Bright Hair About the Bone (17 page)

“I suppose it's possible,” he said indulgently.

She sighed. “Daniel would have known. You know, William, it's at times like this that I really miss my godfather.”

He grimaced. “Well, ‘now you've got me,' as someone once said. Not a completely satisfactory arrangement for either of us, I'll agree, and, compared with Daniel's certainties, my hesitations and supposings must be very irritating. I'm sorry.”

“I'm not unsympathetic, and I didn't mean to be rude. And Doubting Thomas is my favourite saint. I've often wondered why he isn't the patron saint of scientists—‘Prove it!'” She grinned. “I always back the wrong side. I support the underdog, the reprobate, the sinner. I know I'd have an easier conversation with Thomas or the Magdalene than with any of the other biblical cast of characters. ‘Subversive' is the label they gave me at Cambridge. I'm not good company for a Man of God, you'll find.”

He rose, smiling, to his feet and offered his hand. “I've had worse. You should hear what they had to say about the Lord down in the destitutes' shelter. But that's enough saints for one day. And, I'll tell you what, Letty, a very unsaintly feeling is taking the place of all this intellectual curiosity—I'm hungry. And I know we've got
ris de veau
this evening.”

“Really? Shall I like that?”

         

Paradee had just returned from his overnight stay in Lyon, the engine of his old Citroën still steaming, and was waiting for them on site when Letty arrived for her third day's work. Tactfully, the boys melted away, moving off in the direction of the supplies store to start getting out the equipment. The director of the dig was stern when he greeted her but Paradee was not, she thought, quite in a sacking mood.

“I hear you had a productive day, yesterday? Well done. I haven't had time to check the work myself yet but I will. Everything okay, Stella?
Everything?
”

The emphasis was unmistakable. Concisely she told him that she had been unable to avoid meeting the count but had spent very little time in his company and, after a mutually disagreeable experience, had returned home and played poker with the boys and the vicar. Paradee's eyes narrowed in disbelief and he seemed uncertain as to how to deal with her. Finally his expression melted into one of humour. “‘Of course not, Charles…Anything you say, Charles,'” he mocked, in imitation of her butter-wouldn't-melt-in-the-mouth lie. “Hmm…you know I will never believe another word you say, Stella? Seeing d'Aubec was pure disobedience, and if I were paying you a wage I'd darned well dock you a day's pay. As I'm not, I'm left a bit short of suitable punishments so we'll have to let it go.” He scrubbed the soil with his boot, in thought, and then asked her, “I trust the villain was on his best behaviour?”

“I have no complaint,” she said, “except that he wasted my evening.”

“Ah? You weren't exactly swept away by his charms, then? He has the reputation of being a charmer.”

“He wasn't practising his skills on
me.
Merely attempting to make a public restitution for his display of bad behaviour the previous night. I don't think we exchanged a civil word the whole evening. And I never did find out what I really wanted to know.”

“Yes? Which was…?”

“Why he was beating that poor boy.”

“He wouldn't want to discuss that. The boy is one of his stable lads, I hear, so d'Aubec probably thinks he has the right. Now, if you're ready, you can get to work.” He looked at his watch. “Where on earth is everyone? Patrick! Phil! Fabrice! Perhaps I should go out and get myself a riding crop,” he grumbled. “That's the way to get attention around here!”

A concerned Phil hurried over to them with bad news: the trench that they had been working on the previous week had collapsed. “We didn't shore it—didn't see the need. It's not particularly friable soil and it's not that deep. Should have been okay, but there's just a pile of rubble and soil in there,” he reported, dismayed. “Right at the point where the corner of the colonnade was turning. There's a half hour of digging to be done before I can get on with the reveal.”

They all trooped over to have a look. “The tarpaulin?” said Paradee, in a voice laced with suspicion.

“Over there. Neatly folded. I thought I'd put it in place before we packed up,” said Phil. He exchanged a concerned look with Paradee. “In fact, I know I did. The warning markers are all, as you see, where they should be.”

“Any sign of interference? I hope to goodness we're not looking at a recurrence of last year's trouble.” Paradee turned to Letty. “When we first got started here and folk didn't understand what in blazes we were up to, digging around in the square, some of them resented our presence…a child crawled under a tarpaulin and scared himself silly…and there was a little sabotage as a result. No problems since then. The curé, bless him, had a few words in the right ears. And we're meticulous about public safety. We put up barricades…I even employ a night watchman. So where was
he
last night?”

“In his shelter in the main square,” said Phil, “where he always is. I had a word with him before he left. Nothing to report, apparently. This alley is way off his sight line. But judging by the empty brandy bottle in his shelter, he might well not have noticed a great deal, sir.”

Paradee sighed. “Drunk again? Well, it's the last time he pulls that trick. Tell him to see me when he reports for duty tonight.”

“Of course. Look, I'll get in there and move this mess.” Phil's shoulders slumped at the prospect. “Barrow it away and see if I can find out what caused the collapse.”

Paradee was turning to Letty with a question or an order when she spoke quickly: “Shall I help him? We could take an end each?” She heard herself volunteering for this boring task and was not eager to examine her motives for offering. With nothing to feel guilty about, nothing to atone for, perhaps she simply wanted to impress Paradee? She chose to think her motive was to repay Phil for his kindness the day before.

“Well, I reckon that would be a kind act.” Paradee rewarded her with a broad smile. “I'll stop by and take over in a minute when I've dropped off my bags.” He peered resentfully at the crumbling earth filling the trench and the gaping hole in the side from which it had slipped. “What a waste of time! Look, you two—keep an eye open, will you? Not quite sure what for, but…well, there's something wrong here…Looks to me as if there's far too much soil down there for an accidental slippage. And it's been churned up. Some fool's been messing around.”

Phil leapt into the trench and took up the shovel lying ready by the pile. Letty, similarly equipped, jumped down and started at the other end. Someone obligingly wheeled barrows to the side of the trench and they began, good-humouredly, to clear up.

Letty had filled a barrow with earth from her end when the rhythm of her swing broke. She stopped digging and uttered a gasp of surprise. She looked up and hailed a passing student. “Léon! Lend me your trowel for a minute, will you?”

Paradee, strolling towards them, heard her exclamation and saw that Letty was looking intently at something buried at her knee level. She had exchanged her spade for a trowel to remove earth more delicately from the object she had her eye on: the unmistakable sequence of gestures an archaeologist will pick up and interpret as a find in the offing. He quickened his stride.

“Stella?” he said eagerly. And asked the inevitable question: “What've we got?”

She looked up at him. “Feet,” she said. “We've got feet.”

CHAPTER 17

S
uddenly the sky above her head was almost blotted out by faces lining the trench, startled, eager, curious faces.

“Get another spade and help, will someone?” Letty said urgently, beginning to dig again. “It's not ancient. It's not a skeleton. It's a body—a man. He's wearing size eight boots.”

“Get the girl out of there!” Paradee's voice rapped out, concerned and decisive.

She impatiently dashed aside the hands that reached down to her. “No! Charles, come down and help me.”

The director lowered himself into the hole. In a moment he was grasping her arm, moving her gently aside, picking up the shovel, and attacking the layers of earth above the body. He threw up instructions with every shovelful of earth. “Léon, run for the doctor. Alain, fetch the police—report an accident. Keep digging! He may not be dead, whoever this is. Fabrice—see if you can find the curé.”

“Well, if ever I'm caught in a landslide at the bottom of a trench,” Letty decided, fighting down a touch of hysteria, “I'll count myself very lucky if there just happen to be six trained archaeologists on hand.”

Phil made inroads from the other side and in minutes the body had been dug free. They stood looking down with pity and fascination at the young man revealed. He was lying on his side in a foetal position, which reminded her sickeningly of Iron Age burials she had seen. He was caked in earth, and was ominously still. The leather jacket he was wearing was a size too large for the skinny body and much scuffed. The fists were clenched in a pathetic show of retaliation. Paradee bent over him and listened for a heartbeat. Then he pulled back the jacket sleeve to check for a pulse. Paradee glanced up at the anxious faces and slowly shook his head, stricken. “He's dead. Poor feller—he's been dead for some time, I'd say. Hours rather than days, probably.”

Letty was standing rigid with shock, glad that all eyes were riveted on the dead man. She hoped that anyone taking notice of her—which seemed unlikely—would dismiss her pale face and staring eyes as no more than the girlish reaction to a grisly discovery. When she could find her voice, she said, “I know who this is. And so do you, Phil.” Phil nodded, clearly shaken. “It's the young man d'Aubec was beating two nights ago. His groom, I think you said. As for time…” She pointed to the wrist Paradee had revealed when he pulled up the sleeve. “Look! His watch has been smashed. It may tell us at what hour he died, don't you think?”

Before he could stop her, she had knelt by the body and with quick fingers unfastened the watch and, after a glance, held it out to Paradee.

He took it gingerly and peered at the face. “It says twelve-thirty. Half past midnight, do you think? Last night? The night before?” he said, then recollecting himself, “For goodness' sake, Stella! Why d'you
do
that? We should leave everything as we found it. This may be the scene of a crime.”

“Oh, gosh! Yes, you're right, Charles. I'll put it back. Though it does tell us he was messing about here after dark. Long after the team had packed up. What was he doing? Looking for something?”

“Having a pee?” suggested someone above. “Vomiting? Drunk? Lost his balance and fell in?”

“No…er…physical evidence of the evacuation of bodily fluids immediately visible,” said Paradee delicately. “And his clothing is all intact and buttoned up. And are we to suppose that the side of the trench obligingly fell in on top of him? Hmm…Look—let's leave this speculation to the police when they get here, okay?”

Letty noticed that his eyes were taking in every detail. He was doing a good job of hiding his distress under a layer of calm authority, until he instinctively rubbed his damp forehead with a hand, leaving a smear of earth which suddenly made him look harassed and vulnerable. She took a handkerchief from her pocket and with a muttered “Let's posh you up a bit for the officers of the Law, shall we?” she managed to repair the damage.

“Just in time,” Paradee said with a shaky grin. “Here comes the gendarmerie, fastening up its trousers and putting on its képi! Listen! Everyone not directly involved with the unearthing, go back to work. We're going to lose enough man hours over this anyway—let's pull back what we can. Stella and Phil, stay here, will you? The rest, stop gaping around and make yourselves scarce.”

He turned to greet the one gendarme. “Sorry to trouble you in the middle of breakfast, Pierre, but we seem to have a body in our trench. A local man, we think. Not long dead.”

The policeman took one look and, deciding his sphere of responsibility did not encompass the scene in the trench, he sent at once for Capitaine Huleux. The nearest detective on duty was with the Police Judiciaire some miles away in Lyon, but Huleux would take charge for now.

They sat disconsolately in a row on the edge of the trench, the gendarme shooing away a few inquisitive children who tried to get near. He allowed the stately figure of the local priest through, and all watched in respectful silence as he lowered himself nimbly enough, buoyed up by his black soutane, into the depth of the trench. Ceremonial gestures and words followed until finally he accepted a heave upwards back onto street level. Courteously he introduced himself as Father Anselme, confirming the dead boy was known to him though he had scarcely seen him in recent years. The priest's pale, angular face reflected their own sadness and puzzlement. “Very little I can do, I'm afraid. It rests now with a higher authority. Higher even than that of the good doctor,” he remarked, catching sight of Dr. Macé hurrying to the scene.

Elegant in his consulting room attire, Macé scrambled fussily down to the body using a ladder hastily provided. “It's Fabien Morel's son—Paul!” he shouted up. “And he's dead.” He turned the body over onto its back, revealing the sharp features Letty remembered. Did she imagine it or was the face still frozen in the same grimace of fear?

The doctor moved the limbs about and shone a torch into the eyes. “Dead no more than twelve hours, probably less.” He took out a fresh white handkerchief and gently dusted the dirt from the boy's face. “And there's the reason he's dead, I'd say.” He pointed to a wound on the right side of the forehead. “Not much blood. Death must have been very swift in coming. They'll have more to say when they get him to the morgue in Lyon. Guillaume! Thank God you're here!” he said, breaking off to exchange greetings with Huleux. “Crack on the skull and here's what caused it, shouldn't wonder. No—don't step on it! There—that rock…piece of carved stone…whatever it is. Trace of blood on it and I think you'll find the three-cornered shape corresponds with the profile of the wound. Did he fall onto it? Or did it rise up and hit him? Well, that's for you to work out, old friend!”

The twinkling bonhomie she had grown to expect from Capitaine Huleux had disappeared, to be replaced by a chill efficiency. Suddenly she was “Mademoiselle St. Clair” and Paradee was “Professeur” and they were being told to hold themselves ready, as the discoverers of the corpse, for interrogation. The headquarters of the Police Judiciaire had been alerted by telephone and officers might be expected to put in an appearance within the hour. But in the meantime there were certain formalities he could get out of the way to facilitate matters.

“I think we all recognise Paul,” he said, crossing himself, “but I'll check his identity card.” He opened the jacket and slipped a hand into the inside pocket.

The black leather wallet took his attention for a moment before he opened it. “Here's his card and a few francs. Yes, I confirm that this is Paul Morel and we should now alert his father.” He held the wallet carefully by the edges, giving it a long look before putting it back in the pocket. “And now, if Mademoiselle and the gentlemen would be so good as to…” They retreated to the town hall where Huleux took possession of one of the public rooms and called for a tray of coffee to be brought from the café. He produced a notebook and began to take down their story.

The long day wore on. Officials came and went; Letty repeated her account several times and heard Phil and Paradee saying exactly the same things. All those closely involved with the discovery had their fingerprints recorded. The boy's father, who seemed vaguely familiar to Letty, made a brief appearance and stared, silent and dry-eyed, at his dead son before being escorted away from the scene.

The Lyon contingent of the Police Judiciaire leapt, smartly suited in navy uniforms, from a squad car and liaised with Huleux. Paradee's team were required to go once again through their testimony by a young inspector with unsmiling, chiselled features and equally chiselled moustache. Letty handed over her passport for identification and watched as the officer who introduced himself to her as “Inspector Laval” checked her details, made careful notes, and paused to give her a long stare.

“You have had a distressing experience, Mademoiselle St. Clair,” he said, a touch of sympathy in his voice, as he closed her passport. “Would you mind if I keep this for a while?” And, noting her reluctance, he added, “Just our routine.” The sudden smile that accompanied his remark was dazzling and reassuring. He gestured to a pile of other such documents on his desk. “Quite normal. We would not wish a witness to make off without our knowledge before our enquiries are finished.” Finally, with the police satisfied, all the witnesses were told they were free to go provided they could hold themselves ready for further interview if called on.

Paradee made his own dismissal. “Go home, Stella. Clean up. Rest up. Phil and I'll deal with the mess here.”

She was relieved to be sent away. She wanted to order her thoughts, sort through her suspicions, and—she had to admit it—share them with Gunning.

He was working in the parlour, surrounded by books and maps, when she got back.

“I thought you'd come and put me out of my suspense if I waited long enough,” he told her. “It's been pretty turbulent here with old Guillaume dashing in and out. All this police activity—anything to do with you, by any chance?”

“I'll say!” She grimaced and launched into an account of the morning's find.

When she got to the end of her story, he asked one question: “Are you going to tell me why you took the boy's watch off?”

“It wasn't his watch. It was my godfather's watch. I recognised it straight away. It was quite an old but distinctive Patek Philippe. I took it off ostensibly to show to Paradee and, on handing it over to him, I had a chance to see Daniel's initials engraved on the back.”

“Are you thinking this groom, this Paul Morel, acquired it as a result of his participation in your godfather's murder?”

“No. I don't. Because I had a look at the boy's wrist as well. No earth on his arm—under the watch strap he had the evenly tanned skin of someone who works outdoors all seasons and who never normally wears a watch. If he'd been sporting that one for any length of time before he died or was thrown into the trench, there'd have been a paler band of skin in evidence. I think it was put onto him or onto his body just before he was buried there.”

“And the wallet?” said Gunning sharply.

“Also Daniel's. Again probably meant to incriminate the boy.”

“And who would wish to do that but…?”

“…but the actual killer—and we both know who that is!—d'Aubec! He must have realised showing me the photograph was a terrible giveaway of his involvement and this was his way of diverting attention.”

“I thought he told you he was in Morocco at the time Daniel was killed? Pretty jolly difficult to stage a murder even by proxy if you've been out of the country for some time, I'd have thought? I'm sure d'Aubec's up to his ears in guilt of the nastiest kind, but I don't think we can pin Daniel's death on him. He'd have been tossing on the Mediterranean at the time in question.”

Letty glowered. “I shall see what I can do. The police will put two and two together—Huleux definitely reacted to the sight of the wallet. They'll probably check it for fingerprints. If d'Aubec's dabs are on there, they'll clear up an old murder case!”

“But they'll be left with a fresh one on their hands: the groom. Paradee—any of the team—would have been able to arrange the show at the trench, but then so would anyone in town. We know nothing of the lad's social circumstances. He might have died as a result of an affair of the heart, an unpaid debt…who knows? That part of the dig is tucked away down the Allée du Parc, isn't it?”

Letty nodded. “You can't see it from the main square and there's no lighting. Once you'd lured or forced him down there it wouldn't have been difficult to dispose of him. Poor lad. He was so skinny and so young, William. Hardly more than a child! They say he was only sixteen. And so frightened. You remember his terrified face at the café? And this time he was cornered, alone, down a dark alley where there was no wandering Knight Templar to come to his aid with a left hook.”