He had been angry at God—and he'd not even known that he believed in God.
It was embarrassing to admit his arrogance: he had never asked why the engine of the plane had failed, to present him with the torment of an early death; what had angered him and stunned was that God had allowed it to happen to him.
To him, Andrew Thale.
It stunned him now, in this moment, to understand that all these months he'd been talking, not to himself, but to God.
Miss L’Hommedieu had known this. It was suddenly important—terribly important—to find and talk to Miss L'Hommedieu, whose prescience implied what . . , knowing-ness? madness? wisdom? At least an acquaintance with God. And with life.
He staggered to his feet and ran.
She was still seated in her chair on the porch, stationed there to hear the music in the woods, but he was surprised to see that Gussie was with her, standing beside her, one hand resting on Miss L'Hommedieu's shoulder. He thought he had left Gussie nodding happily at the Rumanian folk song in the woods, but now she was here, and with a strange look about her.
Andrew said with a smile, "I came back to talk with Miss L’Hommedieu."
"She's left us," said Gussie.
An idiotic thing to say, he thought, with Miss L'Hommedieu seated erect, eyes wide open, and wondered why he suddenly tensed.
The screen door opened and Leo walked out, followed by Mr. Branowski. "She's dead, " he told Andrew, and to Gussie, "Let her go, Gussie. It's time we carry her upstairs to her bed before—" He stopped, unable to say it.
Gussie nodded, and withdrew her hand. Suddenly aware of Andrew she said, "Find Tarragon, will you? and your mother?" Her face grew stern. "But don't stop the music, don't stop the dancing, she always loved that."
Andrew stood very still, staggered by a wrenching sense of loss. He felt—and it was very strange to him—as if he'd been kicked in the heart. It was only when his eyes brimmed with tears that he turned away to retrace his steps and find Tarragon and his mother.
Later, when the house had quieted, Andrew ventured into Miss L'Hommedieu's room alone to see her.
She was lying on her bed, very white, calm and remote; Gussie had placed coins on her closed eyes, and the blue-feathered boa around her shoulders, and seeing the boa the tears returned to Andrew's eyes. He approached her shyly, half expecting her to open her eyes and say "Well, Andrew?" but her eyes remained closed.
"Miss L’Hommedieu," he said aloud. "Miss L’Hommedieu?"
There was, of course, no response.
He touched her hand; it was only a little cold, and kneeling beside her he grasped it firmly in his. "Miss L’Hommedieu," he said, "I have grown very fond of you and I think—I hope—you knew that. I only wish I had known you longer— and better."
He looked at the calm, lined face, so inscrutable now, and could think of nothing more to say until, "I want you to know, Miss L'Hommedieu," he said, "that you cast a very long shadow."
Tuesday
15
Above the lower plants it towers,
The Fennel with its yellow flowers;
And in an earlier age than ours
Was gifted with the wondrous powers
Lost vision to restore.
—Longfellow
No one slept that night. The gypsies had gone—"they're superstitious about death," Gussie told him—and although Miss L'Hommedieu had left them, too, a sense of her presence lingered to sweeten the sour taste of a party that had ended badly. "Only a few more hours," said Andrew sadly, "and she could have had a bath in that lovely mahogany tub."
Gussie said sharply, "She wouldn't want us to mourn her"—and rising from the breakfast table—"Tarragon, I want you to pick a bouquet for her. She was very partial to Queen Anne's lace, wasn't she?"
"And anything blue," said Tarragon, nodding.
"A large bouquet"—and turning to Andrew—"There's a small trunk in her room, she said she kept her poetry books in it. See if you can find a poem to read over her grave, will you?"
This was the least he could do for her, he thought as he mounted the stairs; he could certainly sift through a few books to find if any poem reflected an astringent and uncommon Miss L’Hommedieu. He would hope for a poem full of flowers and lace, of a woman with eyes as black as jet in a lined face. Wordsworth? Keats?
Her room held the scent of lavender. The trunk under the window was a small affair, shabby and old, and there was no key. What could he expect, he wondered, a few sentimental trophies from the past? For that matter, what was her past? He opened its lid reluctantly, feeling an intruder, but there looked to be only two old books, a collection of colorful feathers, bits of lace and ribbons, a small, very primitive wood carving of a man, a faded birthday card from someone named Rene, who had written, "My thoughts are always with you." There was no envelope. Andrew picked up the slender hardcover book, its cover red with gilt letters and with a drawing of African natives in one corner. "Mission Work in Central Africa," he read, "by James Stevens Arnot, With an Introduction to the Bemba Language by the Author." Its copyright date was 1882.
An odd book to cherish, and certainly not poetry.
The second book had a plain blue paper cover, and its title was: Report of the Commission of Inquiry, appointed to inquire into the Circumstances attending the murder of Basil Hopkins French, and the notorious trial that followed, with Record of Evidence taken, and other Documents. Printed by the Government of Northern Rhodesia, 1947.
Northern Rhodesia? This was curious, he thought, and then—Basil Hopkins French?
"Basil Hopkins French!" he blurted out, startled by his own voice in the silent room.
Familiar, very familiar, but why?
Miss L’Hommedieu!
He ceased kneeling and abruptly sat down on the floor beside the trunk and opened the Commission of Inquiry. There was a table of contents listing a Diary of the Commission; Findings of the Commission, Part I, Part II, Part III; List of Exhibits, Names of Witnesses, Evidence Heard, Address to the Commission, Correspondence between the Government of...
Impatiently he turned to part I, entitled "The Circumstances Attending the Death oí Basil Hopkins French & the Events Leading Up to It."
He read, "On the 10th of October, 1946, which is the last day on which French was seen alive, it is clear from the evidence of the natives that Basil Hopkins French left the Missionary Station that is administered by Miss Emily L’Hommedieu in midafternoon ..."
Missionary Station? Miss L’Hommedieu? He realized that his mouth had dropped open . . , she of the flowing chiffon gowns and flowered hats? She had lived in Africa?
Ignoring detail he turned pages quickly until, "French was found lying on the ground on his left side and hidden by tall grasses, head thrown back, right arm extended at full length near the body with the palm of the hand upward and the left arm bent. There was blood on the head and hair, a hole or holes in the head, and one under the chin. According to Dr. Rene Roget, death had occurred four days earlier."
But who was Basil Hopkins French?
Thumbing through the pages he found an interminable number of natives who had been questioned in detail, identified as Chief Mwanta Kutemba, Christian, from Domo village; Sombo Luwej, pagan, Kitalo village; Kayomba Chibwa, Christian, of Domo village; Kayombu Chibwa, pagan, Kitalo village; with here and there an English name, of a District Officer, doctor, veterinarian. . , but he was not interested in who had found the body or when and how, or who went where or did what or knew what, he turned pages quickly, searching for explanations, answers, a conclusion. He found it in the last three pages in the official report, written by the Acting Governor to the Secretary of State for the Colonies in London, and marked CONFIDENTIAL.
"Sir," he read. "Referring to Sir Martin Smythe's confidential dispatch (No 3), transmitting a copy of the Commission of Inquiry into the case of the late Basil Hopkins French, I now have the honor to inform you that the Commission have concluded their investigations and have submitted their Rep
ort, two copies of which ..."
Andrew skipped to the next paragraph.
"As regards the circumstances attending the murder of Mr. Basil Hopkins French, the finding of the Commission is inconclusive. I take this opportunity to record that all the investigations which have been made into this case, notwithstanding the notoriety of the trial that followed, have failed to disclose grounds upon which a criminal charge could have been laid against Miss Emily L'Hommedieu with any chance of success."
Criminal charge? Miss L’Hommedieu? His Miss L’Hommedieu?"
The report continued: "Turning to the conduct of the Native Authorities in this case, I have already reported to you that Chief Kutemba of Domo village was tried before a special magistrate, who was sent from the capital for the purpose, on a charge of conspiracy to obstruct the course of justice, and was sentenced to ten months imprisonment with hard labor. At the same time two other natives, Mbumba Ndale and Chibinda Toloshi, were convicted under the same sections and sentenced to terms of imprisonment of eight months and six months respectively. These convictions were quashed on appeal to the High Court."
Conspiracy! Another shock, and a dazed Andrew continued reading.
"It has proven impossible, from the material available, for any firm conclusion to be formed as to who was responsible for the murder of Basil Hopkins French. As noted (page 141, paragraph 3) the testimony of Dr. Rene Roget was vague almost to the point of being misleading, but according to the District Officer and three natives, his alibi proved unimpeachable.
"You will note (page 13, Part I) that Miss L’Hommedieu had met the deceased in America, that he had arrived six months previous to his death to persuade her to marry him, and the only statement given by Miss L’Hommedieu to the District Officer was that Africa changed him.' Following this she disappeared and her whereabouts remain unknown despite every effort to find her."
Another shock . ., disappeared?
"It may be taken as established that Basil Hopkins French was abusive to the natives," continued the report, "and according to Dr. Rene Roget's testimony, he was seen to strike Miss L’Hommedieu on one occasion. It is known that Miss L’Hommedieu had not been popular with her superiors at the mission station in the capital, insisting the magic practiced by the witch doctors—not witches, she emphasized, but witch doctors—appeared to be more successful than either her prayers or the pills she dispensed, and that she counted Chief Kutemba 'a very good friend.' On the other hand, Mr. French referred to natives as animals, kaffirs, or swine.
"We can only regret," concluded the report, "the unfortunate attention accorded this trial in the newspapers of Africa and Europe, and express the sincere hope that any relatives of Basil Hopkins French may find consolation in the fact that every attempt was made to unearth the truth, but that this Government, in its finality, is prepared to accept the tribunal's conclusion of murder by person or persons unknown."
Nor person, thought Andrew, but persons.
He sat back on his heels in astonishment, trying to connect this with the Miss L’Hommedieu he knew. Africa! . .. Northern Rhodesia was Zambia now, wasn't it? and in 1946 it would have been a British protectorate, or some such, and she had lived there? She would have been young—it was fifty years ago, after all—and she would probably have worn a cork hat— that was de rigueur in those days, wasn't it? Her face would have been unlined, and perhaps her hair had been as black as her jet eyes. He pictured her as eager and idealistic; perceptive, too, he thought, this much was obvious from her appreciation of the natives' culture, when in those days they'd no doubt have been considered savages.
What could have happened on that day or night when Basil Hopkins French had been murdered? The report hinted at conspiracy; had Miss L’Hommedieu known that her errant lover was going to be murdered? The chief of the village had been a "good friend" to her. Had she been part of the conspiracy, if there was one? What had she felt when Basil Hopkins French was found murdered: relief? guilt? grief? And her strange disappearance, did it suggest help from persons wanting to protect her, or to prevent her from testifying?
He would read the inquiry in detail—all 149 pages of it, and then—yes, he would even read the book on missionary life, with its introduction to the language of Bemba, which she must have learned and spoken.
He realized that he had never considered anyone's past but his own—had nearly drowned in his, as a matter of fact. The mystery of this captured him.
My God, he thought, she could have killed him, and if not, she must have known who did. He wondered if she had been dismissed in disgrace by his missionary society; he wondered what nuances had made the trial so notorious; he wondered what her relationship had been with Dr. Rene Roget, in whose thoughts she had remained; he wondered what had happened to her in all the years since that long-ago murder trial.
She had said to him, "Once, long ago, I met with Reality and found it so pitiless and chilling that I have taken great pains to avoid it ever since." He remembered, too, the evening when he'd talked of murder as he sketched her portrait. "And have you ever met a murderer?" she had inquired tartly. "Even a sophisticated one?"
He rose and went to the window and looked down into the garden below, with its neat rows of green beans and broccoli, and saw that Miss L’Hommedieu's garden chair was still in place waiting for her.
She would miss the August harvest.
And he would miss her.
He thought that if spirits lingered for a time after death, and she was in this room with him now, at this moment, she must be very amused at his discovery, and not at all disconcerted. "Well, Andrew?" she would say with that faint, ironic smile.
He thought, She has brought curiosity—yes, and a sense of wonder—into my life.
The astonishment of her!
She deserved more than a poem. He turned and walked out of her room and into his own, and drawing notebook and pen from his knapsack he placed them on the table. He sat back a moment, thinking and remembering, but the words returned to him with a surprising clarity, and surely she'd not mind his borrowing them, at least for this moment.
"Well, Miss L’Hommedieu?" he said challengingly, and on this hot and breezeless day he felt a sudden draft of cold air across his back; the curtains at the window fluttered and then stilled.
With a nod he picked up his pen and began to write: "The fires were burning late that night, small coins of brightness against the impenetrable dark. There were no drums, for the night could be full of ears and what they planned must never be heard .. . Calmly, gravely, they discussed death.
"The death of Basil Hopkins French."
He paused. There would be weeks of research ahead, a good Bemba dictionary' to find, letters to write to Zambia and to London, documents and old news clippings to collect, Dr. Roget to trace, and every word of evidence studied in those 149 pages—wonderful, he thought—and with a rush of excitement he entered that African night to begin steeping himself in the mystery of Basil Hopkins French's death.
And the mystery of Miss L’Hommedieu.
An hour later, returning to the kitchen with his pocket crammed full of lists, he told Gussie, "There were no poetry books. Actually I'd thought of finding one all lace and chiffon for her."
Gussie gave him an enigmatic glance. "Lace and chiffon? She was an actress for a short time, you know, out of work, homeless, and living on the streets when Miss Thale found her."
He was not surprised; he realized that nothing about Miss L’Hommedieu—or anyone—could ever surprise him now.
"And had she been a good actress?" he asked.
'A good actress?" Gussie smiled. "On the stage, no."
"Ah," said Andrew, nodding, and he went out into the garden to find Tarragon and tell her that his last nightmare had ended, that Miss L’Hommedieu had left behind her a gift of enormous value for him, a puzzle to solve, a mystery to unravel, a story that excited him, a book to write. Had to write. Must write.
Nor would Miss L'Hommedieu be at all surprised,
he thought, that by chance it was he who had opened her trunk. She would only say, borrowing freely again from Anatole France, that Chance was the word God used when he wished to remain anonymous.
Thales's Folly Page 15