The Punishment of a Vixen

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The French occupied Colomb-Bechar in Southern Morocco in 1903 and Bergnent in 1904. Determined not to see her European rival move into Morocco, Germany reacted immediately and called a conference in Spain of representatives from some thirty countries. From this meeting a mandate was granted to France and Spain to guarantee order in Morocco.

  In 1911 France obtained a free hand and it was not until 1956 that Sultan Mohammed V obtained a treaty granting Morocco independence in the Northern zone.

  In 1960 an earthquake demolished the city of Agadir, by then a celebrated summer resort, killing 22,000 people in fifteen seconds.

  Tafraout in the beautiful Ammeln Valley is still as secret and mysterious as it was centuries ago. In the late 1930s French engineers slowly built a difficult, zigzagging road to the town and afterwards, when Sacheverell Sitwell visited Tafraout to extol it as one of the three most beautiful places in Africa, he wondered if he was the first Anglo-Saxon ever to see it.

  CHAPTER ONE

  1903

  The open carriage drawn by two horses stopped outside the door of the villa and a gentleman climbed out.

  As he paid the driver who had brought him from Cannes station, he heard the sound of music coming from the house and saw that the garden was decorated with Chinese lanterns.

  There was only one leather case to be set down and a footman running down the steps lifted it up to carry it into the house.

  The driver touched his cap in acknowledgement of a generous tip.

  As he drove away, the gentleman stood for a moment on the steps looking between the tall dark cypress trees to where some distance away the Mediterranean gleamed in the moonlight.

  It was very beautiful and the music in the background enhanced the inevitable suggestion of romance. Then he turned and walked up the steps to where in the hall the butler was waiting for him.

  “Good evening, Mr. Tyrone,” he said with the welcoming smile of an old retainer. “We were expecting you yesterday, sir.”

  “Yes, I know, Ronaldson,” the newcomer said, “but the trains from the East are invariably unpunctual and I arrived in Paris too late to catch my connection.”

  “Her Ladyship’ll be very glad to hear you’ve arrived safely.” “Don’t tell her until I have washed and changed,” Tyrone Strome said. “I see you are having a party.”

  “Yes, Mr. Tyrone, a dinner dance for the young people.” There was something almost contemptuous in the butler’s voice that made Tyrone Strome laugh.

  He was well aware that Ronaldson, who had been with his sister’s family for many years, disliked what he considered ‘informal occasions’.

  “Show me where I am to sleep,” he suggested. “As I am travelling light, I doubt if I shall be smart enough for a party.”

  “Knowing, sir, you’d doubtless be staying with her Ladyship,” Ronaldson answered. “I brought a suit of your evening clothes with me from London.”

  Tyrone Strome smiled,

  “I am grateful, Ronaldson, as I always am for the excellent way you look after me. I only wish I could take you with me on my travels.”

  “Heaven forbid, Mr. Tyrone!” the butler exclaimed. “I would have enjoyed your type of life, sir, when I was young, but I’m past adventuring at my age.”

  Tyrone Strome laughed quietly and followed Ronaldson as he moved slowly and rather pompously along a corridor on the ground floor of the villa passing a number of salons as he did so.

  He was aware that he would be sleeping in the rooms which he invariably occupied when he enjoyed his sister’s hospitality.

  He was, however, always so vague as to when he would arrive or when he would leave that he did not count on having special treatment, except that Ronaldson would have been affronted if he had not been accommodated in what the butler considered proper style.

  The rooms they finally reached were built out from the villa, connected to it by a long covered passage.

  The previous owner had been a writer who desired solitude and had therefore built himself what was to all intents and purposes a tiny chalet.

  On the edge of a ravine it had in the daytime a breathtaking view over the sea and coast.

  High up on the hill Lady Merrill’s villa had an unequalled position, but even better than the main building itself was this small chalet which her brother always looked upon as his own.

  “Everything is ready for you, Mr. Tyrone,” the butler said with satisfaction, “and I’ll send a footman, sir, to unpack your valise. He’s French, but well up in his duties.”

  “Thank you, Ronaldson. As you realise, I have been travelling very light, but my yacht should be in the harbour by now, in which case I have a number of things aboard which I can send for tomorrow.”

  “I think, sir, you’ll find everything you need for this evening.” “I am sure I shall.”

  As he spoke, Tyrone Strome climbed the narrow stairway from the sitting room to the bedroom over it.

  As he entered the attractive room in which the decorations were predominantly white, he saw his tailcoat and stiff shirt lying ready for him on a chair.

  He looked at them and made a grimace, thinking how uncomfortable they would be after the casual clothes he had been wearing these last three months.

  He had in fact been on a secret and at times dangerous mission to the East, travelling incognito so that the passport he carried did not bear his real name.

  When he had sent off his report from Paris last night, having on arrival spent most of the night preparing it, he had known that certain people in London would be extremely pleased at what he had been able to achieve.

  Tyrone Strome had always been a mystery man to his contemporaries, to his friends and even to his sister who adored him.

  He had worked in the Foreign Office for some years. Then unexpectedly and without explanation he had taken to travelling to obscure parts of the world, leaving no address behind and being very reluctant on his return to talk of where he had been.

  Many people considered him just an inveterate traveller. It was only in a certain anonymous department of the Foreign Office that Tyrone Strome’s name was always spoken of with awe and respect.

  Now, when he knew he could relax the pressure under which he had worked for the last months, he felt suddenly very tired.

  It was, he knew, the reaction to having to be permanently on the alert and on his guard – never being able to enter a room without thinking that someone might be behind the door, never being able to speak without choosing every word with care.

  Now it was all over, he thought, and he intended to enjoy himself with his sister Helene and make no plans for the future until they were forced upon him.

  He started to undress and as he did so there was a knock at the door and the footman Ronaldson had sent entered.

  “I’ve come to unpack, monsieur,” he said in French. “Thank you,” Tyrone Strome said. “There is only my valise.”

  He pointed to where the other footman had left it beside the wardrobe, then throwing his coat onto a chair walked into the bathroom.

  One of the pleasant things about his sister’s villa was that it had modern bathrooms of the type that were rare in Europe.

  The Americans, Tyrone Strome thought, were almost like the ancient Romans in their desire to bathe frequently and they made sure there were a number of luxurious bathrooms in every house they occupied.

  In Europe, especially in England, the choice was usually between a hip bath in one’s bedroom, with brass cans of water dragged up innumerable stairs by sweating servants or a bathroom situated at the end of a long cold corridor where it took hours for the hot tap to produce anything but tepid water.

  Lying in the dee
p, warm, comfortable bath with which he was provided here in the South of France, Tyrone felt as if he washed away not only the dust of his journey but also the anxieties that had made his latest exploit a hair-raising experience.

  It had been one of the most difficult assignments he had ever undertaken and he told himself that his success entitled him to have a very long and lazy holiday.

  This he intended to spend with his sister, who was the only close member of his family alive and for whom he had an unswerving devotion.

  Lady Merrill was in fact fourteen years older than her brother and had mothered him after their mother died when Tyrone was a very small boy.

  Left a widow three years ago, she had only one son, David, now Lord Merrill, whom she adored.

  David had been at Oxford when Tyrone Strome had last been with his sister and he remembered now that he had not seen the boy for nearly two years.

  He looked forward to renewing his acquaintance with his nephew, but he realised that, as David was now twenty-one, he would not find the villa as quiet as it had been in the past.

  There would be dinner dances, of which Ronaldson obviously disapproved, doubtless taking place night after night and he told himself in that case he would either stay quietly in his own chalet reading or sleep aboard his yacht.

  He had no intention of being part of the gay glittering set which had made the Riviera one of the most fashionable parts of Europe.

  Monte Carlo had always drawn the famous and the infamous ever since it had opened its doors to gamblers, but the King when he was the Prince of Wales had made Cannes fashionable.

  Now rich Noblemen, politicians and social climbers were all seeking villas in the vicinity.

  ‘I have every intention of being quiet,’ Tyrone Strome told himself.

  He knew he could rely on his sister not to try to lionise him as so many other people had tried to do.

  It was not difficult to realise why.

  Tyrone Strome was not only an interesting and wealthy young man who came from a distinguished family – he was also extremely handsome and had a mysterious, intriguing quality about him that women found irresistible.

  They had no idea, of course, of the dangerous work in which he was so often engaged.

  But no one could have achieved what Tyrone Strome had in the past few years and not developed a personality which made him an object of interest and curiosity wherever he appeared.

  As he dried himself now after his bath, an impartial observer would have thought that his lean athletic frame looked like a Greek God.

  He was outstandingly fit and, when he went into his bedroom, the French valet, who was waiting to help him into his evening clothes, stared at him in admiration.

  Tyrone Strome talked to the man in perfect French. Then, when he was ready with the exception of his evening coat, he dismissed him.

  “There is no need to wait.”

  “I will tidy up later, monsieur.”

  “Thank you.”

  Tyrone Strome, waiting until the footman had withdrawn, turned out the lights and walked across the bedroom and through the open windows onto the balcony.

  He wished to look at the beauty that lay beneath him and at the star-strewn sky.

  He felt as if the loveliness of it soothed him, almost like a cool hand on his forehead.

  There was the smell of syringa and mimosa on the air and he knew that the purple bougainvillaea and the pink scented geraniums climbing over the balcony would in the morning hum with the sound of bees.

  It was all very familiar and peaceful and, as he put his elbows on the balcony and felt a very faint breath of wind from the sea, he wondered if he should stay here, content with his thoughts and not join the party.

  He felt out of tune with the noise and exuberance of young people, a dance band and the ‘pop’ of champagne corks.

  Then he told himself that the change was just what he needed.

  He had been concentrating so fiercely on the problems and difficulties of his assignment that it would take some time for his brain to become less active, his senses less perceptive.

  He was just about to take one last look to where the sea gleaming silver in the moonlight met the hazy horizon when he heard voices below him.

  “Listen to me, Nevada, I beg you! You have to listen!”

  It was a man’s voice and there was a note of urgency and pleading in it which seemed to Tyrone Strome to be almost like a signal of distress.

  “There is no such word as ‘must’ where I am concerned,” a woman replied.

  “You have been avoiding me, Nevada, and it is driving me mad! Why have you changed? Why are you treating me like this?”

  “Like what?”

  The words were almost a drawl and Tyrone Strome thought that she had a touch of an accent.

  “You know quite well what I mean. You were so kind and so sweet to me, then suddenly, after sweeping me up to the highest Heavens, you dropped me down into the deepest hell!”

  “Oh, David, how poetic!”

  “Dammit, will you take seriously what I am saying? I love you, Nevada, and you are driving me insane!”

  The woman gave a little laugh.

  “How theatrical you are and why do men always say the same things? I find your vocabulary very limited.”

  “You are mocking at me, you are trying to make me more unhappy than I am already. How can you be so cruel – so unkind?”

  Again the woman laughed.

  “Complaints – always complaints! I cannot think why men are never satisfied.”

  “Do not keep on talking about men,” David said savagely. Tyrone Strome knew now that it was his nephew, David Merrill, who was speaking.

  “I am not concerned with what you think about other men, but what you feel about me. I love you, Nevada. I want you to marry me. I have asked you often enough and if you continue to laugh at me and hold me up as a figure of fun I shall do something desperate!”

  “You are play-acting, David. You really would make your fortune on the stage! And what would this desperate act be? I am curious.”

  There was silence for a moment. Then David Merrill said solemnly,

  “If you want to know the truth, I have considered shooting myself.”

  His companion went into a peal of laughter.

  “How banal! I thought at least you would think of something original! Shooting themselves is what all my lovelorn swains threaten, but they never do it!”

  “One day you will get a shock.”

  “Not a shock – a surprise! It might be quite interesting to see a dead body – I have never seen one.”

  “Nevada! Will you not talk like that? I love you! How often must I tell you so? I love you desperately! I cannot sleep for thinking of you. Say you will marry me! I swear I will make you happy.”

  “If you want the truth, I think you would make me very unhappy,” Nevada replied. “Quite frankly, David, I have no intention of saddling myself with a husband who is nothing but a hysterical boy.”

  “I am a man and if you talk to me like that I will show you just how much of a man I am.”

  He made a movement towards her.

  “Do not dare to touch me!”

  The words were almost a snarl and she continued,

  “You know I will not let anyone touch me. In fact I despise you because the love you offer me is not worth having!”

  “What do you mean by that?” David asked.

  “You are weak and brainless or else you would find something better to do with your life than trying to end it. If I ever marry, which is most unlikely, let me tell you it will be with a man who can stand on his own two feet – a man who will take what he wants of life and not collapse at every setback.”

  “You think that is what I am doing?” David Merrill asked savagely.

  “I think you are young, inexperienced – and a bore!” “But I love you!”

  “It is the sort of love I have no use for.”

  “You seemed fond enou
gh of me once.”

  “That was before I knew you well. Have you ever asked yourself what you have to offer a woman – besides your title of course?”

  There was no doubt that Nevada meant to be nasty.

  “If that is what you feel about me, then there is nothing more to be said,” David answered.

  “Nothing,” Nevada agreed, “and so in future leave me alone. Find someone else to whine to. Some women like yapping lapdogs.”

  She walked away as she spoke and Tyrone Strome, listening from the balcony, heard the sound of her high heels on the paved path.

  He leaned a little further over the balcony and now he could see his nephew standing below, his face silhouetted against the darkness of a cypress tree.

  He was staring out to sea apparently in despair. Then, as he watched, Tyrone Strome saw him take something from his pocket.

  With the instinct of a man who senses danger, he moved quickly, put his leg over the balcony, let himself down by the arms and dropped to the ground.

  When he reached his nephew, David Merrill was staring at him in astonishment and holding a revolver in his hand. Tyrone Strome walked towards him.

  “Hello, David,” he said. “I seem to have arrived at a somewhat inopportune moment.”

  “Uncle Tyrone!” David managed to exclaim.

  “In person!” Tyrone Strome replied lightly.

  Reaching out, he took the revolver from his nephew’s hand and slipped it into the pocket of his trousers.

  “I am afraid I could not help eavesdropping,” he said quietly, “but to have announced my presence might have proved embarrassing.”

  David Merrill sat down on a garden chair and put his head in his hands.

  “What am I to do, Uncle Tyrone?” he asked. “She is driving me mad!”

  “So I gathered.”

  Tyrone Strome took a chair near his nephew’s and after a moment he said,

  “You don’t want to listen to the usual platitudes and I have no intention of uttering them. Shall I instead suggest an alternative to staying here and being unhappy?”

  “What else can I do?” David Merrill asked miserably. “She seemed to like me at first, then suddenly found every other man more interesting than me. I love her and I can think of nothing else. If she will not marry me, I might just as well be dead!”