Bright Hair About the Bone (5 page)

CHAPTER 4

E
smé looked carefully at the photograph on the front and made no comment. She turned it over and studied the postmarks and then finally read the written message. Still silent, she looked doubtfully up at her friend.

“Tell me what you're thinking,” Letty urged.

“Well, Fontigny looks very pretty. Jolly good abbey, I'd say…The sender has dated it the second of October and the first of the postmarks bears the date of the day following. As you said. So far nothing remarkable.” She was keeping her voice deliberately neutral. “Um…just a couple of things…For a start, this card wasn't sent to you and it wasn't Daniel who sent it. I see it's addressed to a Miss Tabitha T. c/o Mrs. M. Cartwright, thirty-five Albert Place, Cambridge. Don't you think you should hand it back to one or other of these ladies?”

“Of course it's for me! Maggie Cartwright is my old governess. She lived with us at Melchester and taught me until I went to school and she retired. She used to call me Tabitha after the nursery rhyme…you know…

“Tabitha Twitchit is grown so fine

She lies in bed until half past nine…

“On account of a period of slothful late-rising I experienced in my youth.”

Esmé nodded, comprehending instantly. She glanced back down at the card. “Now I begin to understand the game. So—thanks to the insight and kind offices of your governess, this made its way on to Miss Twitchit.” Her mouth tightened with the effort to suppress laughter. “Using my deductive powers and my sketchy knowledge of the works of Beatrix Potter, I will guess that the signature at the end:—
your loving Jeremy F.—
”

“Fisher,” muttered Letty, ill at ease. “He was fond of fishing in the meadow by the river. Maggie Cartwright invented that one, too.” She glowered. “Well—what do you expect, Esmé? If someone's checking his mail, he's hardly likely to sign it
Lt.-Col. Daniel Thorndon, D.S.O.,
is he? Clearly, Daniel was trying to avoid interception by someone who was aware of
my
name and address—and
his.
”

Esmé stared in disbelief for a moment, then continued her commentary in a deliberately bracing tone: “Well…No bloodstains on the postcard, I see. So you couldn't say it had been snatched from his lifeless hand and put in the box by a tidy-minded killer? No…but I suppose you could say it looks rather battered?”

“It was retained by the police for a while. Daniel's body was found near a postbox in the middle of the night. No reason for him to be walking the streets of Fontigny at that hour…the assumption was that he'd not been able to sleep and had spent a wakeful night writing up notes and had dashed off this postcard, which he popped into the post during his walk. They sealed the box and checked the contents. This must have been retained as evidence, inspected, and then sent on with all the rest of the mail the box contained some weeks later.”

“So it was waiting for you when you got back from Egypt?”

Letty nodded. “That terrible time last year. I'd been sent down from the University. My father and I were exhausted from fighting a force much stronger than we were, and then the bombshell of Daniel's death exploded over us. His body was sent back for burial and after that we geared ourselves up for another impossible struggle—with the French authorities this time. Daddy went out and made a fuss but had to come back with the official judgement intact—Daniel had been tragically stabbed to death by a street-robber.”

“Now that is odd. A robber out and about at five in the morning? Whom would he be expecting to rob? Perhaps it's different abroad, but surely any successful thief would choose more fruitful hunting grounds—crowds on city streets in broad daylight? Markets? Tourist spots?”

“Exactly! My father's nothing if not thorough. He made the local police reveal their crime records. No street robberies since the war, and not many during and before either. The usual
crimes passionnels
—a lot of those in the aftermath of the war…husbands returning unexpectedly—and that's it. It's a quiet cathedral town, not a place where a stiletto-wielding assassin lurks round every corner in wait for unwary somnambulists! Though some of his possessions had been taken.”

“Ah!” said Esmé knowingly, “that's very probably a distraction.” The House of Leatherhead made a great deal of money from one of its less celebrated branches—crime novels—and Esmé cheerfully admitted to reading each title as it rolled off the press. She knew what to ask next. “Who found the body? Do you know?”

“Oh, that at least is well documented. He was discovered by a contingent of cavalry! Daniel would have approved. He was in the Royal Horse Guards during the war.”

“Cavalry? At dawn? Good Lord! A scene of quite surprising activity, the square of Fontigny, it seems! It only lacks an operatic bass-baritone strolling on, belting out a lament, and you could stage it at Covent Garden!” She broke off in embarrassment. “Oh! Sorry, Letty! I wasn't thinking…”

Letty laughed. “No—you're right. It certainly must have looked very dramatic. The cavalry who came galloping up on this occasion arrived just a few minutes too late, according to the pathologist. They were actually twelve young soldiers out exercising the horses of the local
Haras.
”

“Haras?”

“It's the state stables. A sort of central stud-farm serving the whole of France. The cream of the country's horseflesh spends half the year there. These young lads were riding them through the square on their way out to the hills when the lead horse sidestepped to avoid something on the ground. The rider dismounted to investigate. The lads did everything you could have hoped for—they summoned the police and the local doctor, they even split up into teams and searched the alleyways running from the square. They put in a full report, which impressed my father. And really, I have to say it: We couldn't find fault with the French authorities. Though the name of Talbot is not exactly unfamiliar in law-and-order circles in Fontigny.” She shuddered.

“I see,” said Esmé. Her grin was amused and appreciative. “I know your father! He'd roust them out! Stand no nonsense! They've probably got a thick file with TALBOT spelled out on the spine. They may even have added TAKE COVER! Yes, I can understand why you had to choose a different name! But, I have to say, if Sir Richard, redoubtable old thing that he is, couldn't make any progress, I don't reckon
your
chances can be very high.”

“I intend to go about it differently. Father goes in full tilt, bellowing a challenge. I shall employ tactics of a different nature.”

“Sneaky, you mean.”

“Say, rather—subtle.”

Esmé sighed. “Have you thought about a motive, Letty? Any ideas? Your godparent was an inoffensive old bean, wasn't he? No one had reason to want him dead, surely? Could he have been mistaken for someone else?”

“It was a bright moonlit night. And you have to be pretty close to your target to put a knife into his throat. You'd know if you had the right man.”

“He didn't have any dangerous habits?” Esmé persisted. “Habits which could have brought down such a vicious attack? Lost a fortune gambling and couldn't pay up? Seduced the mayor's wife? He hadn't suggested Napoleon had feet of clay at the end of his short legs? That would get you killed in France!”

“You know he was a blameless teddy bear. A charmer, yes. And I understand quite a ladies' man in his earlier days, but discreet. No one ever ambushed him to deliver a horsewhipping on the steps of his club!”

“Then it must have something to do with his work. Doesn't he mention his work in the card? Let's read it again.” Esmé shook her head, puzzled. “This is becoming a two-pot problem, I think,” she said, beckoning the waitress. “Miss! Would you please bring us another of whatever that was? Darjeeling? Thank you. Oh, and two slices of marmalade cake…Thinking always makes me hungry.

“Now.” Esmé began to read aloud the message, written in tiny letters to squeeze it into the available space:

“Fontigny-Sainte-Reine.

“Dearest Tabitha, Beautiful abbey isn't it, even in ruins? Not too late to wish you success in your new venture, I hope? Look forward to comparing notes when next we meet! All going splendidly here in Burgundy..

“Met your old friend Lady Uffington here the other day. She sends her regards and insists you look her up when you visit. Incredibly ancient these days (aren't we all!) but the old girl can still show you young 'uns a thing or two! If you do come out—bring good company. Suggest Judy and her friend. Plenty for them to do in this town! Your loving Jeremy F..

“What do I make of this? Well, honestly, Letty, not much. Can this
really
be from Daniel? It seems a perfectly ordinary message. Rather dull, in fact, when one remembers what an entertaining man he was.” For a moment Esmé's face dimmed into sadness. “Do you remember when he tried to teach us to smoke? Oh, sorry, Letty…not the time or place…Now I'll concentrate. First: It's not his style. Second: It isn't exactly a last desperate call for help, is it? I mean, it's hardly a case of words hastily written on the last page torn from the family Bible…in blood…in ancient Greek…got out of the country carried in a cleft stick by a trusty native bearer?”

“Are you just going to mock? Or are you prepared to look at this seriously?” Letty asked stiffly.

“Yes, of course. Let me see…Sudden death is clearly not on his mind, is it? He's looking to the future. He wishes you luck; he's happy with his work in Burgundy; he's even setting up a sort of awful English society get-together with mutual friends.”

Letty leaned closer over the table and whispered, “What would you say, Esmé, if I told you that what
I
see there is indeed a cry of distress?”

“I'd say you were nuts. Too many hours under a tropical sun without a topee.” She poured out more tea from the fresh pot. “Very well. Tell me what I've missed. What have you seen in this very ordinary communication?”

“Look at the fourth sentence.
All going splendidly
…That one.”

“Rather gives one to suppose that he was happy in his work. No murderous clouds on the horizon?”

“No. The reverse! What do you see at the end of the sentence?”

“A full stop, of course!” Esmé looked again. “Well, actually,
two
full stops. Getting old? Spluttering pen-nib?”

“No. Fully intentional, I believe. It's a code. I didn't know you before we were eleven, but when you were about eight, Esmé, I wonder if, like me, you went through that phase of yearning for secret societies, passwords, codes?”

“Good Lord, yes! With three older brothers, my sister and I depended on that sort of thing to survive. We even invented our own language.”

“When I was about that age—just when the war broke out—my godfather used to write me notes and postcards to cheer me up. My older brother had answered the call to war and my mother had died and I was a lonely little girl. Daniel helped to fill a gap…before he went off, too…. Anyway, one day he left anote on the hall table. It was the butler's day off or the disaster would not have occurred! It said:
Dear L. Watch out! Your least favourite great-aunt has just telephoned. Lillian finds she is able to come down to spend the weekend and will be here in time for tea. Alert your Pa and Mrs. Hascombe to this terrible news. I'm heading for the hills. Love, Daniel.

“Unfortunately, Great-Aunt Lillian arrived before I returned from my music lesson and found the house empty. But she did find the note.” Letty shuddered. “I decided that leaving notes about the place was a dangerous business and I devised a simple way of communicating with my godfather. The trick was this: A double stop at the end of a sentence negates it.”

Esmé looked puzzled.

“Imagine this,” Letty explained, “
Dear L., I know you'll be delighted to hear your favourite aunt can come for the weekend.
. (Dot, dot!)
She'll be here in time for tea.
You see, the double fullstop after ‘weekend' indicated he knows I'll be anything
but
delighted?”

“And presumably you are the only person in the world who would be aware that the presence of an insignificant little dot turns this third sentence into:
Everything is going disastrously
wrong
in Burgundy?
”

“I'm sure that's what he meant. And why bother with a childish code anyway? For the first time in fifteen years? Why not whiz off a series of letters or phone calls to someone in authority? Daniel had lots of friends in high places in London. He could have written a message in Phoenician or ancient Assyrian to one of his cronies at the Museum if that was his fancy, and they would have understood. Someone was watching him. Intercepting his communications. I had thought that his letters to us were growing increasingly distant…impersonal. Daddy even said one day, ‘Good Lord! Daniel appears only able to talk about the weather and the cooking these days! What's got into him?' And one letter, I do believe, had been tampered with, resealed, then sent on.”