to get to it!

Nonsense, she retorted, amused, it’s only three minutes beyond the Denfert Rochereau—quite accessible, really. And then the atmosphere! You can’t deny it!

A happy hunting-ground for Apaches, he declared, shaking his head. One hears of appalling things happening in these quiet byways.

His hand, a big bony one, closed possessively over hers.

And also in the rue de la Paix, she reminded him lightly. No, don’t do that here. Come inside— and with a slightly apprehensive air she slipped into the black interior and reached for the electric switch.

Before she could touch the button she was smothered in an embrace which took away her breath. A pair of lips found hers, her heart missed a beat, and presently her arms stole upward to encircle the strong neck bent to bridge the difference in their heights. For a full sixty seconds nothing stirred save the throbbing of their pulses. Then, somewhat dizzily, they broke apart, and hand in hand, like guilty children, groped their way into the room on the left, lit by the red flicker of a wood fire.

Here in the shaded lamp-light they faced each other, smiling, radiant; but a hidden observer might have noticed that while the man’s manner showed triumphant confidence, there was that in the woman’s which betokened lack of assurance, timidity amounting almost to fear.

Why are you nervous about letting me come here? he enquired, gently stroking her cheek. Because you are, you know.

Am I? she laughed. "There’s no reason. As I told you, Clare is acting in a little play at her school—she’s being brought home by friends—and my bonne is off for the evening. We’re quite alone."

With one minute exception affecting the r’s, her English was flawless. Only this slight peculiarity revealed the fact that while she had spoken both languages from childhood, French was her native tongue.

In appearance as in speech there was a suggestion of her dual heritage. Her colouring was pure Saxon, with the fair, transparent skin, deep sea-blue eyes and cendré hair so much admired by Gallic connoisseurs of beauty; but her body, slender but not thin, was more delicately moulded than the usual Englishwoman’s, wrists, limbs and shoulders as finely turned as those of the Venus de Medici.

The smartness of her dress was typically Parisian. All black, her severe coat, faced with sleek fur, opened to reveal a narrow satin frock, without ornament, perfectly fitting; her close hat, shaped like a little helmet, was secured in front by a glittering brooch. She wore stockings of cobweb texture, and across her insteps small black suède shoes fastened with tiny bows. Each detail of her attire was arresting, skilfully contrived; yet somehow she managed to convey an idea of naturalness rather than sophistication, and there, perhaps, her English blood told.

The man, Alan Charnwood by name, was her senior by five years, but looked considerably older. Muscular and lean, he had the upright carriage and hard vigor which spoke of an outdoor life and no slacking. His features were unremarkable, the nose high-bridged but slightly snub, steel-blue eyes netted round with a fine criss-cross, because they had been much in the hot sun; skin a healthy red-bronze. His mouth suggested a moderate temper, the teeth were excellent, and he wore a small grizzled moustache, cut very short, as was also the brown-black hair, retreating from his forehead with a hint of coming baldness.

Enrolled in the Royal Engineers, with the rank of major, he busied himself in peace-time with the building of dams and such-like enterprises; but he had seen active service in Flanders, and for a short time had been attached to the New Arab Army in Persia. There in brief you have him; and I, for one, like him very much indeed.

He gazed down upon his love with a sort of wondering fascination, as though he could never grow accustomed to the way in which she differed from other women. At last, faintly embarrassed, she tore her eyes from his, but as she stooped to lay a fresh log on the fire and to re-arrange the coffee tray set ready on a stool, he followed each movement with a faint lingering smile.

How long have we got before the child comes home? he asked, comparing his watch with the columned Louis Seize clock on the mantel. It’s nine now, worse luck!

Oh, Clare won’t be here till after you’ve gone. It’s much better she doesn’t know about us just yet.

Why? There’s no harm in her knowing, is there? he demanded bluntly.

Of course not. She sighed, finding it difficult to explain. But even if I cautioned her she might let something drop to my aunt, inadvertently, you know, and that would cause trouble.

Is the Comtesse such an ogre then?

Darling, no! I—oh, I can’t possibly make you understand, I’m afraid. Tante Victoire belongs to the old régime, she has the strictest ideas about things; and having brought me up she thinks she owns me, body and soul. . . . There, make yourself comfortable. I am only going to take off my coat and hat.

She ran up the stairs. On the floor above he could hear her light step, the only sound in the little house save the fire’s staccato crackle.

He drew a deep breath. Barely an hour and a half, then he would have to be going—cutting himself in two and leaving the best part behind, that is what it amounted to. Strange that after only three short months he could feel as strongly as this about a woman. It was something he had never experienced before, never thought to experience. Still he must go. His leave was up, he was on his way back to East Africa, to a big job still many months from completion. He had snatched two days in Paris en route for Marseilles, and to-night, after dining in a quiet restaurant, they had come back here to Iris’s own abode to spend their final moments alone together.

If only he could have seized her as she was, swept her off with him to Uganda! However, there was an obstacle to be removed, and even if it had not existed, it was doubtful if Iris would have left her little girl behind. No, there was nothing to be done but get on with his work while she, remaining here, arranged her own life so that by next year they could be married. Next year—August or September, he hoped—and after that no more separations.

Lighting a cigarette, he glanced about him.

The small salon was characteristic of its owner, he reflected. Chastity of line and abandonment of colour—where had he heard that excellent phrase? There were odds and ends of French furniture, good but not precious; chairs covered with old brocade; a refectory table with a strip of ancient embroidery down its centre, and a lamp fashioned from a bulbous bottle of blue glass and shaded with parchment-tinted taffeta; a porcelain bowl containing the blush roses he had brought yesterday. Piles of modern books, English and French, small carved ornaments of crystal and smooth agate, not too many; little amusing trifles here and there. Rugs thin and soft as skins clung to the shining parquet, an Empire chaise-longue stood against the double doors at the back, its two ends curved like a lyre.

At the corner of the mantel-shelf the framed photograph of a young girl faced him. This was Clare, whom he had hardly seen and really thought little about, except that she was dear to Iris and so must in time be taken to his heart.

He studied the likeness now with casual interest. Blonde hair, slightly darker than Iris’s, fell in a big wavy lock against the side of her pointed face, casting a shadow. It was short, he noticed, whereas Iris wore hers in a loose, shining knot low on the neck. Something impish about the chin; her mother’s straight nose and sensitive mouth, but the eyes were quite different. Purplish-grey, he recalled, with thick, dark, upcurving lashes. They looked out with a straight, candid gaze, discerning but not precocious, nothing spoilt or flapperish about them, for which he was glad, for he would have hated to see Iris lavish so much devotion on a minx who needed smacking and putting in her place. . . .

What do you think of Clare’s photograph? It’s new.

Iris, entering, put the question eagerly, coming to his side.

She will never be as lovely as you are, he declared frankly, putting an arm about her waist. But she can fall short of your standard and still be good-looking.

She threw him a scornful glance, but flushed with pleasure at the compliment. Then, bending down, she set a little jug of hot milk on the tray.

See, I’ve not forgotten you take your coffee ‘white’ as you say in England. How astounded I was the first time a London waiter said to me, ‘Will you take your coffee black or white, madam?’ I’d never heard that before.

She lighted the spirit-lamp, her slender hands pearly-white against the black of her dress, her mass of fair hair transformed to pure gold by the leaping flames. The fine lines of her stooping figure drew an incredulous exclamation from him.

Perfect nonsense, he cried, your being the mother of a girl of fifteen! I suppose you’re used to hearing that, but really as you look now—! It’s absolutely absurd!

I was less than eighteen when Clare was born, she remarked indifferently, busy with her task. Seventeen and three-quarters, to be exact.

Too young!

I agree. But as things turned out, what a blessing! To think of the years I’ve had her all to myself! She meant everything to me—everything. She still does.

Even now? He laid a jealous hand on her shoulder. Did you mean to say that?

She turned scarlet, laughed.

No, no, of course I didn’t! How stupid of me! Only all this between you and me has come about so quickly I haven’t learnt to regard it as permanent. It’s rather like a marvellous holiday which will soon be over, leaving me where I was before.

Were you happy before?

Yes, so happy! That is, ever since I’ve had my work and my independence. You can’t imagine what an experience it has been to make my own living, decide things for myself. Utterly thrilling,—or it was till I met you. Now, of course, I could never think of that other life as complete again.

She sighed contentedly, resting her head against his knee, but at the same time letting her gaze stray upward to her child’s face. She has her father’s eyes, of course, she remarked irrelevantly, and shut her lips in a sudden hard line.

There was a moment’s silence. The clock ticked briskly.

That reminds me, said Charnwood, running his big fingers through her hair. You haven’t yet told me what your solicitor thinks. There’ll be no difficult about your divorce?

Oh, not the slightest, she answered positively, I’ve plenty of evidence—more than the law requires.

And de Bertincourt? I suppose he’s not likely to oppose it?

How can he? Besides, he won’t want to. No, the, person who’ll object, when she hears, will be my aunt. I’m quite prepared for her bitter disapproval. That’s why I’m so terribly anxious not to let her know about you. It might lead to endless complications.

Interference, you mean? But surely it’s your own affair.

She shrugged her shoulders despairingly.

What difference does that make? She will consider it hers. People like Tante Victoire don’t countenance divorce, don’t admit that such a thing exists. Once married, you stay married, for ever and ever. Why, I thought that myself, once. The truth is, though you mayn’t believe it, I had no opinions of my own until a few years ago.

You? he cried astonished. It’s not possible!

I don’t wonder you’re amazed. I can hardly realise it now that I’ve grown out of it all so completely, but I assure you that for a long time every thought, every action, was decided for me. I scarcely chose a hat for myself. Oh, it was too dreadful! She laughed, but half shuddered, the memory very real.

He was staring at her, puzzled, the ash on his cigarette lengthening.

But do you mean to tell me this went on after you were married?

Indeed it did. You see— she hesitated, then forced herself to go on. I lived with my husband only about two years, all told. The war was going on; during leaves I hardly saw him, and afterwards he practically left me to take care of myself, spent his money on other women, and only came home when he was ill or needed my help. I struggled on for a bit, then went back to live with my aunt. It seemed the only thing to do. Remember she had always stood in the place of a mother to me.

Stop a moment, he interrupted, taking her hand. I suppose you were in love with de Bertincourt when you married him?

Was I? She knit her brow. Yes, I daresay I was. But what does a girl of seventeen know about love? Besides Marcel was a stranger to me.

A stranger! But isn’t he your cousin?

She laughed spontaneously at his mystified air.

Oh, my dear, it’s easy to see how little you know of my upbringing, though thousands of French girls are still brought up like that, particularly in the provinces. Listen, I’ll open your eyes a bit. To begin with—but wait, let’s have our coffee first.

The water had boiled up through the tube and surged over the dark grounds. She removed the spirit-lamp, took up the spoon to stir the mixture, then paused in an attitude of listening.

S’sh! Was that the gate? Don’t tell me someone is coming here!

I didn’t hear anything.

No, but I did.

She crossed to the window and drawing the curtains a few inches apart, peered through into the outer darkness.

There’s no one. I must have been mistaken. She returned to the fire and began to pour out the coffee. Silly to be so jumpy, but I’m serious about not wanting anyone to know you’re here. I—oh, I was right, after all!

This time both started and exchanged questioning looks. From the front door came a peculiar, hesitating ring, followed by a double rat-tat on the knocker.

Charnwood thought it quite absurd of her to change colour, suddenly clasping her hands at her breast.

Why on earth should she be alarmed?

Chapter Two

Charnwood moved towards the hall, but a gesture from Iris stopped him.

No, I’ll go—stay where you are.

Listening, he heard a man’s hoarse voice from the Outer threshold saying, Un paquet pour Madame de Bertincourt. Then the door closed.

So that was all. Their excitement had been wasted on a delivery man bringing a parcel. He looked with amused relief at Iris as she came in again, holding a long cardboard box.

Flowers, she announced with a note of inquiry. I can’t think who sent them, unless—was it you again?

Not this time, he denied. You have another admirer apparently.

She frowned a little as she loosened the wrappings and uncovered a sheaf of long-stemmed red roses, dewy, perfect. On top lay an envelope, which she tore only to click her tongue with annoyed surprise.

You don’t seem pleased.

For a second she did not answer. Then she held the card out at arm’s length for him to see.

He put on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and, reading, gave a low whistle.

Monsieur Marcel de Bertincourt! Your husband? But what the devil’s the meaning of this?

She cast the box from her on to the chaise-longue, and returned to his side, face clouded with vexation.

It’s one of the inexplicable things about him, she declared slowly, putting two lumps of sugar into Charnwood’s cup, "that in spite of everything he invariably sends me flowers—red roses—on our wedding anniversary. Every year, without fail. Mathilde takes them to the Sisters across the street; these will go there to-morrow. But this time—really, it’s going too far! There’s no reason that I can see, for it’s not any anniversary. Or no—let me think—what is today? October seventh . . . well, it almost is. Yes, to-morrow is the date of our formal fiançailles."

Odd, commented Charnwood, discomfited. You never told me he did that sort of thing. He could not possibly understand how a man who had flagrantly neglected his wife should persist in paying her sentimental tributes. It was certainly quite un-English. How do you explain it?

I don’t explain it. By now I suppose it’s become a habit, purely mechanical.

Do you think by any chance he still cherishes an affection for you?

Affection? She gave a little scornful laugh. He doesn’t know the meaning of the word. Let’s not talk of it.

Very well, we won’t. But there’s one question I’d like to ask you, now we’re on the subject. He put his hand under her chin, raising her head so that he could look straight into her eyes. Are you absolutely sure you could never live with him again? Under any circumstances? I want to know before it’s too late. She met his gaze steadily.

Absolutely, Alan. I got over all that so long ago it seems to belong to another life.

He was not entirely satisfied.

I believe that, Iris. But why is it you seem more nervous about our affairs than you were in the beginning? What has happened to upset you?

She sipped her coffee slowly, trying to put her thoughts into suitable words.

It’s just this, if you must know, she replied presently. For a little while lately Clare was asking me uncomfortable questions. She stopped, but I’m afraid she may begin again.

What sort of questions?

Oh, about her father, why I couldn’t live with him, if it wouldn’t be happier for us all if we made things up. I simply don’t know how to answer her. She’s too young to be told the truth.

Oh, I see! His face cleared. Well, I shouldn’t let that bother me. It’s sad for her, of course, that she can’t have both her parents, but in a case like this there is nothing to be done about it.

Nothing, she cried in complete agreement. Besides, it’s not as if he’d shown the faintest interest in her. Thank God he hasn’t! It would have made things more difficult, for I’ve definitely wanted to keep her away from him.

You think he might do her harm?

In subtle ways, yes. Marcel has such enormous charm, she went on thoughtfully. It would be so easy for a young impressionable girl to fall under his spell. He could make her believe anything. Oh, I’m glad he never attempts to see her!

I see. Then you need have no cause to look back. He bent his head. Their lips met, clung together for long seconds. When they drew apart she was breathless, her cheeks on fire.

What were we saying a little while ago? she asked hurriedly, to restore her balance.

You were about to tell me how you came to marry de Bertincourt. Also I want to know about this aunt of yours, and why you are so frightened of her?

Frightened? I’m not frightened, she declared stoutly. I’m my own mistress, I can do as I like. She threw wide her arms with a gesture of freedom. No, it’s not that. But I dread scenes. She’s old, childless—which explains much—and has a terribly dominating nature. I don’t want to cross her more than is necessary, for I know what it would mean.

He lit a cigarette for her, and presently she continued, puffing thoughtfully and looking into the fire,

She quarrelled with her younger sister—my mother—for marrying an Englishman; but when we were left with only a small pension to live on—my father was killed in the Boer War—she offered us a home and in every way was generosity and kindness itself. That is what she likes—doing things for people, making them dependent on her; but she exacts a price. She must and will possess one entirely. Nothing else contents her.

Were you fond of her?

One can’t love Tante Victoire, it’s impossible; but I am very grateful to her. When my mother died and there was no one to dispute her claim, she regarded me as her own property to do with as she saw fit. She lavished a sort of Spartan devotion on me, reared me in the most rigid French manner, instilled into my mind ridiculous prejudices, religious and otherwise. Every book I read, every play I saw—Racine, Molière, there was nothing else—she chose for me. As for ideas of modesty! She broke into a ringing laugh. Why, do you know that until I was married I had never taken a bath naked, but always wrapped from head to foot in a peignoir!

Charnwood’s jaw dropped.

But this is the Middle Ages!

Middle Ages or not, it is a fact. I was a jeune fille pure and simple. Very pure and extremely simple.

Well, go on.

She pushed back a bit of burning wood with her toe and took up her story.

All this time I had lived in the mouldy old Château in Côte d’Or. I had never spoken to any man alone, rarely seen a young one. Then one day when I was seventeen I was driving with my aunt along a country road, and we met a young man on horseback, who bowed to us. A moment later Tante Victoire said to me, ‘Marie,’—for she never called me by my English: name—‘Marie, that gentleman who passed is your cousin, Marcel de Bertincourt, of whom we have often talked. In two months he will be your husband.

Charnwood’s face was a study in outraged indignation.

Like that? Good God! Do you mean you had no choice?

Oh, I could have rebelled, I suppose, but frankly I never thought of doing so. Everything else in life had been decided for me, why not marriage? Then too I was tremendously enthralled by accounts of Marcel, whom Tante Victoire adored. He was young, brilliant, lived in Paris. I would live in Paris. You can’t guess how that delighted me! Does a chrysalis want to break from its cocoon?

But surely you got to know him before you were married?

I saw him perhaps half a dozen times, never unchaperoned, except once for ten minutes. Still, I will tell you this: I was convinced that I worshipped him utterly. He was my hero, my ideal—he could do no wrong. That’s not strange. I had no one to compare him with, and was only too eager to wrap the garment of my romantic fancy round the first available object. Not that he wouldn’t have inspired love in any case. He was attractive, understood women perfectly, and at that time was on his best behaviour.

I daresay you’ve told me some of this before, said Charnwood, but I didn’t take it in. When did you begin to find him out?

Oh, immediately. He had married because his parents were pressing him to do so. The whole thing was arranged between them and my aunt. But he had no intention of altering his mode of life or inconveniencing himself in any way. Pleasure came first, and I’m afraid after a few weeks I didn’t mean pleasure.

She broke off, thinking of her bitter disillusionment.

Oh, well, I’ll not dwell on the rest of it. As I’ve said, when Clare was four years old I found myself at home again, sometimes at the Château, sometimes in Paris, but always, because I was beholden to Tante Victoire and it was the line of least resistance, letting her order my life for me in every detail. Outwardly I was a sort of automaton; I believe my brain ceased to function.

She mused lightly, letting her hands lie in his. He kissed the bright parting of her hair.

At all events it’s functioning now extraordinarily well! How did you come alive like this?

Entirely through Helen Roderick. You know—my working partner.

He nodded. On the occasion of his last visit he had met Miss Roderick, a vivid American woman, go-ahead, full of decision.

How was that?

"She offered me a job. I hadn’t the courage to attempt it, but she insisted. I happened to be alone for once; Tante Victoire had gone to Aix. So, half as a joke, I tried my hand at some work on L’Étoile—chiefly social articles. I’d a certain pull with the older, conservative people who are hard to reach, and that was my asset. Well, to my amazement, I succeeded, began to earn money. Oh! the joy of it! It went to my head like champagne."

And your aunt?

She was furious, tried to make me give it up. But it was too late, the leaven was working. I could never be the same inert lump again. That’s all, really, she wound up, smiling at him. "In a year I was making a regular salary, a little longer and I was able to do without financial help. Then I made a bold stand, took this little place of my own, and voilà! my bonds were broken. Since that time I’ve been entirely on my own and— with a humorous shrug, Tante Victoire has never forgiven me!"

And you don’t regret that?

Do I look as though I did? Why, it’s been my salvation to break away. During those awful years I was stifling something vital within me which turned into slow poison. Once it was set free I became a different being.

But did it never occur to you that you could be free in another sense? Marry again, I mean?

Dimly, perhaps; but till I met you it didn’t seem a necessity. See how you’ve changed me!

And England? You won’t hate living there? he inquired rather anxiously. After all Paris was Paris; it got into one’s veins.

"Hate England? I adore it! Everything about it thrills me—gardens, nursery-tea, even—even suet puddings give me a positive frisson of delight!"

They both broke into laughter.

Then there’ll be countless exotic experiences for you, he promised, hugging her. God! To think it won’t be for a year! . . . See here, Iris, he said, serious once more, I’m too old to waste time. Give me your word to go straight ahead with this divorce business. You won’t put it off? he urged.

Am I likely to? No, my solicitor has everything prepared. He’s only waiting for my instructions.

Good! I believe French law manages these matters quickly. Supposing I am back from Uganda in the middle of the summer—there’ll be nothing after that to keep us apart?

Nothing, nothing! She had slipped into the big chair beside him, her face close to his. Oh, to think I have lived all this time, and have only just found—this!

The pressure of his arms closed about her, and for a long interval they remained thus, yielding themselves up with the completeness possible only when minds as well as bodies find their complement.

A portion of the log burned through, sending up a fiery powder of sparks. From the photograph above their heads Clare’s dark-lashed eyes looked out, direct, untried, inscrutable. They had forgotten her.

Suddenly the telephone on the table pierced the silence with a nerve-shattering peal. Iris shivered, sprang to her feet.

C’est trop fort! she cried with an angry shrug. Are we never to be left alone? Who is it now? and snatching up the instrument, she called Allo, Allo! in a tone of sharp vexation.

Charnwood, watching, saw her expression alter.

My aunt’s butler, she whispered, puzzled. What can he want? Aloud she spoke rapidly, Qu’est ce qu’il y a donc, Edmond? Madame me désire? Comment! Madame est déjà sortie? Incroyable!

She banged down the receiver and looked at Charnwood in consternation.

There! What did I tell you? Tante Victoire is on her way this very minute to see me. To-night of all times! How utterly damnable of her!

Coming here? But why? he exclaimed indignantly.

You may well ask. The butler says she’s heard from Clare that I was indisposed. I pretended to have a sore throat, you know, as an excuse for not going to the school. But I don’t for a moment believe it’s that. No, depend on it, she’s got hold of a rumour. Somehow she’s found out about you and she wants to make sure. I know it!

There was a fierce fatalism about her assertion. He soothed her as though she were an unreasonable child.

Rubbish, the thing’s impossible. No one knows I’m here. She’s not clairvoyante, I suppose?

"Oh, you may joke, but there’s some suspicion at the back of her brain, otherwise she’d never dream of coming out at night. If you knew how she spies on me, ringing up Mathilde when I’m out, trying to discover