The Corsican Woman

by Madge Swindells

  ‘No, I should say that initially he won their support. He was that sort of man. Later, unfortunately, he became the scapegoat for the Allies’ plan that Corsica should not evict Axis troops — a plan that the Corsicans refused to accept.’

  I could sense the sympathy of the public gallery and the jury as Hartman described how Captain Moore rescued Sybilia and took her into the mountains to nurse her. He explained Moore’s daring strategy, which had saved Corté from being overrun by the crack German panzers brought from Sardinia and Sybilia’s bravery in returning to duty as radio officer during the Battle of Corsica, although her wounds were not yet healed.

  ‘Would you tell the court on what date you obtained these documents of Moore’s, and the circumstances.’

  ‘Captain Moore was flown back to Britain twenty-four hours after Corsica was liberated. On the evening of October fifth, to be precise, Moore delivered his reports to me in London. He seemed shocked and tired. I gave him a week’s leave. Then he was sent into occupied Normandy to help local inhabitants prepare for the invasion.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Yes, of course. It was his job.’

  ‘Would you tell the court about your last meeting with Captain Robin Moore.’

  ‘I never saw him after that meeting. When his area was liberated, in June of fourty-four, he telephoned me. He wanted two weeks compassionate leave. He told me that he’d married a Corsican woman in Bastia on the very last afternoon before he was repatriated. Neither he nor Sybilia had their papers, and the priest told them they would have to legalize their marriage after the war. Moore had the impression that Sybilia was pregnant. He wanted to get back to her as quickly as he could.’

  Married! I sat dazed and shocked, staring at the dock. It was not legal, but to Sybilia it was binding, and she was Catholic.

  ‘And what happened to Captain Moore?’ Quinel was asking.

  Hartman shook his head. ‘He was reported missing and never seen again. The Germans reoccupied his area briefly. A matter of days only. I never heard from him again, and he was posted missing, believed killed.’

  As Hartman left the witness box, Quinel turned to the judges; but before he could make his plea, the president preempted him. Picking up his gavel, he said, ‘The court is adjourned until Monday morning at ten A.M.’

  I stood up feeling elated and hurried toward the defence table. ‘This will make a big difference to her sentence — don’t you think so?’

  The advocate was leafing through the files. ‘There’s a certain amount of sympathy coming out of the public gallery for her. Of course that’s not where it counts, but up there…’ He gestured toward the judges’ dais. ‘Nevertheless, I think you might have got her sentence down to life.’

  A life sentence! I walked into the hot sun feeling dazed. God, No! Unthinkable!

  There must be more I could do. I now suspected why Sybilia had shot Xavier Rocca, but I needed proof. I had to be alone. I had to think.

  Chapter 86

  I hadn’t done much fishing for the past year. So now I swam out from my cottage determined to bring back something great, if only to restore my faith in myself. Close to the beach, the undersea scenery seemed strangely altered, more overgrown, denser. I soon reached deeper water and travelled between the rocks and seaweed as if through a forest.

  A big fish — a corbeau, I think — was cruising across the silvery sandy floor. I dived after him with rough, careless swipes. The fish saw me, and with a flick of its broad fins and tail, it sped away. I cursed. I was out of practice, and my anger was getting the better of me.

  I swam on for another half hour but saw nothing worthwhile. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something dark move. In the shadow of a huge rock, another shadow swept forward. It came on, flapping over the sand like a great bird. Thirty metres away from me it sank flat on the sandy bottom: a dark, triangular shape with a long whiptail behind it.

  It was a giant ray. As I approached it flapped away. I followed it into water that became colder and darker. Enjoying the chase, I kept after it, trying to get in close enough to aim the harpoon through the thick layer of sinewy tissue between its two eyes. At the same time I had to avoid getting struck by its tail. At last my chance came. I aimed, steadied myself, and fired, but the spear shot off to one side, impaling one of the ray’s wings. The fish left the bottom, turned, and shot straight at me.

  I dodged away at a tangent as the fish zoomed past, its poisonous tail lashing too close, too fast. The ray surfaced and made for deep water, and I was swept along behind. I let out more line, but still I was pulled helplessly out to sea. It seemed to possess a ferocious strength, but eventually it tired and I began the long haul back to shore.

  I felt better when I’d brought it in, flapping and lashing. There and then I cut off its dangerous tail and soon had the first slices cooking over a fire of driftwood.

  Some of my pent-up aggression had died with the ray. I fetched some bread and wine from the cottage and tried not to think of what it would be like with Sybilia there. I thought about that last morning when Sybilia had brought the food and stayed to help with the dig. There was nothing sentimental about my recollections. I was trying to analyse every movement she had made.

  Next morning I was up before dawn. I parked at the base of the cliff below Taita and continued on foot. By the time the sun rose, I’d reached my camp.

  Autumn had filled the higher mountain slopes with a cold chill. Overhead the sky was paler, almost translucent. Small grey clouds, buffeted by the wind, clustered around the granite peaks. Flowers and herbs were sparse, and the shrubs had lost much of their foliage. The beauty and fragrance of the maquis was hibernating until spring. There was a great quietness about the land, except for the whining wind.

  When I reached my camp I found that the stepping-stones across the river, laid so carefully in warmer months, were entirely missing. I cursed and waded into knee-deep icy water.

  ‘Hey! Hey, you there. This is government property. Keep off.’

  Blue eyes appraised me coolly. A tousled blond head peered over the ledge, and a French rifle was imperceptibly aimed at my heart.

  ‘Who the heck are you?’ I called out without stopping.

  ‘National Service guard, detailed to guard this barren patch. That cave there has been commandeered by the State. You may not believe it, but you’re looking at a national monument, expropriated by the Department of Antiquities.’

  ‘I believe it,’ I grinned. ‘I discovered it.’

  ‘Oh, shit!’ The boy’s eyes widened, and his grin dissolved into dismay. ‘And you are…?’

  ‘Dr Jacklyn Walters.’ I was angry to find myself out of breath as I climbed the last slope. Too much sitting around in Ajaccio.

  ‘Yes,’ the guard said a few minutes later after he had skimmed through some papers. ‘You’re on the list. Not many are, but you’d be amazed the number of people who’d like to be.’

  ‘Come again?’

  'At night! Last night, for instance, although it wasn’t the first time, a couple of crazy villagers climbed up here and started their own private excavation.'

  ‘Did you ask them why?

  ‘Looking for souvenirs, they said.’

  ‘Did you take their names?’

  ‘No. Just sent them packing. There’s been quite a few of them. They all want to dig up the past. They said you’ve been giving lessons — do-it-yourself archaeology. That true?"More or less,’ I agreed.

  ‘Crazy! You and them both. You want some coffee?’

  The boy looked lonely, and he was blue with cold. He led me to the mouth of the cave, where he had a fire burning in a jerrican with a tin of water near to boiling over.

  ‘How long d’you have to stay here by yourself?’

  ‘Six-hour shifts. To tell the truth, it’s not much better off duty. Nothing to do in Taita. Be glad when this is over."Which will be when?’

  ‘I dunno. When they fence this place off, I suppose. I’ve heard it
won’t be long. We were moved up here when a visiting French archaeologist discovered one of the rock paintings had been painted over.’

  I leaped up and raced into the cave. The first painting, the one of a horse grazing among deer, was covered with a slash of red paint zigzagging across it.

  In a state of shock, I hurried from one painting to the next, but the remainder were unharmed. I could probably restore that one later. Thank God the buffalo was still there, frozen into his moment of truth, as he had been for ten thousand years.

  In the innermost cave, where it was almost totally dark, I found the place where Sybilia had been digging. I remembered wondering if she would damage a painting with stone fragments as her spade struck the stony ground.

  Then I realized without doubt what she’d been doing. I should have guessed before.

  The priest was on his knees in front of the altar. He climbed stiffly to his feet, and I gathered he’d been praying for a long time.

  I tried to control my temper as I strode down the aisle. ‘You knew. God damn you. You knew all the time. I blame you for this whole stinking mess.’

  Then I lost my cool, grabbed him by the cassock, and shook him. Father Andrews was a powerful man, with an Irish temper to match his strength. The next moment we were moving warily around each other, exchanging blow for blow.

  I don’t know which one of us pulled himself together first, but I remember feeling guilty as I watched the priest tugging his cassock straight.

  ‘Unseemly, and childish,’ he panted. ‘Exactly what I would have expected from you.’

  ‘You’re going to testify,’ I snarled. ‘You’re going to tell the court every goddamned thing you know.’

  ‘Your blasphemous mouth will not in any way influence my judgement, Jock.’ He crossed himself. ‘I cannot reveal the secrets of the confessional. Neither you nor Satan himself could make me.’

  ‘Don’t bet on that,’ I whispered. ‘You’re hiding behind your priest’s robes because you’re scared. What are you scared of? The villagers? I’ll have you subpoenaed.’

  ‘Sit down, boyo. Sit down and listen to me. You can’t subpoena me. No court in the world would let you. Confessional secrets can never be revealed. D’you think I don’t love Sybilia as much as you do?’

  ‘Then why didn’t you tell her?’

  Father Andrews looked humble and sad. ‘I tried to, but she would not listen to me. Then, after a while, it seemed better to leave things as they were. If you hadn’t come…’

  ‘Don’t waste time with excuses. You’ll be there at the trial tomorrow morning if I have to drag you all the way.’

  ‘It’s not so easy, Jock. All my information came to me under the protection of the confessional.’

  ‘Then find me an eyewitness. There must be one repentant heart among your black-faced flock.'

  Til do what I can. And I’ll be there, I promise you.’

  ‘One eyewitness — just one. Find me that person.’

  The priest’s eye was swelling up, and his lip was bleeding. Without another word I hurried back to my dig.

  Chapter 87

  It was Monday morning, ten A.M. I took the stand amid a drone of public conjecture. I was carrying my sample bag, and as I put it on the ledge in front of me, I dared not look at Sybilia.

  Would I be able to help her? Charles Quinel and I had mapped out our strategy the previous evening. Quinel had also insisted that I get a decent haircut and wear a tailored suit. It was some time since I’d worn a tie, and I felt uncomfortable.

  ‘Please give the court your name.’

  ‘Dr Jacklyn Walters.’

  ‘I believe you are the author of two books. Would you tell their names to the court?’

  Quinel had wanted to impress the court with my credentials, but this seemed to me to be a waste of time.

  ‘What have you been studying in Corsica, Dr Walters?’

  ‘Structure and function in primitive-contemporary society and the link to Corsican prehistory. I’ve also been excavating a Stone Age site,’

  ‘I believe your work in this field has brought you worldwide fame.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I muttered, adding: ‘Within a limited circle of social scientists and archaeologists.’ I saw Quinel scowl at me.

  ‘Tell me, Dr Walters, what was your precise relationship with Sybilia Rocca?’

  ‘She was my assistant,’ I said. ‘She also ran the Rocca family’s cafe in Taita and supplied my diggers with their food.’

  ‘Dr Walters, the shooting of Xavier Rocca by Sybilia must have come as an intense shock to you,’ Quinel pressed on.

  ‘Quite apart from your natural anxiety for her, you must have wondered many times, why? Why did she kill her father-in-law?’

  ‘I guess I did.’ I paused. ‘Yesterday I found out why.’

  A murmur ran through the court. The president rapped with his gavel, and there was silence again.

  ‘Dr Walters, will you please tell the court exactly what you were doing in Taita yesterday.’

  ‘I was up at my dig. The land’s been expropriated by the authorities. There’s a guard permanently on the site. Otherwise I might never have found these.’ I nodded toward my sample bag. ‘This evidence…’

  ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean by “never have found”?’

  ‘For the past few months several villagers have been digging up there, looking for this evidence. The guards prevented them from finding it.’

  ‘Would you show the court what it is that you have found?’ I picked up my bag. ‘Mr President, may I have your permission to leave the witness stand and lay out the evidence on the defence table?’

  ‘Permission granted.’

  I could not bear to look at Sybilia. I walked to the table, aware of the melodramatic interest I was creating, and opened my bag.

  ‘This is evidence of a crime committed seventeen years ago. In June 1944, to be precise. Evidence that several villagers were anxious to find and dispose of, because it could involve some of them in criminal proceedings.’

  Suddenly angry shouts came from the public gallery. There was a scuffle as the police removed a man.

  ‘Please continue.’

  ‘I remembered too, how distraught Sybilia had been the evening before in my cottage. I’d been so damned arrogant at the time…’

  ‘Please,’ Quinel held up his hand. ‘You’re confusing the court. You say Madame Rocca was upset. Why was that?"The Algerians were digging a new latrine. They’d unearthed some relics from World War II. A rusty dog tag and a pistol. She saw them in my desk drawer and asked me where I found them.’

  ‘And she was terribly upset?’

  ‘I’d never seen her quite so shocked. At the time I thought

  ‘It doesn’t matter what you thought. What did she do?’

  ‘Nothing then. She went home. The next morning, when she delivered the food to my excavation, she talked to the Algerian diggers and examined the trench they were digging. I remember she climbed into it and dug around. I thought she’d found some more hand axes. Lately she’d become so enthusiastic… ‘

  ‘I see, but yesterday you thought otherwise.’

  ‘Yes. I took a look around. In the back of the cave I found a grave with a small wooden cross erected over it. That’s what she was doing that last morning before she shot Xavier Rocca — she was digging a grave.’

  I pulled the wooden cross out of my bag, held it up, and heard Sybilia gasp in horror.

  ‘No! Oh, no! How dare you?’ Sybilia’s eyes blazed with anger. Her knuckles whitened as she clutched the rail. ‘You had no right… no right to touch it.’

  It was the first time she had lost her composure since the trial began.

  ‘The prisoner must keep silent,’ the president said sternly.

  Sybilia gave a long shudder and one sob. Then she bent her head and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  I pushed my hand into the bag and held up a rusty dog tag and a pistol. These were the items S
ybilia found in my cottage,’ I explained. ‘I found them buried in the grave in the cave. She buried them there alongside these few bones.’

  ‘No!’ Her horrified scream echoed around the courtroom. ‘You didn’t… you couldn’t…’ She was wild-eyed and white as chalk as we faced each other across the courtroom. She would never forgive me.

  ‘Then I found this.’ I swung a gold chain with a Star of David on it. ‘Of course, she’d polished it up a bit,’ I added. ‘It had lain in the earth for sixteen years, but gold lasts longer than human flesh and bones. She found only a couple of neck vertebrae, probably beside the chain,’ I explained to a hushed court.

  ‘She wasn’t able to find all the bones,’ I went on, trying to ignore her quiet sobbing. ‘But she’d put all she could find in this stone casket. Not much left of the full-blooded American man she’d loved more than her own life.’

  There were angry shouts from the public gallery as I removed the casket from my sample bag. Sybilia’s sobs were louder now. Heartbreaking cries.

  The president sighed and picked up his gavel and looked toward Sybilia. 'Madame Rocca…’he began. She pushed her hand hard over her mouth and gazed back at the casket as if unable to look away.

  ‘From this pathetic bundle of bones,’ I said, lifting the largest, ‘Sybilia pieced together the story of Captain Robin Moore’s last hours.’

  I held it higher. ‘This is a pelvic bone. The correct name is iliac crest. It’s picked pretty clean by ants and worms. Of course, there was no coffin. You’ll notice, Mr President, the bullet hole. It’s sort of punched in from the outside. Inside it’s slightly bevelled around the edge. This was from a shot fired by a high-powered rifle from a distance of about four hundred metres. The bullet shattered Robin’s hip as he tried to escape through the maquis. It must have hurt like hell and crippled the victim, but Captain Moore was a brave man, he kept going.’

  The prosecutor objected, but the president angrily dismissed his plea.

  ‘It wasn’t his only wound,’ I continued, louder this time to be heard above Sybilia’s moans. ‘Gentlemen, this is a right shoulder bone, known as a scapula. Once again you’ll please note the neat round hole…’