Bright Hair About the Bone (18 page)

At last the horror of her discovery, contained for so many hours, spilled over. Her voice faltered, her eyes filled with tears.

“I really must take you up on your casual reference to the Templars,” he said briskly, passing her a handkerchief. “They never ‘wandered' anywhere! You are confusing them with the feckless fools who trailed about after King Arthur. The Templar Knights moved purposefully in tightly organised squadrons from A to B, cutting a swathe through whoever got in their way. Warrior monks who fought with perfect discipline and loyalty to the death.”

Letty knew that he could call on only two means of dealing with the threat of her tears: He could clamp her in a tight and embarrassed Englishman's hug, muttering, “There, there!” or he could pretend he hadn't noticed and trail a more acceptable topic before her. He'd thankfully opted for the second.

“Are you suggesting that my hero, Lancelot, would never have made the grade?”

“With vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience and an enforced neat haircut? He'd have failed on all counts.”

“Templars don't sound much fun to me. What did they do on Saturday nights between battles?”

“Ah. They were allowed to have a little fun if they wished. They were allowed to whittle tent pegs. Rule 317.”

“Good Lord! You've been checking the small print! Thinking of signing on, William? Poverty, chastity, obedience, and a short haircut, eh? How do you measure up?”

He grinned, happy that the crisis was over. “I'd fail on two of those.”

“I'm all right, William, you can stop clowning.” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. “But tell me why you mentioned Paradee just now? He's been away in Lyon and didn't get back until this morning. The site van was still panting and he was in place, striding about, firing off orders when I arrived. He knew the trench was there and open, but he also knew it was about to be worked on today. Not much point in Paradee killing off a stable lad and hiding his body exactly where it's going to be found in a few hours, is there?”

“And the whole town knew about the trenches. I think, Letty, that someone calculated that this poor young man would be unearthed and very soon. He was never intended to be hidden. Whoever put him into that trench was probably watching, having timed your arrival at the trench to the second.”

Letty was silent for a moment, trying to recall who and where, presences and absences at the trench-side. She remembered the line of faces leaning over the trench, summoned by her cry of distress. Was one of those faces more than usually interested in the discovery? Concern, curiosity, dismay, horror: All these emotions had been on display and none had appeared out of place.

“But why go to the trouble of covering him with earth?”

“That's the bit I don't like, Letty. It's more than an effective, clinical killing. It begins to feel like a…a…staged, and rather nasty, pre-prepared shock for the discoverers. By someone who doesn't admire archaeologists, perhaps? Or one in particular?”

“If you're saying that someone intended that
I
should find the body, that's nonsense. It was Phil's job. He'd already started. He'd got a thankless task on his hands—just dull digging. I offered to help him.”

“Mmm. And if you had
not
volunteered your assistance, would it have seemed at all unnatural if Paradee had—perhaps in a waggish manner—suggested that you should? Helped you into the trench with a gracious hand?”

“It would have been exactly what I expected,” she admitted. “Because that's the sort of man he is. He would have asked me to take the other end without a second thought, because that's why he employs me. And he knows I don't expect favours. But there's a lot of implications there! That Paradee set this whole thing up? Barmy idea! What would he have to gain? It's been the most awful nuisance for him. He's lost a lot of digging hours and got into very bad odour with the town. It didn't take long for the rumour to get around that Paul Morel had tripped over a rope and fallen headfirst into an open trench and killed himself. Just what Paradee wanted to avoid. And what am I to make of your suggestion that young Paul may have been killed for some motive not associated with him? Not killed because he was Paul Morel, but as a sacrifice offered up. His body merely a useful vehicle to provide false evidence of guilt planted on it? Chills the blood! Or perhaps he was laid out, the unwitting means of disconcerting a bunch of foreign archaeologists? No. I can accept none of that.”

“If you could,” Gunning said carefully, “and if you were the normal, thoughtful, sensitive English girl people might suppose you to be, you'd be having a fit of the vapours and checking your return ticket to England, Home, and Beauty right now. And perhaps that's really what's behind this death? Someone close to you or to Paradee—or both—is making a very strong statement, and the language it's expressed in is—murder. You should leave at once, Letty. Let me take you home.”

CHAPTER 18

L
etty dreamed that night. She was fleeing astride a great white horse across the downs. An unseen horror followed her, hooves booming over the chalk, gaining on her with every stride, louder, darker, acrid breath assailing her nostrils. Her horse surged under her, equally terrified, straining every muscle to escape. Her head drooped on his heaving neck, face lashed by his stinging mane, and she felt herself sliding off, bare legs unable to grip his silken back until she hit the turf with a bump and a scream, right in the path of the pursuing horror which closed on her, hooves plunging, fire darting from the nameless dark creature astride his black beast.

She woke, sweating, from her dream to find that the hoofbeats were real. Horses were going by in the street. She hastily flung on her dressing gown and rushed over to the window. Opening the half-closed shutters, she smiled down with delight. It was barely dawn as she gazed over the rooftops of Fontigny, and the inky blue sky had just enough light to throw the abbey into silhouette. And under her balcony, in the cobbled street below, clattered a long file of horses from the Haras. They had been out on early morning exercise and were returning to their stable, each one ridden by a young uniformed soldier. The sleek Thoroughbreds and saddle horses mingled with the heavier cobs and Percherons, these heavy horses moving with surprising grace, worthy mounts for any medieval knight. A dappled grey Percheron passed with long supple strides, his shining coat remembering his Arab origins. Carried away by a rush of admiration, she leaned out over the balcony and waved, calling out a shy greeting.

At her voice, the riders looked up, and the sight of a silk-clad, fair-haired girl produced an instinctive gesture. Hands flew to hips, backs straightened, and heads tilted, throwing a proud glance her way as they clattered by, in the timeless way that horsemen through the centuries have reacted to an admiring gaze from a pretty girl at an upstairs window.

She was returning to her rumpled and unappealing bed, kicking aside the pile of yesterday's dirty clothes, when she heard a light tap on the door, which immediately creaked open. A concerned face peered round.

“Stella! Are you all right? I thought I heard you calling out?”

“Oh, Marie-Louise! You're awake too? I was having a nightmare, that's all. It's gone now.”

“Poor thing! After the day you had, I'm not surprised! Look—I've just been down to make a pot of tisane. Would you like a cup? It's vervain, fresh from the garden, with the dew on it—it'll calm your nerves.” She hesitated slightly before suggesting, “Come into my room and I'll pour you one.”

Rather wishing she could feel more grateful for the kindness, but lured by the idea of a pale green and fragrant tea easing her dry throat, Letty followed her into her bedroom.

“I hope I didn't disturb you? I often creep about the house at this hour.” Marie-Louise looked at her clock. “Five-thirty. I like to wake early and have an hour to myself! There's precious little time in the rest of the day between the demands of the school and the demands of my mother. Will you sit down?”

Letty perched on a small chair and watched as Marie-Louise poured the tisane into a china mug with all the aplomb of a duchess at a tea party. She was wearing a cream satin dressing gown tied up with a black sash, perfectly complementing the decoration of her room. Letty looked about her in surprise. Marie-Louise had, it seemed, been much impressed by the exhibition two years ago of Arts Décoratifs. Quite out of step with the rest of the house, where the Middle Ages lingered on in the fabric unchallenged, she had gone her own way and transformed the ancient structure. And she had begun by covering over the beams to lower and smooth out the ceiling, creating a space she had then filled with simple pattern and dramatic colour. The matching black wood furniture, spare, elegant, and clearly expensive, must have come from some
ébénisterie
on the Right Bank; a mulberry silk cover hung smoothly over a bed which appeared never to have been slept in. The sculptured white elegance of lilies accented perfectly the modern and minimal décor and lightly scented the air.

Aware of the contrast with the dishevelled, post-nightmare image she must herself be presenting, Letty tugged at her dressing gown and smoothed down her hair. Marie-Louise, noticing her embarrassment, looked tactfully aside, and Letty was struck by a surprising resemblance. She'd seen something very like this girl's features somewhere before and the sudden tilt of the face and the half-closing of the eyes had made it clear. At the end of March she'd attended the premiere of Fritz Lang's film
Metropolis.
She hadn't enjoyed the film much but she'd been taken with the programme cover. The face of a girl, its cold and expressionless whiteness betrayed by a sensuous red mouth, had, with closed eyes, gazed internally at who knew what appalling vision. A vision hinted at, perhaps, by the sleek black machine-tooled helmet she wore?

The brief illusion faded when Marie-Louise spoke again, in a voice warm with sympathy. “I heard all about the incident at the trench from Rolande at the café. Everyone's talking about it. Poor Stella! What a dreadful discovery to make!”

“Oh, I'm all right,” Letty replied. “But I feel so very sorry for the young man. I can't imagine the circumstances that led him to such a death!”

“Oh,
I
can,” said Marie-Louise, frankly. “Dozens of circumstances. Paul Morel was a village boy. He was notorious hereabouts…a
voyou
of the worst kind. Such a trial to his father, who has worked on the count's estates all his life. A loyal servant. A good man. But the son was completely out of hand. There are many in Fontigny who will not be mourning him.”

“The count himself being one of them, I think?”

Marie-Louise smiled. “You are quick to blame him? You have taken a dislike to our local lord, I think. Look, Stella, you must make up your own mind, of course, about Edmond d'Aubec, but he may not be the ogre you take him for.” And, in response to Letty's snort of cynicism: “Who has told you these bad things about him? Paradee! The American. Well, there you are! Those two men hate each other and have no good words either for the other. But most people who know d'Aubec have reason to be grateful to the man…I myself have personal experience of his generosity. Indeed, the count is very good to our school and to the whole community. You will find many to praise his concern for their welfare.

“I'd better declare,” she added with a hesitancy that warned Letty to expect a revelation of some sort, “that my political leanings, such as they are, are to the left.
You
would call me a ‘socialist,' and it goes against the grain to admit that this aristocrat is generally well regarded in the region. But d'Aubec is. He is not an absentee landlord—one of those who live in Paris and turn up on their estates briefly for the shooting. No. He lives his life here. He employs—and pays generously!—many local people. I would, of course, prefer that his privileges and property were returned to the community but…”—Marie-Louise shrugged—“he does well with what he has and he loves and protects his native land.”

“You forget that I saw him in action myself the other night. Bully of the worst kind! I dread to think what would have happened if Reverend Gunning hadn't stepped in to put a stop to his activities!”

Marie-Louise's eyes sparkled with amusement, but she was not about to join Letty in her condemnation. “Ah, yes! I heard that our surprising
pasteur
has skills we had no idea of! William is a most intriguing man, is he not, Stella?”

“He is indeed,” Letty said, and, holding out her cup for more tisane, decided to plunge into the confidences-in-the-dorm session that the French girl seemed to be craving. “Tell you what, Marie-Louise, why don't you do the man an immense favour and run away to Paris with him? Ensnare him! You'd make a lovely couple.”

Marie-Louise gave a derisory laugh. “You think so? I would certainly love to get away from this stifling little town, and the vicar would be a most agreeable companion.” She moved to the window and flung back the curtain. “Come and look!”

Letty looked out at the dawn breaking on a peaceful garden and understood. She saw an orderly garden enclosed on all sides. Vegetables stood to attention in neat rows; espaliered peach trees struggled, crucified, on a south-facing wall; and, contained in their hutch, rabbits grew fat awaiting their fate. Beyond, a flush of ochre in the sky outlined a sweep of dark blue sheltering hills—sheltering or restraining, a symbolic barrier. The yearning in Marie-Louise's eyes saddened Letty. She suddenly saw the young woman's room for what it was—no more than a medieval cell papered over with the pickings of glossy magazine illustrations—and she caught the blast of an almost out-of-control despair.

“What does the future hold for you, Marie-Louise?” she asked quietly. “I had understood that the world had opened up for women in France?”

“Oh, yes. Of necessity women took the places of men away at war. Four years' carnage advanced our cause more effectively than forty years of suffragism! And next autumn women in my profession are to be awarded a salary equal to that of the men.” Her words were bland, though her tone was bitter.

“Well, that's better than you could expect in England. Though, like us, you have not yet been given the power to vote, I think? It annoys me to a murderous pitch that since I am under the age of thirty and own no property I may not vote, though any cottager in the village may do so, however ill-informed, so long as he be male. And most of the opportunities women had snatched at during the war years when men were pleased enough to look the other way have been dashed away with the return of men to civilian employment. So, if it's new horizons you're seeking, you may have to look farther than England. Other countries? You'd like to travel farther than Paris, perhaps, with this agreeable companion?”

Marie-Louise nodded and closed the curtain.

“You and the vicar—you're both intelligent and sensitive people,” Letty commented, as further comment seemed to be expected. “I don't see why you shouldn't hit it off. I mean, a rip-roaring, eye-crossing love affair would be wonderful but, really, Abélard and Héloïse are the exception, aren't they? We can't all wait about for Fate to serve up an experience like that. I'm quite resigned to never finding my own knight in shining armour, my own Lancelot. In fact, I'm coming to the conclusion that hen-headed old Guinevere didn't know when she was onto a good thing. If King Arthur pops his head above the parapet I shall raise my bid card!”

Marie-Louise smiled. “That's a very modern view. I would have expected something more…” She flushed: “Stella…I wonder if you ever…?”

Oh, Lord!
thought Letty.
Now we're in for a hot squashy corner! Can I bear this before breakfast?
But she at once felt guilty at her selfishness. This sort of intimacy was obviously a new experience for a single daughter, who had never been away to school and benefited from the very particular educational possibilities of girls' dormitories after lights-out. “Have I ever been in love? Is that what you're wondering?”

Marie-Louise nodded.

“About fifty times. I started with the usual crushes on my boy cousins, the Head Girl, the Gym Mistress, even my piano tutor came in for a bit of attention, predictably…but I can tell you that nothing compares with the knee-trembling surge of emotion you feel when you fall in love for the first time.”

Marie-Louise was listening intently to this nonsense, eyes gleaming with anticipation.

“Hang on a tick! I'll show you a picture of my first love…if that would be of any interest?”

Letty hurried to her room. She pulled open the bottom drawer of the chest where she'd tucked away a pile of comforting reminders of home: photographs of her ten-year-old self with mother and father, herself with a changing series of large black dogs, one of Letty arm in arm with a friend's brother (always willing to masquerade as a boyfriend), a five-year diary, an old June Ball programme, and—there it was—the exercise book she was looking for. She returned and handed it to Marie-Louise.

“But what is this?” Marie-Louise trailed a finger over the pattern painted in primary colours on the cover. And then, with distaste: “Is this some book of magic, perhaps?”

Letty burst out laughing. “No! Not at all! It's perfectly innocent, and there's nothing in there to offend the sensibilities of a good Roman Catholic girl.”

“But these symbols? What are they? Red-Indian? These words
Kibbo Kift,
are they Indian? No…but it's pagan of some kind, I'm sure…And this star? And two Latin words:
Stella Maris
…Three moons and…ah, I recognise this sign—a cross with a sort of loop at the top—it's the ancient Egyptian ankh, isn't it?” She was holding the book as though she had just fished it out of the gutter.