Bright Hair About the Bone (11 page)

Marie-Louise smiled shyly and shook Letty's hand, murmuring politely. She took shelter behind the ritual gestures of the tea tray.

Letty pursued her. “And are you a working woman, Mademoiselle Huleux?” she asked, sure of her answer and so risking no offence. The smart blue serge dress and good shoes and the general air of watchful intelligence were indication enough that this girl didn't spend her days peering out from behind those net curtains.

“Please call me Marie-Louise,” she replied with a warm smile. “Or Malou, if you prefer. And, yes, I am. I'm a teacher. I'm in charge of the oldest class at the primary school.”

“You must call me Stella.”

“And, of course, Malou helps me with the organisation of this place in the holidays,” added her mother. “Since the excavations started over at the abbey two years ago we've had a constant flow of visitors, one after another. Most of them are American and English.”

“Delightful guests,” commented Marie-Louise quietly. “We have with us at the moment two young Americans, gentlemen, both working for M. Paradee. Philip and Patrick. Those are their Christian names—they have surnames but they never use them. Such attractive informality, don't you think? And we have an Englishman. A priest!”

“No, that's misleading, Malou.” Her mother hurried to correct and enlarge. “He's not a curé, mademoiselle. He's a Protestant vicar. Quite different. English vicars are not celibate—they are allowed to marry, is that not so, Mademoiselle Stella?” She threw an impish look at her daughter, who decided the moment had come to give her total attention to the refilling of the pot.

Suddenly Marie-Louise looked up, face flushed from bending over the steaming hot water jug, and smiled at Letty. “An odd concept for Frenchwomen to absorb, perhaps! But, on the understanding that this is so, one really must ask oneself why such a man as M. Gunning has remained unmarried.”

Letty could have supplied a thousand reasons.

“I can't wait to meet him!” she said politely.

“How old do you suppose he is,
Maman
? Forty? Perhaps. But charming and so good-looking! I can tell you, Stella, that your compatriot—for every moment he spends in this sad country of spinsters and widows—is at risk! Though you are not to tell him so. We would not like to see the vicar pack his bags and flee.”

“Do you know this man, mademoiselle?” Mme. Huleux's shining round face was alert with innocent interest. She suffered, apparently, from the common misconception that all foreigners must be acquainted with their own countrymen.

“I'm sorry, you'll have to tell me his name again…I didn't quite catch it,” said Letty. “William Gunning, you say?” She thought, then shook her head. “It's a distinctive name; I would have remembered it had I ever heard it before, I think. No. I've never met him.”

The easy conversation wound to its natural close, which coincided with the emptying of the teapot, and Mme. Huleux rose to her feet. “And now—if I may leave you down here for a moment or two—there are some finishing touches to your room which would have been attended to had you arrived on time—or better still—late! You will learn, mademoiselle, that I am always chasing my tail! Malou! The flowers! Did you remember to…?”

“In the sink. I'll get them, Maman!”

They swept from the room and clattered upstairs.

Letty strolled to the window and tugged at the net curtain. It rattled aside on its metal pole and she peered out into the street. A man was approaching from the town centre. William Gunning. She tweaked the curtain back and waited anxiously for him to enter. He greeted her politely and went straight to the bureau to pick up his letters.

“I'm about to be shown to my room,” she told him urgently. “I'll be brief. William, you're being followed.”

“Ah, yes. Today he chose to wear a black robe and funny hat. I was alarmed to see you approach him head-on.”

“You saw…?”

“Of course,” he interrupted, softly. “Who watches the watcher? I do! You're to keep out of that man's way.”

“Don't be theatrical. He looks a bit sinister but I don't think he can be dangerous. He made sure I didn't see his face but his hands gave him away. Gnarled! One broken thumb—right hand. Not the hands of a priest—I'd have said a farmer…a countryman of some sort. He was much too meek and flummoxed even to reply to my simple question. Tried to make out he was a Trappist or something to avoid speaking to me. I had noticed he'd used his voice to order a beer from the waiter though. Idiot!”

“Meek, you say? He carries a pistol.”

“A pistol? In Fontigny? I find that hard to believe. And how would you know? Does he take it out and twirl it round his trigger finger like Tom Mix?”

Gunning snorted with irritation, turned hurriedly, and made to leave the room. As he tried to pass her he caught his left foot under a rug, lost his balance, and would have fallen over if Letty hadn't instinctively reached for him, holding him firmly for a moment before setting him straight on his feet. “So sorry, William! Your poor leg! One forgets…you manage so well…” She murmured embarrassed reassurances.

Gunning seemed to have no time for apologies. “It's hardly a Colt revolver. It's the size of a Browning…slightly longer in the barrel perhaps—a Luger? Could be.”

With the impression of his hard body clutched against her side still troubling her, she sighed. “Ah! I see. You lurched into him, doing your ‘I'm only a poor one-legged cripple' routine? Thanks for the demonstration! Next time, I'll let you fall!”

“It can be surprisingly successful,” Gunning said dryly. “If I groped at the Queen, she'd feel sorry for me and apologise.”

“Well, every job has its challenges,” said Letty thoughtfully, “and I'd say hugging the man in black earns you a gold star. You're saying you got close enough to detect a bulge on his hip?”

“Yes. A pistol-sized bulge. Or a seriously bad case of arthritis. We—the early morning service starts at six o'clock but is not generally well attended and the atmosphere is somewhat bleak…” The door opened and Marie-Louise came in. “…You would do better, would she not, mademoiselle?” he continued smoothly, switching to French, “to attend the evening Mass.”

“Oh, yes,” Marie-Louise agreed. “The singing is so much more impressive. With a full choir. Mr. Gunning, I see you have introduced yourself to our guest?”

He smiled and nodded and put his letters away in a pocket. “And I'll see you both again at suppertime.” He sniffed the air stagily. “Thought I caught a whiff of boeuf bourguignon as I came through the hall? The cooking here, you'll find, Miss…um…St. Clair?…is nonpareil!”

Humming cheerfully—Letty thought she caught a snatch of “Onward, Christian Soldiers”—he went upstairs.

“Well, Stella?” asked Marie-Louise earnestly. “What do you think of our vicar?”

CHAPTER 11

L
etty thought her own hearing was acute but she hadn't been aware of Marie-Louise's silent approach until Gunning had abruptly changed tack. She wondered what the French-woman would have made of an impromptu reply to her question:
A man with the senses of a semi-feral cat…a man in whom the thin shell of urbanity is stretched tight over goodness only knows what writhing tensions. A serpent's egg.

“Charming!” she said, instead. “Quite charming! As far as I can judge on two minutes' acquaintance. He was a bit put out to find me here…though he must have been expecting me? He seemed to know my name.”

Marie-Louise nodded, rather disappointed with her response, Letty judged.

“And good-looking—as you said.” Ah, yes, that was what Mademoiselle wanted to hear! “A characterful face and rather distinguished. But a touch ascetic, don't you think? His idea of welcoming me to Fontigny was to recite the days and times of the church services!” She managed a disparaging giggle.

“When what you were dying to know was who's appearing at the Music Hall and where the casino is to be found?”

Letty was pleased to hear the slight touch of asperity that accompanied the other woman's bland smile. “Well, of course,” she agreed lightly, picking up her bag.

Her room was on the second floor overlooking the street. The furnishings were simple but she had everything she needed to spend a comfortable season here and, with the rigours of an English boarding school not a distant memory, it was a delight. Who wouldn't gladly have swapped a faded print of “The Light of the World” for a gentle Watteau landscape, thin cold linoleum for an Aubusson rug on polished oak floorboards? She noted with approval the creaking armoire, the dressing table and chair, all old and country-made. The bed looked comfortable, its sheets draped with a counterpane of pink-patterned toile de Jouy.

A black vase filled with a bountiful arrangement of white florist's blooms spoke of Marie-Louise's attentions. Letty acknowledged them with warmth. “How elegant! How modern! A touch of the Crillon in la rue Lamartine!”

As she spoke, she heard what might have been interpreted as condescension in her tone and blushed.

But Marie-Louise, she was relieved to see, accepted it as a compliment and smiled her pleasure. “And the latest novels.” Letty hurried on with genuine enthusiasm, pointing to a row of books on the bedside table, one or two still with uncut pages. “But where do you do your shopping, Marie-Louise?”

“I go to Paris with Maman once a year, but mostly I manage to go to Lyon on my day off. It's a wonderful city and has everything I need to affirm my sanity! Cafés, cinema, libraries—even bookshops! The bus route to Lyon is my lifeline!”

“What a wonderful selection!” said Letty, fingering the books. “I say, may I? You didn't buy these just for me, did you? You did!”

“Of course. Though if you should choose to leave them behind when you go—I should enjoy reading them. Some I've already read.”

“
Le Rouge et le Noir…
one of my favourites. And
La Femme Cachée.
The latest Colette? How lovely! And here's one in English I shall definitely re-read—
The Beautiful and Damned.
Is Scott Fitzgerald much read in France?”

“Oh, yes, but the translations lag behind the English publications. Perhaps you will be able to help me with some of the passages? But I'd like you to come and see the bathroom now, Stella. You will share this with me. We are the only people on this floor. My parents have their quarters at the back of the house on the floor below and the third floor is occupied entirely by the gentlemen guests.”

So—the sexes were conveniently segregated by floor. A good arrangement. Letty would not have been amused to bump into a dressing-gowned Gunning groping his way to his early morning ablutions.

With a reminder that pillows were to be found in the wardrobe, Marie-Louise left her to spend a happy ten minutes unpacking her trunk, which stood waiting for her. She took a hasty bath, calculating, by the increasing intensity of the clattering of dishes and musical burbling from below, that dinner must be imminent. Doubting that such a household would dress for dinner, she put on a demure frock in blue linen and, just in case it looked too uncaring, added a single string of pearls.

She appeared five minutes before seven in the guests' parlour to find Gunning in conversation with a portly white-haired man neatly dressed in suit, stiff collar, and tie. This was obviously her host, the elderly officer of gendarmerie. Capitaine Huleux's eyes sparkled with warm approval as they were introduced and the ritual exchange of polite compliments was made. Moments later, a clamour on the stairs heralded the arrival into the room of the two young Americans.

Letty's first thought on seeing their broad handsome faces was,
Well, Esmé at least would approve! Both in their early twenties!

Philip, slightly the older, was dark, deep-voiced, and, she would have guessed, the more reflective of the two; Patrick had springing red hair and the mobile, responsive features that go with it. Both were wearing clothes her father would have dismissed as “outdoorsy”: corduroy suits, soft-collared shirts, and loosely tied ties. The two young Americans made Gunning in his dark outfit and white dog collar look even more English and old-fashioned.

They introduced themselves to Letty, managing with impeccable manners to involve the vicar and the policeman in their conversation. “…Well, we're glad to have you aboard, Miss Stella. You arrive just in time! Start of the season and everyone's going a little crazy! It's getting hectic around here—but then that suits us.”

“I'd say Paradee's got a good thing going with this setup,” Patrick was saying with an enveloping gesture round the room. “Put your key staff all together in the same place and what happens? They work in the trenches all day, then come back here and what do they do? Continue working! Overtime! Ever know an archaeologist who was prepared to shut up if there was someone else around to listen to him? Excuse me, I should also say
her
now. Paradee gets twice the work out of us. And now there are four in the gang!”

“Four?” Letty looked around the room for the missing musketeer.

“There's Patrick and me, and now you and the Reverend here.”

“The Reverend?” She couldn't quite keep the astonishment and disapproval out of her voice. “I'm sorry—I hadn't taken you for an archaeologist, Mr. Gunning.”

He smiled condescendingly. “Then your common sense has not let you down, Miss St. Clair. Indeed, I am not an archaeologist.”

“But he does do the most amazingly accurate drawings!” Philip interrupted, perhaps in an attempt to counteract the fit of English self-deprecation which would surely have followed. “Paradee snuck up behind him one day and discovered he was sketching a profile of the trench we were working on. The proportion and perspective and the way he has of suggesting materials and structure with a few pencil strokes impressed Paradee no end. He'd been doing the records himself up till then. We keep photographic evidence, of course, but there's nothing like an accurate sketch for recording a profile.”

“Sir Flinders Petrie would applaud your sentiments,” murmured Letty, not wanting to hear what she was sure was coming.

“Upshot is—the vic's on the payroll!” announced Patrick.

“Drawing architectual features is what I really do best,” said Gunning modestly. “Stones, earth, ruins—anything that stays still and doesn't try to engage me in conversation. Never ask me to produce a portrait.”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” said Letty. “I'm sure you wouldn't have the time. You must find it demanding, Reverend Gunning—serving two masters. The Lord and Paradee?”

“It's okay, Stella,” said Philip with a sharp glance from one to the other. Sensing the antagonism between them, he went on lightly, “There's no contest! The Lord has signed his
exeat
for a month or two—what did you call it, Reverend?—a Sabbatical? Just as well—Paradee doesn't like to have folk around him suffering from split allegiance.”

To Letty's relief, Mme. Huleux popped her head round the door to announce that dinner was ready.

         

They ate with the family at a long mock-Gothic table. The cooking, as Gunning had predicted, was excellent, the best that the French provinces had to offer. A creamy leek soup was followed by the boeuf bourguignon whose aroma had been tantalising them for the last hour. Local red wine—“From my cousin's vineyard…”—was poured with a liberal hand by Capitaine Huleux from an earthenware pitcher and the conversation grew louder and more animated. A platter of cheeses Letty had never encountered before circulated once or twice and the meal drew to a triumphant close with crème caramel and a dish of wild strawberries.

Letty had noticed that the general conversation had divided into two or three topics around the table. The American boys, though with many an attempt to change the subject, always came back with guilty pleasure to a discussion of archaeology. They were fanatics both, and she had worked alongside many like them. One of their attractions for her was that they scarcely noticed that she was female. No allowances were made in this world; none were expected.

She was closely questioned by Philip on her experiences the previous summer when she'd been invited with her father to take part in the opening up of a prehistoric barrow, the property of a large landowner in the west country. It had been his idea to carve his way through the site in the old-fashioned way, using labour from the estate, the whole process staged for the entertainment of his houseguests as they stood by, sipping champagne, nibbling quails' eggs, and exclaiming with wonder.

The boys hissed their disapproval of these goings-on.

“Can you imagine!” Letty told them. “The fellow was recently returned from Lord Carnavon's scintillating display in the Valley of the Kings. I don't know how it is with you Yanks but quite a number of people one knows are King Tut crazy.” She ignored Gunning's shudder at her descent into what he would no doubt consider flapper talk. “And his lordship of the Barrows rather fancied himself in a starring entrepreneurial role in British treasure hunting…I won't call it archaeology! But don't worry,” she reassured them. “This story has a happy ending! As soon as Father got wind of the performance he hit the ceiling! Called up his old friend Andrew Merriman…” The boys raised their eyebrows in acknowledgement of the name but did not interrupt. “…who gave the lord a very bad time. But Andrew's a gent and rather than ruin a chap's sport he arranged to bring a hastily assembled team of professionals, including students—”

“Which is how you got in on the act?”

They were leading her to talk about her experiences, assessing her in their cool way. She had expected no less.

“That's right!…and show them how to do it properly. I'm sure the guests would all much rather have uncovered a hoard of gold and silver and a skeleton or two instead of the beaker pottery we did find—but precious metals were not on offer that weekend. No Roman coin or silver cup for them to take home as a souvenir, but at least they went back having learned something useful. And one or two were impressed enough to follow it up.”

Gunning was holding his own in French with the occasional shriek of laughter from Mme. Huleux and murmured encouragement and correction from Marie-Louise. Capitaine Huleux was quietly watching everyone and Letty was reminded that he was a police captain. Letty was conscious that Daniel had shared meals at this table with most of these people. She wondered if they remembered him and what they could tell her about his last days, but there was no way she could ever ask. Her father had tried the frontal, straightforward approach and had not been successful. Her way was the only way left: silently collecting information, listening, putting herself as far as possible into the situation Daniel had occupied, thinking as he had thought. But now she was landed with the impediment of a sketching vicar sharing her trench. She sighed.