Bright Hair About the Bone (10 page)

She heard her own voice accounting her godfather's many skills in disjointed phrases. It occurred to her that she'd never before needed to explain the man or his brilliance to anyone. Everyone in her large circle was aware of Daniel Thorndon. Praising him in conversation with a stranger or just doing him justice was proving as embarrassing as praising oneself.

Gunning seemed to pick up the reason for her hesitation. “He sounds a remarkable man.”

Good Lord—now he was encouraging
her
to talk. She smiled and went on more freely. “He certainly was. The development of languages was his fascination—from Sanskrit onwards. He taught me Latin and Greek and made sure I went to a school which encouraged intellectual curiosity as well as cold showers and lacrosse. Are you thinking,” she said, bluntly, “that these medieval treasures you've just waved under my nose belong in France and may have been illegally sold abroad? And that my godfather was somehow aware of this?”

“I wouldn't voice such a suspicion without a great deal more evidence. I just thought it was interesting and that you ought to be alerted. I know you didn't preserve any of his letters, but can you recall any details of his work or his life in France which seem significant in the light of his killing? Perhaps something in his earlier correspondence, before he became aware that he was under surveillance?”

“You're really taking your job seriously, William.” She said it gently.

He turned to her in some surprise. “Why would I not? I'm being—and for the first time in my life—well paid! And this is, I believe, a very serious situation you're plunging into with such insouciance, a situation which provoked the murder of a good man on account of something he knew, something he was about to discover or reveal to the world. A man, from all accounts, who could well—in the days when I had friends—have been my friend.”

She was moved to touch his hand and say quietly, “Daniel would have agreed, I know.” She added lightly, “But cheer up! Now you've got
me.
”

She decided to interpret his gusty sigh as a welcome touch of playfulness.

“I have been holding something back,” she confessed. “It's not much, probably nothing. Tell me what you think.” She leaned over into the dickey seat and opened her Gladstone bag. “Here, look at this.”

He examined the book she handed him. “An English publication:
The Ecclesiastical Architecture of France.
”

“It was in a box amongst Daniel's effects, returned to us from Burgundy. I thought it might be just what you needed to use on this expedition. Turn to page forty-one, will you?”

He did as she asked. “It's a section on Fontigny-Sainte-Reine…but more precisely, the church—not the abbey—the Église de la Sainte-Madeleine.” He frowned. “Is this significant?”

Letty sighed. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. The book just fell open at that page because he'd left a marker in it. It occurred to me that it might give us…me…a clue as to what had been occupying his mind at the last. Daddy says they found it on his desk when they cleared up his things.”

“I know this church,” he told her. “Not intimately, but I visited it once for a service. As described here—squat and solid twelfth century, Romanesque style with a belfry. And a surprisingly lovely fresco. Of the patron saint, of course. Mary Magdalene.”

“You know this area well?” she ventured to ask.

“Not very well. I passed through it some years ago. After the war.” His reply was, as she had come to anticipate, evasive, reluctantly given. He took the guidebook from her hands. “Look, if you don't mind, Stella, I'll keep this. It's just the sort of thing a wandering English vicar would have in his pocket anyway.”

She nodded her consent.

He leaned across to put the book away in the glove box and continued with his questioning. “Tell me what Daniel did outside his working hours. Did he tell you how he spent his leisure?”

She frowned. “It's a small country town. The opportunities for pleasure-seeking are few, I should imagine.” And, wriggling impatiently: “Look, shouldn't we be getting on?”

He made no move to start the car, so she added, “He did say he'd become friendly with a local family…an elderly couple…what was their name? Daumier…Dulac? His new friend was an antiquarian like him, and the two old buffers had taken to spending their evenings together poring over ancient manuscripts. If ever I meet them, I'll thank M. and Mme. Daumier for the comfort and companionship they brought to Daniel's last months.”

“That's all you have to report?”

Was that disappointment in his tone? No, it was impatience.

Feeling herself under interrogation, Laetitia replied coldly, “I'm not obliged to report anything to you, Mr. Gunning. If you're fancying yourself as a Dr. Watson figure in my life, you can forget it!” She decided to be firm. “Listen. When we arrive in France we will be two English guests using the same guest house, but we will not
know
each other. In the exceedingly remote possibility of my life being threatened I will try to alert you, so that you may start praying, but that's as far as it goes. You are not to shadow me, get under my feet, or in any way annoy me. Is that clear?”

He turned a stern gaze on her and for the first time she became aware that his eyes were blue. Why would she have noticed? They were eyes that normally received more than they gave out. But at this moment they were crackling with the chill of a February sky over the frozen fens.

“I take my pay and my orders from your father, Miss Stella. I will deliver you safely and I will return you in pristine condition back home to Cambridge at the end of your four months' self-indulgence. And may I make it quite clear that I will do whatever is necessary—whether it meets with your approval or not—to bring about that happy outcome. An outcome to which I look forward with not a little eagerness.”

Laetitia swallowed and dragged her eyes from the cold blaze to stare ahead through the windscreen. Any riposte to his biting cynicism would have sounded petty. She pointed a finger in the direction of Paris.

“You may drive on, Gunning,” she said coolly.

CHAPTER 10

T
he watcher in the Église de la Sainte-Madeleine sat motionless, a darker shadow amongst the deepening shadows on the south side of the nave. Large-brimmed hat, long black robe, head bowed over his rosary, it would have been easy to mistake him for one of the many ecclesiastics who came and went during the day. But his eyes, which flicked constantly towards the apse, were not lost in adoration of the Lord or even admiration for the medieval frescoes. They were narrowed in irritation and were focused on the back of an iron-grey head, it too bowed in contemplation.

What in hell was he up to, this Englishman? He'd been in place at the east end of the church for an hour or more and his follower, not a man readily seduced by church architecture, was growing impatient. Whatever was going on in front of the altar, it wasn't prayer. His target's head was constantly on the move, looking up and then immediately looking down. Oh, Lord! The fellow was at it again! Sketching. The watcher shifted his position slightly. This could take hours. A vicar
and
an artist. The watcher wondered how much of his time he should spend on this innocent before reporting back.

He swallowed a yawn. He'd wasted a week observing the man. The most tedious week of his life. Still, Don Juan himself would have been pushed to find opportunities for mischief in this part of the world. An English vicar wouldn't know where to start. They all headed straight for the fleshpots of the Côte d'Azur anyway. He'd give it ten minutes, no more, then slip out for a beer.

The watcher's eyes rose and lingered furtively as they always did on the image of the patron saint of the church painted in glowing colours on the wall opposite.

Harlot!

He'd never understood why such a woman should be venerated above all others here. There were so many more deserving saints to choose from. By no means an incisive or informed critic of art, he tried to account for his revolted fascination. The red dress with its sumptuous folds, the flowing yellow hair, the adoring sea grey eyes—all these were to be expected in a depiction of the Magdalene. But there was something different about this one, more disturbing. He couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Still no move from the Englishman. The watcher rose to his feet and genuflected automatically, but then slid abruptly back into his seat again at the entry into the church of another visitor. A woman. Young and lovely. English, too, judging by her clothes and looks. His heartbeat quickened. He was about to witness a rendezvous. This was more like it!

The blonde girl put down a travelling bag at the back of the church and moved slowly down the aisle, head raised, guidebook in hand, pausing to take in details of the decoration, quite obviously a tourist. Hardly worth his attention, but she was certainly easier on the eye than the curé.

Suddenly she became aware of the other visitor still busily sketching away with his back to her. She froze and, with a sigh of annoyance, turned on her heel and walked silently from the church. The watcher smiled. That was the English for you—they'd run a mile to avoid the company of a foreigner on holiday. They'd run two miles to avoid the company of a compatriot. Decidedly not an assignation then.

He slipped out of the building. The girl was much more interesting than the vicar. He'd follow her for a bit. He knew how to justify a change of target. Lugging her heavy bag, she made her way across the square to the Café de la Paix. A bit of luck at last. He seated himself at a table on the terrace, from where he had a clear view of both the girl and the door of the church, and ordered a cold beer. She took her time choosing a table and ordering a drink and the waiter hurried off to get it.

All foreigners passing through came in for surveillance. Occasionally for action a little more decisive. It was to be hoped neither of these two foreigners raised any lethal suspicions. The watcher fingered the heavy cross dangling from his neck.

If ordered, he'd do it without question or comment, of course, but all the same—a man of God…a pretty young girl—He had a sudden tug of doubt. What nonsense! He must be letting the robes he was wearing influence him.

Fantasies flooded his brain, fantasies where he got close enough to the girl to kill her. Close enough to smell the scent of her smooth skin, her sudden rush of fear, the flaring of her eyes as they opened wide to take in their last terrifying image, her helpless wriggling. Though this girl's wriggling might not be all that helpless. He peered at her in a professional way under the brim of his hat. She was tall as he was, and well built. Confident-looking. Better taken from behind. Through the folds of his robe he touched the reassuring handle of the weapon in his belt, calculating distances and angles. At least she'd be easy to track—that golden head would stand out against any background. Apart, perhaps, from a cornfield. A ripe cornfield in August. For a confusing moment the image of the Magdalene flashed into his mind, challenging and disturbing him. He crunched his rosary in his palm and put some coins on the table, preparing to leave.

Too late! He'd left it too late. To his consternation, she looked straight at him and smiled. At
him
? She raised her eyebrows in…what? Greeting? Recognition? He cast a furtive look over his shoulder to check whether she'd spotted someone behind him. No one else in range. He tilted his head forward, hiding his face under his hat. Not to be put off, the wretched girl got up and moved towards him.

“Mon père, excusez-moi de vous déranger,”
she said, and went on to ask directions to the rue Lamartine.

He couldn't have been more wrong. It seemed the girl was French. She spoke with the speed and confidence of a Parisian. He couldn't be drawn into a conversation. He put a finger over his lips and, with the other hand, signed to her that she should take the road on the left at the far end of the square. She thanked him and apologised again for disturbing him, as if taking him for a member of a silent order. With another smile, she returned to the
citron pressé
which had just appeared at her table.

         

An hour spent in careful survey can save a week's work.

Remembering Andrew Merriman's words, Letty sat back and stared about her, eager to absorb the character of the pretty town. She sipped her lemon drink and looked around as a tourist might, shading her eyes to look upwards first of all at the commanding height of the spire of the abbey. The remaining structure, bulked about it, was very obviously truncated—no more than fragments of the extensive ecclesiastical buildings that had been put up in the tenth century. In its day, Fontigny abbey must have rivalled Cluny or Vézelay in grandeur. She cursed the vandal hand of Napoleon.

Relieved to have spotted William Gunning in the church before it became necessary to acknowledge his presence, she'd been struck by his careful planning and the wholehearted way he'd apparently plunged into his role. But it had been a mistake on her part, perhaps, to have approached the man in black for directions. Probably no lasting harm done. She hadn't got a clear look at his face, but she had the impression that he'd been shocked out of all proportion to her mundane enquiry. What could have triggered the over-reaction? Not her appearance. Her beige travelling suit and white blouse were deliberately chosen to raise no eyebrows, even in deepest conservative France.

She watched the priest's retreating back as he shuffled slowly off towards the church. Returning to say a few Hail Marys? To ask forgiveness for wicked thoughts? She didn't think so. She lingered on, enjoying the sudden rush of people onto the square. School was turning out. Mothers and children chirruped together as they made their way home. The door of the
boulangerie
opposite swung open constantly, releasing tantalizing wafts of newly baked bread. Small boys sent, still wearing their grey school pinafores, to buy the family baguettes for the evening meal, paused to take a bite from one nubbly end before scooting off on their way home. In the market square, the last stallholder to pack up and move away, a grandmotherly figure with a face the colour and texture of a walnut shell, doled out leftover strawberries to passing children. Letty smiled with satisfaction. It didn't take her long to feel at home again in her mother's country.

Small-town France. Yes, that was Fontigny-Sainte-Reine all right. Green hills rose up on all sides, protective or suffocating, depending on your point of view. The boundaries were clearly marked out as, no doubt, were the lives of the people who lived within this sheltered bowl. And Stella St. Clair was going to stand out like a sore thumb among them. Letty shrugged. She wasn't there to hide herself.

The time spent with her mother's family south of Paris had been blissful. A great deal of riding in the forest and good conversation. Flirting even, with the parade of eligible young Frenchmen her aunt had laid on. And: “Burgundy? But why? Oh, no, my dear! You can't possibly! But it's the back of beyond! Whom will you meet? What will you do all day? Dig? Dig! Are you mad? No—we're all going down to Cap Ferrat next week. Do come! Your trunk has arrived—we'll simply re-direct it. Now—let me tell you who'll be there…There'll be crowds of young things of your age…all the cousins…oh—and do you remember that young man you got fond of in Britanny five years ago…”

And, of course, Tante Genevieve was quite right. She was mad to have embarked on this nonsense. She'd been tempted to go off with the family. Her father, she knew, had calculated as much. But, in the end, she decided she couldn't run the risk of being fished, struggling, out of the Mediterranean by an irate William Gunning, determined to earn his five pounds a week. Her very own parfitt, not-so-
gentil
knight. Gunning would have tracked her down, she thought with a shudder.

         

Letty lifted the lion's head knocker and gave two sharp raps, an anxious eye on the crumbling masonry of the façade of number 42 rue Lamartine. She took a step back in case she'd dislodged a loose piece of plaster and looked upwards at the tottering building. Fourteenth century, possibly earlier, she guessed, with the glamorous Romanesque arch to the ground floor that most of the ancient houses in this street had, announcing an earlier use as a shop of some sort. The house next door had even preserved its ancient stall-board. Preserved? Just failed to remove it, probably. There were few indications of deliberate preservation in this tumbledown part of the town.

Daniel must have adored it.

The heavy door creaked open and a smiling woman wiping her hands on a pinafore flung it wide in welcome and then seized her bag. “Mademoiselle St. Clair? Come in! Come in! I am Constance Huleux. You arrive a little early, I think? You catch me dressed like a kitchen maid! Will you have a cup of tea before I show you to your room? We have many English guests, mademoiselle—I can assure you that the tea will be good.” She called over her shoulder: “Marie-Louise! Tea in the guests' parlour! At once!”

Unlike the disregarded exterior, the inside of the house was as neat as a pin, polished to perfection and lightly scented with lavender. From the back quarters crept a delicious smell of cooking. Letty followed Mme. Huleux into a parlour overlooking the street, though she could barely make out the street through the cascades of geraniums and thick net curtains. The room was comfortably furnished with a sofa and matching chairs that would not have disgraced Versailles. There were tables scattered about and, along one wall, crowded bookshelves. The sober shapes of dictionaries and works of reference were jostled by the jaunty yellow spines of French novels; there was a good admixture of English books, mainly popular thrillers and detective mysteries of the kind left behind, generously or carelessly, for the enjoyment of other readers. A good-sized desk was provided with ink and a blotter and bore a neat stack of letters. Residents' mail, Letty guessed.

“This is the guests' room.” Mme. Huleux gestured about her with satisfaction. “Your own room, you will see, is very adequate for space but we find that the sort of visitors we have like to gather together in the evening for conversation or games or even work. We invite you to make use of this room whenever you please, mademoiselle.”

They chatted with increasing confidence about the journey and Letty's first impressions of Fontigny while they waited for the tea. Mme. Huleux mentioned several times her relief that her new guest spoke such good French. “If only some of the others would take the trouble,” she muttered, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “But you will meet your fellow guests for dinner this evening. Seven o'clock sharp. We keep early hours in the country, you'll find. Just the family in the house at the moment. My old husband is out in the back garden choosing a pair of rabbits for tomorrow's meal, and Marie-Louise you'll see in a moment…Ah! Here she is!”

Not the maid, after all, but the daughter of the house, Marie-Louise Huleux entered bearing a tray of blue-and-white flowered china and an enormous teapot. A slight and pretty woman in her late twenties, she had an angular, strong-featured face whose gravity was lightened by a cloud of frizzy, rich brown hair cut fashionably short. By scissors expertly wielded, Letty guessed, in Paris rather than the High Street in Fontigny. Her eyes were the dramatic dark brown shade the French called
marron
and she wore no trace of makeup.