Bright Hair About the Bone (24 page)

“Celtic voices,” the priest corrected quietly. “The Welsh are a Celtic race, are they not? I'm glad to hear they survive in some part of your land.”

“It's the Anglo-Saxon you hear most often, unfortunately,” said Gunning, breaking away from his dark thoughts. “Disappointingly, half the men whose last words I heard died cursing. Though you're right: many men died calling out for their mothers. With their last breath they'd beg me to write to their mothers. ‘Tell her I died bravely. Tell her I didn't suffer. Tell her I love her.' It became routine. I remember automatically asking a sergeant dying of a stomach wound what he would like me to tell his mother. ‘My mother, Padre?' he gasped in surprise. Then, ‘Tell the old bat I'm slinging my hook and the only good thing about
that
is that where I'm going I'm not likely to bump into
her
again.' But he was the exception.”

“But I think you're right, Father,” Letty ventured an opinion, “when you say most people need some image external to themselves to help them understand…painting, sculpture…rosary beads…a cross. One of the most telling events early in the war involved a sighting of the Virgin. Or was it an angel? At Mons. The Angel of Mons. We were all thrilled and awed and—yes—heartened by the appearance. Thousands of our troops, vastly outnumbered by the German forces, claim to have witnessed an appearance in the sky, a holy presence, a female presence, whom they believed to be on their side and, indeed, inspired by this, they went on to fight bravely and many escaped the net.”

Gunning gave a sharp laugh. “I was at Mons,” he said, “during the reported incidents. At the defence of Mariette Bridge on the canal. I was continually watching the sky for enemy aircraft. One German plane crashed in flames, that's all. I saw nothing unusual. Nor did any soldier I met. But, do you know, this is the first time I've admitted that? The story ran through the army and the whole of Britain like wildfire—thanks to the newspapers and the radio—and was unthinkingly accepted, to such an extent that anyone denying that it happened would have been denounced as unpatriotic.”

“But so many claim—” Letty began to remonstrate.

“Mass hysteria,” said Gunning firmly. “Self-deception on the most enormous scale. One loose observation, a misinterpreted comment, a newsman standing by to pick up and run with the idea—that's all you'd need. Those men had had little sleep and no food for thirty-six hours. It was a hot Sunday. But the only religious activity was in the square of the village of Cuesnes. Right there in the middle of what had become a battlefield, the church bells suddenly rang out; people dressed in their Sunday best flooded into church, held a service, and went back to their homes. Then all hell broke loose.

“I saw many disturbing sights that day, but nothing supernatural. Nor did any man I spoke to. No—I believe someone told the nation what it desperately needed to hear. ‘We may be outnumbered three to one, we may be retreating but, look—God's on our side.' If you send the message all over the country on the filmed news reports, within days you have a country hypnotised by a lie it
wants
to believe to be the truth. And this sickness communicates itself faster than the flu germ—which it much resembles! We've hardly begun to understand the power of the human mind and its weakness for self-delusion. And the possibilities for directing minds en masse towards some preordained end are frightening.”

“But some consequences are beneficent, surely?” the priest challenged. “What do you have to say about the appearance of Our Lady at Lourdes? And the many other sightings this century alone which have brought healing and relief and an affirmation of faith for thousands?”

“My judgement would be the same,” said Gunning. “Hysteria. Delusion. If I had to trace my antipathy to its source, I believe it would come down to the attempt to claim ownership of the deity by a particular sect? Why should the Virgin be witnessed exclusively by Catholics? Why is Yahweh's voice only audible to Jews? Allah's to Muslims? I'm disturbed by those groups of humanity who claim special preference for themselves, who make a god in their own image and then believe he will champion them above all others. The only thing in the war that raised my spirits was the very English response to the Germans who had hung out a banner asserting that God was on their side—
Gott mit Uns.
In no time our lads had put up their own sign—
We got mittens too!
Stupid, irreverent, but sane.”

Letty was absorbed by the exchanges, but well aware that she was the third wheel on the bicycle. She lost track of time and was surprised when the priest gently reminded her of her appointment at the château. Gunning escorted her to the door, muttering hurriedly as they passed along the corridor. Mainly injunctions to behave herself and avoid confrontations of any kind, which were heard with patience.

“No time now to tell you what I found out from London,” he said, opening the door and looking out into the street. “Very disturbing! Ah—here comes your conveyance…if I dare call a Hispano-Suiza a conveyance!” He stared in astonishment as the huge car throbbed its way gingerly down the narrow street. “And your chauffeur—just look at him! Hat, gloves, insignia, the full regalia. Who
is
that?”

“Jules. Jules le Lugubre!” Letty laughed. “He's really in charge of the stables but he's been poshed up to fetch me. William…do you get the impression I'm being
paraded
?”

“He forgot the marching band. This time,” said Gunning, tight-lipped with disapproval.

Jules braked abruptly on catching sight of her on the priest's doorstep, and got out to open the door. Anxiously, Gunning grabbed her hand and held it tightly. “Listen, Letty! You're to treat your new friend with the same scepticism you seem to reserve for me. Question everything! And remember the Angel of Mons!”

CHAPTER 23

N
o, really, Charles! There's nothing more to report. We spent the evening in the library translating Old French, classifying and codifying medieval books. I met some of the household. He has a smart young man working for him as a secretary and steward combined, and an elderly housekeeper who really runs the place.”

“Resident?”

“Yes. Both.”

“Tell me something more about this smart young man, Stella. How you seem to collect them!”

“Oh, I won't be adding
his
name to my list of conquests! I think he rather hates me for taking up his master's time. He's called Constantine. He's a few years older than d'Aubec. Saturnine good looks, you might say. But there's something a bit creepy about him, I thought. You know how plants go when you start them in a cellar and forget about them? It doesn't matter how much sunshine you give them when you bring them out, how they strengthen up—they go on being pale and unnatural. But Constantine seems to have influence with the boss and the respect and, yes, affection of the old girl.”

The unwelcome questioning was cut short by Phil, who knocked and entered Paradee's office hurriedly. He looked anxiously from one to the other. “Excuse me, sir, but the police are here. They want to see Stella at the Town Hall. Right away.”

She was shown into the room they had previously used for interviewing. The same young inspector with the impeccable good manners and the impeccable moustache invited her to take a seat opposite.

“Inspector Laval,” he reminded her. “I retained your passport, mademoiselle, and now I wish to return it to you. You were also kind enough to provide us with a sample of your fingerprints when last we met.”

She nodded.

“So we were able to identify the thumb and forefinger of prints belonging to you on the strap of the wristwatch worn by the unfortunate boy.”

“Golly! Did you really? Well, that is truly amazing! Can you pick up prints as clearly as that? From a bit of old leather?”

His reply was stiff. “You may not be aware, mademoiselle, mesmerised as are all the English by the glamorous reputation of Scotland Yard, that it was here in Lyon that the first police laboratory was created. We are capable of forensic detection at least the equal of anything you can supply in London. And yes, it is not difficult, particularly when the fingers of the interesting party are sweaty or greasy as were yours, mademoiselle.”

“But I told you I'd handled it in front of witnesses—and why!”

“I have your statement,” he said, tapping a file. His voice took on a confidential tone: “It had seemed to me a little strange that you should lay hands on a corpse to remove the watch from its wrist. Most young ladies would naturally recoil from contact with dead flesh caked in dirt…in fact, I do believe it would take an overpowering motivation to undertake such a disagreeable task. It occurs to me that perhaps the watch itself was of special interest?”

He left a pause for her comment but she remained silent.

“A special watch indeed…didn't you think?” he continued. “Not the type a groom would be wearing. Especially a groom whose initials were P.M. and not D.M.T. You noticed the engraving? Of course.”

His eyes were dancing with ill-concealed humour. “Shall I reveal, mademoiselle, that this watch was known to me also? Along with the wallet found on the body—likewise, not Morel's property. Last autumn, my department investigated a crime committed here in Fontigny. A British academic was stabbed to death…you are aware of the circumstances, perhaps?”

“I have heard it spoken of. The unfortunate gentleman was staying at the Huleux house.”

“The victim's name was Daniel Thorndon. He was robbed of his watch and wallet. Now, this is where names become interesting. The French forces of law and order were held to account—pursued, indeed—with some vigour by an English gentleman, a friend of the dead man. I noted his name.” Laval flipped over a page in his notebook and read out: “Sir Richard Talbot.”

He produced from a file Letty's passport and opened it up, studying the front page with affected interest. “So, when I find I have in front of me a Miss Laetitia Stella St. Clair Talbot…Not, in fact, a hockey team but a single charming young lady…” He passed it back to her. “…I begin to make connections. I draw lines which lead back from a newly arrived English archaeologist to a man who was murdered last year. Would you like me to go on?”

She opened innocent eyes to the inspector. “I think I'd better come clean. Tell me—are you able to assure me you'll keep what I have to tell you to yourself if you possibly can?”

He spread his hands in a wide gesture. “Look on this as the Confessional, mademoiselle. Why not?”

         

“Now, what have we?” he said, checking his notes. “The watch and wallet of the godfather of Miss Laetitia Talbot (names one and four on your passport) disappeared last year in mysterious and criminal circumstances. Their whereabouts remained obscure until Miss Stella St. Clair (names two and three) dug the body of the current wearer from a trench.”

She started to get to her feet. “Well, now that's all cleared up, may I go?”

“No. I have two further things to say. First: The question of Professor Thorndon's murder has not been shelved. And the possibly linked death of young Morel also remains undetermined but not ignored. I can guess what you're up to. Please hear me when I say—leave this to the police. The Police Judiciaire have a high reputation throughout Europe, though perhaps in England they would hardly know about such things.”

“Clemenceau's Tigers?” She smiled. “Oh, we've heard of you!”

“Not so much a tiger perhaps.” He returned her smile. “Hound. I keep my nose to the scent until I get my man. Or woman.”

Letty believed him. “And your second point, Inspector?”

He placed a small paper evidence bag on the desk in front of her. “Your professional help. Tell me what you make of that.”

She opened the bag and shook the gleaming contents into her hand. “Good Lord! Where
did
you come by this?” And, with a sudden rush of doubt: “Why are you showing this to me? I'm sure my director, Mr. Paradee, could give you a much more authoritative opinion than can I.”

“I had understood your boss to be a medievalist,” the inspector replied mildly.

“Oh, he has a very broad base,” she said, loyally. “His perspective is quite wide enough to encompass anything of interest or value that the soil of Burgundy may throw up. I would show it to Paradee. He'll tell you what you want to know.”

“I rather particularly wish
you
to give me your opinion, mademoiselle.”

“Very well. No guarantees on accuracy, you understand. It's an aureus. A gold coin of the Roman era, which means it's just about pure gold and must weigh about eight grams. The Emperor on the obverse, facing to the right, has very recognisable features. It's our chubby old friend Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus. Nero, that is. You can make out the letters around his head—
Nero Caesar Augustus.
(That'll be names four, five, and six.)”

A fleeting smile encouraged her to plunge on.

“He started calling himself ‘Augustus' in
A.D
. 54, so that gives us the earliest possible date for this. It could have been struck at Lyon—there was an important coin manufactory there. I'm looking for the letters PLG on the reverse—
Pecunia Lugdunum,
‘Lyon Mint'—but of course there isn't one. It's too early for that. On the back we've got a depiction of a ferocious bearded old chap with thunderbolt and sceptre, and his description is
Iuppiter Custos
—that's Jupiter, and
Custos,
his second name, means
the Guardian.
”

She handed the coin back to him. “I confess—that was an easy one!” she said. “Believe me—I wouldn't have rushed to answer had the coin been from a later reign…let's say of Maximus Horribilis Gothicus. But you're a Lyon man. You're aware of the city's Roman roots. As a policeman you are the guardian of your heritage. You'd think me naïve if I didn't guess you know all this?”

He smiled in acknowledgement. “I know all that. But what I don't know, mademoiselle, is what our poor young Paul Morel was doing with it clutched in his dead hand.”

         

“Is there anyone in town who
doesn't
know who you are, Letty?” Gunning asked, wincing.

“I doubt it. Wretched passport! Why do we have to have them? I leave it in my chest of drawers under my socks so I expect if old Huleux is any good at his job at all he'll have checked up on me. I feel a complete fool! Ah, well…I shall just say I'm here working under my
professional
name. Why not? Lots of women have…George Eliot, Currer Bell…”

“Mata Hari?”

“Yes. That sort of thing.”

“And you weren't able to put the inspector out of his misery?”

“I think I was very helpful. I gave him a crash course on stratigraphic sections, recording techniques, and the chronological sequences indicated by remnants of ceramic artefacts. He was fascinated.”

“Oh, I expect he was just enjoying the sound of your voice, Letty.”

“He was interested enough to ask me to draw a cross-section of what he called ‘the trench in question' and point out whereabouts a gold coin from
A.D
. 54 might have lodged itself.”

“I know that section. Barren, isn't it? Not even any potsherds down there—no sign of habitation.”

“Yes. I told him that, wherever the lad found that coin, it was most likely not down the Allée du Parc. And then Laval asked me something really rather odd. He produced a tracing, a plan of the diggings and the foundations revealed so far—I think I recognised
your
handiwork, William—and asked me to plot the expected outline of the remaining walls.”

“And you were able to do that?”

“Yes, of course. Any fool could. Any fool with an inkling of the concept of symmetry…” She sighed. “I think my disdainful friend was suggesting that this digging is all a piece of nonsense…why bother to dig at vast expense and to the general inconvenience of the community when it's quite obvious what's under the ground and where? I'm sure he was implying that leaving six-foot-deep holes about the place is an open incitement to the concealing of fresh corpses. Or else,” she added thoughtfully, “he was trailing before me the notion that Paradee's operation could be a distraction, a flummery…a cover for something else. Lavel really doesn't like Paradee much, you know.”

“I'd say he'd made a point about the symmetry, wouldn't you? No more surprises down there, I'd have thought.”

“I'd say there's always a point to what that clever young man says. The inspector told me to ring him up if I had anything I wanted to discuss. I thought he was as smart as a whip and charming with it.”

“Then I'm sure you'll be able to think of some urgent matter requiring his attention.”

Letty passed her arm companionably through his. “Look, let's not go straight home, William. Why don't we take a detour into the hills? I always have a feeling someone may be listening or watching in town. And in the rue Lamartine.”

“Know what you mean. And have you noticed, Letty, that the house is never quite still at night? Whenever I wake in the small hours I seem to hear a door closing. At the risk of sounding like a gossiping girl—tell me, Letty, what do you make of Marie-Louise? You seem to have hit it off.”

At last! Here was the opportunity Letty had been waiting for. “I like her,” she said warmly. “I think she's an unusual girl. Clever, pretty, ambitious. Quite wasted on this town. But I'd have thought you'd have formed your own opinions by now, William. She doesn't exactly flee at your approach! I've been intrigued to see her interest in you developing.”