“Just in time,” Paradee said with a shaky grin. “Here comes the gendarmerie, fastening up its trousers and putting on its képi! Listen! Everyone not directly involved with the unearthing, go back to work. We’re going to lose enough man hours over this anyway—let’s pull back what we can. Stella and Phil, stay here, will you? The rest, stop gaping around and make yourselves scarce.”
He turned to greet the one gendarme. “Sorry to trouble you in the middle of breakfast, Pierre, but we seem to have a body in our trench. A local man, we think. Not long dead.”
The policeman took one look and, deciding his sphere of responsibility did not encompass the scene in the trench, he sent at once for Capitaine Huleux. The nearest detective on duty was with the Police Judiciaire some miles away in Lyon, but Huleux would take charge for now.
They sat disconsolately in a row on the edge of the trench, the gendarme shooing away a few inquisitive children who tried to get near. He allowed the stately figure of the local priest through, and all watched in respectful silence as he lowered himself nimbly enough, buoyed up by his black soutane, into the depth of the trench. Ceremonial gestures and words followed until finally he accepted a heave upwards back onto street level. Courteously he introduced himself as Father Anselme, confirming the dead boy was known to him though he had scarcely seen him in recent years. The priest’s pale, angular face reflected their own sadness and puzzlement. “Very little I can do, I’m afraid. It rests now with a higher authority. Higher even than that of the good doctor,” he remarked, catching sight of Dr. Macé hurrying to the scene.
Elegant in his consulting room attire, Macé scrambled fussily down to the body using a ladder hastily provided. “It’s Fabien Morel’s son—Paul!” he shouted up. “And he’s dead.” He turned the body over onto its back, revealing the sharp features Letty remembered. Did she imagine it or was the face still frozen in the same grimace of fear?
The doctor moved the limbs about and shone a torch into the eyes. “Dead no more than twelve hours, probably less.” He took out a fresh white handkerchief and gently dusted the dirt from the boy’s face. “And there’s the reason he’s dead, I’d say.” He pointed to a wound on the right side of the forehead. “Not much blood. Death must have been very swift in coming. They’ll have more to say when they get him to the morgue in Lyon. Guillaume! Thank God you’re here!” he said, breaking off to exchange greetings with Huleux. “Crack on the skull and here’s what caused it, shouldn’t wonder. No—don’t step on it! There—that rock…piece of carved stone…whatever it is. Trace of blood on it and I think you’ll find the three-cornered shape corresponds with the profile of the wound. Did he fall onto it? Or did it rise up and hit him? Well, that’s for you to work out, old friend!”
The twinkling bonhomie she had grown to expect from Capitaine Huleux had disappeared, to be replaced by a chill efficiency. Suddenly she was “Mademoiselle St. Clair” and Paradee was “Professeur” and they were being told to hold themselves ready, as the discoverers of the corpse, for interrogation. The headquarters of the Police Judiciaire had been alerted by telephone and officers might be expected to put in an appearance within the hour. But in the meantime there were certain formalities he could get out of the way to facilitate matters.
“I think we all recognise Paul,” he said, crossing himself, “but I’ll check his identity card.” He opened the jacket and slipped a hand into the inside pocket.
The black leather wallet took his attention for a moment before he opened it. “Here’s his card and a few francs. Yes, I confirm that this is Paul Morel and we should now alert his father.” He held the wallet carefully by the edges, giving it a long look before putting it back in the pocket. “And now, if Mademoiselle and the gentlemen would be so good as to…” They retreated to the town hall where Huleux took possession of one of the public rooms and called for a tray of coffee to be brought from the café. He produced a notebook and began to take down their story.
The long day wore on. Officials came and went; Letty repeated her account several times and heard Phil and Paradee saying exactly the same things. All those closely involved with the discovery had their fingerprints recorded. The boy’s father, who seemed vaguely familiar to Letty, made a brief appearance and stared, silent and dry-eyed, at his dead son before being escorted away from the scene.
The Lyon contingent of the Police Judiciaire leapt, smartly suited in navy uniforms, from a squad car and liaised with Huleux. Paradee’s team were required to go once again through their testimony by a young inspector with unsmiling, chiselled features and equally chiselled moustache. Letty handed over her passport for identification and watched as the officer who introduced himself to her as “Inspector Laval” checked her details, made careful notes, and paused to give her a long stare.
“You have had a distressing experience, Mademoiselle St. Clair,” he said, a touch of sympathy in his voice, as he closed her passport. “Would you mind if I keep this for a while?” And, noting her reluctance, he added, “Just our routine.” The sudden smile that accompanied his remark was dazzling and reassuring. He gestured to a pile of other such documents on his desk. “Quite normal. We would not wish a witness to make off without our knowledge before our enquiries are finished.” Finally, with the police satisfied, all the witnesses were told they were free to go provided they could hold themselves ready for further interview if called on.
Paradee made his own dismissal. “Go home, Stella. Clean up. Rest up. Phil and I’ll deal with the mess here.”
She was relieved to be sent away. She wanted to order her thoughts, sort through her suspicions, and—she had to admit it—share them with Gunning.
He was working in the parlour, surrounded by books and maps, when she got back.
“I thought you’d come and put me out of my suspense if I waited long enough,” he told her. “It’s been pretty turbulent here with old Guillaume dashing in and out. All this police activity—anything to do with you, by any chance?”
“I’ll say!” She grimaced and launched into an account of the morning’s find.
When she got to the end of her story, he asked one question: “Are you going to tell me why you took the boy’s watch off?”
“It wasn’t his watch. It was my godfather’s watch. I recognised it straight away. It was quite an old but distinctive Patek Philippe. I took it off ostensibly to show to Paradee and, on handing it over to him, I had a chance to see Daniel’s initials engraved on the back.”
“Are you thinking this groom, this Paul Morel, acquired it as a result of his participation in your godfather’s murder?”
“No. I don’t. Because I had a look at the boy’s wrist as well. No earth on his arm—under the watch strap he had the evenly tanned skin of someone who works outdoors all seasons and who never normally wears a watch. If he’d been sporting that one for any length of time before he died or was thrown into the trench, there’d have been a paler band of skin in evidence. I think it was put onto him or onto his body just before he was buried there.”
“And the wallet?” said Gunning sharply.
“Also Daniel’s. Again probably meant to incriminate the boy.”
“And who would wish to do that but…?”
“…but the actual killer—and we both know who that is!—d’Aubec! He must have realised showing me the photograph was a terrible giveaway of his involvement and this was his way of diverting attention.”
“I thought he told you he was in Morocco at the time Daniel was killed? Pretty jolly difficult to stage a murder even by proxy if you’ve been out of the country for some time, I’d have thought? I’m sure d’Aubec’s up to his ears in guilt of the nastiest kind, but I don’t think we can pin Daniel’s death on him. He’d have been tossing on the Mediterranean at the time in question.”
Letty glowered. “I shall see what I can do. The police will put two and two together—Huleux definitely reacted to the sight of the wallet. They’ll probably check it for fingerprints. If d’Aubec’s
dabs are on there, they’ll clear up an old murder case!”
“But they’ll be left with a fresh one on their hands: the groom. Paradee—any of the team—would have been able to arrange the show at the trench, but then so would anyone in town. We know nothing of the lad’s social circumstances. He might have died as a result of an affair of the heart, an unpaid debt…who knows? That part of the dig is tucked away down the Allée du Parc, isn’t it?”
Letty nodded. “You can’t see it from the main square and there’s no lighting. Once you’d lured or forced him down there it wouldn’t have been difficult to dispose of him. Poor lad. He was so skinny and so young, William. Hardly more than a child! They say he was only sixteen. And so frightened. You remember his terrified face at the café? And this time he was cornered, alone, down a dark alley where there was no wandering Knight Templar to come to his aid with a left hook.”
At last the horror of her discovery, contained for so many hours, spilled over. Her voice faltered, her eyes filled with tears.
“I really must take you up on your casual reference to the Templars,” he said briskly, passing her a handkerchief. “They never ‘wandered’ anywhere! You are confusing them with the feckless fools who trailed about after King Arthur. The Templar Knights moved purposefully in tightly organised squadrons from A to B, cutting a swathe through whoever got in their way. Warrior monks who fought with perfect discipline and loyalty to the death.”
Letty knew that he could call on only two means of dealing with the threat of her tears: He could clamp her in a tight and embarrassed Englishman’s hug, muttering, “There, there!” or he could pretend he hadn’t noticed and trail a more acceptable topic before her. He’d thankfully opted for the second.
“Are you suggesting that my hero, Lancelot, would never have made the grade?”
“With vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience and an enforced neat haircut? He’d have failed on all counts.”
“Templars don’t sound much fun to me. What did they do on Saturday nights between battles?”
“Ah. They were allowed to have a little fun if they wished. They were allowed to whittle tent pegs. Rule 317.”
“Good Lord! You’ve been checking the small print! Thinking of signing on, William? Poverty, chastity, obedience, and a short haircut, eh? How do you measure up?”
He grinned, happy that the crisis was over. “I’d fail on two of those.”
“I’m all right, William, you can stop clowning.” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. “But tell me why you mentioned Paradee just now? He’s been away in Lyon and didn’t get back until this morning. The site van was still panting and he was in place, striding about, firing off orders when I arrived. He knew the trench was there and open, but he also knew it was about to be worked on today. Not much point in Paradee killing off a stable lad and hiding his body exactly where it’s going to be found in a few hours, is there?”
“And the whole town knew about the trenches. I think, Letty, that someone calculated that this poor young man would be unearthed and very soon. He was never intended to be hidden. Whoever put him into that trench was probably watching, having timed your arrival at the trench to the second.”
Letty was silent for a moment, trying to recall who and where, presences and absences at the trench-side. She remembered the line of faces leaning over the trench, summoned by her cry of distress. Was one of those faces more than usually interested in the discovery? Concern, curiosity, dismay, horror: All these emotions had been on display and none had appeared out of place.
“But why go to the trouble of covering him with earth?”
“That’s the bit I don’t like, Letty. It’s more than an effective, clinical killing. It begins to feel like a…a…staged, and rather nasty, pre-prepared shock for the discoverers. By someone who doesn’t admire archaeologists, perhaps? Or one in particular?”
“If you’re saying that someone intended that I should find the body, that’s nonsense. It was Phil’s job. He’d already started. He’d got a thankless task on his hands—just dull digging. I offered to help him.”
“Mmm. And if you had not volunteered your assistance, would it have seemed at all unnatural if Paradee had—perhaps in a waggish manner—suggested that you should? Helped you into the trench with a gracious hand?”
“It would have been exactly what I expected,” she admitted. “Because that’s the sort of man he is. He would have asked me to take the other end without a second thought, because that’s why he employs me. And he knows I don’t expect favours. But there’s a lot of implications there! That Paradee set this whole thing up? Barmy idea! What would he have to gain? It’s been the most awful nuisance for him. He’s lost a lot of digging hours and got into very bad odour with the town. It didn’t take long for the rumour to get around that Paul Morel had tripped over a rope and fallen headfirst into an open trench and killed himself. Just what Paradee wanted to avoid. And what am I to make of your suggestion that young Paul may have been killed for some motive not associated with him? Not killed because he was Paul Morel, but as a sacrifice offered up. His body merely a useful vehicle to provide false evidence of guilt planted on it? Chills the blood! Or perhaps he was laid out, the unwitting means of disconcerting a bunch of foreign archaeologists? No. I can accept none of that.”
“If you could,” Gunning said carefully, “and if you were the normal, thoughtful, sensitive English girl people might suppose you to be, you’d be having a fit of the vapours and checking your return ticket to England, Home, and Beauty right now. And perhaps that’s really what’s behind this death? Someone close to you or to Paradee—or both—is making a very strong statement, and the language it’s expressed in is—murder. You should leave at once, Letty. Let me take you home.”
CHAPTER 18
Letty dreamed that night. She was fleeing astride a great white horse across the downs. An unseen horror followed her, hooves booming over the chalk, gaining on her with every stride, louder, darker, acrid breath assailing her nostrils. Her horse surged under her, equally terrified, straining every muscle to escape. Her head drooped on his heaving neck, face lashed by his stinging mane, and she felt herself sliding off, bare legs unable to grip his silken back until she hit the turf with a bump and a scream, right in the path of the pursuing horror which closed on her, hooves plunging, fire darting from the nameless dark creature astride his black beast.
She woke, sweating, from her dream to find that the hoofbeats were real. Horses were going by in the street. She hastily flung on her dressing gown and rushed over to the window. Opening the half-closed shutters, she smiled down with delight. It was barely dawn as she gazed over the rooftops of Fontigny, and the inky blue sky had just enough light to throw the abbey into silhouette. And under her balcony, in the cobbled street below, clattered a long file of horses from the Haras. They had been out on early morning exercise and were returning to their stable, each one ridden by a young uniformed soldier. The sleek Thoroughbreds and saddle horses mingled with the heavier cobs and Percherons, these heavy horses moving with surprising grace, worthy mounts for any medieval knight. A dappled grey Percheron passed with long supple strides, his shining coat remembering his Arab origins. Carried away by a rush of admiration, she leaned out over the balcony and waved, calling out a shy greeting.
At her voice, the riders looked up, and the sight of a silk-clad, fair-haired girl produced an instinctive gesture. Hands flew to hips, backs straightened, and heads tilted, throwing a proud glance her way as they clattered by, in the timeless way that horsemen through the centuries have reacted to an admiring gaze from a pretty girl at an upstairs window.
She was returning to her rumpled and unappealing bed, kicking aside the pile of yesterday’s dirty clothes, when she heard a light tap on the door, which immediately creaked open. A concerned face peered round.
“Stella! Are you all right? I thought I heard you calling out?”
“Oh, Marie-Louise! You’re awake too? I was having a nightmare,
that’s all. It’s gone now.”
“Poor thing! After the day you had, I’m not surprised! Look—I’ve just been down to make a pot of tisane. Would you like a cup? It’s vervain, fresh from the garden, with the dew on it—it’ll calm your nerves.” She hesitated slightly before suggesting, “Come into my room and I’ll pour you one.”
Rather wishing she could feel more grateful for the kindness, but lured by the idea of a pale green and fragrant tea easing her dry throat, Letty followed her into her bedroom.
“I hope I didn’t disturb you? I often creep about the house at this hour.” Marie-Louise looked at her clock. “Five-thirty. I like to wake early and have an hour to myself! There’s precious little time in the rest of the day between the demands of the school and the demands of my mother. Will you sit down?”
Letty perched on a small chair and watched as Marie-Louise poured the tisane into a china mug with all the aplomb of a duchess at a tea party. She was wearing a cream satin dressing gown tied up with a black sash, perfectly complementing the decoration of her room. Letty looked about her in surprise. Marie-Louise had, it seemed, been much impressed by the exhibition two years ago of Arts Décoratifs. Quite out of step with the rest of the house, where the Middle Ages lingered on in the fabric unchallenged, she had gone her own way and transformed the ancient structure. And she had begun by covering over the beams to lower and smooth out the ceiling, creating a space she had then filled with simple pattern and dramatic colour. The matching black wood furniture, spare, elegant, and clearly expensive, must have come from some ébénisterie on the Right Bank; a mulberry silk cover hung smoothly over a bed which appeared never to have been slept in. The sculptured white elegance of lilies accented perfectly the modern and minimal décor and lightly scented the air.
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