Bright Hair About the Bone (40 page)

“
North
of Lyon? Oh—heading for Paris?”

“No,” murmured Gunning. “Not Paris, I'm thinking. The Swiss border?”

Huleux nodded. “You're right,
mon père.
We will be able to follow the thread back—or forward—starting with a particular dealer who will find he has surprise guests when he comes down for breakfast.”

They all fell silent, each willing one of the others to ask the unaskable question.

CHAPTER 39

I
t may be of interest to hear,” said Huleux, breaking the tension, “that the sole occupant of the Buick failed to stop when intercepted. The car, a heavy one and over-loaded, careered off the road and, in the ensuing crash, the driver was killed instantly. Impaled on the broken steering wheel. The contents of the car, a number of wooden boxes and leather satchels, have been confiscated and, having a particular involvement, you will be notified of decisions taken regarding their disposal. Sir.”

They all imagined the scornful sharp click of the heels. When the policeman turned for the door, Letty hurried after him and touched his shoulder gently, tears scouring a path down her dirty cheeks.

He turned to her, his control ebbing, seeking understanding. “She was too small to be driving that car,” he whispered. “Much too small.”

“I'll show you out, Capitaine,” said Letty quietly, and led the way from the room.

At the door into the courtyard she paused and faced him, saying steadily, “We have both suffered a loss…yours far more acute than mine and more raw. You have my deepest sympathy and my understanding. We each have a task to complete. Mine, for the moment, demands my presence here in this wasps' nest. Our objectives may not be the same but our paths to them may cross. May I assure you that my role in this…this tragedy…is no more than that of one who seeks the truth and then justice for a wrongdoing?”

He looked at her and nodded his agreement.

“I may need to call on you, Capitaine, later…”

“You have my number, mademoiselle. There will be someone in attendance at all hours.”

“When you come to examine the body of the count's man, Jules, you will find at his left side a concealed weapon. An Italian dagger. The blade may well match the wound that killed Daniel Thorndon. My godfather.”

She had a feeling that this was not news to Huleux.

“We understand each other, mademoiselle. I am at your service. And thank you for befriending my daughter over these last weeks. You brought some excitement into her life. She craved excitement. She could never be satisfied with what she had…despised the provincial life and itched to get away from it. Her first attempt to better herself—a disastrous affair with that scoundrel in there—only anchored her more firmly into the town. And left her with a virulent resentment which, I think, turned her bad from the inside. Most girls would have just run away to Paris and gone on the stage in the time-honoured tradition, but…” He shrugged his shoulders, the tears starting again.”…Marie-Louise couldn't sing and she couldn't dance. So she stole.

“I don't have the words to speak of my daughter calmly for the moment but…I know that she admired you. You and the Reverend must feel free to use your rooms in the rue Lamartine, though you must fend for yourselves, I'm afraid. My wife has gone to spend some days with her sister. I shall be in Lyon during the day, most probably, and an empty house is not a good place for a grieving mother.” He straightened his shoulders. “The stiletto, you say. On Jules. It has already been discovered and is being examined as we speak.” And he strode firmly out into the courtyard.

         

When she returned to the salon she went to the window and flung back the curtains, staring gloomily out at the countryside. A streak of saffron outlined the hills to the east. “I wonder how much longer we must keep ourselves available?”

Receiving no answer she turned and saw that both men were fast asleep. She paused to check that d'Aubec was still breathing, pulled a throw over Gunning's long limbs, pushed a silk pillow under his head, and crept from the room. She left a message with Thérèse for the housekeeper, saying that she had gone up to the room prepared for her and that the gentlemen in the salon were not to be disturbed.

         

The sun was high in the sky when Letty swam up from a deep sleep. Her first thought was that she would be late for work and Paradee would have her guts for garters. Her second was that today was a Sunday, her third that she was lying naked and filthy, cocooned in soft, white, lace-edged linen, much to its detriment. The lump under her goose-down pillow identified itself as a Luger pistol. In a pile by her bed were her underclothes, skirt, and blouse. With the realisation that her situation would take some industrious unravelling, she pulled the eiderdown back over her head and tried to focus on the previous night's appalling events.

Half an hour later—bathed and smelling exotically of several of the bathroom's
de luxe
offerings, with lily strongly to the fore—she struggled back into her stained clothes and went in search of breakfast.

In front of the door to the breakfast room she paused and put her ear to it. Two male voices were raised in earnest conversation. In English and French. Not quarrelling but debating a point, she judged. Under cover of a sharp burst of laughter, she went in.

Her entrance stunned them into silence and Letty was the first to gain her poise.

“Great heavens, darlings! Who've we got here? Bertie Belvedere and Emil Eglantyne. Opening in a musical at the Lyric?” She eyed the suave, shaven, silk-dressing-gowned figures lounging on either side of the breakfast table with mistrust. How long had they been engaged in this amicable discussion? Had they been talking about
her
? From the open quality of their instinctive welcome, she thought probably not.

“And Tyche Tantrum enters to a clever and distinctly roguish number by Mr. Irving Berlin,” said Gunning. “Good morning, Letty.”

D'Aubec, pale and bruised but cheerful, threw down his napkin and came to greet her with a repeated kiss on each cheek, murmuring his concern. “Fresh as a daisy, my nose tells me, but, my dear! You appear in rags! What may I provide?”

“First things first—a huge breakfast. Then perhaps a shirt of yours—one of your informal ones? I can't exactly borrow a little washing frock from the countess—she's much smaller than I am. But, tell me—am I wrong?—I don't detect a police presence.”

“You yourself gave the order, my angel. Did you not leave instructions with Madame Lepage that the gentlemen were to be left undisturbed?”

“Don't be fanciful,” Gunning reprimanded his host. “The girl's quite big-headed enough as it is. The police, I don't believe, hang on her every word. With all the villains accounted for and the centre of enquiries moved to Lyon, according to Mme. Lepage, the pressure was off. Huleux has announced he is to come back on Monday morning to conclude his enquiries.”

“So you will be my guests for what remains of the weekend,” said d'Aubec expansively. “Gunning has been provided with a room in the west tower. My family will be returning at some time during the day and I would like you both to attend the evening service with us in the chapel. I've sent a car for your things, Laetitia. Now, my dear—tea? Coffee? Croissants, toast, raspberry jam?”

“All of those, thank you. In that order.”

“And then, properly attired, of course, we'll venture out to the stables to assess the damage.”

         

In the end, both she and Gunning were thankful to the count for the use of his wardrobe. Gunning, being as tall, though not as broad, fitted easily enough into soft corduroy trousers and a plain white shirt. Letty, wearing almost the identical outfit, had done her best. Trousers were rolled up and tightly belted; a blue checked blouse flapped in a concealing way over the gun she tucked into her waistband. Her room was certain to be cleaned, perhaps even searched, and she had no intention of giving up the Luger. She felt she looked ridiculous, but she tried to walk like a duchess as they crossed the courtyard where the gravel and flower beds had been much churned up by police and emergency vehicles the night before.

D'Aubec's voice burst out in anger. He called to two men standing disconsolately by and demanded to know what they were doing, lounging about with so much to restore.

“Capitaine Huleux's orders, sir,” they said. “Scene of a crime. Not to be disturbed.”

“He wants to take a look at it again on Monday,” said the other man. “Seems there's a question of a missing gun, sir,” he confided. “They couldn't find it last night. It might have gone off to Lyon or been thrown into a flower bed, or kicked into the gravel. Men and horses all over the place, there was. Huleux said not to worry—he had a good idea where he'd find it and would come back for it.”

Moments later they were picking their way through the blackened and wet approach to the stable block. Edmond listened to the groom who was standing on guard, accounting for the staff's activities, dismissed him, and they went inside. The horses not out at exercise were standing quietly, Eponina and Atalanta, her stablemate, re-housed in vacant stalls. The wooden stalls they had previously occupied, and the panelling behind the stalls, had been destroyed. The pieces were lying about, a pile of splintered oak. There was revealed in the background a stone wall, this also prised apart and smashed.

“There she is!” said d'Aubec, gesturing towards a large slab of stone lying flat on the floor.

And there she was. A second goddess astride a prancing horse, pointing the way to a gaping hole in the stonework. A hammer and a crowbar lay abandoned in the dust.

“Devils! Vandals! This is…
spoliation
!” d'Aubec hissed.

Gunning peered through the hole, with Letty close behind him. “It's big,” she said excitedly. “It's far more than just a hole in the rock face. It's a cave—a cavern. Come on, Edmond, give me a leg up!”

“A moment. Let me get a couple of torches.” He went over to the tack room and returned with a flashlight in each hand. Handing one to each, he cupped his hands to receive Letty's foot. She hopped once and was heaved up to the sill of the opening. The men jumped up beside her and stood for a moment contemplating the void before them.

“It's empty.”

“They couldn't get all of it into the car. Whatever was left, the police will have taken away for safer keeping, I suppose,” said d'Aubec. “I shall check it against my list when it is returned to me. Interesting, anyway, finally to get a glimpse of Hippolyte's construction.”

The rock-cut cavern was six feet by ten but all that remained of the abbey hoard, it seemed, was a wisp or two of straw and a handful of shavings until Letty, shining her torch across the floor and catching a gleam of gold, picked up a coin about the size of an English guinea. She held it out to Edmond on the palm of her hand.

“A louis d'or,” said Edmond. “Probably worth a few hundred francs. But what must have been the value of what is gone!” He added, gazing around, “So this is the place the monks chose…I have to suppose they thought it would be safe up here in their summer retreat. And the compliant count of the day—the newly returned Hippolyte—obligingly built up the stables to cover the hiding place. They probably intended to retrieve it when the troubles blew over. But they never did. The monks were dispersed—sent packing by Napoleon. And their secret died with them. Or would have done, had not my ancestor employed a particularly vigilant steward.”

They stood in a row, playing the torches around the cavern, silenced by disappointment, trying to picture the grandeur of the treasures now hidden from view once more in a police vault in Lyon.

Suddenly Laetitia's torch shook. She pointed it over their heads and said in a steady voice, “Edmond! William! Look there! Can you see it? This is only
half
a cave. It must have been twice this size when it was hacked out. You can see that if you look at the curve of the roof. There, do you see it? I've seen something like this in the Valley of the Kings! But more cleverly done. This is really quite obvious, wouldn't you say? And look at the walls. It's wood-lined, but the wooden planks end abruptly at the corners. And the far wall is plastered over. Pass me that hammer, Edmond. There! Old plaster but not ancient. Hippolyte again. Now, why would he plaster over the stonework or the wood? Bet he didn't! He's hiding something else.”

D'Aubec snatched back the hammer. He was sweating, uneasy, hesitant. “No! I think that's enough for one morning. Beyond this we will not go.”

She rounded on him but spoke in a soft voice, quoting the phrases she remembered from the architect's plans, the same phrases Marie-Louise must have noticed: “‘The worldly goods of Our Lady rest with the Lady of Ancient Days.' You've known all along! She's there, behind that plaster wall, Edmond, isn't she? The Lady you're saving a space for in your chapel!” she exclaimed with sudden insight. “The east window! Is she then to take pride of place over the altar? The Gallic face of the Triple Goddess?”

Tight-lipped and avoiding her gaze, he began to collect up the tools, preparing to leave.

When she spoke again into his silence, she was using the one persuasion she could think of that might shatter his brittle resolve and push him in the direction in which she knew he wanted to move. “Hippolyte saw her. And now she's yours. She would not turn away three sincere worshippers, Edmond.”