by Evelyn James
“Something bad was happening here during the war,” Colonel Brandt interjected. “Treachery was afoot. If the skeleton was not connected with that I would be heartily surprised. Someone was making money by betraying the British and I want to know who it was and to bring them to justice.”
“Father Lound…” Peeters began but Tommy cut him off.
“Father Lound’s disappearance does look suspicious, but we cannot rule out anyone in this town. In fact, the Father’s behaviour rather suggests he was not guilty. Something happened to him too.”
“But there is no evidence, nothing. Only scraps of information that make no sense,” Peeters protested.
“We start with what we have,” Tommy countered. “And that is the rosary and crucifix. Let’s find out who they belonged to, that may identify our corpse or offer a clue.”
“What if they belonged to Father Lound?” Peeters said. “And yet he is not the skeleton, so if they are his…”
The policeman’s eyes widened.
“If they are his then the person in the grave took them from him. They were either willingly given, which seems unlikely as such things are very personal to a priest, or they were taken, stolen. In which case, the person in that grave may have been the last person to see Father Lound before he vanished,” Peeters shook his head. “And that leads us nowhere, because we don’t know who that man in the grave was!”
Chief Inspector Peeters stood up and started to pace about the room. He was clearly finding this all very frustrating. His earlier desire to help the British was now overshadowed by doubts that they could resolve this issue at all. He could be left with an impossible mess, a blot on his career. Not only had a priest vanished without a trace (having first been accused of treason), but a stranger had been murdered in the nearby woods. It had been much easier when Peeters had thought those bones were Father Lound’s. It had wrapped everything up so nicely.
“I am afraid I have no more time for this,” Peeters suddenly snapped. “I have a meeting soon and need to prepare.”
“About the rosary and crucifix?” Tommy said.
“I shall consider them again when I have time,” Peeters wasn’t meeting his eye. “And I shall let you know the outcome. I did promise to help the British, after all, I must uphold that promise.”
Tommy gave Colonel Brandt a look that implied what he thought of Peeters’ promise of help. Then they both rose to leave.
“One last thing,” Peeters barked, “tell your friends to leave my sister out of this. She was very upset when I went home last night. She has suffered enough, I won’t have her upset like this again. Do you understand?”
Tommy gave him a smile and then left with Brandt.
“At least we know why he was in such a bad mood,” Tommy remarked as they headed back to the street.
“He seemed so accommodating at first, very disappointing,” Brandt muttered. “Oh well, shall we be extra disappointed and return to the Post Office to see if Colonel Matthews has responded to my telegram?”
The woman at the Post Office recognised Colonel Brandt when he entered, and her smile indicated that he was not about to be disappointed again. She handed over a slip of paper, remarking on his perfect timing; the telegram had arrived just a few minutes earlier.
Colonel Matthews had been predictably succinct in his response to Brandt’s request. There was no one British left in the area he could talk to, but a Belgium army captain, who had served in the Army Group Flanders, had been involved in the investigation of treachery in the town. He was local to the area and still lived only a few miles away. He had been the liaison between the British military and the local population. He might recall something useful.
Matthews finished by remarking that he had known there were German agents living like outlaws in the area and someone in the town was communicating with them. These agents were never caught, as far as he knew, though there was every chance they had been discovered and shot without anything official being reported. In any case, after Father Lound disappeared the problem of information leaking from the town ended. Matthews did not have the resources or time to chase phantom agents who could take months to locate, not when they were no longer a risk to his operations.
“He manages to imply in the span of three lines that he still considers Father Lound the culprit,” Brandt almost chuckled at the indignation that steamed from the letters of the telegram.
“Can I speak with you, monsieur?” The Post Office clerk motioned to Brandt.
“Oh, did I not pay the right money?”
“No, no, monsieur, that is fine,” the woman glanced to her right, where her assistant was serving the only other customer. “I would like to speak to you about the contents of your telegram. I must apologise first for reading it, but it is very hard when I receive the telegram to avoid doing so. As hard as you try, you tend to pick things out.”
Brandt and Tommy came closer to the counter.
“Madame, I completely understand. Telegrams are far from the most secret of communications, requiring as they do a third person to send and receive them.”
The woman still looked ashamed that she had noticed the contents.
“It was when I saw the word ‘treachery’ that I startled,” the woman continued. “You know, I heard the rumours that ran about the town back then. One of my friends, she said she saw some strange men lurking at the edge of town. They were not soldiers. She reported them to the police, but I don’t think anything was done.”
“Does your friend still live in the town?” Colonel Brandt asked.
“No, monsieur, she moved to Bruges a long time ago. But she told me about these men, she told several people, so we could look out for them. The Germans did horrible things in the war, monsieur, and we were scared these men would hurt us.”
“Can you tell me about them?” Brandt was now even more curious.
“There were two of them. Both with dark hair and moustaches, one was taller than the other. They were in their thirties and they loitered in the shadows at the edge of town. My friend said they did not look like refugees or runaways from the army. They did not look worried about being seen. She thought they were waiting for someone.”
“Where was this that she saw them?”
“In the woods, by the shrine of St. Helena,” the woman explained, “where that skeleton was found the next year. I always wondered if the body was of one of those men. The bones were never identified.”
The woman had not apparently made the connection between Father Lound and the skeleton, or perhaps she had and then dismissed the idea.
“My friend often collected mushrooms in the autumn in those woods. We all gathered what we could to supplement our limited food,” the woman continued. “That is how she saw the men, she saw them more than once. And, on one occasion, as she was heading back into town, she stumbled into Ramon Devereaux.”
The woman’s eyes grew big.
“You know about him?” She asked.
“We have heard his name mentioned,” Brandt agreed.
“Ramon was dangerous. He had a nasty temper. I was so glad when the family left the town. They were too generous to him at Albion Hope. They offered him work and food, maybe they thought they could help make him a better person. He would never be a good person, never,” the woman took a shaky breath. “We all said at the time, if ever there was a person who would gladly betray his people, it was Ramon Devereaux. And we started to think about the connections; the strangers in the woods, Ramon being seen nearby and then the family’s sudden departure after the British army came to town. The more I think about it, the more I am sure. Ramon Devereaux was the traitor.”
The woman finished her statement dramatically, thudding her hands on the counter and looking convinced that she had solved the mystery. Tommy had to admit it was a very odd set of coincidences.
“Thank you, madame, for being so forthright with us,” Colonel Brandt said kindly. “Might you also be able to give us directions to the gentleman
mentioned in the telegram, Captain Mercier?”
The woman said she could, and she even found them a map to help them traverse the countryside. She suggested they hire horses from a local stable and gave them directions for that too. They finally left the Post Office slightly overwhelmed by information.
“Ramon Devereaux,” Tommy mused. “You do have to wonder about him. Everyone seems to think he was trouble, and presumably he still is in Lugrule. Doesn’t explain Father Lound, though.”
“I am more concerned with the fact that the traitor is still alive,” Colonel Brandt’s usually mild expression had clouded over. He looked angry, and Tommy found it slightly disturbing to know that his gentle friend had such darkness within him. “He can be brought to justice for his crimes.”
Tommy did not know what to say to that. He found himself mulling over exactly how many crimes Ramon had dabbled in during his teenage years. Had he rapidly progressed from housebreaking to treason? Could he also have stretched to murder? Ramon was the last person to see Father Lound alive. They had argued and Lound had followed him. It only took a small leap of imagination to think that argument had been about the stealing of information from soldiers visiting Albion Hope.
“Could Father Lound have been protecting Ramon?” Tommy said aloud. “Perhaps thinking the lad was foolish, or that his family needed him and so he ought not to be shot as a traitor?”
“Stupid man,” Colonel Brandt snorted. “You don’t give a traitor any quarter. They are men without morals.”
But, supposing…”
“There is no supposing,” Brandt cut him off. “That young man was a rogue who could have cost many men their lives. I’ll see to it that he is punished for his crimes. On that I swear!”
Colonel Brandt stalked off. Tommy hesitated a moment before following. Brandt was right, of course, a man could not escape punishment for his crimes. Ramon Devereaux was soon going to find his past catching up with him, and it was not going to be a pleasant experience.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The man would only tell them his first name. He was Lars and he had lived in Lugrule all his life, except for the unpleasant year when the Germans had taken it over and there had been a lot of fighting. Then the British had occupied it and no one thought they would ever return. But they did.
Lars made no comment on the condition of his hometown. He would not be drawn on his life history or how he made a living. Any question Clara put to him that he did not deem relevant to the facts at hand he ignored.
Clara surmised he was in his late thirties, though he looked a good deal older. He was black with the filth that shrouded the whole town, everything from his clothes to his skin was covered in a sooty layer. At one point he had a coughing fit and spat out a wad of phlegm that was as black as the grime on his clothes. Clara thought that did not bode well for his future health.
Lars wanted to negotiate for talking with them, but first he indicated they should retreat to his house where they would not be disturbed. Hermann looked unhappy about this and was clearly itching to escape the town. There was something about Lugrule that made you feel more and more oppressed the longer you remained. Hermann was clearly succumbing to this and so seemed his pony. They could not leave just yet, however, and Hermann reluctantly agreed to join them at Lars’ home.
The house was squalid. The top floor must have been hit by a shell, or debris. It no longer existed, except for a few bricks marking where the walls once rose up. An effort had been made to weather proof the remains of the wooden floor above, creating a roof for the rooms below. There were two in the lower storey; one served as Lars’ kitchen and parlour, while the back room was his bedroom. Everything was dark, the walls grey and blackened by damp, the floor so filthy that even Annie’s best efforts with a scrubbing brush could not have restored it. Lars’ possessions consisted of an old stove that was falling to pieces, a ramshackle table and various items of crockery, all of which were chipped and cracked. He did not offer them any refreshments when they came into his house, for which Clara was most grateful.
“You can sit,” Lars said, somewhat ungraciously.
There were three chairs at the table, the back bars of one had been sawn off, leaving spiky teeth just at the edge. Clara imagined the wood had been used in desperation to heat the stove. The girls took two of the chairs, while Lars took the third. Hermann perched uneasily on the sill of the window. A perpetual draught slipped through the wooden casement and Clara dreaded to think how cold this place must get in the winter.
“I want money before I talk,” Lars said, his sharp tone had more than a hint of anxiety about it.
Clara was willing to give him money, though it was not her usual policy of paying for information. Seeing how Lars lived, she almost deemed his fee a charitable donation. She opened her purse and took out a wad of paper notes. Hermann started to fuss when he saw how much she was offering Lars, but Clara was unconcerned. She could easily draw more money from her bank, unlike Lars. She supposed he made his living sifting through the dust piles for mineral cast-offs and selling them for a pittance. It explained his appearance and his ill-health.
Lars’ eyes turned into giant saucers as he saw the amount she was offering him. He held out his hand quickly, but Clara put the money on the table and pressed her palm firmly down upon it.
“Half now, and the other half after we have talked,” she said gently. She did not really think that Lars would cheat her, but he might be willing to offer a bit more information if she held some of the money back.
Clara carefully counted out half the notes and placed them in Lars’ palm. The money seemed so crisp and clean in his grubby hand, as if she had minted it that morning. Lars suppressed a small groan of elation at the sight of the money. He almost lost himself for a moment gazing at it, then he remembered himself. Looking more alive than before, and far friendlier, he spoke.
“You want to know about the Devereauxs?”
“Yes,” Clara replied. “How long have they been here?”
“Since 1917. I remember that very clearly. I had only just returned to Lugrule after the British finally left the town. Everything was ruined, but many of the people here could go nowhere else. It was very surprising for us when strangers arrived to set up home. They did not look like workers, either.”
“Did they say why they had come here?”
“They spoke to no one,” Lars shrugged. “We were not that interested, either. When you have to keep a roof over your head by any means you can, you have very little time for curiosity. The older woman, Madame Devereaux, she tried to offer her services as a seamstress, but no one has money for that here. We mend our own clothes. Eventually she realised she would have to apply herself to the work we all turn to – sifting the dust.”
“That is a hard job,” Clara said sympathetically.
“It destroys you,” Lars agreed, though with no sign of bitterness at the statement. “It killed my father and probably it shall kill me. But it is better than starving to death or dying of the cold.”
Lars’ eyes went back to the money in his hand and he gave another small sigh of relief. At least he would not be cold that winter.
“Does Madame Devereaux ever speak about her life before she came here?” Clara persisted, thinking that Lars was not going to be able to offer her any information that she did not already know.
“She does speak,” Lars said. “When she drinks she gets more talkative. That is how I know she used to be very wealthy. She is very bitter to have been brought to this. She thinks she is better than us. She blames her husband and the Germans, but mainly her husband. And she gets very angry with her eldest girl. The girl won’t work the dust piles, she refuses. Instead she will walk for miles to sell her body and earn money that way. It is very sad. We may be filthy and very poor, but we dust workers are at least respectable.
“Besides, the girl looks sicker than any of us. I think she has caught something off one of her clients. She cannot be very old, but her
body is a wreck. It is awful. Madame Devereaux has tried many times to stop her, they fight quite violently at times, but there is no hope. Then there are the younger girls. They went to the small school here for a time to finish their education. A lady travels here three days a week to teach the children, in the hopes that they can better themselves and move away from the dust piles.”
Lars came to a halt. The endlessness of his own situation, the hopelessness, had struck him hard as he talked. It was the sort of thing that was always there at the back of a man’s mind, but which could be almost ignored during the daily struggle for survival. Just every now and then it would pierce through the cloud of forgetfulness and kick a man in the teeth. Lars took a deep breath, which rattled up from his chest and almost brought on another coughing fit, then he shook off his melancholy and returned to the conversation.
“The middle girl, she now works the dust piles with her mother. Such a pretty thing. The teacher- woman said she had potential, that she was very bright and should be sent away to learn more. But there is no money for that and now with the youngest girl so sick, every one of the family must work to pay the doctors’ bills.
“Madame Devereaux is in a lot of debt. She has borrowed money for her youngest daughter from very unpleasant people. Now she fears every knock on her door. That is probably why she turned you away.”
“I am not a debt collector,” Clara promised Lars.
“You don’t look like one,” Lars grinned. “You are too nice.”
Clara was surprised by the flattery, then she remembered that beneath the grime and dust, Lars was a relatively young man talking to two young women.
“Is the youngest girl dangerously ill?” Clara asked.
“Madame Devereaux denies it, but everyone thinks it is consumption. Something to do with the lungs, anyway. The girl cannot leave the house at all and I am not sure she will last this coming winter.”