Thunder on the Right

by Mary Stewart

  They had reached the edge of the wood, out of sight of the convent, emerging from the very scented twilight of the pines into the thundery darkness of the open valley. The storm-centre had moved to some distance now, but the sky was still low and dark, and in the intermittent electric flicker the mountain-shapes showed a curious light olive-green, lighter than the indigo clouds beyond them. The lower meadows and slopes shone paler still, stretching ghostly and frost-like where the shower had left its evanescent hoary glimmer. Dark sky, pale mountains, phantom-grey meadows … it was like looking at the negative of the normal daylight picture, a magically inverted landscape through whose pale foreground drove the sharp ink-black furrow of the Petit Gave.

  They were out in the open now, and the meadow-grass, stiff with its bedded hail-stones, crunched and rustled under their feet.

  ‘Something else I told you,’ he said. ‘Remember? I told you Madame Bussac didn’t like my pictures. She preferred photographs.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘What’s the main difference,’ said Stephen, slowly, ‘between a painting and a photograph?’

  ‘I don’t get it. Why? I suppose one’s, oh, a mechanical reproduction of the thing as it is, and the other—’ Then she caught her breath. ‘No. No, it’s not that. Is it that one’s black and white, and the other’s in – colour?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Perhaps colour doesn’t mean very much to Madame Bussac,’ said Stephen. He glanced down sideways at her. ‘Not any kind of proof in itself, but under the circumstances a very sufficient pointer. I think we can call it conclusive. I mean the whole damned valley can’t be crawling with colour-blind girls who look like Gillian, can it?’

  ‘No.’ But her smile was strained. ‘All right, it’s Gillian, married to that man. And where does that get us? She’s alive, but – for how long? Oh, God, Stephen, it’s like a nightmare, and just about as sensible!’

  ‘Think, darling! The fact – weird though it is – that she’s married to Bussac, does guarantee that, as far as Bussac’s concerned, she stays alive! As far as Bussac’s concerned. Think back to that conversation you over-heard last night. Didn’t you tell me that Doña Francisca was forcing him to take some course that would result in Gillian’s death, and that he was passionately refusing?’

  ‘Y-yes. Yes, I did.’

  ‘And the way he acted just now, wasn’t it a repetition in a way of the same scene? He knew he ought to let her go, for his own safety’s sake, but he didn’t want to. Did she act as if he frightened her? On the contrary; I’d have said he was fond of her, and that squares with his reactions both to me and Doña Francisca.’

  Jennifer said in a tight, flat little voice: ‘When did he marry her?’

  ‘I – what?’ He was patently at a loss.

  ‘When did he marry her?’

  He was silent.

  She said: ‘Unless they were married in Bordeaux before she even came here, there hasn’t been much time, has there? And they weren’t. When she wrote to me the night before she left Bordeaux, she was still planning to enter the convent.’ She kicked at a tuft of grass, and the melting drops flew from it in flashing arcs of spray. ‘Father Anselm didn’t marry them either, or he’d have told me.’

  He said, gently: ‘I know. I’m sorry, Jenny.’

  ‘Last night,’ said Jenny, not looking at him, ‘that woman was cursing him for wrecking their plans for – for lust. That squares, too, as you put it, doesn’t it? Obscène bête, she called him, and animal—’

  He gripped her arm. ‘Steady there. Whatever Gillian’s up to, it’s her affair. All that matters to us is her safety, and this affair with Bussac, whatever it is, is a guarantee of just that. He’ll not hurt her. I’d stake my life on that, and it’s one reason’ – he smiled ruefully – ‘one reason why I came away from the farm when I did. No, the real danger to Gillian lies in another direction.’

  ‘Doña Francisca?’

  ‘Our gentle Francisca. To put it bluntly, as long as Gillian’s above ground, and therefore traceable by us or the police, there’s the danger of an inquiry starting about the identity of the body in the graveyard.’

  ‘But even if they proved that that was Lally Dupré, there’s no evidence that Doña Francisca knew anything about it! She said herself that she’d lose nothing but her private income.’

  ‘Exactly. And Bussac gave some indication, didn’t he, of just what that would mean to her? There’s big money involved, Jenny – it’s fifteen years since Isaac Lenormand’s three million francs were paid over, and in fifteen years there’ll have been a fair amount of traffic, one way or another, over Pierre Bussac’s private bridge. Damn it, what did that El Greco cost? Even if she got it cheaply in the general muddle of the war, when Rembrandts went for nothing and Botticellis lay about in barns – no, the loot those two have been handling is something more than pin-money. Big money, ambition, love of power and fear of scandal … that spells danger to me, Jenny. She won’t relinquish her dreams very easily, if your account of her is true. And to keep those dreams she has to keep Bussac, and get rid of Gillian – somehow.’

  Jennifer gave a little shiver. ‘Love of power … yes, that’s her all right … that lean and hungry look … like someone burning up inside. I wouldn’t like to get between her and anything she dearly wanted.’

  ‘Gillian has,’ said Stephen soberly.

  They had rounded a shoulder of the mountain meadow, and now the convent lay close below them. He stopped, frowning thoughtfully down at it.

  ‘Look at it from Bussac’s angle,’ he said slowly. ‘Somehow – never mind the hows and wherefores – he has got Gillian there, living with him willingly as his wife. Your inquiries make Doña Francisca tumble to the fact that it is Gillian, and not Lally Dupré. She urges him to put her out of the way before you recognize her and start a fuss which can only end in exposure for both Bussac and herself. Bussac refuses – or at any rate would like to refuse … Then we turn up. We recognize her. We offer to take her away and nothing said. Bussac refuses again.’

  He lifted his head, and his gaze rested, still unseeingly, on the long flank of the hill behind the convent. ‘Now, how is he placed? Whatever Doña Francisca does, it’s obvious that we will go straight to the police. And though we can’t get him over Gillian, as she’s apparently staying with him of her own free will, we are bound to start an inquiry that will lead to Lally Dupré, and through her to Bussac’s criminal connections. Add Doña Francisca’s threats to this, and what decision d’you suppose Bussac will come to?’

  ‘In his place,’ said Jenny, ‘I’d disappear myself.’

  ‘And so would I.’ He looked at her gravely. ‘As I see it, friend Bussac will light out at the earliest possible moment along his private route to Spain. With Gillian.’

  She turned and began to walk, leaden-footed now, down the slope towards the convent gate.

  ‘And Gillian wants to go.’

  ‘It would seem so.’

  ‘She – she might have told me.’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Do you suppose she’s somehow mixed up with his criminal affairs too? And that’s why she didn’t tell me, and wouldn’t recognize me?’

  ‘Hardly, Jenny. She’d have written to stop you coming, if that had been the case.’

  There was a pause. ‘It doesn’t get any clearer, does it?’ she said.

  ‘Not much. No.’

  Somewhere away to the south-east, the thunder murmured. She looked up. ‘Thunder on the right …’ Her voice was not quite her own. ‘The happy ending, Stephen. It seems that all the drama’s been for nothing, after all. The heroine doesn’t want to be rescued. There’s nothing more to do.’

  ‘Oh, yes there is. Plenty.’ His voice had quickened. ‘We can’t just leave it at that, Jenny. There’s too much that’s unexplained about Gillian’s part in this. Damn it, darling, there’s one thing, from first to last, that’s been sticking out like a sore thumb: why did she write to invite you here and then not write to stop you?
She’s had three weeks, and surely a letter keeping you away would be simpler than cutting you dead after you’d come?’

  She put a hand to her head. ‘Of course! If she were involved with Bussac in his criminal activities, she’d have moved heaven and earth to stop me coming!’

  ‘And Bussac,’ said Stephen grimly, ‘would have personally posted the letter. No, whatever the state of friend Bussac’s emotions towards Gillian, I don’t think we can assume anything about Gillian’s for him. If Doña Francisca has a hold over Bussac, he may in his turn have one over Gillian. It would explain quite a bit if he had.’

  They had reached the cover of the convent wall. She stopped and faced him, speaking low.

  ‘What can we do? Try and stop them?’

  ‘I think we must.’

  ‘They’ll have gone already.’

  ‘That’s only too likely. But the sooner we get to the police the better. They can be picked up in Spain. And there’s one other – circumstance – I’d like to clear up, while we’re about it.’

  She glanced instinctively at the convent gate.

  ‘Her?’

  ‘Her. Don’t forget she’s promised to go up there after Compline. If she finds them gone, she may follow to make sure he doesn’t quit. She probably knows the way. And I’m not sure that I like the idea of her being free to follow Gillian.’

  She shivered. ‘We’ll have to stop her. We’ll have to. Will the police believe us?’

  He said grimly: ‘I’ll see they do. Listen.’ He took her hands in his and held them hard. ‘It’s just possible that Bussac mayn’t be able to get away as quickly as all that. It’s a long trip and I imagine a hard one, and he may still have preparations to make. Also, remember, Gillian fainted … that might put a fairly effective brake on for an hour or two.’

  ‘You think there’s a chance?’

  ‘There’s always a chance. Even if the police aren’t in time to stop Bussac, they might be able to follow and catch him up, if we can only get them to move straight away. Now’ – his grip tightened – ‘can you get straight in there and get to the telephone without being seen?’

  She said tightly: ‘There’s no telephone.’

  ‘What? Oh, my God, I suppose there’s not.’ His voice was savage and weary. ‘I should have thought of that. So much for the mountains I was going to move, Jenny, my darling. All we needed was a blasted miracle, and they don’t happen any more. Well, we’ll have to content ourselves with catching the she-wolf. At least there’s plenty time for me to get down to Gavarnie and drag the police up to the farm by the time Compline’s over.’

  He loosed her hands then, and lifted his own to cup her face. He said, very gently: ‘Don’t worry, my darling. I’d stake my life Bussac won’t hurt her.’ He bent his head as if to kiss her, but in the very act she felt him stiffen, and he lifted his head from her, turning sharply, as if listening. Then he dropped his hands and straightened up. He spoke softly, but his eyes were beginning to blaze.

  ‘And there’s my miracle, by God,’ he said. ‘Who said they didn’t happen any more?’

  Then she heard it too. The swift heart-beating pulse of hoofs coming down-hill from the north-east.

  ‘Luis? Miracle?’

  ‘Transport,’ said Stephen, and laughed.

  There they were, the three of them, the big stallion leading, coming down the long slope with manes flying, their chestnut coats glowing richly in the queer light. Luis’s face gleamed pale as he turned to look towards the convent. Stephen raised an arm, beckoned urgently, and began to run, limping, towards him. Luis, lifting a hand in reply, brought the stallion’s head round. Stephen stopped at that, and waited.

  ‘Spectacular young devil, isn’t he?’ he said in some amusement.

  ‘Stephen’ – Jennifer came breathlessly behind him – ‘what are you going to do?’

  ‘Borrow a horse, my darling.’

  ‘But Luis tried to kill us.’

  ‘What? Oh, that. No, Jenny, that was Bussac. Didn’t you see his mule? It was sweating. He’d just got in. He must have seen you running out of the convent to meet me, and taken an impulsive chance on shutting you up or frightening you away. He got a bad start when we turned up at his cottage within the hour … Don’t you worry about Luis. He’s a friend of mine.’

  ‘Not of mine. He was horribly rude, and he looked as if he hated me.’

  He grinned briefly. ‘You must have been probing a bit near the bone. Had you been asking questions about the convent?’

  ‘I suppose I had. What’s that to do with Luis?’

  ‘The whole world. Celeste.’

  Before she could do more than blink at this intelligence the horses were on them, the big stallion coming to a sweating, plunging halt not four yards away. Before it had stopped, Stephen was at its head.

  ‘Luis, mon ami—’

  ‘M’sieur?’

  ‘Listen, Luis, I can’t explain, there’s no time. But I’ve got to get to Gavarnie, and quickly. Will you let me have Foix?’

  The young man sat like a rock, looking down at Stephen, his dark eyes inscrutable under their long lashes. The stallion jerked his head viciously, but Stephen’s hand dragged him down and held him hard.

  ‘Eh bien, Luis?’

  ‘It is nothing to do with me – or – mine?’

  The hazel eyes met his steadily. ‘Nothing.’

  Luis nodded. ‘Then I lend him with pleasure.’ His teeth flashed in a smile. ‘If you can ride him, m’sieur. He’s a devil at the best of times, and Beelzebub himself when there’s thunder about … But he can hurry.’ He swung out of the saddle and slid to the ground. ‘You know what you’re taking on, of course? He’ll probably try to kill you.’

  ‘I’ll risk it.’ Stephen was busy with stirrup-leathers, and spoke absently, but Jennifer cried out.

  ‘No, Stephen! He means it! He’s not joking!’

  ‘I know.’ Luis had the three bridles now in his grip, and Stephen came quickly over to Jennifer, pulling her to him. ‘But this happens to be one thing that I can do. This’ll be one fight I’ll win today …’ He held her close, speaking urgently. ‘I’m going now, sweetheart. Get straight into the convent and stay there till I come. The rest’s for me and the police; you’d better keep out of it.’

  ‘Very well, Stephen.’

  His eyes glimmered for a moment with a smile. ‘That’s my girl. If I can get help up here in time, so much the better; if not, we’ll certainly get up to the farm in time to arrange a reception committee for you-know-who after Compline. Till then – keep out of her way, my darling.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And whatever happens, today the drama hasn’t been for nothing, Jenny … Didn’t you see the golden gates opening for us, up there in the woods? Didn’t you hear the trumpets?’

  ‘All the trumpets.’

  He stooped to kiss her once, a brief hard kiss, then he turned quickly away. A hand from Luis, a swift heave, and he was stride. The big stallion, white-eyed, threw his head up, laid back his ears, and began to sidle, swishing his tail. Luis, still holding the bridle, spoke softly to him, then flung an anxious glance upwards.

  ‘Are you sure, m’sieur? He doesn’t like strangers, and he’s always queer in thunder, even with me.’

  ‘I’ll manage. By the time I’ve got to Gavarnie he’ll be quiet enough, thunder or no thunder! Let him go, Luis – and thanks!’

  Luis stepped back.

  The big horse, ears flat, nostrils cracking, moved backwards and sideways, and raked his great head down to get a grip of the bit. But he was held hard, and brought up to the bit with an expert kick that wrung from the watching Luis a small sound of satisfaction and relief.

  Stephen was fighting now to turn the circling horse back on to the track. He dragged the wicked head round on to the off side, and drove in his left heel. Foix, held as he was, still plunged viciously to the left, trying to pitch the rider over his exposed shoulder.

  ‘Blast you,’ said Stephen cheerf
ully, and pulled him round again.

  This time he went straight, in one long arrow-swift leap, only to stop dead as he shot out stiff forelegs to brake in the dust.

  Jenny made some little sound, but Luis’ eyes were shining, and they heard Stephen laugh as he drove in his heels again.

  ‘Gee up, Dobbin,’ he said, between his teeth. Then he slashed the stallion hard across the neck with the reins, and, in a tempest of angry hoofs, they were gone at a gallop down the valley.

  Luis, with another of his dark unreadable looks at Jennifer, vaulted up on to one of his horses, and, with no more than a muttered word to her, turned the pair of them down towards the stream. The trotting hoofs echoed, queerly in the stillness, the rapid dwindling gallop to the north.

  The valley seemed all of a sudden empty, desolate … She turned quickly and pushed open the convent gate.

  18

  Patience: marcato il tempo

  The rain had started. Big drops, thrown singly against the window, struck the glass with soft, vicious impacts. Beyond the pane the valley swam in green, liquid light, eerie under a slate-blue sky now scored across by the pale diagonals of the rain.

  The convent seemed deserted, the nuns being either occupied with their teaching tasks at the other side of the building or else about some silent business of their own. Jennifer had passed no one on her way up to the corridor above the refectory. She had bathed and changed her soiled and crumpled dress, and sat now on the window-seat at the corridor’s end, hugging a coat round her in the chilly shadow, and straining her eyes for as far as she could see down the dim valley.

  It was empty, but for the silver arrows of the rain.

  She sat still, her hands quiet in her lap, holding her thoughts, too, quiet, schooling herself to wait … wait.…

  Outside, the valley was empty but for the wet wind.

  But no; she was wrong. Something was there. Something – someone – was running up the hill from the Petit Gave, towards the convent gate.