by Evelyn James
“And people put two and two together,” Colonel Brandt nodded.
“That was the strangest part. Everyone said Father Lound must have run off with a woman, but if the woman were Madame Devereaux it seemed very unusual. You see, Madame Deveraux had married late and had her children even later. She had just turned fifty and, though a respectable widow, she was not very attractive. She had lost a lot of weight and looked quite scrawny and haggard. She had the face of a much older woman and could never be described as handsome, let alone pretty. It was sad, but no one could see what a good-looking young priest would be doing with her.”
“Maybe it was the daughter that caught his eye?” Clara suggested.
“Mademoiselle Devereaux was certainly pretty, but I know Father Lound disapproved of her lifestyle and she was often very, very rude to him. I have seen her say horrible things to him when he questioned what she was doing. She disliked what he stood for and hated that he criticised her choices,” Janssen shook his head. “I cannot see that Father Lound would run off with her. I feel sure the girl distrusted him and despised him. In any case, you don’t elope with an entire family in tow.”
“That is true,” Clara agreed.
“What became of the Devereauxs?” Colonel Brandt asked.
“Who can say?” Janssen shrugged his shoulders. “They never came back. They must have gone to live with that aunt.”
None of this made sense. Why would Father Lound run away with the family? Where would they go? Perhaps the two events were mere coincidences? Father Lound had papers in his possession that indicated he was passing secrets to the Germans. If he was returned to England and found guilty of treason, that was an offence that carried the death sentence and he had to think of his family. His actions would tarnish them too. Maybe he disappeared to avoid trouble. The obvious answer could be the right one. For some reason Father Lound had taken those papers, he could not prevent them from being found in his office. His only real choice after that was to flee when he got the chance.
“You know, there was something else,” Janssen had poured himself another glass of the golden spirit and was talkative. “It was about a year later. Little Ernst and Pietro were playing in the woods, looking for the things little boys consider treasures among the fallen leaves, and they came across what they first thought was an animal skull. They pulled it from the ground and realised it was a person’s skull and ran for help.
“The gendarmes came and dug out all these bones. It was a full skeleton. Someone had been killed and buried in the woods. The skeleton was still clutching a rosary and was wearing a crucifix. Here in the town, we were convinced that this was Father Lound.”
“Murdered?” Colonel Brandt did a good impression of being surprised despite already knowing this part of the tale.
“Shot in the back of the head,” Janssen shook his own head sadly. “That is how people are executed, yes?”
“It is the way villains execute people,” Tommy interjected.
“Someone killed Father Lound,” Janssen continued. “Maybe he never ran away at all? The place he was found is not far from the path that leads to St Helena’s shrine. I think he was walking there to pray, and a criminal surprised him and shot him.”
“What for?” Clara asked. “He was still wearing his crucifix. They can’t have wished to rob him.”
Janssen looked confused by her reasoning and hesitated, then a new determination came to his eyes.
“Must have been a German. They killed people all the time for no reason.”
Janssen had had several drinks by now and was starting to sound a little slurred. The night was drawing on and they were moving beyond the realms of genuine information and into speculation. It was time to call it a night.
“Thank you Monsieur Janssen for being so generous with your time,” Clara said to the man.
“No bother,” Janssen slurred. “Did I show you the bullet hole in my wall? Germans took a shot at my cat!”
“You did,” Tommy assured him.
“I think we are all ready for our beds,” Clara explained, politely removing herself from the bar.
“Breakfast is at nine o’clock,” Janssen quickly added. “It is very good, all the eggs are fresh!”
“We shall be sure to attend,” Clara promised, making a concerted effort to retreat now.
The others were following, heading for the stairs that would lead up to their rooms. Janssen was clearing up their glasses and continuing to mutter about the Germans.
They were on the stairs before Annie spoke. She had been quiet through the evening, content to just listen.
“I think poor Father Lound has had a very raw deal,” she declared. “I’m not sure the man was a traitor and I am certain he did not deserve to be murdered in the woods.”
Clara was rather inclined to agree with her.
Chapter Twelve
After breakfast the next day, they split up; Brandt and Tommy went to speak to the local police and see what they could learn about the body in the woods, while Clara and Annie went to the former Albion Hope house.
Juliet and Claude Coppens had transformed the chateau from a dangerously unstable shell, into a beautiful family home. The shutters on the windows were painted a duck-egg blue and at each window sill there was a box of flowers. The air was alive with bees buzzing from box to box, overflowing with industry. The chateau was level with the street, and the door opened straight onto the pavement. There was a garden at the back, swinging around to one side of the property. A brick wall ran around the entire grounds, but Clara could just make out apple trees over the top. It looked a very respectable and very comfortable town house.
Clara used the lion’s head door knocker to announce her presence at the front of the house and then waited patiently for a response. Annie was looking around her slightly uneasily, as if she feared that Belgian citizens might bite.
A young woman answered the door. She was in a blue smock-type dress and her dark hair was pulled back in a soft braid that hung down her back. She looked at Clara with some surprise. Clara imagined that the town was small enough to mean Madame Coppens rarely answered the door to anyone she did not know. Speaking in French, Clara explained herself.
“Madame, I am Clara Fitzgerald. I have come to learn more about Albion Hope and the men who founded it. Might I ask you about your home?”
Juliet Coppens looked uncertain, then she held out her hands in a gesture of ‘what would it matter?’
“Please come in,” she said. “I don’t know if I can help you much about when the house was used by Albion Hope, but you are welcome to have a look around.”
Juliet showed them in and took them upstairs to a room at the front of the house which was arranged as a sunny parlour.
“I shall fetch my husband. He knows much more about the history of the house,” Juliet said, before departing from her guests.
Annie made a short circuit of the room, taking in its generous proportions, pale green walls and Rococo furniture. There was a big, ornate mirror hanging over the fireplace, something you would never see in an English parlour, at least, not in a townhouse parlour. There were also several dark paintings of sombre looking Belgians, who appeared to frown down at the guests.
“Do you think you can sit on the sofas, or are they just for show?” Annie asked, tentatively poking the arm of one of the chairs in question.
It had very fancifully carved legs and arms; they appeared to be constructed of leaves and acorns covered in gold. The fabric of the sofa was cream with a pale red pattern of more leaves scrolling across it. It was fatly stuffed and dimpled deeply when Annie prodded it with a finger.
“I am sure we can sit,” Clara said, though she wasn’t really sure at all.
They were distracted by the arrival of a man. He was in a brown suit, very tall and lean, with a small head that perched on his neck. He wore tiny black rimmed glasses and had a thin moustache. He observed the two women for a moment, then introduced himself.
&nb
sp; “Monsieur Coppens, at your service. Ladies, do please sit.”
Clara translated this for Annie, who was obviously relieved to have been instructed to use the furniture. She still sat down with great care, fearing that at any moment this insubstantial looking seat would collapse beneath her.
“My wife says you are interested about when this chateau was the home of Albion Hope?” Monsieur Coppens began.
“We are indeed,” Clara replied. “I am particularly interested in Father Lound, who served here.”
Monsieur Coppens nodded.
“I have something that may interest you,” he rose and went to a bureau at the side of the room. He opened a drawer and retrieved a small box. Bringing it back to Clara, he explained. “When we took on the house, we discovered that much had been left behind. This room, for instance, had been an office. I believe, from the contents of the office, that it had been used by Father Lound. We found a number of papers and photographs, also books, belonging to him. I saved them, though the roof had developed a leak and some were beyond salvaging. If you are interested, I can get the other papers for you. These are the photographs we found.”
Clara almost gasped at this news. She had not expected such a windfall, or to be sitting in the very room where Father Lound’s world had come crashing down around him. Somewhere in this space had stood his desk and on it had been those damning papers. She was in the room where Colonel Matthews had accused him of treason and he had maintained his silence. Was it here also that he decided to disappear for good?
Clara took the box of treasures and started to explore the contents. The photographs were of people she did not know, though several showed a young priest who she guessed was Father Lound. There was a picture of him at a Christmas party, stood at the head of a table. Down either side of the table, ranging in age, were children. Boys and girls all wearing homemade party hats and with expressions of uncertain merriment on their faces, as if they feared something would happen to spoil the fun. On the back of the picture was scrawled in pencil ‘Christmas 1916.’ Another picture was of Father Lound and several lads in the garden collecting apples from the trees. Another was of three priests stood together. Father Lound was on the right of the trio, the older two must have been Father Howard and Father Stevens, though it was hard to know which was which. Clara surmised, from what Janssen had said, that the smiling man was Father Howard, which meant the solemn man was Father Stevens.
Another picture showed a funeral procession. There were several images of this occasion, which had clearly been deemed important for the photographer to capture it. Clara guessed this was the funeral of the town mayor. One picture showed four young men shouldering the mayor’s coffin into the church. Clara assumed one of the four was Ramon Devereaux, the problem was that only two men had been captured in the photo, the other two were hidden behind the coffin. The two that were visible were older than Ramon.
“Do you know who any of these people are?” Clara asked Monsieur Coppens as she flicked through the images.
Coppens bent forward and peered at the images.
“I know most of them, is there anyone you wish me to pick out in particular?”
“Ramon Devereaux,” Clara answered.
A strange look crossed Coppens’ face, then he obeyed and picked out several pictures from the box. In each he pointed out a young man as Ramon. The individual was rather serious-looking and rarely smiled at the camera. Clara had imagined Ramon to be different, not this grim-looking young man. He was almost as tall as Father Lound and appeared to have fair hair. His face still had the soft lines of youth, even when he was scowling. He never seemed entirely engaged in the activity he was performing, as if his mind was always elsewhere. In the apple-picking picture, while the other lads were laughing at something that had been said, Ramon was a little apart, concentrating on a basket of apples and seemingly lost in thought.
“Why do you want to know about Ramon Devereaux?” Coppens asked.
Clara softly smiled. She had never planned on keeping her intentions secret.
“I am a private detective from England,” She explained to Coppens. “Father Lound’s sister has asked me to look into his disappearance. I am not sure, but I have to consider there may be a connection between him vanishing and the dramatic departure of the Devereaux family at the same time. I am aware that Father Lound had a great deal of contact with Ramon through Albion Hope and, thus, I surmise with his family.”
Coppens became serious.
“I had hoped, vainly perhaps, that Father Lound had made it back to England safely or that at least his family knew of his whereabouts. I am sorry to hear that was not the case. Especially as it throws a new, tragic light on the remains found in the woods.”
“You must have heard the rumours concerning the Father?”
“Oh yes,” Coppens nodded. “My wife and I spent the war with my wife’s parents. We returned to this town to find our old home destroyed. Luckily, we had a little money put by and we were able to buy this property. Of course, we were told of the history of Albion Hope and of those who worked here.”
“And the rumours?” Clara persisted.
Coppens was solemn a moment.
“This house holds secrets,” he said, finding it hard to meet Clara’s eyes. “Not physical secrets, just memories in the walls. People gossip, but no one really knows what happened here in that October of 1917. Maybe Father Howard and Father Stevens knew, but they certainly did not say. Still, I feel it sometimes, a weight of…”
Coppens glanced around the room they were sitting in, his brows crinkling over his eyes as he tried to put into words what he was thinking.
“It is like he is still here. I walk into this room sometimes and it seems as if he just left a moment ahead of me. I never feel like this is my front parlour, it is always his office,” Coppens shook his head. “My wife does not feel it, she thinks I am a little mad. I can’t help it though, it’s like he never really went away.”
“You make it sound like a ghost story,” Clara said softly.
“Maybe it is,” Coppens responded. “You know, no one ever saw him leave. That has to be the most peculiar part of it all. You would think someone would have noticed him packing or leaving the house. He didn’t disappear in the middle of the night. He was missed at supper time. He vanished in the afternoon, taking just his small suitcase. Why did no one see him walking away? Why was he not spotted?”
Clara had to admit that was curious, but a wily man could have eluded attention by using roads he knew would be quiet. The town was emptier back then, and there were lots of abandoned buildings he could slip into and hide in, waiting until dark before leaving completely.
“Would you like to take the photographs and papers?” Coppens asked. “I do not need them. They may offer you some clue.”
“I would be glad of them,” Clara agreed promptly. “Did you happen to know the Devereauxs before the war?”
“I did,” Coppens nodded. “We were acquaintances, though not really friends. Monsieur Devereaux was something of a character, very jolly. But a very good businessman, until his sad death.”
“What happened to him?”
“He went overboard travelling on a ferry. Ramon saw it all, he was, I suppose, twelve or thirteen. His father was at the rail talking to another man, when this gentleman suddenly became irate and grappled with Monsieur Devereaux and pushed him over the side. Ramon raised the alarm, but they never found his father. Nor could the gentleman who pushed him be identified. Ramon never saw his face,” Coppens pulled a grimace to indicate how tragic this all was. “Everyone was most saddened, it was an awful thing to happen. No one could explain it either. There was nothing in Monsieur Devereaux’s papers to explain why he had been killed.”
“What an awful thing to occur,” Clara said, thinking of poor Ramon watching his father being flung to his death. It was starting to appear as if there were far more mysteries in this case than just the one. “My understanding is that Madame Deverea
ux was left well off by her husband, but lost it all to the Germans in the war?”
“Yes,” Coppens agreed. “Much of the Devereaux wealth was tied up in property and antiques. Well, the Germans overran the former in the war, occupying the land so it could not be rented or sold, and the latter they stole. Just to add insult to injury, Madame Devereaux’s bank was also occupied by the Germans, and all their reserves stolen. Many of the bank’s customers were made bankrupt overnight.”
“That must have been very hard for the family.”
“It was,” Coppens said. “I was not here at that point, but we had friends who wrote to my wife and I and told us all this. Poor Madame Devereaux took on work wherever she could just to survive. She was not a woman used to hard labour and I don’t suppose she had the skills that might be expected of a woman who has worked all her life. It must have brought her great shame to have to work the fields. Her eldest daughter decided to follow another path, and that is really not spoken about.”
“I have heard she found the British soldiers who came to the town very friendly,” Clara said coyly.
Coppens nodded, a bleak look on his face.
“Everyone thought it most awful and wondered what her father would have thought. Ramon tried his best to fill his father’s boots, but the only work he could find was doing odd-jobs for people. He worked here a lot, when this house was Albion Hope. I found a book of accounts and there were regular small payments to R. Devereaux for work he had completed about the place.”
“They must have been very bitter about everything,” Clara observed. “That sort of destruction of one’s life can be extremely damaging.”
“I cannot say,” Coppens replied.
“Can you think of someone who could?” Clara asked. “I can’t say for certain if the Devereaux disappearance is linked to that of Father Lound, but it seems extremely likely. If I could learn more about the Devereauxs, I might be able to find out what happened to the priest.”