Bright Hair About the Bone

by Barbara Cleverly

  He’d prepared his argument and knew that his words would sound rehearsed—archaic formulae. They always did in this setting. The medieval walls, unsoftened by tapestries, replayed their voices. The attentive eyes of his companion fixed him, accepting—even inviting—dissent, but expecting nothing less than the truth.

  He continued awkwardly into a frozen silence. “The world has changed out of all recognition in the last decade…“since the war. So many Frenchmen dead…the English and German losses also—crippling…young men from as far away as India, America, Australia…the flower of our armies cut down…and more than that—the flower of the nations. The boldest and the best are gone. We are left in the uncertain hands of the second-rate, the hesitant…”

  “…the self-serving and the shirker,” added Custos, with a nod of encouragement.

  “Europe has changed, is changing, and the speed of change is accelerating. There are no more certainties. Everywhere there is dissatisfaction, disillusion, and loss of faith. The churches have emptied. The land has been ploughed and harrowed and enriched with the spilt blood of our young men, Custos. It lies ready for the seed. And there are those in the east, godless men, who stand by ready to sow…in our furrows. I would not like to think we had misjudged the moment. That we had left the fertile earth open to an alien corn.”

  His words were being heard with patience and sympathy. Formulaic phrases, an ecclesiastical tone—that was the way to engage the attention of Custos.

  “It’s not up to us to turn the hands of the clock this way or that. We’d all count ourselves blessed to live through the moment, but you and I, my friend, will not see it. Our job is to hold firm the doors against those who would rush them in a premature assault,” Custos told him.

  The expected answer. He nodded acquiescence. This was the point at which he normally ceased to argue, but tonight he persisted. He began again, apologetically, swirling the last few drops of cognac around in his glass. “I wonder if you have heard today’s news from Paris?”

  “Go on.”

  “The Atlantic has been crossed. By a young American pilot. What he has done, others will now hurry to imitate. The continents no longer seem so far apart, connected as they already are by telephone, telegram, and radio waves.”

  His modern words sounded ridiculous bouncing off the ancient walls.

  “We were prepared for this. You know that.” There was quiet satisfaction in Custos’ reply. “We have made our arrangements. We will have the rostrum we need.”

  “News spreads at the speed of an electric current around the world,” the Frenchman persevered. “We must be certain that it is our news, our message that is carried along by it. After two thousand years we have, at last, the means as well as the word. We would be at fault, I think, if we did not at least consider this.”

  “So. You would argue that we have the soil—prepared and ready—the seed corn close at hand, the wind to distribute it?”

  “Yes, indeed. And one factor only is lacking. I wonder if the time has come to give thought to la semeuse? The sower?” He hurried on, avoiding contact with the cynical eyes. “I have continued to make my monthly trawl through the society pages of the London press and this caught my attention. It’s dated the tenth of last month. It seems the wheels of bureaucracy turn even more slowly in England than they do in France. It has taken eight months but the upshot is extremely interesting to us, I believe.”

  He took a clipping from the file at his elbow and handed it over.

  The response was not immediate and came with unaccustomed indecision. “Very surprising. And very impressive. Yes, I see where you are leading. I’m wondering whether we could perhaps have anticipated this event? Were there indications? Suggestions that we failed to pick up?”

  The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders slightly but voiced no criticism. “And there’s something more you should know…rather strange. A mere detail, a triviality, but I thought it would amuse you to hear it. You will smile when I tell you the girl has changed her name expressly for this little expedition.”

  “Changed her name? Why would she do that?”

  “My first thought was that she was sending a message—the first defiant blast on a trumpet, if you like—but common sense tells me it’s a mere stratagem. A stratagem embarrassing in its naïveté but reassuring in its amateurish intent. The girl is, of course, aware that her own surname is not unknown in these parts,” he gently reminded Custos. “She has replaced it with—rather unimaginatively, you will think—her mother’s maiden name. And she has selected as her Christian name: Stella.”

  He was gratified to see a sudden quiver of the steady hand as it raised the brandy glass.

  CHAPTER 9

  Something wrong, Stella?” Gunning asked.

  Without any instruction, he’d driven off the road out of Le Havre and parked the car on the entrance to a woodland track overlooking the Seine winding between rocky banks. She registered with a flash of amusement the fact that he’d remembered to change her name now that they were over the Channel.

  “Ten hours at sea on a ferryboat? A day in the close company of a man who never speaks? An uncertain summer ahead of me? What could possibly be wrong?…Why are you grinning?”

  “Forgive me. I was comparing your reaction with my own when I passed this way thirteen years ago. I could have complained about the twelve hours spent at sea on a troop ship, following on a month in the company of the sweating, swearing soldiery with an uncertain four years ahead of us. If it’s any help, I hand you the motto of ‘The Fighting Fifth,’ as we were called: Quo fata vocant.”

  “Wherever Fate calls. Hmm…” Irritated by his condescension, she bit back a sharp reply. If the man was still abjectly following his wartime motto it might explain why he’d so readily taken up her challenge. Perhaps he’d seen her as his own personal Fate and had drifted after her in his rudderless way. “Sounds a bit passive to me. I like to engineer my own good fortune. Though I accept your reprimand.”

  “And I yours,” he replied politely.

  “Just suffering from a touch of cold feet, I suppose—a what-am-I-doing-here feeling. But I didn’t realise your regiment set out from Le Havre?” Her voice trailed away in some confusion. “Father and I deliberately rejected the Dover-Calais crossing, thinking to avoid the Somme and Picardie. We thought it might bring back memories.”

  “That was considerate. I had guessed as much. Don’t be concerned—my memories of this part of France are pleasant.” He was lapsing into silence again but, gathering himself, continued: “We were among the first troops to sail for France. A regular infantry force—the First Battalion of the Northumberland Fusiliers. Well trained. Best officers you could wish for. We considered ourselves battle-ready.”

  Letty listened, aware that this was the first time he’d confided anything more than name and number since she’d met him. Nodding encouragement, she hoped he would not immediately retreat. She felt—and resented the feeling—that she had to give as much care to approaching William Gunning as she would a dog or horse of uncertain temper. Don’t look him in the eye. Adopt an unthreatening posture. Make no sudden movements.

  She glanced briefly at him, struck by the contrast between the hesitancy of the man’s speech and his now suave exterior. His scarecrow figure had begun to fill out in the month he’d spent with them, and his face, creased and tanned by years in the open air, was now smoother. Her eyes lingered for a moment with guilty curiosity on the line at his throat where the seasoned skin became abruptly white. Like the man himself, she realized. There was a sharp demarcation between the hidden, vulnerable man and the toughened part he was prepared to show the world.

  His appearance as houseguest at a dinner party Sir Richard had given the previous week had been a success. It seemed that dinner party conversation, avoiding as it did the personal, the political, the controversial, suited him. He’d listened in a flattering way, replied with flashes of humour, pushed the conversation along, even flirted with the ladies�
��to all appearances a charming and cultured man.

  It had been Esmé who’d sensed that he was reaching the end of his resources. With a warning whisper to Laetitia, she’d commandeered Gunning’s assistance with the coffee cups when they’d adjourned to the drawing room after dinner. She’d sheltered him from the attention of the rest of the guests who were booming away with increasing conviviality at the other end of the room. Laetitia was already missing Esmé’s gentle presence, the buffer between her own impatience and Gunning’s awkwardness.

  “We disembarked at five in the morning, seasick, hungry, and with a two-hundred-mile walk ahead of us.” He gave an abrupt bark which might have been a suppressed laugh. “The famous British Expeditionary Force began its glorious adventure following behind a French Boy Scout who’d been sent to guide us to our first camp, six miles away over there through those cornfields.” He nodded towards the east. “The early morning mist cleared. The sun beat down. We sweltered in our uniforms. It was a dashed hot summer.”

  Letty recognised that this was no confidence of an intimate nature—merely the triggering of a memory by a familiar scene. But it was an opening of a kind, one she intended to exploit.

  “Why were you so far from the front?” she prompted.

  He shrugged. “Exactly what we all wondered! Something to do with transport arrangements, I expect. They always blamed transport. In the end we were glad of the distance. The march across northern France was just what we needed to toughen up the men and the horses. And it gave us a chance to feel welcomed. Cigars, brandy, wine were thrust at us wherever we appeared. Pretty girls threw flowers at us as though we were already conquerors. Like a medieval knight going in to joust, it was a comfort—no, more than that—an excitement and a validation to have a lady’s favour pinned to your lance. It gave us a sense of what we were going in to battle for. We got quite fond of the French. We added a further layer to the carapace of patriotism that insulated us from the horrors.” He was silent for a moment, then finished briskly, “Ten days later we were retreating from Mons to escape—narrowly escape—annihilation.”

  She recognised a full stop when she heard one. Esmé would have done better, she knew, but she could not bring herself to pursue him into the gloomy reaches of his thoughts. That would have to do for the moment. She’d chided him for his silence and this awkward outburst was his attempt to respond to her criticism. At least they were moving onwards, if not in step. “Well, I think we’d better press on, don’t you, if we’re to be with Aunt Genevieve by this evening? Let’s give ourselves a different motto…how about—À l’attaque!”

  “That’ll do.” He made to restart the car, then paused. “Look, Laet—Stella! There’s something you ought perhaps to see. Before we go our separate ways and meet up again as strangers in Fontigny…”

  “Instead of the bosom pals we are now?” she said as he turned to the backseat to fumble in his leather knapsack.

  He pulled out two large glossy brochures and handed her one. She took it with recognition and surprise. “Hansford’s? The auction last week? Father went up to London to bid on a bronze statuette…this one here on page twelve. He wasn’t successful. Some fool put out the word that it was by Degas and it spiralled out of reach. It went for an awful lot of money.”

  “Yes, I believe it did. Sir Richard showed me this catalogue before he went. He asked my opinion of the bronze…but, Stella, flipping through the pages, something caught my attention. Have a look at page twenty-one.”

  She looked with appreciation at the silver chalice encrusted with rubies and emeralds. Origin unknown, probably French or Italian workmanship of the 16th century. Property of a gentleman were the slight clues to its provenance.

  “Great Heavens! You’re a bad influence on Father, William! I hope you didn’t encourage him to bid for this instead! It must be worth thousands!”

  “So it proved. But what intrigued me was the vagueness of the description. I could have told them with much greater precision—late fifteenth century, French, property of the Abbey of Fontigny.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “I’ve seen this chalice’s twin, actually handled its twin in France, where it forms part of the much depleted treasure of the Benedictine order of monks. The Black Monks of Fontigny. The treasure is not on public display.” He looked aside awkwardly for a moment, then resumed: “Not many—hardly anyone—would have recognised it. I don’t have by heart the contents of the friars’ store-cupboard, but it did occur to me that this particular objet d’art was…um…displaced. I have no idea how it came to be listed in a sale at one of the three big auction houses of the world or what the identity of the ‘gentleman’ selling—now a very rich gentleman—may be. All I can say is that its twin is locked away in the strongroom of the town we’re heading for.”

  “Interesting, but no mystery. I expect it’s the same chalice. I dare say the monks have fallen on hard times like everyone else, following the war, and have discreetly sold it off in a foreign capital to avoid a scandal.”

  “My first thought. But my second was to make a telephone call to someone I know in France.” Again, Letty caught his uncertainty. “Their chalice is still where it ought to be. My curiosity was aroused. I asked Sir Richard when he went to the auction to see if he could lay hands on any recent catalogues of sales by the big houses in London, Paris, and New York. He brought a bundle back home with him and we had a pleasant evening rooting through them.”

  He’d spent almost every evening in the library, she remembered resentfully, many of them in her father’s company.

  “And did it turn up anything interesting, your jolly treasure hunt?”

  He handed her the second catalogue. “New York. Six months ago. Page forty. Two items. Tell me what you make of those.”

  Letty looked, and admired in silence. Since he didn’t help her with a commentary she began hesitantly, “If you’re offering to put one of these in my Christmas stocking, I’ll say thank you very much but I’ll find it hard to choose between them. A Madonna. Twelfth Century, Burgundian. Carved wood image, eighteen inches high,” it says. Reminds me of something I’ve seen before…It’s made of black wood—that’s unusual, isn’t it?” As he made no attempt to encourage her, she blundered on. “Ebony? Or black-painted hardwood? The lady’s wearing a crown so she’s quite obviously meant to be the Queen of Heaven.” She smiled. “Though the model for this piece was not regal. I like her country-girl’s face. Lovely! But then, below—what’s this? A Book of Hours. Fifteenth Century. And they claim it’s from the hand of the Master of Mary of Burgundy.”

  The illustration glowed on the page. A woman in a bright blue medieval dress sat quietly reading by an arched window surrounded by a trompe l’oeil border. On a gold background, pink and white daisies were scattered at random and, delicately painted, a transparent dragonfly had settled on them, believing them real. “I’ve seen this before,” she said in some excitement. “In the Bodleian, I think, in Oxford.”

  “Not this very book. But one from the same workshop.”

  “Were you able to trace these items further?”

  “It’s difficult. These auction houses are nothing if not discreet. Sir Richard made some enquiries, called in a few favours but, even so, we made little progress. The closest we could get was the discovery that they had all at one time passed through the hands of the same dealer. In Switzerland. End of trail, I’m afraid.”

  “I ask you again, William: What are you telling me?”

  “You’re determined to play the detective, Laetitia. Make what you will of it. I’m merely handing you information which may prove to be interesting…nothing more than that.”

  “I’m supposed to infer that these objects may have the same geographical source? That they all originated in, or at least passed through, Burgundy at some time?”

  “Of course, it may be a distracting piece of nonsense but—just in case!…” He took the catalogues from her hands, got out of the car, and pushed them dee
p into the centre of a log pile stacked by the side of the track. “Useful kindling for someone next winter.”

  “You’re a careful man,” she remarked.

  “I seem to survive,” he replied grimly.

  “It might help, Stella, if you were to tell me,” he went on after a few moments’ silence, “exactly what your godfather was doing in Burgundy. I had understood from Sir Richard that he was employed by the British Museum.”

  “He was. He was out on loan, you might say. Charles Paradee had approached the director and asked if he could recommend someone to assist him. Every dig needs such an expert and Daniel welcomed the chance to travel. The American team are exploring and revealing the extent of the original abbey. But Daniel wasn’t actually digging in the foundations himself…he was a medievalist and linguist. He was there on hand to put finds in their context, identify, research, and catalogue any written material. Anything from Roman gravestone inscriptions to the dockets of Napoleon’s scrap merchants. He was mainly concerned with the translation of medieval documents in Latin, of course. He worked on the translation of texts, too, secular and religious, when they came up. He was busy with a new translation of the Lais de Marie de France…”

  She heard her own voice accounting her godfather’s many skills in disjointed phrases. It occurred to her that she’d never before needed to explain the man or his brilliance to anyone. Everyone in her large circle was aware of Daniel Thorndon. Praising him in conversation with a stranger or just doing him justice was proving as embarrassing as praising oneself.

  Gunning seemed to pick up the reason for her hesitation. “He sounds a remarkable man.”

  Good Lord—now he was encouraging her to talk. She smiled and went on more freely. “He certainly was. The development of languages was his fascination—from Sanskrit onwards. He taught me Latin and Greek and made sure I went to a school which encouraged intellectual curiosity as well as cold showers and lacrosse. Are you thinking,” she said, bluntly, “that these medieval treasures you’ve just waved under my nose belong in France and may have been illegally sold abroad? And that my godfather was somehow aware of this?”