Bright Hair About the Bone

by Barbara Cleverly

  Letty was pale with anxiety. “A new generation, William? We are not ten years yet from the end of the war. Are you implying that the next batch of sacrificial victims are, as we speak, singing patriotic songs round their campfires?” The warning words of Marie-Louise again came back to her.

  “Exactly that. It’s brutally easy to calculate the date of the next outbreak from the age of the participants.”

  “You think someone’s put a big red circle round market day?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. And I don’t think d’Aubec will be taken by surprise, either. Allow for the natural immediate postwar increase in births and add on, say, eighteen years…Wait until the harvest’s in and declare war.”

  “So we should mark 1938 as an important year in our forward planning diaries? That’s in eleven years’ time!” Her laugh was fuelled by derision but even to her ears it sounded nervous. “How can any country possibly build up an armed force in that time?”

  “They are halfway there. Thanks to United States’ backing, the Wehrmacht is already a force to be reckoned with…Storm trooper squadrons strut through Munich, and Britain looks the other way.”

  “Every movement needs a leader…” she said speculatively.

  “No shortage of applicants for that position. Some of them even manage to avoid assassination by rival factions. There’s a—to my mind—sinister society, rich, influential, and with aristocratic pretensions that calls itself the Thule Society—after the ancient word for ‘Iceland.’ They’re very keen on mythology and pagan ideals, and they base their philosophy on the theory that the Aryan race—which they seem to have invented—is a super race, descended from the gods, and will eventually conquer in Europe. And the world. They have devised a banner…Here, let me show you…”

  He took his drawing pad from his pocket and she watched him sketch a four-limbed cross, rounded to fit into a circle. A dagger plunged downwards from the cross and was encircled with foliage that might have been oak leaves.

  “Oh, I know this. It’s runic…no, probably older…Hindu? It’s supposed to bring good luck. My aunt has it embroidered in beadwork on her spectacles case.”

  “A swastika. Yes. And this same emblem has been taken up by another group—the Socialist Workers’ Party, they call themselves…the National Socialists I mentioned just now. And they have in their numbers a rising star. Name of Hitler. An Austrian rabble-rouser who seems to have the whole of Bavaria eating out of his hand. He’ll be the menace d’Aubec mentioned. Now he’s taken the cross and straightened out the limbs for his flag. It’s black on a white circle, and the whole set on a blood-red ground. Very striking.”

  “And do people follow him?”

  “Oh, yes. In floods. They’re more than willing to listen to someone who’s telling them what they want to know—that the German people are God’s chosen Aryan race, and despite the present setback, they will prevail. It’s their destiny.”

  “William, I’ve been meaning to ask…I think I understand how you’ve formed your opinions—but where on earth do you get your information?”

  “Sleeping on park benches being something of an isolating situation, you mean?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “In those circumstances—destitution, I mean, of course—a man seeks out warmth and shelter. And if one is not too offensively feral this may be found in libraries. You will possibly not be aware of the increasingly generous provision for the workingman in our country. Books—and seriously improving books—are available for the ranks of earnest self-educators who frequent these places, but also newspapers and journals. Over this last bit I’ve kept warm and dry and widened my perspective on the world. Where else may one find The Times rubbing shoulders with the Daily Worker? It’s better than a club.”

  “Nothing you’ve read appears to have cheered you in any way. You speak of nothing but gloom and doom.”

  “I’m afraid I have this in common with d’Aubec—I fear for the future. But my fear is unfocused and unseizable. He, at least, has identified a threat and is taking bold steps to counter it. He, at least, we know to have the power to back up his aspirations. Whatever they may be.”

  “You’re as mad as he is, William!”

  “Perhaps it helps me to understand him. Bear in mind, will you, the disquieting things we’ve discovered about his financial and political dealings. He’s made an effective springboard for himself. Oh, not overtly, like his thuggish neighbour to the east, but, in its quiet way, much more impressive. D’Aubec or someone in his outfit,” he said thoughtfully, “is an intelligent strategist.”

  “And that would be all very well if these tensions could be decided by single combat,” said Letty. “My money would be on d’Aubec against all comers. But if there were to be another war in Europe, it would come down to men and women, nations fighting each other on battlefields. And nothing will persuade me that the French or the English would be ready to shed more blood so soon after the last lot. We’d be contemplating a generation of women who lost fathers, husbands, and sons. The leaders and their standards may be in place but they should look over their shoulders. No one will be following them.”

  “And yet d’Aubec is blazingly confident. He’s got something, Letty…something we’re unaware of.”

  Letty was struck by an unwelcome thought. “Some sort of secret weapon, do you mean? William, do you suppose Daniel had trodden the same path—had found out what Edmond was up to…what he’d got hold of?” She sighed in exasperation. “This is barmy! What are we expecting him to be concealing up there? A Big Bertha trained on Germany? I’ve got to know that fortress well and I don’t believe there’s space to hide so much as a pea-shooter. It’s so ordered and civilised, William.”

  “Well, whatever it is—and I’m sure it’s more subtle than a cannon under a tarpaulin—perhaps d’Aubec had even confided in Daniel; they were quite close, I think?”

  “He’s begun to open up to me in the same way. It’s lonely work being a megalomaniac, the secret saviour of your country in waiting. It must be a relief to have a sympathetic ear, someone to reassure you that you’re not crazy. Is he deluded, do you suppose? I mean, one man, William—however energetic and influential—how could he possibly galvanise a weary country?”

  “It’s happened before. And d’Aubec starts from a much higher base than, let’s say, Napoleon. He was a lowly artillery officer, a Corsican, and not even regarded as truly French by most, surviving in a country devastated by years of war and internal slaughter when he burst through. Yet in no time at all he was master of Europe.”

  “Not all of Europe. That awkward little island across the Channel refused to be impressed by the Emperor.”

  “Imagine what he might have accomplished had we been his ally! If he’d done what medieval monarchs did and made a diplomatic marriage with, say, an English princess, assuming there to have been a selection available at the time? An Anglo-French coalition would have dominated Europe for decades. There would never have been a Waterloo…never a Great War.”

  “Oh, Lord! Do you think he sees me playing a part in his schemes? A Marianne figure with breastplate and flag…Allons enfants de la patrie and all that?”

  “Isn’t it Britannia who has the breastplate? Marianne, I’m certain, is much more sketchily clad in a Gallic sort of way. But, yes! I’d say you were carefully chosen. Not royal, but I don’t believe that counts for much these days. You have the advantage of being young and intelligent, rich in your own right, well-connected, half English, and bi-lingual. And that’s your attraction for d’Aubec—you lend him credibility. I’d say you had all the characteristics he required to complete his plans. And it would be your captivating features we’d be seeing on the front pages of newspapers and magazines, in all the newsreels. I’m afraid you’d put the Prince of Wales’s nose out of joint. Who wouldn’t rather look at you—smiling and confident—than at his soulful spaniel’s face?”

  “You fail to notice that Edmond and I would make a lovely c
ouple!” said Letty. “‘He so dark, she so fair, both so fashionable, and don’t they do a lovely Charleston?’”

  “There’s that, I suppose. But tell me about this banner—this standard, did you say?—behind which he confidently expects his countrymen to rally.”

  “There’s no more. I told you everything he said.”

  “Pity he was so reticent. This is the most intriguing thing he told you. Let’s consider what he gave away…what was it? Something with a troubadourish flavour…‘more alluring than your sleeve on the end of his lance’?”

  “Gabrielle’s knickers, do you think?” Letty shrugged, then she blushed. “Oh, I’m sorry, William. Whispering together like this in a pew—it takes me back to subversive gossip in the dorm. All he would say was: ‘compelling, bewitching, and female.’”

  “Mm…Definitely the knickers, then,” said Gunning morosely. “And speaking of displaced drawers—the revelation you’ve been storing up to shock me with? Carry on, if you must, though I warn you—nothing you can say will surprise me. Don’t expect it.”

  Frozen with outrage, Letty rose stiffly and went to stand in front of the fresco of Mary Magdalene. After a few moments he joined her, melting with contrition. “Don’t interrupt,” she said coldly. “I’m saying a prayer to someone who understands what it is to be wrongly accused, judged, reviled…I’m begging the saint to give me the strength not to…not to…”

  “Put another kink in my nose?” Gunning suggested. “I promise not to duck if you want to take aim. I’m sorry.”

  She ignored him, keeping her eyes on the painting, sensing his mortification at his unguarded remark. The voice of reason that always sabotaged her more frivolous flights of fancy now reminded her that the man had been out of society for many years and had lost the knack of censoring his thoughts. “In fact, to tell the truth, William, your fears were very nearly confirmed. It was a pretty close-run thing. I blame that spring! It’s a real hazard. They ought to post a warning. Get wet at your peril!”

  He looked puzzled and waited for her to explain.

  “D’Aubec’s secret spring—it has a strange effect on the unwary. I dabbled about in it…got thoroughly wet, in fact, and…well, I know I have a vivid imagination and perhaps it was unwise of me to attempt it…”

  “Letty!”

  “Most odd. I felt about ten feet tall when I came out of the spray, immensely powerful, and…um…not quite sure I have the vocabulary…carnally confident, if you understand me. Like her!” She pointed to the knowing, painted face.

  Gunning was making an effort not to laugh. “Lucky old d’Aubec,” he snorted. “But what on earth went wrong for him?”

  “It was this same lady who saved me from a fate which was certainly preferable to death and might well have proved very interesting. Just at the moment critique my attention was distracted by the horse, who decided to kick up a fuss, and, with the sun just below the horizon, I saw, silhouetted with extraordinary clarity, exactly the shape of those hills there painted in the background. And, William, at that moment of realisation, I was standing with my back to a spring which jets out of the limestone rock-face—just like the one here by Mary’s forefinger!”

  “Good Lord! Well, I can see that that would put a girl off her stride. Did you raise the matter with d’Aubec by any chance?”

  “Oh, yes. I said, ‘Unhand me, sir, and pray take a moment to analyse the geological profile of those hills on the horizon.’ I pretended I’d seen an apparition in the trees—a saint or a goddess.”

  “And you thought that more convincing than an interest in earth sciences?”

  “It had the advantage of being the truth! I had clearly in my head the image of this fresco at the time! And perhaps I did sound convincing, because d’Aubec didn’t question it. In fact he said something offhand about himself—claimed to worship the goddess of the grove or something very like that. Joking, you know, but it got us through an awkward moment.”

  “Can you find it again? This grove?”

  “Oh, yes. Give me your map and I’ll show you.”

  She took the dog-eared map he handed her and, turning it this way and that, finally pointed. He took a pencil from his pocket and drew a circle around the spot.

  “Nothing marked here. Not even the spring. Perhaps the cartographers were discouraged from visiting? Did you realise, Laetitia, just how close this is to the outcrop of rock the château sits on?”

  “Well, of course! It does loom over one. We took a circuitous route, as flat as is possible in this part of the world, so as not to strain poor old Dido’s legs. It follows one of those old green trackways. Not much evidence of recent use. Rather overgrown.”

  “I’d like to take a look. They’ve all gone off to Lyon, you say?”

  “Yes. He’s expecting to be away for four days. The countess’s luggage was lined up in the hall last night. Two suitcases and four hatboxes. I walked to work early this morning,” she said, “and watched them go by. Just to be certain.”

  Gunning looked at his watch. “No chess engagement for me this evening—Anselme’s gone away on holiday. And there are three more hours of daylight at least. I’m going over there. We’d better slip out of here separately.”

  “Take the car, William. You can drive it within half a mile of the greenway. And why not pause for a second on the bend just beyond the Haras?”

  When he slowed for the bend, Letty leapt nimbly into the passenger seat.

  CHAPTER 28

  They approached the spring, hot from their walk down the overgrown lane, and fell at once into the silence that the grove seemed to impose. Gunning tramped about, scanning the horizon and absorbing the atmosphere. He made a few quick sketches in his book. Finally he joined Letty, who had settled down on the turf to watch him, arms clutching her knees.

  “I see what you mean, Letty. A superstitious type, which I’m not, might well describe it as spooky…haunted. Though some would say: holy. And you didn’t mistake the outline of the hills. I’d say this was a place of some significance to the people who’ve lived around here for generations. Have you noticed that it’s a circular space, smaller than an arena, bigger than a threshing floor, perhaps, which is where the earliest attempts at what you might call drama were made. And the acoustic qualities are amazing. We’ve both of us lowered our voices instinctively to a whisper. Can you imagine what it would sound like if we spoke in an actor’s voice? Well, let’s put it to the test, shall we?”

  To Letty’s astonishment, he jumped to his feet and began to recite. His priestly baritone boomed out across the open space, reciting, to her greater horror, lines from a pagan incantation from Swinburne.

  “I have lived long enough, having seen one thing, that love hath an end;

  Goddess and maiden and queen, be near me now and befriend.

  Thou art more than the day or the morrow, the seasons that laugh or that weep.

  For these give joy and sorrow; but thou, Proserpina, sleep.”

  Satisfied, he sat down again. “Very good! Not quite Epidaurus but all the same—very good!”

  “Proserpina? Daughter of Demeter? Is that the goddess whose presence you feel?”

  “Yes. Somewhere out there,” he said, waving a hand towards the screen of stunted oaks and bushes, “there’s a sympathetic, though mischievous, young presence, don’t you think? How did Milton describe the result of the Zephyr’s meeting with Aurora? The love child of the summer breeze and the dawn, as he met her once a-maying…

  “There on beds of violets blue,

  And fresh-blown roses washed in dew

  Filled her with thee, a daughter fair,

  So buxom, blithe, and debonair.

  “She’s probably intrigued to welcome you to the grove, Letty—her mirror image, in human form.”

  “What? Buxom? Like a barmaid? Not sure that’s very flattering.”

  “Old English meaning, stupid! ‘Meek and kindly.’ And ‘blithe’ is the Old English for, er, ‘meek and kindly.’”
<
br />   “And ‘debonair’? Don’t tell me!”

  “Ah, now that’s Old French for ‘meek and kindly.’”

  “Rot!”

  “All the same, it’s a phrase I find suits you. ‘Buxom, blithe, and debonair.’” He savoured it once more.

  From anyone else Letty would have judged this heavy flirting. But from the vicar? With a rush of relief she recalled that men of Gunning’s background frequently made a parade of their classical education, and this orchestra-shaped place was just the setting that would incite them to a show of oratory. She remembered her father in the Roman amphitheatre at Orange walking firmly to centre stage and entertaining the startled tourists with a blast of Aeschylus—the messenger’s eyewitness account of the sea battle of Salamis, from The Persians. She’d hidden behind her guidebook, blushing with embarrassment, pretending to have no acquaintance with this show-off.

  “…and the location’s intriguing, don’t you think?” Gunning was chattering on. “It’s sheltered by the bluff from the prevailing winds, which gives it that quality of stillness—have you noticed that not a leaf is stirring?—but it’s not overshadowed, so it enjoys and retains the heat of the sun. And where we are now—in late June—that’s pretty unbearable!…I say, do you mind?”

  He took off his jacket, unclipped his starched collar and threw it down on the turf, unbuttoned his shirt, and groaned with relief.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, William! Why don’t you go and cool off in the spring? That’s what it’s there for.”

  He got to his feet, shrugged off his shirt, and made towards the spring. After a couple of steps he turned and grinned at her. “How did it go? ‘Ten feet tall and a rush of heat to the loins?’ You sure you want to risk this?”

  She listened without turning her head to his yelps of delight. He was splashing about for a very long time, she thought, but she had no intention of interrupting his activities with a nannyish call. After ten minutes he returned, invigorated and dripping wet, and sat down by her side.