“Are you particularly interested in St Joan, Jeanne?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “I feel sometimes that I am possessed by her. I was restless and disturbed until I came to Port St Pierre, and I think now that she sent me.”
“Why?” I tried to keep my voice perfectly calm during this extraordinary conversation. One is not married to a psychologist for five years for nothing.
Jeanne’s luminosity had gone and she looked strangely haggard, as though her vision had taken its toll. “I don’t know. It has not been revealed to me yet. God works through his creatures.”
I remembered what she’d said about me. “Do you still think I’m a danger to you?”
“That may be part of the plan,” she said, quietly pushing back her chair. “We shall see.”
“Well, I shan’t be here long,” I said, but I don’t think Jeanne heard me.
I smoked another cigarette and accepted Madame Barbou’s offer of fresh coffee.
“Jeanne is strange, n’est-ce pas?” she said in her cheerful way as she cleared away the breakfast dishes.
“Did you hear what she said?”
Madame Barbou looked at once defensive and apologetic. “Eh, one could not help ...”
She had been eavesdropping, no doubt on her way into the dining room.
“Did anyone ever see a ghost here before?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, Madame. Before the First World War, the Marquise would not come here because she had a vision before the death of one of her children. And then before the Marquis and his two sons were taken, Madame la Marquise had a premonition and said she saw the spirit of a young girl in white.”
“Then Noelle must have heard the story,” I said, rationalizing the little girl’s vision last night, but I was vaguely uncomfortable.
“It is always so before deaths, Madame.”
“How unpleasant,” I said, getting up. If I encouraged her in this sort of chat she’d think I believed it and it would be all over town. “I’m going into the library to wait for the doctor, Madame Barbou. Jeanne was kind enough to phone before breakfast. My ankle is twice its normal size today.”
“Ah, pauvre Madame Trafford; let me help you.” She gave me her arm as we crossed the hall.
The library was a long middle room overlooking the wall guarding the right side of the chateau. As it was a fairly dark room, with no view of the bay, it was necessary to have the light on even during the daytime. Laurent had told me it was the one room that had never needed to be restored, shielded as it was from the storms. It was indeed a delightful room, panelled and lined with books, all carefully catalogued and numbered – essays, belles-lettres, geography, topography, classics, the great French works of fiction, Balzac, Moliere, and a whole section devoted to history. There were some beautifully bound volumes among them, and in the middle of the room was a case containing some very rare manuscripts of the Fifteenth-Century Valois dukes, which Laurent had casually remarked were priceless and ought to be under lock and key, only no one knew about them! This made them safe, he said.
There were two tables in the room, both old and covered with scarred, faded leather. I got a volume of Burgundian history and settled down to wait for the doctor.
The last Valois duke, Charles the Bold, the one with the treasure allegedly “rescued” by an overzealous de Frigecourt, had a passion for hats and I was reading an account of his tresor when I looked up. A young woman stood at the door smiling. For one ghastly moment I wondered if she were another emanation of the supernatural, but she looked perfectly modern and normal and carried a black bag in her hand.
“Madame Trafford?”
I nodded and got to my feet.
“Please sit down. I know your ankle is bad. I am Doctor Bourdin’s daughter, also a doctor. My father has an attack of the mal de foie – he is overfond of his food you know – and I have come in his place.”
“How kind. Would you like to go into the salon where the light is better?”
“No, why not here? If you would just take off your sock and pull up your trouser leg, I’ll look at the ankle.”
I did as I was told, and the dark-haired young woman bent over me and began manipulating my ankle while I groaned and ground my teeth until my forehead was covered with sweat. I wondered if she’d just qualified.
“Sorry, did I hurt? I wondered if you’d broken a bone, but I see now that it’s simply a sprain.”
“Simply,” I muttered. “Thanks.”
I watched her as she bandaged the ankle, a girl of about twenty-six, of medium height and with a nice neat figure and a capable face. She was plain rather than pretty, what the French call jolie-laide, attractive in an odd sort of way.
“There. Keep off it for two days and I will come and see you again.”
“Won’t you have some coffee? I don’t want to stay here, so if you will give me your arm we can go into the salon.”
“Weren’t you working?”
“Only desultorily. I was waiting for you. I usually work in my room.”
“Are you going to stay here long?”
“I hope not.”
“You don’t like it?”
“On the contrary, I love it, but I’ve come here to write a book, and what with one thing or another I don’t seem to be making much progress. Last night we had a ghost!”
“Really?” Dr Bourdin helped me to the sofa and tucked a cushion under my ankle.
“Have you heard of ghosts here before?”
“Only vague rumours. You know, every large Gothic house has a ghost. But during much of my life the family has not been here and the house was closed. I was born after the war when the tragedy happened.”
“Did you ever meet Elizabeth?”
“The mother? Oh, yes. They had a big party when the chateau was opened, and they invited everybody. Then we were also asked to dinner with the mayor and other local worthies. It is tragic about the mother, yet they say my father keeps a careful eye on them – that the children do not appear too much affected. I am studying to be a paediatrician, so this kind of thing interests me.”
“Noelle said she saw the ghost last night.”
“Did she?”
I thought Dr Bourdin seemed to attach a lot of weight to this announcement, and she looked unusually thoughtful. I questioned her about it.
“Well, it’s silly. It’s part of the rumour and supersition, of course, but they say that someone in the family always sees a ghost here before a death. That’s just because ...
“I know, Madame Barbou told me. Do you believe in phenomena like this?”
“Ghosts? Not really, but I do believe in some kind of paranormal manifestation of subconscious mechanisms and desires. I would think the children are inevitably disturbed in some way, even though Mademoiselle Jeanne is thought to be very good with them. Then there was also
Rose ...”
“She looked at me and I looked at her. She was an uncomplicated, straightforward young woman, so why not?”
“Did you know Rose?” I asked.
“I met her, yes, here and at the surgery, but to say know ...”
“Do you think her death was accidental?”
“Really, Madame Trafford, I wasn’t even here at the time. I am studying at Amiens.”
“Yes, but you must know what everyone else thinks, what your father thinks. You must know.”
“It seems they think it is unusual, but the police were satisfied and ...”
“And no one wanted to further disturb the de Frigecourts.”
“Oh, I don’t think that ...”
“I do.” I wriggled my foot with annoyance. “I think that was the most important factor. They’ve had so much trouble already, that sort of thing.”
“That evidence was suppressed?”
The young Dr Bourdin was no longer smiling. She had the tight secretive look of one citizen of a community protecting the rest.
“I didn’t say anything about suppressing evidence. I don’t think anyone w
anted to look into the death very carefully.”
“The French police are very thorough. Besides, it was done from Abbeville, not from here. They were quite satisfied. This seems to have become an interrogation, Madame.”
“No, it’s not an interrogation, but Rose came to see me the day she died and told me she thought all was not well here.”
“So that’s why you’re here?”
“Partly, a sort of female Hercule Poirot. What we have here are accidents and ghosts, and the governess – the one in charge of three helpless children – claims to have second sight and to be possessed by the spirit of Joan of Arc. And you call everything here normal?”
I was becoming very heated indeed; Dr Bourdin would be prescribing tranquillisers next. But instead she sat down next to me and looked at me thoughtfully.
“You really are worried aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am. Jeanne worries me and the dead Rose worries me also. Jeanne is very much alive, but she has some connection – or thinks she has – with a long dead saint. Rose is recently dead, and we don’t really know why she died. I said why, not how. Then we have the ghost of a young girl – Noelle was very clear that it was a young girl. Jeanne thinks it’s Joan of Arc; I think it’s Rose.”
“Why should it be either?” Dr Bourdin said quietly.“You are both thinking what you want to think without being objective at all.”
“My husband would be appalled,” I said with a smile, “even to imagine me thinking such a thought. We are all for scientific empiricism where I come from. I admit the idea of Rose does haunt me, personally, but I suppose if the apparition has been seen before it is more likely to be Joan, though why she should warn the family about impending deaths I can’t imagine. Strictly speaking, as descendants of the hated Burgundians, she should be at permanent enmity with them. That’s a thought,” I said stopping abruptly to give myself time to think. “What about the curse?”
“What curse?”
“The Burgundian curse. Madame Barbou told me about it, though she had little to say. I linked it in my mind with Joan and the de Frigecourts. Joan hated them; maybe she cursed them and came back to haunt them. Yet what did they actually do to her apart from being remote offshoots of the dukes of Burgundy? It’s unlikely she’d be so vicious just for that.”
“You’ve lost me, I’m afraid, Madame Trafford,” Dr Bourdin said pointedly. “And I think all this talk about ghosts and curses is very fanciful. Such stories we dismissed even as children.”
I was being gently reprimanded. I who called myself an empiricist had strayed into wild and romantic regions. I suddenly felt ashamed.
“I’m sorry,” I said contritely. “I’m being absurd. It must be the pain causing my imagination to wander. But I’ve had no one to talk to, so you must forgive me.”
“Oh, I do. You must not be afraid to confide in me. We regard the family as our family and will do anything for them.”
“I know. Even protect the Marquis.”
“Monsieur Laurent!” She was clearly astonished. “You think he had something to do with Rose’s death?”
“Not for a moment; he wasn’t even here at the time. But assuming he and Rose were emotionally involved, might not the town want to hide that?”
“Perhaps they would, except that I know for sure there has never been the slightest suggestion of Monsieur Laurent’s involvement with Rose or anyone other than Elizabeth. I would know if there were. My father knows everything, and he would tell me.”
Well, that seemed that.
“But Jeanne is more worrisome,” she continued. “If she talks like this to the children ...”
“No, I don’t say she does, and her behaviour with them is exemplary; she’s kind yet firm, and they respond positively to her. But the way she talks to me is weird.” I told Dr Bourdin about Jeanne’s knowledge of my work and her premonitions about me. Then, very reluctantly, I recounted the circumstances of Fabrice’s fall and the expression on Jeanne’s face. All in all, it sounded rather lame and fanciful, but Dr Bourdin’s eyes studied my face.
“You think she has a sort of evil eye? That she can cause things to happen?”
“I didn’t until this moment,” I said, “but perhaps that’s exactly what I do mean. That would explain Rose, Cecile, Fabrice, the children going too far out to sea, and even my gunshot she could have done herself.”
“But why would she? Why would she shoot you?”
“Because Rose had been to see me.”
“She killed Rose for going to see you?” There was a smile of incredulity on the young woman’s face.
Now the whole edifice began to crumble. Frankly, it did sound rather absurd.
“It doesn’t work, does it?” I said at last. “It’s all too fanciful. Besides, Joan was a saint, after all. Saints don’t have the evil eye, do they?”
Dr Bourdin got up, carefully ignoring my question. “I must get back to my father’s surgery. But let’s keep in touch.”
“Come for tea,” I said suddenly. “See the children. Judge the atmosphere for yourself.”
“I’d love to, I’ll come tomorrow,” she said.
But before tea time the following day the meaning of Noelle’s apparition had all too sadly been realised.
CHAPTER 9
Elizabeth, the children’s mother, died during the night. She had never regained consciousness and had died peacefully and painlessly in her sleep. Laurent brought us the news in the morning, coming to the house while the children were at lessons and I was working in the library.
He told me first, and all formal condolences were useless. I could see that; he bore the look of a man whom tragedy had aged ten years.
“Even though it has been like this for over a year, I can’t get used to her death.”
“Go and see the children,” I said. “Talking to them will help you.”
It was an awful day. Noelle was the most upset, but they all cried, and their father cried, and Madame Barbou cried so much that the lunch was ruined. Even Jeanne cried, but I was dry-eyed. I had never known her, and you can’t cry for someone you’ve never seen, however sad the circumstances. So I did what I could, trying to be helpful. Jeanne and Madame Barbou packed for the children and I helped get them into their best clothes. By mid-afternoon they had gone with their father back to Paris to stay with an aunt until the funeral.
Jeanne offered to go with them, but Laurent was firm about her need for a rest and the ability of his aunt and her staff to look after the children. He suggested she go home, because he wanted to give Madame Barbou a rest and close the chateau for the week or so they would be away. But Jeanne seemed reluctant to accept the offer of a free holiday and said that if she did stay here she would be no trouble, taking her meals out.
For me to return to 33 Rue du Chateau was a mixed joy – yes, I wanted to get back, and no, I didn’t – but whatever happened, I realised that the death of the children’s mother would make a difference in everyone’s life.
I cleared up my things in the library, returned borrowed volumes to their shelves, and went upstairs to pack. The silent house had a deserted feeling as though the children’s presence alone gave it life. I wondered if Jeanne would stay on here by herself. Would I? Yes, why not? What was eerie about a place simply because it was large?
And had a ghost, I thought, opening my door and nearly fainting with shock as a shadowy figure moved away from the window and came towards me. I flicked on the light:
“Jeanne! You gave me an awful shock.”
“Clare, I’m so sorry. I thought you’d gone.”
“How could you think I’d gone? All my things are still here.”
“Well, I mean before I came in I thought you’d gone. I came to look for a book I’d lent Rose. Did you see it? It’s called The Last Journey of the Maid, a funny little book I found in a shop in Amiens. It might interest you.”
“There was nothing here when I moved in.” I still felt shocked and annoyed. The book excuse seemed awfully fl
imsy to me. “The room had been cleaned out.”
“That’s what I thought,” Jeanne said looking round distractedly. “Sorry to have given you such a fright. Will you be coming back here?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t much help to you with my ankle, was I?”
“Still, it was nice to have company and nice for the children, too.”
I smiled at her and sat down, taking a cigarette from the bedside table.
“And what about your premonition?”
“Oh, that.” Jeanne’s expression was serious as she dropped into a chair by the window. “I told you I wasn’t always right, but this time I was right that there was going to be a death. I had a premonition of disaster, about the Marquise. Your aura is different now, Clare.”
“My aura?”
“We all have an aura. Sometimes I can see them quite clearly. Rose had no aura, and that meant she was hostile to me, or that she was a ghost. I don’t think that, do you?”
“It seems unlikely.” I smiled as I flicked the ashes in the ash tray. My conversations with Jeanne were quite extraordinary.
“I think things will be better now,” Jeanne continued chattily. “The death of the mother was the menace. I feel these things before they happen.”
“Aren’t you going to see your own mother, Jeanne?”
“I don’t think I will make the journey. France is a big country, you know, and we come from a small village in the Rhone valley, miles from anywhere. I have to go to Paris and change, and Dijon and change ...”
“Why, you’re a Burgundian!” I said beginning to laugh. But Jeanne didn’t find it amusing; her figure visibly straightened and her mouth puckered.
“I’m a Frenchwoman, Clare; it’s not funny at all.”
“But you said the dukes of Burgundy were not French.”
“The Valois dukes, as you know, wanted to make a separate kingdom of Burgundy. They did not regard themselves as French but as a sovereign state.”
“That’s true. I read only yesterday in one of the books in the library that Charles the Bold said the French kings had usurped the kingdom of Burgundy by turning it into a duchy.”
Rose, Rose Where Are You? Page 9