Bright Hair About the Bone (38 page)

Good. That was one decision made. This walk was proving effective, it seemed.

She pushed through a gate, relying on the bright moonlight now to light her path, enjoying the profound silence broken here and there by the short questioning bark of a yard dog, and onwards towards the hills bathed in the white glow of the Mother Goddess, under a radiant canopy of stars. With a rush of feeling she stood and held up her arms to the silent but benign presence, smiling her homage. A simple little song came back to her from her childhood:

“Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?”

“Over the sea.”

“Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?”

“All that love me.”

Diana? Epona? Isis? Names. Did it matter which one she spoke? It was the emotion surging in her that had meaning—a deeply human need to gush out wonder and praise. She knew the God she believed in would understand and approve her greeting the moon, loving the moon, as a divine presence. Though not a divine presence at all: a lump of planetary rock circling the earth, if Gunning were to be believed.

Unconsciously, she had been heading towards the château, she realised, and decided to turn back. Too late, the thought of her foolhardiness struck her as she paused for breath and looked back at the town. There was the town where Daniel had been murdered, the town where she had dug the pathetic, crouched corpse of a young boy from the earth, and here she was, walking its fields alone at night.

Alone? With a thump of the heart, it came to her that she was not alone. Not a sound, but a movement had caught her stretched senses. She turned and walked on a few more paces before whirling around to scour the field behind her. The branches of a hawthorn bush in the hedgerow about fifty yards away stirred although there was no wind.

Bending to pretend to tie her boot-lace, she hunted about and found a stout, short branch lying broken in the ditch. Checking it was not rotten, she clutched it to her side and stood up again. But, on lifting her head, she was confronted by another problem.

Was she staring at a sunset afterglow? At two in the morning? No. On the castle hill? Surely not. With the dancing radiance came a sharp acrid tang. A bonfire? She was certain that no Saint-Jean fire had been planned for Brancy, and on every other height the fires were lying, cooling grey piles of ash. The château or some part of it was on fire.

Where were the servants? The grooms? Sleeping off the night's indulgence? Perhaps she should take action? She was, after all, however halfheartedly, the key-bearer, the temporary châtelaine.

Which way to turn? What to do? Run back to the town and get help? She assessed the distances: the town was much closer. She'd run back. But between her and the town was a dark shadow lurking at the roots of the hedge. She turned around again to face the field and tightened her grip on the branch in her sweating hand.

Twenty yards now. The presence in the hawthorn hedge had moved closer.

CHAPTER 36

T
he last inheritor of the fighting spirit of a long line of soldiers licked her dry lips, swallowed, took several deep breaths, and raised her improvised club. She had surprise on her side and would be attacking downhill. But these were the only practical advantages she could count on to back up the hot indignation pushing her to calculate the odds and then seize the initiative. With a Valkyrie scream she hurled herself down towards the menace lurking amongst the bushes.

“Put down that weapon!” The agitated hawthorn spoke with a crisp English officer's voice. “Bloody hell, girl! What do you think you're playing at?”

A second later a scratched and bleeding Gunning emerged from the foliage and sank to his knees in front of her, head bowed at a suppliant tilt.

The sudden release from tension and fear left her rocking on her heels, her impetus no longer needed, the surge of fighting energy seeking a target which had melted away. She dropped her branch, grasped him by the hair, lifted his head, and smacked him soundly across his cheek.

“You nearly got yourself killed, you fool! What are you doing out here? Trailing about after me? Am I to think you shadow me everywhere, whatever I'm doing?”

He hadn't flinched when she hit him, just looked up at her with quiet defiance.

“Oh, for goodness' sake, get up! The grass is wet.”

His posture was ridiculous and irritating, but she acknowledged that it had probably saved him from serious injury at her hands. However roused, she could not have clubbed a man about his offered defenceless neck.

“Yes, I have followed you. Just about everywhere. As closely and as often as I could. Not always possible when you put yourself into questionable positions, but I have otherwise obeyed Sir Richard's instructions to the letter.”

Letty groaned. “I shall have something to say to the pair of you. But that will have to wait. Had you noticed, Mr. Snoop, that the castle's on fire?”

“Hey! What?” He got to his feet and peered at the sky, where an evil orange flower blossomed suddenly. “Yes, you're right. So it is. Not the main buildings, I think. Yet. No sign of flames internally. It's silhouetting the bulk of the keep. It's coming from behind. Could it be coming from a courtyard? The stable block?”

“The stables! There's at least a dozen horses in there. And the dogs! No sound of an alarm being raised. And the town's asleep.”

“You're faster on your feet than I am. Run, Letty, and get the car out. Pick me up where this lane joins the main road and we'll motor up. See if there's anything we can do. Bang on the door of the fire-station on your way.” He shouted the last sentence at her as she disappeared at speed into the darkness.

         

“It's still alight but at least it doesn't seem to have got any worse,” Gunning shouted at her encouragingly when she braked to pick him up.

Knowing the road as well as she did, Letty was able to put her foot down and drive at the car's top speed up the hill. Just short of the coach road, she squealed in protest and wrenched hard on the wheel, pulling the Wolesley aside to avoid another car coming at them at a furious pace.

“Good Lord!” said Gunning, shaken. “Well done to avoid that maniac! He's all over the road! Did you see who it was?”

“No. The headlights were blinding me.”

“I got a sight of his number plate. Lyon number.” He recited it. “Let's remember that. Not a local car. Big Buick, I think.”

“I'm not giving chase,” she said, easing the car back onto the road. “I'm not that good a driver and, anyway, we've got a fire to put out. I left a message with the fire-master's wife. She said she'd wake him and send one of the children for Capitaine Huleux. I do hope we're not starting them off on a wild-goose chase.”

“Stop, Laetitia! The gates are wide open. Not sure I like the signs…Turn the car around and leave it outside. I'd rather not be trapped in there.”

They hurried through the entrance and followed the gravelled sweep of the drive around to the stable courtyard.

“D'Aubec's back! There's his car! There—by the stables. Doors swinging open.”

The house itself was dark and silent, but the scene in front of the stables was alive with light and sound. Horses whinnied hysterically and hooves pounded against wooden stalls. The flickering light, now fading somewhat, seemed to have its source, not in the stable block itself but in front of it. Straw bales, which had been tidily piled last time she had seen them, were lying smouldering and burning halfheartedly, though renegade sparks and wisps aflame danced dangerously in the slight breeze towards the open door of the stable.

Racing across the courtyard towards the abandoned car, Letty stumbled, catching her foot on something unyielding lying halfway on the path and halfway into a flower bed. A few yards away lay a second huddled shape, equally still.

“Watch out, William!” she called, and then, bending, moaned, “No! Oh, no! We're too late. They're dead!”

“Two bodies?” said Gunning. “Who on earth? Oh, my God! Leave this to me, Laetitia.” He knelt over the first body, sprawled on its back.

A chauffeur's hat lay close by. The man was in uniform and still wearing his leather glove on his left hand. His right hand held a gun. “Jules! He must have been driving d'Aubec back from Lyon. So the other corpse…” She hardly dared look.

“Dead. He's dead,” said Gunning, feeling a pulse point on the neck. He eased the body over, checking the wound. “Gunshot wound through the heart, fired from the front.” He dropped Jules back onto the gravel, gleaming black with blood in the moonlight, and turned to the second body.

“What! Oh, no! Can't be! But how on earth? Letty, rouse yourself and come and look!”

She moved slowly around Jules's body and stood by the second man, staring, too astonished to speak.

“Hard to tell when he's not in uniform,” she whispered finally. “Laval? It's Inspector Laval, surely?”

“Yes, Laval. He's a goner, too. Shot likewise. But what's he doing up here at night in plainclothes?”

“Trailing d'Aubec and Jules from Lyon?” Letty suggested half-heartedly. “He said he never gave up. He said he always got his man.”

“Well, this time his man got him. Poor soul.”

“And if Jules is his man, that means…” Letty bit her lip hard to keep back her suspicions but Gunning voiced them.

“D'Aubec! Where's
he
in all this?” He checked the interior of the Hispano-Suiza and returned to her. “Jules wouldn't have driven home by himself. His master must be lurking about the place. And he may be armed. What on earth is going on?”

“The fire's going on! Lucky so far it's only those collapsed bales alight, but they're smouldering and the sparks are drifting. The stables seem intact as far as I can make out. No real danger for the animals, but the horses are frantic. Some idiot—or villain—has unbolted the doors and thrown them wide open. Line of fire buckets over there on the stable wall, William,” said Letty, pointing.

She hung back for a moment watching Gunning stumble off through the smoke and returned to the body of Jules. His gun was still clutched in his ungloved right hand. She detached it from his fingers. An evil, purposeful pistol. A German souvenir of the war, she guessed. She'd handled a similar one before: taken illicit target practice under the amused but watchful eye of her brother on his last home leave. A Luger. Much prized amongst British officers. She checked it was loaded, slipped on the safety catch, and tucked it into her belt behind her back.

Before hurrying after Gunning she paused, uncomfortably aware that something was wrong. She peered down again at the dead right hand that had held the gun. Reluctantly, she bent over and pulled it into the light. Her senses had not deceived her. The thumb she had encountered in relieving Jules of his gun was broken. So, she thought with a feeling of nausea, the watcher in black she'd encountered in the market square had had her in his sights all along. Jules le Lugubre was d'Aubec's man. And the gun presently tucked into in her own belt was the one so accurately predicted by Gunning.

Gritting her teeth in distaste, she knelt beside the body and tugged loose the belt of his chauffeur's uniform jacket. She pulled back the right flap. Yes, there it was. The holster Gunning had lurched into. Panting and almost unable to go further, she peeled back the left flap of the coat. And shuddered. Gleaming with ugly menace in the moonlight was a decorated metallic scabbard. She ran a hesitant finger over it, exploring its length and thin shape. The knife and the hand that had killed Daniel? She didn't doubt it. But this creature was himself no more than a weapon. Whose was the voice that had directed him to kill? At last she thought she knew for certain. She would somehow get the evidence of guilt. She got to her feet. For the moment she could go no farther. A closer examination of the evil stabbing knife would have to be left to the police.

The police? Letty felt suddenly sick with anxiety. She went to stand over the inspector's body. “And was that what you were about to reveal, Laval?” she wondered, with a glance at the stiffening white face. His telephone number in her notebook had been reassuring: a last resort if she and Gunning got into serious trouble; a friendly official ear, if all went well, to hear her triumphant solution to the case. And now this life-line had been brutally cut. She felt bereft and, with no time to grieve for the man, muttered a hasty promise: “I'll finish this, Laval. I'll finish it.”

“Letty! For God's sake!” The desperate cry came from Gunning, barely discernible in the cloud of steam his fire-fighting efforts were producing. She ran to grab a bucket and hurled the contents at a still-glowing bale. The water from the bucket line and constant refilling from the trough were enough to put the stables out of danger in twenty minutes. Letty and Gunning clung together, each supporting the other, panting and smoke-blackened.

“Stupid way to start a serious conflagration,” Gunning commented. “Frightfully inefficient. Should have cut the bindings and loosened the straw—it would have taken hold better. Looks to me as though someone's kicked that one there at the end to bits and lit it. Most of it consumed and blown away, but the other bales caught light from it. No more than charred round the edges. The stables appear to be perfectly safe, for the moment. Dangerous behaviour though, and deliberate. Amateur arsonist? But who? Jules?”

“No. He'd never endanger the horses. Nor would d'Aubec. Whatever else they're capable of they would never set fire to the stables.”

“The horses! Better check on them. And where are the two grooms you said were supposed to be on duty tonight? I don't see
them.
Come on, we can steer a course through this mess now.”

A few paces beyond the blackened barrier Gunning stopped and put a sheltering arm in front of Letty. “Stay back! There's another of them.” He pointed to a dark shape slumped in the entrance, lying in the shadow of Epona's arch. The goddess stared down, unmoved by the scenes of wild emotion played out below her horse's feet.

Letty ducked underneath his arm and dashed forward. “Edmond! It's Edmond! Is he dead? He looks dead.” Her fingers went to the grip of the pistol in her belt and she watched as Gunning warily approached.

The skilful fingers went straight to the pulse. “No, he's alive. Barely.”

The examination of d'Aubec's body and limbs was swift and ordered. “Not shot. Wound on the head. There. A blow. He's deeply unconscious.” He looked into her face, pale and anxious in the moonlight. “Not much hope, I'd say.” His voice was calm and professional. “But let's see what we can do. Flashlight? Water?”

Letty raced to the stable and unhooked a hand lamp from behind the door. She dragged a clean towel from a pile by the water basin and filled a brass ewer with water. Gunning was gently palpating the skull when she returned to the still body. While she crouched behind, shining the light on the head, he took the towel, dampened a corner and began to wipe the blood away from the wound which revealed itself, curved, long, wide, and livid across the side of his head.

“I think we can guess what caused that!”

She nodded.

“Hold the light still. Look, I can't wrap this up: The skull appears to be intact but that's a powerful blow he's suffered. It will have caused bruising to the brain, most probably. When…I ought perhaps to say
if
…he regains consciousness, he may well not be himself. I say this because…I know you've got fond of the bloke, so…Well, prepare yourself for that. More water over here. Trickle some here where I'm pointing.”

The flow of cold water on his temple had its effect.

“Shit! Bloody hell! It's the godawful English vicar! What are
you
doing here, you carrion crow? Come to gloat? Read me the last rites? Well, you're too early. Bugger off!”