Bright Hair About the Bone (43 page)

She glanced at the titles handwritten in black ink on white card and stuck along the spines.
Recipes
…
Wages
…
Accounts
…She pulled down the one marked simply
Housebook.
It was carefully kept. At the back, guests and visiting family were listed in alphabetical order and their tastes and preferences noted. She would have been happy to spend time exploring this section but contented herself, as she riffled through to the front, to note an intriguing fact about Cousin Gabrielle. Never think you can keep secrets from the housekeeper! Mischievously, she stored it up for future use.

At last, she found what she was looking for. Today's cast list. Not quite the method of notation Dawkins used, but near enough. Carefully inscribed, in spite of the turmoil of yesterday, were details of everyone on the premises. Gunning appeared, booked in as Mlle. Talbot's cousin. His room was listed. The family's arrival had been noted. Having got her eye in, she flipped back nine months and counted down to the day before Daniel's death.

There was his name:
Souper. Le professeur Thorndon (v).
Visiting for supper. Leek soup and potted partridge had been enjoyed evidently. And there was his hostess and alleged tango partner: Mme. la Comtesse.

But it was the other two names that she was intrigued to see listed. Two men who had, over the card table, listened to Daniel, argued with him, quarrelled with him perhaps. She remembered her godfather had once overturned a card table in his wrath. And that quarrel had started with nothing more than an accusation of cheating. The cheat in question (herself aged eight) had at once admitted her guilt but could not understand the fuss—surely he would want her to win? Her mother had banned him from the house for a week for bad behaviour.

What then would be the punishment exacted from quick-tempered, upright Daniel for challenging this nexus with its sinister aims? She knew the answer: a dagger in the throat.

But the command passed down to the hand that wielded the dagger—to Jules—would, she guessed, have come from one of these two men. She thought she knew which of the pair would have given the order to kill. Laetitia rationed her seriously offensive swear words for special occasions. She used one now. “Got you, you bastard!” she murmured.

CHAPTER 42

W
here've you been? Your fiancé is combing the castle for you.”

Gunning caught up with her hurrying back down the portrait corridor a few minutes before they were due to gather for aperitifs in the summer salon.

“In the chapel. Just saying a prayer, coming to an understanding with the two Marys, and…” she added mysteriously, “doing a little stage-managing.”

A triumphant bellow from the foot of the staircase cut her short and they were instantly rounded up by d'Aubec and ushered along to the salon. He sent William in first and held Letty back for a moment. “You look lovely, my dear,” he murmured, arms sliding around her slim body in its wisp of black silk. She was intrigued to find that, although she was well aware of his intentions in running eager hands over her, the embrace was disconcerting. Pleased with the response he had evoked, he moved a finger slowly under her gold necklace.

“Heraldically correct?” she reminded him.

“In every way correct. For me. I'm sorry for my cousin's behaviour, and I'm sorry I lied to you…a pathetic attempt to rouse the demon of jealousy, but I perceive he has no place in your heart?”

“Oh, he's there but lying dormant, I think,” said Letty. “And I apologise for
my
cousin's behaviour. Well, shall we go in and dazzle them with the glamour of a happy couple?”

After five minutes of unobtrusive assessment, the countess relaxed. Laetitia was behaving impeccably. Talking lightly, moving easily from group to group, she was even observed to make a comment that provoked a spurt of laughter from Gabrielle and a warm response. After a conversation with the girl, the countess's brother-in-law, Auguste, had caught her eye across the room, smiled, and nodded. Yes, a good choice. But the Englishman was a bit of a mystery.

Edmond had assured his mother that the man's provenance—as he called it—had been scrutinised and found acceptable. In the course of the day, she had come to suspect, though Edmond would never admit it, that he admired the man. And for deeper reasons than the most obvious: that he had quite possibly saved her son's life. Edmond had never made friends readily. Surrounded by close family, protected, aware from an early age of his special status, he had been concealed and prickly with others. Not an easy companion. He had craved approval without possessing the qualities to attract it. Mistakes had been made. And corrected.

This latest pair—the Talbot girl and her vicar friend—were, in the countess's eyes, on trial this evening. Suitable company for Edmond? How would they be judged? She hoped Laetitia at least would impress—she fitted easily into their life and the countess had never seen Edmond so struck with a girl. Yes, she would hand over her keys to Laetitia Talbot with some relief and the sooner, the better. But where was the clergyman in all this?

She had insisted: “But what is his connection with Laetitia? They seem very close?” And her son had replied casually enough: “Do you remember, Maman, the Arab stallion Papa had before the war? The skittish grey that bit him? That horse was only at ease in his paddock when he was in the company of a moth-eaten old donkey. His friend.”

His mother had looked at him quizzically. “But that is no moth-eaten old donkey! Never think it!”

Her eyes were drawn constantly to Gunning. According to Anselme, the man was open-minded and enquiring, and had a cerebral approach to religion rather than a profound and visceral belief. A man still choosing his path, was Anselme's judgement. And, of course, a man who understood the workings of the Church of England. Could be useful. Who knows? He might even prove to be the Saint Paul of their movement?

And her judgement had been upheld over the dinner table. Her niece, Gabrielle, seated uncomfortably between Gunning and Constantine, had been prepared to turn her attention anywhere but in his direction, but his undemanding charm had won through and before the first course had been cleared, there they were—smiling, heads together.

The countess sipped her Montrachet. It might not be the disastrous evening she had feared.

         

Towards the end of the meal, a footman entered and announced that Father Anselme had arrived and been shown to the chapel. The countess looked around the table, gathering attention and quietening conversations, and invited her guests to accompany her, adding, for the benefit of Laetitia and Gunning, that the service would be short, non-denominational, and in French.

The chapel was serenely waiting, and Father Anselme, with arms outstretched and a broad smile, welcomed them at the door. His long white robe and the green-embroidered stole draped about his shoulders were reassuringly formal. They entered and seated themselves to the sound of voices singing in Latin. A recorded sound. Gunning's comment about the current of technology sparking and transforming ancient ingredients was proving apt, it seemed.

Silkily, the ancient words were calling on Mary:

O Maria virginei, flos honoris,

Vitae via, lux fidei, pax amoris…

Clinging to Gunning's arm, Letty had chosen a seat by the door. Whilst the company settled, coughing and shuffling, Letty put her nose to a low arrangement of trailing ivy leaves and white roses on a table at her elbow, inhaling the calming scent and trying to still her shaking hands.

The curtain had been drawn back to reveal the stained glass labyrinth and the ear of wheat. The warm rays of the evening sun filtered into the chapel, spreading pools of honey and amber on the floor, casting a golden glow onto the faces around her, listening with reverent attention. Sunshine, honey, amber, gold. Timeless ingredients, a bewitching alchemy.

Letty allowed herself to become ensnared.

When the last pure note had faded, Anselme switched off the gramophone and spoke quietly, echoing the sentiment: “Shining star, moon without darkness, sun giving great light, Mary of great beauty.” He walked to the lectern and began by announcing that he was present merely to lead the worship; as with the Quaker religion, the congregation was free to make contributions—in any language—even if that contribution were simply silence and thought.

So far, so familiar, Letty thought. Esmé could not have objected.

She was further lulled when Anselme began to read from a psalm which she'd heard many times before. At Harvest Festivals, she thought.

         

“Thou causeth the grass to grow for the cattle, and herb for the service of man: that he may bring forth food out of the earth.

And wine that maketh glad the heart of man and oil to make his face to shine and bread which strengthens a man's heart…

Oh, Lady! How manifold are thy works!

In wisdom hast thou made them all: the earth is full of thy riches…

All that thou givest us, we gather. Thou openest thy hand, we are filled with good.

When thou hidest thy face, we are troubled; when thou takest away our breath, we die and return to dust.

When thou sendest forth thy spirit, we are created and thou re-newest the face of the earth…

Lady, hear our praise!”

         

The worshippers repeated the last line then joined him as he finished:

“Our words falter.

The Goddess sings a hymn of silence

And we are silently singing.”

The certainty in the firm voice was persuasive, the phrasing hypnotic. At that moment it seemed entirely reasonable to Letty that all these good things—grass, corn, wine, the fruits of the earth, and the earth itself—should have been created by a female deity.

Letty stole a glance at Gunning. He had the attentive but slightly strained expression of a doting father being required to hear a child recite the thirteen times table.

The silence was broken by the countess. The first to rise to her feet, she turned to face the image of the Virgin, curtsied, and spoke in a clear voice: “We thank you by singing your greatness; we reach towards your bright light, perceived only by the intellect; we recognise you, true seed of humankind, the womb pregnant with all life to come.”

The others began to chant:

“Mother of Creation, Fountain of Goodness,

From you we will be born again.”

Five further eulogies of varying lengths and degrees of conviction followed, until all had spoken but for Letty and Gunning. With a shake of the head, Letty indicated that she was content to remain silently singing. She was alarmed to see Gunning getting to his feet and she put out a hand to restrain him. She had sensed him by her side growing increasingly tense.

Shaking off her grasp, he strode towards the lectern. No self-conscious comments offered from the body of the Church for him, Letty thought, annoyed, but she acknowledged that he was a man performing in a setting very familiar to him. He was playing a part he had been trained for and had practised for years in English churches and on French battlefields. The lack of a dog-collar and priestly garments was disconcerting at first, but his elegant dinner jacket, borrowed from d'Aubec, gave him distinction and authority. Uneasily, Letty identified the sudden rush of emotion she felt as pride. The firmness of his hands on the lectern, the amusement in his sharp blue eyes as they made contact with every person in the congregation, the absence of notes, all spoke of a growing confidence. Letty hadn't the faintest idea what he would do: tear down the temple or shout hallelujah—neither would have surprised her.

Father Anselme went to sit down, leaving Gunning in possession of the stage.

CHAPTER 43

H
e chose to speak in English, confident that his worldly audience would have no difficulty in understanding him. A good decision, Letty thought. An Englishman struggling with the French language is a comical figure and Gunning needed at this moment to be taken seriously.

“Under the challenging gaze of the Magdalene” (he bowed to her stained glass image), “I am prompted to speak to you, her devoted followers, in no less than the Lady's own words. Words with which I don't believe you will be familiar.”

His audience was intrigued and eager to hear more. They were not disappointed. His account of the discovery in the desert of an ancient and tattered manuscript, its passing through the hands of scurrilous dealers and thieves to fetch up in the safety of a museum where its miraculous contents had at last, after years of dusty neglect, finally been understood, was, Letty thought, a little highly coloured, but there was no denying its power.

Surprise and anticipation were on every face. Father Anselme smiled and looked modestly at the floor as his protégé held them in the palm of his hand. Auguste cast a questioning glance at Constantine, who looked blankly back at him.

“And the words she speaks are Christ's own, transmitted through the clarity of her own sharp intellect, undistorted by ambition, fear, jealousy, or doctrinal wrangling. And she had some very fundamental questions to put to the mouthpiece of God: ‘What is matter?' she asks him. ‘Will it last forever?'

“And Christ answers: ‘All that is born, all that is created, all the elements of nature are interwoven and united with each other. All that is composed will eventually decompose; everything returns to its roots; matter returns to the origins of matter.'”

Nods of agreement greeted this uncontroversial statement. They were all certain they'd heard it before somewhere. Gunning seemed to be treading a well-worn path.

“And again, Mary asks (and who knows the depth of personal need which prompted it?) a question the answer to which we all thirst for: ‘What is the sin of the world?' And his reply is clear: ‘There is no sin. It is you who create sin when you act according to the habits of your corrupt nature; this is where sin lies.'”

“He's making all this up. Surely?” thought Letty. “How can he know? Has he gone over to
them
?”

His glance towards the vivid figure of Mary on his right was agonised, seeking strength, and suddenly Letty was ashamed of her suspicions. She was closer than she had ever been to getting a glimpse of the man at the centre of the protective layers he had built around himself over the years. He was speaking from the heart—the heart she had thought atrophied within him.

“But Mary has a message for you. A message against which all your ears are stopped.”

And, of course, at the challenge, each listener unstopped his ears and paid even closer attention.

“You will not want to hear, you will not want to accept the truth she hands down to us: The Lord calls on us to become
anthropos.
I offer you the Greek since we have no word subtle enough to express this, in French or English. Fully human, accepting and rejoicing in our humanity, perhaps. ‘Be vigilant,' Mary warns us. ‘Allow no one to mislead you by saying—“Here it is!” or “There it is!” For it is
within you
that the Son of Man lives. Go to him. For those who seek him, find him.'

“Some spark of the creating deity is within each human. We should not seek outside ourselves for external symbols of faith. Those who offer them, who set up objects of veneration, idols, prophecies, promises of divine intervention…” Gunning waved a hand round the chapel, “are misleading mankind, are denying him progress by chaining him to his Stone Age beliefs. We are not primitive hunters, dwellers in caves who do not understand the workings of our planet and must explain them with stories of the supernatural.”

The audience was beginning to stir uneasily. Auguste's looks in Constantine's direction were increasingly flinty. No emotion played on Constantine's stern features, but his right hand had settled in his pocket. They all flashed anxious glances at the countess and for a moment Letty was reassured. Would they risk a violent scene in front of an old lady whose health was known to be failing?

“But now they know where he's going with this, they'll surely find a way of silencing him,” Letty thought, despairing. “He's leaving them no choice.” And she saw clearly why Daniel had died.

They had attempted to recruit him to their cause, just as they were even now trying to capture herself and Gunning. Daniel would have gone along with it in a spirit of intellectual enquiry—that was ever his style: debate, listen patiently to your opponent, get into his skin, then, having understood him, play devil's advocate, tie him in philosophical knots. But, agnostic humanist that he was, Daniel would, when he finally grasped the enormity of what they were about, have poured scorn on their plans to use religious fervour as a means to their sinister goal. Once he had understood their intentions, he would first have ridiculed them and then flung down a direct challenge. Metaphorically, faces would have been slapped by Daniel's glove. He would have threatened them with exposure. Letty shivered. She could imagine the old cavalryman's challenges: “My friend the Archbishop must hear of this…the Pope would expect to be made aware…His Majesty's government and our allies the United States will take a dim view!” He might even have invoked his old pals at the War Office.

No, it had not been a peaceful exchange of views, a cosy foursome round the card table. There had been no sentimental tango. One of the four players had picked up the gauntlet. She looked around the assembled company and identified her target.

“But this is what you are proposing,” Gunning was storming on. “To mislead humanity. With velvet-lined handcuffs you will chain him to his superstitions. You attempt to distort man's highest impulses and use them to forge no less than a tool of social control. You propose to take the finest images of man's faith—the Mother, the Virgin, the Giver of Good Gifts and Bringer of Seasons—and blend them into a heady cocktail for a thirsting people. What you are seeking after is a nation which, inebriated and inflamed, will hurl itself mindlessly into action against an enemy chosen for them by you yourselves. By a gang of nationalistic tyrants!”

Letty cringed. She had seen, in the park one Sunday before the war, a crowd at Speakers' Corner attack a pacifist. They had pulled him from his soapbox and begun to kick and pummel the lad. The police were calculatedly slow to come to his assistance and Letty had been dragged screaming from the scene by her father. Gunning was in far greater danger than that young man.

Auguste's ascetic features were becoming increasingly strained. François raised a disbelieving eyebrow to his cousin Edmond and shrugged his shoulders. Anselme's fingers twitched, anxious to clasp a rosary he did not carry.

“Patriotism!” Gunning's voice was rasping with scorn. “Love of one's country! What are these? Virtues? No! Nothing but a sleek mask for nationalism—the evil which has brought Europe time after time to the edge and made it stare into the pit. Tribalism by another name. Have we made no progress since the Celtic Aedui fought their neighbours, the Germani, here in these hills? Have we learned nothing in two thousand years but that our young men are born to be sacrificed to the God of War?

“Our warrior no longer runs naked into battle welcoming a hero's death, fighting hand to hand with a single enemy, the image of himself. Our new Achilles lurks in the shadows, slaughtering hideously and indiscriminately from a distance. He doesn't see the light leave a man's eyes, he doesn't hear his death gasp, doesn't feel his last breath hot on his cheek. When this warrior strikes it is not one man who falls nor yet an army but a whole people.

“And you would put Nationalism into harness with
Religion
to power the charge of the unreasoning masses? You plan to replace God with yourselves! Do I need to remind you of the name of the last being to attempt this?” he said, turning his unearthly blue gaze on d'Aubec. “His name was Lucifer!”

At last it came and Letty, alert to every changing expression on the faces around her, was astounded to catch the slight nod that gave the order to silence him. The signal without which no one would have taken action came from a totally unexpected quarter but there was no mistaking it. It was accompanied by the flash of a great ruby in a ring too massive for the emaciated finger that wore it.