“Their chauffeur was one of the search party who spent the night looking for her. He found Gayla’s body the next morning. I gather the lake had been created by a dam and the waters had flooded an old forest, much of which is still there below the surface. They reckoned she’d been caught up in the dead trees until the movement of the water released her.”
Caitlin’s hand went to her stomach. “I feel sick.”
“Too many raspberries,” Jill suggested, happy to lighten the mood.
Caitlin smiled briefly, but lapsed into private contemplation the rest of the way to the house.
Entering the kitchen by the little arched door at the side of the chateau, Jill emptied the berries into a colander and began washing them meticulously in the sink. “Mrs. Capshaw blamed herself and became more and more withdrawn, shutting herself up in her room.”
“Which is what she’s done here,” Caitlin observed.
“Unfortunately, yes. This photographic junket was Amber’s idea. She hoped a change of scene would get the woman outside herself. But, as you say, she still shuts herself away.”
“Which won’t help her depression.”
“Depression’s the least of it. It’s dangerous,” said Jill.
“Dangerous? How so?”
Jill sighed heavily and, setting the colander to drain, related the morning’s events.
“Good Lord,” said Caitlin, breathlessly. “Sheis mad.”
“Who wouldn’t be?” Jill theorized thoughtfully.
“You say it’s happened before?”
“According to Amber, but she wasn’t specific. Just that the woman is subject to macabre hallucinations or dreams, something of the sort.”
Jill leaned back against the counter and stared at her folded arms as Caitlin traced a network of ancient lines in the old oak table where she was seated. For a long time, neither spoke.
“What can we do?” said Jill at last.
Caitlin shook her head helplessly. “Keep a close eye on her, for the moment.”
“That shouldn’t be hard to do, since she never leaves her room. I’ll ask Genevieve to be especially attentive.”
Genevieve, the maid, though slight as a whisper with deep, brown eyes, drifted through the chateau like a shadow. Hers were the magic hands that placed every room in perfect order in the absence of its inhabitant, but so unobtrusively that few guests were aware of her existence. A chance meeting by a misplaced guest in some hallway would produce a quick, dazzling “hello,” the extent of Genevieve’s English, and the suggestion of a curtsey. Then she was gone, like a domestic apparition.
“That explains Mrs. Capshaw’s reaction to Farthing’s morbid speculations about Heather and Delilah’s fate last night,” said
Caitlin. “Poor Amber.” The indelible image of the round, dead eye of the rabbit in the viewfinder leapt to mind. “No wonder she’s such a queer bird.” She slapped the table with the palms of her hands. “Whatever happens, we’ve got to keep this from the guests. Especially Farthing.”
Chapter Five–The Beggar’s Belief
The town of Martel lies midway between Beaulieu-sur-Dordogne and Rocamador, and was made to be photographed. The second stories of elderly wattle and daub buildings lean toward each other over narrow cobblestone streets, as if peeking at one anothers’ secrets. The timeworn scenery was held in place by an adhesive of flowers which, even this late in the year, burst exuberantly from hanging pots, step jars, window gardens and every unoccupied nook and cranny.
It was one of the villages, rare in France, remote enough to have been spared the destructive tides of war that, over the centuries, had swept up and down the valley like wildfire. When locals referred to ‘the last war’, it was not Hitler or the Kaiser who came to mind, nor even Napoleon, but England’s Henry the IV whose armored, helmeted thugs took possession of the village six hundred years ago.
The great, gaunt church, seemingly stapled together with pigeon claws, still bore marks of the British assault on a city that had barricaded itself behind nervous walls. Craters large and small, made by projectiles of various caliber, pocked the door posts and the limestone columns flanking the door.
A cloud of prayers to a host of saints had risen into the cavernous blackness where they coalesced as a perpetual murmur in the ears of God, who responded with a miracle. The siege was lifted when the British were called north to contend with his little angel, the Maid of Orleans.
A small stone statue, its modesty in keeping with that of St. Joan herself, had been erected at the top of the church steps, both to serve as a perpetual reminder to the citizenry of their indebtedness to God for His benevolent intervention, and to commemorate the faithfulness of those long-dead forebears whose prayers had precipitated the miracle, and preserved a town that no longer prayed.
A butterfly lighted gently on the shoulder of the saint and peered curiously into the lens of Frances Griffeth’s camera. “Oh!”
She bubbled in the back of her throat. “Serendipity!” She held her breath and, perfectly framing the insect and the statue, squeezed off a shot. “Look, everyone,” she announced, once the image had been safely captured. “Here’s the serendipity Caitlin was talking about.”
Caitlin was a strong believer in serendipity, that unexpected moment of grace when some accident of nature transpired in front of the camera lens to create a picture that couldn’t be arranged or repeated. She generally used van rides, during which her students formed a captive audience, as times of impromptu classroom instruction and, this morning, had expounded her theory of serendipity.
“You can’t plan a serendipitous moment, by definition, but you can keep your eyes peeled for it . . . and be prepared to capture it when it comes. Learn to focus quickly. Those of you using film, be sure your camera is loaded.” She directed a meaningful glance at Mr. Piper. “If your camera is battery operated, make sure it’s switched on.”
Piper blustered slightly, but not loudly.
“Perhaps the reason there are no good pictures of ghosts or U.F.O.’s – or fairies,” she nodded at Mrs. Griffeth, “is that people aren’t prepared when that once-in-a-lifetime moment occurs.”
Frances, who had decided then and there that she would do whatever was necessary to make something serendipitous happen, was pleasantly surprised when it happened all by itself. She was more than happy to share the moment. “Come here, everybody. Caitlin. Serendipity!” She pointed at the butterfly, which flew away wearing a startled expression. “Oh dear. You should have seen the lovely butterfly that landed on the statue of this little girl.”
“That’s Joan of Arc,” Caitlin said, approaching from behind.
“The girl?” said Frances, bending to inspect the little statue doubtfully. “I’d imagined her taller. Anyway, she has a lovely face. I was just about to take a picture when a butterfly landed on her little shoulder. It was perfect serendipity. And I was ready!” She brandished her camera proudly.
“You got the picture, then?” said Farthing, who had been haunting the periphery of the little group, like mold.
“Oh my, yes. I got it perfectly.” Mrs. Griffeth stood up, massaging her lower back with one hand and pushing the glasses into place with the other as the camera dangled from her neck. “You’d be amazed some of the shots I’ve taken today. I started very early . . . at the Chateau. Before the sun was up. I can’t wait to see how they turn out.”
A troika of elderly Frenchmen occupied a decrepit table at a sidewalk cafe nearby, and between turns at a desultory game of dominoes and sips of rich local wine, traded observations on the tourists for their own amusement. Fortunately, while several of her charges knew enough French to negotiate in shops and restaurants, only Caitlin was sufficiently familiar with the local dialect to take offense, which she might have had the abuse been less good-natured and more specific. As it was more of a general nature, a commentary equally applicable to anyone not indigenous to anywhere, she ignored them.
Lunch was taken at a restaurant in the commerc
ial district of the old town, on a patio where laminated tables lined with orange plastic chairs were arranged in convivial clusters. Caitlin was congratulating herself that the morning had passed without incident. Mr. Piper, having mastered the fundamentals of his camera, had yet to dip into his quota of expletives for the day. Mr. Wagner was exercising his preference for candid portraits. His expensive telephoto lens allowed him to achieve an intimacy with his unwitting subjects that was unabashedly voyeuristic. Caitlin found his enthusiasm unsettling: a paparazzi in the making.
Oblivious to her husband’s latent talents, Mrs. Wagner, judging from the little congregation of overstuffed plastic bags crowding her feet, had cut an impressive swath through most of the shops in town.
Miss Tichyara listened to the music of the day, and let the sunlight and wind flow over her.
Frances Griffeth, in whom Caitlin was surprised to find someone with an uncanny eye for composition, had begun to focus her efforts on architectural details, of which the village provided no end of subjects. Her monologue–on those occasions when Caitlin strayed within earshot–had to do mostly with fairies, butterflies, and serendipity, and was often punctuated by exclamations of delight when a worthy subject presented itself for consideration, with an eye toward being made immortal.
Perhaps it was the influence of the fey leitmotif that emphasized Amber Capshaw’s nascent otherworldliness. Once, when the ethereal young woman stepped into a puddle of sunlight, and again when she stepped from behind a fountain into the halo of a rainbow, Caitlin was overwhelmed by the impression that the girl was, if not transparent, translucent. In fact, following Mr. Wagner’s lead, she’d taken a couple of candid shots of her, wondering if film, unencumbered by preconceptions, would capture the same phenomenon.
Jeremy Farthing, if not exactly encased in a sparkling bubble ofjoi de vivre, seemed to have sheathed his tongue for the time being. Oddly, Farthing’s relative equanimity made Caitlin uneasy.
His vitriol, when released in small, regular doses, was non lethal, but if allowed to build, to ferment in his aberrant brain . . .
He chose the perfect moment, one of those occasional lapses into unsettled silence that occurs in a small group when one thread of conversation has run out and another has yet to be taken up.
“So, Miss Capshaw, tell us about this body your mother saw floating in the moat this morning.” Having lit the fuse, he sat back contentedly, a Cheshire Cat grin fixed on his face, folded his hands on his slight belly and prepared to enjoy the fireworks.
Caitlin nearly choked on a dry crust of baguette. She flashed a horrified glance at Amber, who reminded her of a butterfly impaled on a stick pin, its delicate wings vibrating slightly with the waning voltage of life. Caitlin took a sip of wine to wash the offending object from her throat.
Piper embodied his contempt in an exclamatory noise, to which he added, “what the hell are you talking about?”
For a moment, even the birds seemed to fall still. Farthing embraced his audience with an expansive sweep of his eyes, which came to rest on Amber. “It’s your little mystery, Miss Capshaw. No doubt you’d rather tell it. Or should I?”
Mr. Wagner was thinking what a telling portrait the girl made, her expression unlike anything he had ever seen, but he was too close to snap a candid shot.
“I fail to see how Amber’s mother is any of your business, Mr. Farthing.”
Even Farthing was unprepared for the broadside from Ella Tichyara. “Unless, of course, the body she saw was yours. In which case, we can only hope it was a prophetic vision.” Her voice was low and throaty, almost hoarse, and didn’t fit her physiognomy, but the words, despite her accent, were clear.
Caitlin knew Farthing was not beneath heaping abuse on Ella, irrespective of her blindness. For the moment, though, he was speechless. Of the Cheshire Cat, nothing remained.
“I don’t see that she needs to explain anything to anyone,” Miss Tichyara said, then fell silent.
“A body?” said Frances Griffeth, afraid the tasty morsel might be removed from her plate before she had a chance to get her teeth into it. “Whose body?”
“Did she get a picture of it?” asked Mr. Wagner. “Harold!” his wife scolded.
Harold subsided and fiddled wistfully with the camera in his lap.
Amber, having overcome the first shock, flew from the table and down the steps to the river, with Caitlin in close pursuit.
Farthing returned from his brief hiatus with a vengeance. “It wasn’t a real body, Mrs. Griffeth. Mrs. Capshaw’s losing her mind. She sees bodies all over the place. Well, one body, actually.”
“One body?” Mrs. Griffeth echoed with morbid fascination. “Whose?”
Miss Tichyara stood abruptly and slammed the table with her open palm, which caught the handle of the spoon in her bowl, showering Farthing with droplets from her delightfully light soup a l’ongion grantinee. “Don’t you think you’ve caused enough damage, Mr. Farthing?” she snapped. “Can’t you see that poor girl is at her wits end?”
Farthing dabbed at the spatters of soup on his shirtfront with a paper napkin. “Ican see,” he said, with a pointed glance. “Canyou? Good shot.”
“I can hear. If you had any human sensitivity at all . . . ”
Far from being silenced, Farthing was energized by the exchange, his malignant spirit feasting on the ill will directed at him. “You have a commendable grasp of the English language, Miss Tichyara, for a Polock.”
“I’m Czech, Mr. Farthing.”
“Same thing. As I was saying, Mrs. Griffeth,” he said, turning away from Miss Tichyara. “The woman thinks it’s the body of her stepdaughter.”
“Stepdaughter?”
“Amber is Mrs. Capshaw’s stepdaughter,” Farthing explained matter-of-factly. “One of twins. The other one drowned in a lake in New Hampshire, not long ago.”
The blind girl felt frantically for her cane. “I’m not listening to any more of this. None of you should give him the satisfaction of your attention. Mr. Piper, will you take me back to the van?”
“Mrs. Wagner, perhaps you would accompany her? I’ll be along in a minute,” said Piper.
“Of course,” said Mrs. Wagner, though she seemed reluctant to leave. “Harold, watch my sandwich, will you?”
Harold said he would and the women departed.
Once they were safely across the street, Piper leveled a curare-tipped glare at Farthing.
“Problem, Piper?” said Farthing. “In need of your daily defanging?”
Temporarily emasculated by Farthing’s barbed indifference, he huffed a ‘damn’ or two and lapsed unhappily into thought.
“Not making many friends, are you?” Wagner observed, his eyes and hands fondling the camera.
Farthing deflected the remark with a quick, meaningless smile. “Mind your tongue, Harold, or I’ll tell the Mrs. you’ve been speaking without being spoken to.”
Harold turned slightly in his seat and focused his camera on something distant and lovely. “I wonder what your agenda is, Mr. Farthing,” he said emotionlessly. “You’re in danger of becoming completely transparent.”
Piper awoke from his brief hibernation, repartee at the ready. “Truth is, you’re an ass.”
Farthing, temporarily unbalanced by Wagner’s unexpected remark, was glad to have the more predictable Piper as his foil. “Take a memo, Piper. You have the conversational wit of a poorly marinated escargot.”
Piper jumped up abruptly, slammed his chair against the table and stomped off toward the river.
“One doesn’t see high dudgeon much these days,” said Farthing. “I find knight-errantry refreshing, in small doses.”
A waiter fluttered at the edges of the scene, wishing he knew enough English to understand why people kept running away.
“What do you suppose he’s got going with the blind girl?” said Farthing, with a malevolent curl of the lip.
Frances Griffeth giggled like a schoolgirl. “Oh, Mr. Farthing. You are naughty!” She
shuffled her chair a little closer and leaned toward him. “Now, what’s all this about Mrs. Capshaw and a dead daughter?”
Mr. Wagner looked at the woman in disbelief, and shook his head.
“Stepdaughter,” Farthing corrected as he watched Piper recede into the mists. “And you,” he added, as he rose from the table, “are a dangerous old crone and a busybody.” He patted his pockets. “I’m going to get some cigars. Don’t leave without me.”
Frances attributed a playfulness to Farthing’s parting shot that was unintended. “He just wants to get a rise out of people,” she explained to Mr. Wagner. “You have to take it with a grain of salt. Now,” she, too, stood and gathered her paraphernalia. “I’m nearly out of film. If Caitlin comes back, tell her I won’t be long.”
She bustled off, stopping to frame two elderly native women who stood conversing over plastic sacs of groceries. “I’ll call this oneToothless in Martel,” she said with a titter as she squeezed the shutter. “Imagine . . . me, dangerous!”
Chapter Six–A Farthing for Your Thoughts
“I’m beginning to wonder if these girls of yours really exist,” Piper said good-naturedly. His gregarious nature, in Jeremy Farthing’s welcomed absence from the dinner table, had reasserted itself. A snifter of fragrant and subtle Armagnac brandy (of which he declared he could drink a vat without the slightest effect) had burnished his disposition with a warm glow.
Caitlin raised her hand peremptorily. “They exist. I’ve seen them.”
Mrs. Wagner stood by the aquarium, studying Robespierre as he engaged in his nightly ritual of terrifying the exotic fish.
“Girls that age are so thoughtless, really,” said Mrs. Griffeth, sipping the last of her coffee. “So full of themselves.”
Caitlin cleared her throat exaggeratedly. Having caught Mrs. Griffeth’s attention, she direction an unobtrusive nod at Miss Tichyara, who was about the age of the girls in question. “Amber, too,” she reminded, pointing a finger upstairs where Amber had adjourned with a headache directly upon their return from the day’s outing.
Dead and Breakfast (Caitlyn Craft Mysteries Book 1) Page 5