Murder Abroad

by E. R. Punshon

  Once in bed he slept soundly, untroubled by the problem he had come here to try to solve. In the morning after coffee and a roll he went out for a stroll and on the pretext of buying some picture postcards he entered the little shop Eudes had pointed out as kept by an aunt of the girl, Lucille Simone. An old lady appeared. Bobby lingered over his choice. The old lady, apparently bored, disappeared, and Lucille came instead. Bobby began to ask questions about the cards and the localities shown. Lucille answered readily enough, but again Bobby had that feeling that he was being watched with suspicion. He thought it time to try to find out the cause. He said abruptly:

  “Have you one of that old mill I noticed last night?

  “No, monsieur,” she answered and it was plain that the question had made her uneasy.

  “Is that because of the murder there?” he asked.

  “Yes, monsieur,” she answered in a low voice.

  “But that was months ago,” Bobby said.

  “It is not forgotten, it will never be forgotten,” she answered and in her voice there was a deep and strange passion.

  Bobby reflected that though officially Miss Polthwaite’s death had been put down as suicide, this girl made no comment on his use of the word murder, ‘assassination’ he had called it in the French phrase he had used. He said gravely:

  “A terrible thing. An old defenceless woman so barbarously, so cruelly killed. Such a thing has never been heard of before in the village?”

  “Never,” she replied with the same deep passion and emotion in her voice.

  Bobby saw that she was twisting her hands together as in some fierce effort of control. She was pale to the lips, too. Bobby said:

  “It has never been known who was guilty?”

  She made no answer but her small teeth began to close upon her lower lip so that a drop of blood showed. Bobby felt he could question her no more. He began to pay for the postcards he had chosen. When he had done so, he said, and it was in a way in self-defence that he spoke:

  “Such a crime should not go unpunished.”’

  “Ah, my God,” she breathed, “no, that could not be.”

  She turned and almost ran out of the shop, to hide her tears, Bobby felt sure. The old lady he had seen before came in. She looked at Bobby very indignantly but said nothing. Bobby bade her a polite farewell.

  “I shall come back for some more,” he told her cheerfully and she made no comment, though he was sure she would have liked to say they had no wish to see him again.

  He felt convinced that Lucille Simone either knew or guessed something. He wondered if, perhaps, she had been in some way an accomplice in the commission of the crime. He did not much like to think it of those clear eyes beneath that tranquil brow, but he had seen enough of life to know that fair without is no proof of fair within. Evil itself can put on at times an air of majesty, an aspect of beauty. He walked on towards the church. It stood a little distance outside the village. Close by it was the presbytery, a modest little dwelling standing in a small garden given over entirely to vegetables which, however, did not seem to grow well, since the church had been built on rising ground, on land that was stony and sterile. The garden had, in fact, been made almost entirely by soil carried up in baskets from the foot of the hill, but it was a labour of Sisyphus, for owing to the steepness of the slope of the land here and to the exposed position, the wind was continually blowing away the soil, the rain perpetually washing from it all elements of fertility. Both the house and the church, Bobby noticed, were badly in need of paint and repair.

  The church was an old building, but architecturally it was of small interest. At the time of the Revolution it had been partially burnt and the interior entirely cleared. Then it had been roughly restored, used for a time as a stable, and subsequently transformed into a Temple of Reason. Later, it had been returned to the Church. It contained, however, one of those Black Virgins, for which Auvergne is notable. Bobby was examining this image with much interest when a priest came out of the vestry where he had gone to disrobe after celebrating a mass.

  It was the curé Bobby had seen the night before working in the harvest field. He was a thin, emaciated man of middle age, with hollow cheeks and deep sunken eyes. His hair was almost white, the long soutane he wore was shabby and patched, his boots looked as if they had been taken from a scarecrow in the field. Not in any way fit, to judge from his appearance, for the heavy toil of the harvest field, and Bobby noticed with disfavour that the grime inseparable from work in the fields, had been only very imperfectly removed from his face and hands. Eudes had described him as a miser who lost no opportunity of picking up a few sous and Bobby thought that evidently he grudged spending them on soap and hot water.

  At first he did not seem inclined to take any notice of Bobby’s presence, except for the slightest possible movement of the head on seeing he was there, but, in pursuance of his determination to make himself as familiar as possible with the village background, Bobby stopped him and began to talk about the image of the Virgin. It stood by the altar, elevated on a tall wooden pedestal, before it a kind of shelf on which reposed an offering of faded flowers. A trail of grease that had dribbled down showed that candles burnt there occasionally, though there were none at the moment. The image itself, about three feet in height, was carved in wood, black oak, Bobby thought, though he was not sure, and he even wondered if it had been passed through fire. Of incredible antiquity, probably antedating Christianity itself, since quite possibly it represented some goddess of an earlier religion—for the mother and child, symbol and proof of the perpetual miracle of birth and of renewal, are objects of worship in many primitive creeds—it had been so battered through the long passage of the ages that now the face was hardly recognizable as human and the child might almost have passed for a bundle of faggots. But the reverence of the curé for it was plainly intense.

  Not just at first did Bobby succeed in breaking down the curé’s reserve. He did not, apparently, much want to talk about the image to a stranger who was probably a heretic or worse. Even after he had begun to answer Bobby’s questions he still seemed uneasy, giving Bobby odd, sidelong questioning glances, as if wondering what was behind his questions and what he really wanted. He kept, too, putting up a hand to fidget with the dried-up flowers on the shelf at the foot of the image, re-arranging them and pushing them further back, till Bobby began to wonder if he were under suspicion of harbouring some ill design, perhaps of wanting to run away either with the flowers or the image.

  Gradually, however, the good man appeared to forget whatever it was that was troubling him. He became more animated, and those deep-set, sunken eyes of his began to brighten and glow. It seemed the image was one that once had enjoyed a widespread fame. In the early middle ages the Black Virgin of Citry-sur-l’eau had drawn pilgrims from all over Europe.

  “Even, monsieur,” said the curé, “even from your own country which then, of course, was still a faithful daughter of the Church, before you others, English, ceased to believe.”

  Even in the time of Louis XIV, the Virgin of Citry-sur-l’eau had shown her power by miraculously converting on his deathbed a rather specially wicked nobleman of Auvergne, famous always for having more wicked lords to the square mile than any other province of France. But after that there had been few manifestations, owing, the curé explained earnestly, to the hardness of heart prevalent in the district. Then had come the Revolution and naturally the Black Virgin of Citry had lost power to grant petitions no longer addressed to her. Her image, once so revered, had even been thrown out of the church. Fortunately it had not been chopped up for firewood or burnt in a bonfire as had happened to other images of almost equal sanctity and fame in that dreadful time. It had been pushed away in an outhouse. It had lain there for long years. One did not know what indignities it had not suffered. The story, the almost incredible story, was that finally it had been identified in a stable, as one of the posts supporting a manger. It had been rescued and replaced in the church ju
st before the Franco-Prussian war. Unfortunately the villagers had been much dis-appointed, when, in spite of all prayers and petitions offered, not only had there been failure to stop the advance of the enemy but the men from the village at the war had suffered with unusual severity, the company to which most of them belonged having been annihilated.

  “As if,” said the curé indignantly, “after so many years of neglect the Virgin of Citry-sur-l’eau could have been expected to manifest her powers the very first moment my misguided parishioners chose to appeal to her. Perhaps it was not even possible, perhaps the heavenly power needs a certain time, as it were, to concentrate itself, to form for itself that channel which must be aided by our prayers.”

  The disappointment of the people, however, had been vocal and profound. Such a pass had it come to now that many of the faithful, having vows to make or petitions to put forward, neglected their own Virgin and actually took themselves and their offerings to a neighbouring Black Virgin a few miles away and reputed to be of great efficacy and power.

  By this time the curé was getting really excited. His words poured out in an indignant torrent, he hammered one fist into another, those hollow, famished-looking eyes of his blazed in his hungry face, he backed poor Bobby into a corner and thundered his denunciations at him.

  Then he seemed to grow quieter.

  “I do not deny,” he said, “that grace may flow more abundantly through other Virgins at other shrines which have not been so long neglected, scorned, as here. But if my people repented and turned again, one would see a different state of things and once more the Black Virgin of Citry-sur-l’eau would show her powers.”

  He seemed to hesitate and then drew nearer Bobby. He almost whispered.

  “I have a dream,” he said. “It comes to me often. A great church built here, a shrine for our Virgin so magnificent all the country could not show the like, a shrine blazing with light, a perpetual adoration, a beacon of faith in this forgetful land. It would need much money, much, very much. But perhaps it may come, monsieur, perhaps some day that vision may be fulfilled, when there is the money.”

  He turned again to the image, and, putting up his hand, began once more to fidget with the flowers that lay on the shelf before the Virgin. He looked at Bobby uneasily.

  “Monsieur will forgive me,” he said. “I grow a little excited at times with the thought of what I might do if some day, soon perhaps, by chance, the money came; yes, no matter how it came, so that in the end it came.”

  Now he was gently shepherding Bobby out of the church as if he wished to see him safely away from the vicinity of the Virgin. Once outside he seemed relieved, muttered some words of excuse about affairs to see to, and hurried away. Bobby watched him go till he was out of sight. He never once looked back.

  “Half cracked,” Bobby muttered. “Queer place this altogether.”

  He went back into the church. He remembered the way the curé had fidgeted with the dried and fading flowers laid before the Virgin’s image. There had been something furtive, something odd in his manner, in the way in which he had kept doing this, in the sidelong glances he had at the same time given Bobby. Probably it did not mean anything but Bobby had learnt to neglect no indication and so, back in the church and getting a chair to stand on, for the shelf before the Virgin was at some distance from the ground, he lifted the flowers. Nothing in them or about them to interest him, but standing on a chair as he was he could now look down on the shelf and he saw where on it, at the foot of the image, in a small crevice or crack in the wood, were five small stones he was able to recognize as uncut diamonds of probably ten or twenty pounds value each.

  CHAPTER V

  ARTISTIC COINCIDENCE

  Bobby descended cautiously from his somewhat uncertain perch and seated himself on another of the rickety straw chairs that occupied in rows the body of the church.

  He was a little tempted to take prompt possession of the diamonds in order to hand them over to some one in authority. But this was a foreign country in which he had no official standing whatever. He might well be asked what business it was of his what offerings were made to the statue of the Virgin. There might be some perfectly satisfactory explanation of their presence and though to him it seemed plain enough they must be some of those that had belonged to Miss Polthwaite, of that there was no proof. No identification possible of a few odd stones. Besides, if he took any such action an end would probably be put at once to any hope of the successful accomplishment of his mission. As for what had happened the previous night, it was evidently no good saying anything about an incident which would be at once denied. Bobby perceived ruefully that there are advantages in that subordination against which he had so often inwardly rebelled. At home he would simply have made a report to his superior officers and there his responsibility would have ended. Now he had to decide his course of action for himself.

  The curé presumably knew all about the diamonds, who had given them, and why. But that knowledge might have come to him under the seal of confession. Or he might know no more than that the offering had been made. Possibly he did not even realize their value; though the uneasiness he had shown, and that had betrayed to Bobby the presence of something of interest on the shelf at the Virgin’s feet, suggested that of that at least he was well aware. Bobby wondered if Miss Polthwaite’s assassin could have made the offering with some superstitious idea of placating heaven by sharing the booty. If so, the curé might know his identity, but would he betray the secret?

  A more disturbing thought came into Bobby’s mind. Was it possible that this priest, with his fierce and sunken eyes, his fanaticism, his strange, burning looks, his dreams of building a great new church to the honour of the Virgin, his need and apparent expectation of money required to carry out his purpose, his evident unease and restlessness that suggested at any rate some degree of mental instability, was in fact in possession of the other missing diamonds, as well as of those that had apparently been offered before the image here? And if so, by what means, in what way, had that come about?

  A vision rose before Bobby’s eyes of those dark depths, of those straight and damp walls of brick, of the sullen gleam of the water below, of all that he had seen and shuddered at when he lifted the cover of the well by the Pépin Mill.

  He tried to put the thought out of his mind, telling himself it was incredible, but none the less it remained there. Abruptly he found himself deciding he would accept it as a possibility to be kept in mind, and he decided, too, that, at any rate for the time being, he would keep his own counsel. That determination come to, he reflected that the light continental breakfast of coffee and rolls lacks the virtue of permanence, and that it was now nearly noon and time for luncheon.

  He returned to the hotel accordingly and was soon enjoying an excellent meal, carefully balanced in flavour and substance. In addition to Bobby himself some ten or twelve others were present, some probably local notabilities, the ‘big bonnets’ of the village as the French say, but most apparently strangers and visitors. The service was presided over by young Camion, and Bobby was struck by the grave dignity with which the young man conducted affairs. Not the Ritz or the Savoy could have shown a more meticulous care in every detail. It was quite plain that Camion took his duties very seriously, as of one who respected himself in the task he was performing, a task to which he attributed all the importance that, after all, good food does possess in human economy. Especially good food, well cooked, and served with the accessories and refinements that make the difference between feeding and dining. Nor did he show any trace of that unpleasant and unnecessary obsequiousness sometimes shown in restaurants. His air of pride was as marked as ever, he dominated the hors-d’oeuvre, the soup, the other courses, a little like a general marshalling his forces. On any question of the choice of wine, he was specially firm.

  “No, monsieur,” Bobby heard him say to one man seated near, “that would not be suitable, that wine. This requires a—”

  Bobby did not ca
tch the name of the wine recommended, but the dictum was accepted meekly as from superior authority. Bobby was indeed quite relieved that his own choice, the local ‘cru’, was allowed to pass unchallenged. Evidently here dining was an art taken as seriously as the other arts by which man has learnt to express himself in his rise from barbarism to civilization.

  All this interested Bobby, for it was new to him to see dining treated thus as an expression of human culture, but what interested him even more was that the some-what strained and uncomfortable attitude shown towards Camion in the café the night before was evident here also. There was a marked tendency to cast uneasy glances at him when his back was turned, to grow silent when he was near. It almost seemed indeed as if some of those Bobby had thought were strangers, had come simply to stare and whisper, and Bobby thought that Camion realized this and resented it bitterly, though his sense of professional duty prevented him from appearing to be aware of it.

  Luncheon over, Bobby got out the sketch book with which he had provided himself as with other requisites appertaining to his assumed character of artist, and went out to seek some picturesque spot whereon to exercise his talents. The mill he had decided to leave for the present. Some day he might be glad of an excuse for calling there.

  Soon he found a setting of rock and trees he thought not too far beyond the limit of his powers, and set to work accordingly, though, as he worked, his mind was occupied less with what he was doing than with the currents and cross-currents he seemed already to have discovered beneath the placid surface of village life.

  It may have been to this absorption, because there is truth in those current theories of the unconscious which teach that all capacities are there, though on them the conscious will acts as a hampering and restraining check, that the result was due. In any case, when Bobby stopped thinking quite so much about the problems troubling him and turned more active attention to what he was doing, he found himself surprised by its excellence.