Song of the Damned

by Sarah Rayne

‘She wouldn’t be on her own,’ said Dan. ‘I’ll stay with her. I’ll guide her through it.’

  Gina looked at him and felt a little spark of warmth burn up.

  ‘It would be highly irregular,’ said Mother Superior. ‘Most unusual.’

  ‘This is an irregular and unusual situation,’ said Dan. He leaned forward. ‘Mother Superior, I’m no traveller. I have no knowledge of the French language. I’d be an encumbrance to you. Chimaera will be very useful – he knows about travelling. But I’d be better staying here and making sure our plan is followed.’

  ‘Gina? What do you think, child?’

  ‘I could cope with it all if Dan were here,’ said Gina, and thought: I could cope with anything if Dan were here.

  Chimaera said, ‘Then if Dan is to remain—’

  ‘Yes?’

  Chimaera glanced apologetically at Gina, then said, ‘In that cellar, with only the lamplight, it was not possible to see if there were marks of violence. But if Sir John resisted Father Joachim—’

  ‘He did,’ said Gina. ‘He told me so, just before—’

  ‘Ah. Then it is likely that there are signs. They would raise difficult questions. So I am thinking that Dan could start a small rumour – very subtle – that Sir John had been on the watch for poachers or gypsies. That would explain why he was walking around late at night. And any marks of violence on him would be blamed on a poacher or a gypsy. But it would all be so – what is the word? – so anonymous, that no suspicion would fall on any one person. That,’ said Chimaera, firmly, ‘would be important.’

  ‘That’s an excellent idea,’ said Mother Superior, approvingly, and Dan nodded.

  ‘I can do all that,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a very good idea indeed,’ said Cecilia, warmly. ‘Mother Superior, shall I talk to the sisters about travelling to France? As bursar it would seem reasonable coming from me, I think. They might suspect there’s more to it than helping the nuns at Compiègne – they all know you came here tonight in distress,’ she said, looking at Gina and the two men. ‘But they would obey our rule of obedience.’

  She shivered suddenly, and Mother Superior put out a hand, which Cecilia grasped gratefully. ‘So much death,’ she said, her eyes suddenly seeming to stare at a distant point. ‘So much loss … And I have the impression of a darkness ahead of us.’

  ‘None of us ever knows what’s ahead of us,’ said Mother Superior. She held Cecilia’s hand for a moment longer, then, in a practical voice, said, ‘Now then, Signor Chimaera, you are the traveller among us. How could such a journey be arranged?’

  Chimaera beamed. He said, ‘There is a post coach due in two days’ time.’

  Gina had not expected to see either Dan or Chimaera again that night, but as she was making her way to the room that Sister Agnes had made ready for her, she heard a soft footfall, and turned to see Dan standing beneath one of the wall sconces.

  He said, ‘You’ll be leaving for your cousin’s house in a day or two.’

  ‘Yes.’ Gina did not say that this was a deeply depressing prospect.

  ‘Shall you return to Chandos House?’

  ‘I don’t know. My mother probably won’t want to. She’ll live with her cousins – she always preferred their company to my father’s.’

  ‘You might want to return, though,’ he said. He had come to stand in front of her.

  ‘I’m not sure if there would be any reason to,’ said Gina.

  ‘How about this,’ said Dan, and pulled her into his arms – not roughly but not gently, and not in the smooth, almost-rehearsed way that Chimaera had employed. Gina thought, wildly, he’s going to kiss me. And I’m not at all sure I want him to – I don’t think I should let myself be kissed by a gardener—

  And then his lips came down on hers, and she forgot about him being a gardener and she forgot that any one of the nuns might walk in at any second, and she clung to him and kissed him back.

  When, finally, he released her, there was a trace of unusual colour across his cheekbones. Gina said, ‘Oh!’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Oh, I hadn’t thought it could feel like that.’

  The now-familiar grin lifted his lips. ‘Didn’t I get it right?’ he said. ‘Because if not, we could try again.’

  ‘Oh, yes, it was utterly right.’ Gina stared at him with astonished delight, and thought: so that’s how I’m supposed to feel! Why didn’t I feel like that with Chimaera, though? She said, ‘It was very right indeed.’

  ‘But perhaps we could try again anyway?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Gina again, and he pulled her against him a second time. There, again, was the soaring delight and the feeling that something that was very right indeed had happened.

  When he released her, his eyes were brilliant, and he smiled down at her. ‘You’ll come back to Chandos House?’

  ‘Yes. Oh yes, I’ll come back. Will you be there?’

  ‘I will. I’ll be waiting for you, Gina,’ he said.

  Gina said, rather awkwardly, ‘You don’t mind that Chimaera … that he was … that he and I—’

  ‘I mind very much,’ said Dan, and his arms tightened around her. ‘But I can accept it for – for what I think it was. A flirtation that got out of hand?’ he said. ‘Curiosity, even?’

  ‘Both those things,’ said Gina, at once.

  ‘He’s an unprincipled seducer, of course,’ said Dan. ‘But I suspect he’s not quite as successful as he thinks. The curious thing is that I find I like him. I even trust him.’

  Gina said, ‘And … you really will be waiting until I’m back?’

  ‘I’ll wait for as long as it takes,’ said Dan.

  Lying in the narrow bed made up for her, Gina thought she had been dealt so many surprises that her mind was still reeling. She knew she would soon start to feel deep pain at her father’s death. It was like receiving a blow or a cut – you did not immediately feel the pain, only the shock. But when the shock wore off, the pain rushed at you.

  But he wasn’t alone when he died, she thought. I’ll hold on to that knowledge. She would hold on to the knowledge of Dan as well and, despite the tangle of emotions still gripping her, she smiled. She would come back to Cresacre – she would come back as soon as she could – and he would be waiting for her. Did he mean marriage? Would she marry a gardener? Her mother and the prim cousins would certainly want nothing to do with her if she married Dan. I don’t care, thought Gina.

  The door opened and Sister Cecilia’s soft voice said, ‘Gina? Are you asleep?’

  ‘No.’ Gina sat up in bed. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I will be, in time.’

  ‘I wish you weren’t going away,’ said Gina, suddenly, and Sister Cecilia reached for her hand.

  ‘I wish it too. But I can’t see any other way.’

  ‘You’ll come back, though? Please come back.’

  ‘I’ll try. But if I don’t—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I would like you to have this.’ She pressed into Gina’s hand a small silver ring, set with what Gina thought was a black pearl. ‘It belonged to a cousin of mine – a cousin whom I loved very dearly. She’s long since dead, but I would like to think of you having this and perhaps remembering me.’

  Gina stared at her. ‘I will remember you, anyway,’ she said. ‘But I’ll keep this for the memory. And I’ll think of your cousin.’

  ‘She was a wonderful musician, as I think you could be. A gifted pianist.’

  She hesitated, then said, ‘Gina – your father. I know his death is an anguish – I understand. But I think he would have taken great comfort in having you with him at the last.’

  Gina said, ‘You knew him very well.’

  ‘Yes.’ A look of pain twisted her face, then she said, ‘But now I should go. The Great Silence has begun, and I don’t think Mother Superior would see even our present situation as grounds for breaking it.’

  But at the door, she turned back. ‘Gina – about Dan.’

  �
�Yes?’

  ‘You mustn’t care that he’s only a gardener.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll stay a gardener,’ said Cecilia. ‘If he’s what you want, don’t let go of him.’

  She smiled and went out, and Gina lay down again. There had been comfort in Cecilia’s words. There was comfort in the small silver ring as well. She would keep it, always.

  NINETEEN

  When Chimaera had gone down to his supper earlier that evening in the Black Boar, he had not thought that within a few hours he would have committed a murder, or that he would be assisting to conceal another murder, and agreeing to escort ten nuns across the English Channel into France. Ten of them! And actually, France, torn and ravaged by the Terror and the Revolution, with the sans-culottes slicing off heads wholesale. Really, it was enough to make a man shudder and beat a hasty retreat.

  He did not retreat, though, since that would be the action of a coward, and Chimaera was not a coward, whatever else he might be. A sly voice hissed in his ear that he might not be a coward, but wasn’t he a murderer? The dreadful word skittered across his mind, but he pushed it away and concentrated on the practicalities.

  ‘No evidence is to be left in the convent,’ Mother Superior said, after Gina had gone to bed, and they were clearing away the coffee cups. ‘Nothing that might tell people where we have gone or what happened tonight. Certainly nothing about Father Joachim. Sister Cecilia, you will see to that, perhaps? There may be papers in the sacristy … Even ordinary account books shouldn’t be left.’

  ‘I will look,’ said Cecilia. ‘And I’ll burn anything I find.’

  ‘Do any of the nuns keep journals? We can’t risk any private records being left here. It isn’t exactly forbidden to keep a journal,’ said Mother Superior, in an aside to Dan and Chimaera. ‘Scholarly notes of study or prayer can be very beneficial. But personal diaries are discouraged.’

  ‘Vanity,’ said Chimaera, nodding to show he understood.

  ‘Introspection,’ put in Dan.

  ‘Either and both.’

  ‘I believe Anne-Marie keeps a journal as part of her novice’s training,’ said Cecilia. ‘I’ll make sure she brings it with her, although I shouldn’t think there’ll be anything damaging in it. I don’t think any of the others ever have kept diaries of any kind. I certainly never did, although—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I would like to make a chronicle of our journey as we travel,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘For my own reading. That wouldn’t contravene the Rule, would it, Mother? Or be a danger?’

  ‘Providing no one else sees it, no. And we’ll be in France, and you would be writing in English, anyway.’

  Dan stood up. ‘You will have to excuse Chimaera and myself for a little while,’ he said. ‘Because there is Sir John to be dealt with, and I think it must be dealt with now. Before full light.’

  ‘You will make sure that … nothing can be found? No trace that might lead to exploration or investigation?’

  ‘We’ll make very sure, Mother. Sir John’s body will be left in a suitable place on his own land. Later tomorrow I will spread the tale about gypsies or tramps.’

  ‘And the other one? Joachim?’

  An abrupt silence closed down on the firelit room. Chimaera had known this was inevitable, but he still felt as if a lump of lead had replaced his stomach.

  Dan looked at him, then said, softly, ‘I think there is only one thing to do, isn’t there?’

  Returning to Infanger Cottage with the knowledge of what lay inside and what they would have to do about it was one of the strangest and eeriest experiences Chimaera had ever known.

  As they walked through the trees, he thought about Gina. Certainly it would be the act of a villain to drag a young girl into a country in the grip of such terror and turmoil, especially after what had happened to her inside Infanger Cottage. Also, from his own point of view, he was inclined to think he was already heaping quite a fair amount on his plate (ten nuns to escort across a country riven by Revolution, for heaven’s sake!), and that the addition of Gina to the party – however sweet and desirable she might be – could be one burden too many.

  But he would not part from Gina without some suitable expression of his emotions. He might soliloquize about his deep and abiding love, and his anguish at having to leave her – how it was a torment to be torn from her arms and how she was the love of his life. But trying this out in his mind, it sounded a touch exaggerated, and in fact Chimaera was no longer sure if it was true. Still, it would make a moving scene for his opera – he was starting to think that the opera’s story could reflect something of what had been happening here. This was such a strong, emotion-filled story. He would change names and places, of course.

  As they neared the cottage, Dan suddenly said, ‘Are we mad, do you suppose? I mean – have we entered into a form of madness?’

  Chimaera explained that his only experience of madness was on stage.

  ‘People are sometimes required to portray madness there. I have done so myself – I played King Orlando in Handel’s Orlando, where I had to go mad for the love of Angelica. Every night and twice on matinée days I went mad. The pit cheered me.’

  ‘I can well believe it,’ said Dan, politely.

  ‘And when I was in Mozart’s Idomeneo, it was said of me that the very fabric of the opera house shivered at hearing my tormented aria.’

  ‘That, too, I can believe.’

  They had reached the cottage now, and Dan pushed the door open. As they stepped inside, the cottage’s darkness enclosed them greedily.

  ‘Like poisoned smoke,’ said Dan. ‘Let’s light those lamps before we venture down to the cellar. It might be approaching dawn, but it’s still as dark as the devil’s cavern in here.’

  The wavering light from the oil lamps, which they had left near the door, sent the shadows scuttling away. Chimaera tried not to notice that they only scuttled as far as the corners, and that they seemed to crouch and coil there.

  ‘The broken-in door might be noticed,’ said Dan. ‘And it might attract real tramps or gypsies. I’ll get Alberic Firkin to put a new lock on it, I think.’

  ‘Should he be asked to brick up the cellar window at the same time?’

  They looked at one another. ‘Dare we risk that?’ said Dan. ‘It would mean him going into the cellar – I don’t think it could be done from outside.’

  ‘It would be better than risking someone getting in and living there,’ pointed out Chimaera. ‘How long would it take Alberic?’

  ‘Not very long. It’d be a straightforward matter.’

  ‘Then he would only be in the cottage for as long as it takes. You could arrange to be there with him, perhaps. And you could say that it’s to make the place secure because the broken door might mean someone’s been getting in,’ Chimaera suggested. ‘That would strengthen the story about Sir John being killed by tramps or gypsies as well.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. Yes, I’ll do it. You should be writing stories for the stage as well as performing them,’ said Dan, and Chimaera was about to confess his aspirations to Dan, when Dan said, ‘Now for the cellar.’

  Chimaera would not have been surprised to find that Father Joachim’s body had vanished – that the whole thing had been nothing but a nightmare.

  It had not, of course. It lay as they had left it, the eyes wild and staring, and empty of all life.

  As Dan bent over to take the man’s shoulders, Chimaera hesitated. ‘We don’t have any regrets about what we’re going to do to him, do we?’ he said.

  ‘Burial in unconsecrated ground? Without the presence of a man of God reciting a few prayers? Is that what’s worrying you?’

  ‘It is that I had an Italian Catholic childhood,’ said Chimaera, apologetically.

  ‘Chimaera, whether you’re Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, pagan or anything else, wherever Father Joachim has gone, he’s already there, and anything we do now won’t alter that,’ said Dan.<
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  ‘You are right, of course.’

  ‘As for regrets,’ said Dan, ‘I do have some. But even though this man wasn’t sane, I’m remembering what he did to Gina. And that he murdered John Chandos – a decent and honourable man and a fair man to work for.’

  ‘I am being foolish. And perhaps feeling guilty because I was the one who—’

  ‘You acted in self-defence,’ said Dan, shortly. ‘I saw exactly what happened. I’ll stand up in a courtroom and say so if necessary.’

  ‘I hope that won’t be necessary.’ Chimaera bent down. ‘I will take his shoulders,’ he said. ‘You take his feet.’

  Between them they lifted what had been Joachim Bouton and carried him to the torn-open wall. It should not have come as a shock to see again the jagged hole with the shadowy figure of John Chandos beyond, but Chimaera flinched.

  ‘We need to widen the hole a bit,’ said Dan, studying it critically. ‘We’ll never get Chandos out, otherwise, and we’ll certainly never get this one in there. But we’ll have to work carefully – we’ll have to re-use as many of the bricks as we can to rebuild the wall.’

  They chiselled out the bricks with extreme care, until they were able to reach in to the body of Sir John Chandos. It was a struggle to lift him out, and Chimaera began to feel as if every muscle in his body was being stretched on a rack, but in the end they managed it.

  ‘He has marks of a blow to the head,’ said Chimaera, as they laid John Chandos’s body on the cellar floor.

  ‘Yes. And there’s blood around his lips. I’d like to clean him up, but I don’t think we dare. It would be better if it looks as if he’s been attacked.’ He laid a hand briefly on John’s shoulder. ‘Sorry, old boy,’ he said. ‘But you’ll get all the respect due to you soon. I’ll be here to make sure of it.’ He stood up, and looked at Joachim. ‘Now for this one.’

  It was more difficult than they had expected to lift Joachim and to push him through the jagged hole and in place inside the alcove.

  ‘He will have to stand upright,’ said Chimaera at last, after several unsuccessful attempts to lay the body down. ‘It will be a strange entombing.’

  ‘I believe some cultures bury their dead standing up.’