by Anna Lord
“Yes,” admitted Inez and this time there was no dark red flush. “The men I sleep with they have committed some bad deed – robbery, murder, forgery - they must pay for their sin. It is right and fitting in the eyes of God to atone for sin on this earth and then later in heaven. I helped the mistress to bring justice before the Day of Judgement.”
“You were doing a good deed?”
“Yes, yes, it is good in the eyes of God to confess sin and pay for wrong-doing.”
“I see. After the mistress went missing, do you think Velazquez decided to do some good deeds in the eyes of God for himself?”
Inez shook her head fervently. “No, no, he is not brave, he is timid, and he does not know any stories about the sins of the four señores.”
“Only the mistress knew about the four señores – is that what you swear?”
“Yes, yes, not me and not Velazquez. He only goes to the bed of men who like to be with men and the two fat English ladies who came one time to the Hotel Louve by mistake. They are dead three years last summer and there is no more chantage to pay.”
The Countess pondered this fresh information. It meant Velazquez could not have been attempting to blackmail the four men. That meant they had no reason to kill him. But they had plenty of reason to kill the Singing Wolf. Did Velazquez inadvertently spoil their murderous plan? Was he in the wrong place at the wrong time that night? He was certainly terrified of them. To run out of the gate and take his chances in hostile territory was an act of sheer terror. So what did he really hear that night? It was looking less and less likely that it was Sarazan. It had to be one of the men making love to their hostess prior to killing her. Velazquez’s explanation concerning the heavy breathing seemed genuine. He had been genuinely embarrassed to have to say it in front of her. He had believed it. What happened afterwards was anybody’s guess. All four men may have been involved with the disposing of the body.
“Did you believe Velazquez when he said he went to get a drink in the middle of the night?”
“Yes, he went often to get a drink in the night. Everyone knew that.”
“Were you awake?’
“Yes, I sleep badly because the bed is lumpy and I am sore from riding the horse all day and the noises are strange. I hear the wolves howling. I hear the wind crying. I am frightened of more rockslides. I hear when Velazquez goes past. I hear when Desi goes to the kitchen for food. I hear when Milo goes to the kitchen for -”
“Hang on a moment,” interrupted the Countess, remembering something the girl said about the order of events. “Were Desi and Milo in the kitchen at the same time?”
Inez did not answer right away. She fixed her gaze on the crackling fire. “No, I think not. But Desi did not go back to her bed either. I did not hear her bed creak. That’s how I knew she was lying when she said Velazquez went to her room after visiting me. She was not there and he never went to her room. Never! He preferred men and she was black and hairy like an ape. She disgusted him. She worked as a freak in a circus when she ran away from the orphanage. She was truly savage when she first came to the Hotel Louve begging for work. I think she went to the dairy room for some butter while Milo was in the kitchen. She likes to eat the butter straight from the knife. Milo ran back to his bed like he saw a ghost. I saw him run past my door just before Velazquez came back. Velazquez came to my room to talk but I shouted at him to go away. That’s all I remember.”
“You don’t remember hearing Desi go back to bed?”
“No, I was asleep by then. Desi likes to eat as much as Velazquez likes to drink.”
“What do you think happened to your mistress?”
“I think the old man and his wife killed her.”
“Why would they do that?”
Inez had clearly given the question some thought. She did not hesitate. “I think they want to keep the little girl for themselves. I think they know where the Cathar tresor is hidden. I think they want to keep that for themselves too.”
“Who do you think killed Milo?”
“I think it was the old man. I think Milo saw something he should not see.”
“Did you know he carried a knife?”
“Yes, that is why he wore two pairs of socks. Everyone knew that.”
“What about Herr von Gunn? Who do you think killed him?”
Inez glanced fearfully at the door. “I think he was opening the gate for the bandits when the gate fell on him. I think we will all be murdered in our beds tonight. I will pray to God to grant me mercy, to make my end swift and painless.” She made the sign of the cross.
The Countess did not contradict Inez but it was not possible for the portcullis to fall accidentally. It took considerable strength to turn the shaft.
“Before you go back to the kitchen I want you to go to the south tower and bring me the black leather costume. My maid will show you where to find it. She is keeping watch over the girl. You can sleep in here tonight. I will have need of a maidservant to help me with my toilette. Xenia will remain in the tower all night. Do not tell anyone about the costume. Make sure no one sees you.”
The Countess closed her eyes and played with different scenarios in her head. Every time a fact did not fit she had to start again. What gave her the most concern was the death of von Gunn. Why kill him? The only thing that made sense was that he had had a falling out with the other men. Perhaps he had wanted to confess and they had silenced him.
Desi arrived to empty Dr Watson’s bath. The Countess caught up to her as she was sluicing the chute in the garderobe of the east wing.
“I want to speak to you. It will not take long. Did you see anyone else creeping about during the night your mistress disappeared? I know Velazquez was in the great hall having a drink and Milo was cutting some bread. Did you notice anyone else?”
Desi shook her frowzy head and, disappointed, the Countess changed tack.
“You liked Velazquez – was he sometimes cruel to you?”
She nodded and then nodded harder.
“What about Milo? Did you like him?”
She nodded again.
“Was he sometimes cruel?”
She shook her head and her bottom lip appeared to quiver.
“And Inez – do you like her?”
“Yes.”
“Is she sometimes cruel?”
“Yes.”
“Was your mistress sometimes cruel?”
She shrugged her big broad shoulders, though not carelessly the way some people do, it was more as if to say this was the way of the world and she was resigned to it.
“People can be cruel. Herr von Gunn was cruel when he spoke to you.”
Desi shrugged again, the action implied – such is life!
Wearily, the Countess made her way to the great hall to find Dr Watson bedding down the fire. The three men had retired to their rooms. The death of von Gunn had affected them greatly. They didn’t know what to make of it and were looking forward to packing up and turning their backs on Chanteloup. Nothing had been decided about the girl. They would probably turn their backs on her as well. Dr Watson, suppressing a yawn, bid the Countess goodnight and left her sitting alone staring blankly at the embers. Their sojourn at Chanteloup had the feel of an allegorical dream, full of troubadours, jongleurs, a dark queen, a fair princess, jealous vassals and guarded secrets - as strange and surreal as the images on the tapestries depicting le chanson de geste – the song of deeds. Tomorrow they would wake up and it would be over. Perhaps they would find none of it was real.
22
Chanson de Geste
The clock struck midnight as the Countess sat bolt upright, vivified by an epopayaic revelation. The rush of blood to her head left her feeling giddy. There was no time to lose.
Fedir, who had taken it upon himself to act as personal bodyguard while his mistress dozed in the chair by the fire, was slumped out of sight on a bench tucked into an unobtrusive alcove. She summoned him to her side and informed him of her plan.
Next,
she hurried to the west wing. Moriarty’s door was bolted. She knocked softly, trying not to wake anyone else. Nothing happened. She knocked again, slightly harder. Slowly the door opened and she crossed the threshold into the dark maw of his bedroom.
“Put that down,” she said, using an index finger to push away the gun barrel pressed to her temple.
He was poised behind the door and obligingly lowered his weapon. “Is this a social call or are all my dreams about to come true?”
“This is serious. Shut-up and listen. There isn’t much time to explain. I think there’s going to be an attempt on the life of the girl tonight. I’ve just dispatched Fedir to the south tower to take his sister’s place. He’s armed and hiding in the closet. I need you to provide back-up. Put on some clothes.”
“You trust me?” There was genuine surprise in his intonation.
“I have no other choice.”
“That’s not an answer – yes or no?”
“Yes – is that what you need to hear?”
He made an unsavoury grunt deep in his throat as he fumbled around in the dark for his trousers and began to tug them on. “It will suffice for now. How do you know there will be an attempt on the girl’s life?”
She braced herself for the usual glib retort. “Female intuition – I don’t have a better explanation and before you mock -”
“I’m not about to mock anything. What women call ‘female intuition’ men call ‘gut instinct’. If more people paid attention to it they would save themselves a lot of strife. Who do you think is going to attempt to kill the girl?”
“I’m not going to say. I don’t want to give you any preconceived ideas.”
He chuckled mirthlessly as he located a smelly shirt and thrust his arms into the sleeves. “The Foreign Office should put women in charge of military operations,” he mused sardonically, mismatching buttons to button-holes. “I will petition the Queen upon my return – presuming I live long enough to ever get home: Attack that ridge and overpower the enemy but I’m not going to tell you who we’re fighting or where the enemy is or even how many of the buggers there might be – I don’t want to give you any preconceived ideas!”
She was not in the mood for drollery. “Are you dressed yet?”
“Almost – it would help if there was some candlelight.”
“We cannot risk it.”
“Help me find my socks.”
“Here’s one.” She tossed it to him where he was sitting on the end of the bed.
“You sound serious – and worried.”
“I am – oh, here’s the other sock.”
She had been standing with her back to him, arms crossed, nervously tapping her foot on the old oak boards as she kept an eye on the corridor to make sure she hadn’t woken anyone else.
“Shoes,” he whispered.
“There are some leather boots here by the door.”
“They’ll do. Pass them across.”
“Are you done?”
“My other Webley is under the pillow. I’ll just grab it in the event I need two guns.”
“Let’s hurry. We could be too late already.”
“Hang on a minute.” He caught her arm. “We?”
“I’m going with you. I’ll hide behind the daybed.”
“In case you’re unable to comprehend Irish humour, I was kidding about women on campaign. I prefer to operate solo. I’m making an exception in the case of your manservant because you leave me no choice and I’m still in the dark about who or what or how many buggers I’m expected to overpower.”
She broke free. “You’re wasting time. Let’s go.”
He was forced to follow in her wake though some throaty rumbling made it clear he wasn’t too happy about it. There was even a fleeting moment when they crossed the great hall whereby he wondered if he was being set-up. A cold draught of air from the kitchen stairs reminded him von Gunn was dead. Was he next in line for an appointment with the Grim Reaper?
They were about to lift the tapestry and step onto the spiral stairs when he swung her into his arms and delivered a brutal kiss that was even more audacious than the one that left him stinging. But this time she kissed him back. It put fire in his belly and poured cold water on his doubts and fears at the same time. That’s why women made such damned good assassins. Men could never see the bullet coming.
“Not now,” she said when he came up for air.
“When?”
“Never!”
He laughed softly into the side of her neck. “You’ve got a lot to learn about granting a man going off to war his dying wish.”
“Hush!” She put her finger to her lips while she lifted back the tapestry and listened for the slightest noise. When she was satisfied there was no one on the stairs she signalled for him to follow her up to the south tower where a single candle flickered in a silver holder on the bedside table, creating surreal shadows on the exquisite fabliaux of Le Roman de la Rose.
Fedir was in position, que vivre. He appeared and disappeared in the blink of an eye. The girl was sleeping in the big bed, her vibrant yellow hair forming a throbbing sinuous halo on the pillow. The Countess crouched behind the daybed and Moriarty slipped behind the door.
Experience had taught him that nerves taut with tension were a good thing. His body was preparing itself for imminent attack. The only problem was he didn’t know from what direction the attack might come. There was Fedir hiding in the closet, the Countess behind the day bed, and the door that gave entry to the chamber ready to admit who, what, how many? He needed to keep an eye out for the sleeping girl too. He could not overlook her in the hope she would take care of herself in the event of a gun battle. His blood was pumping, his limbs were pumped.
The trio remained in hiding for an unknown length of time. The candle burnt down to a fat stump and began to splutter. The wick poked out of a tiny pool of hot wax that ran down the side of the candlestick and dripped on the bedside table, leaving a soft clumpy mass. Pretty soon they would be left in the dark. Moriarty began to wonder if he was on a fool’s errand and even the Countess began to doubt herself when at last they were alerted to a footfall on the stone stairs. Someone was coming.
Moriarty thought there might be just the one assailant from the sounds of it, but his instincts warned him not to relax his guard. The moment a man underestimated his enemy he was done for. The first might be a scout. The others might be hanging back. His gun was cocked, his breath was drawn. Someone was standing in the doorway.
Come on, come on, urged the Irishman, as a dark shadow crept stealthily forward.
Moriarty was tossing up whether to make a bold move or hold back when the decision was wrenched from him. A knife whistled through the darksome air and found its mark. The girl in the bed didn’t stand a chance, she didn’t even cry out. There was just a sickening crunch as the knife lodged in the small golden head. It sounded like the cracking of a walnut. He slammed the door to stop the killer fleeing. The backdraft blew out what was left of the flickering wick. The killer lashed out and lurched toward the closet. Moriarty copped a fist to his head and slammed back against the wall, winded. Fedir stepped forward to block the path of the killer and was knocked to the ground with a well-placed fist to the face. It knocked him out cold. The killer must have been familiar with the enfilade of dressing rooms. Moriarty picked himself up and gave chase. The killer ran straight for the garderobe and slammed the door. The bolt rammed home. Moriarty drew the bolt this side and there was no escape. The killer was trapped!
In the meantime, the Countess had lighted several fresh candles and was attempting to rouse her manservant. Moriarty retraced his steps, passing both of them, to check on the girl though he didn’t hold out much hope that he would find her alive. He cursed himself for his momentary inaction as he pulled back the feathered quilt and braced for the gruesome sight. But the sight that confronted him knocked for six. It was the doll! The porcelain head had been cracked by a sharp blade. The girl was nowhere to be seen. He sho
ok himself, picked up the doll and sat down on the side of the bed as he tried to gather his senses. Everything had happened so quickly he hardly had time to get his head around it.
The Countess joined him a few minutes later. She looked calm and in control and it unnerved him more. What the hell was going on?
“How’s your manservant?” he asked first up, sounding slightly dazed, though not from the physical knock to the head.
“He’s got a bloody nose. He’s gone to the bathroom to wash his face.”
“Where’s the girl?”
“She’s safe and sound in my room with my maid. I placed the doll in the bed and padded it up to make it look like Lalique. I couldn’t risk her waking up at the wrong moment or even, as you see, getting killed.”
He drew breath for the first time in what seemed like an age. “Everything happened so fast. I didn’t even get to see who it was. Who,” he stammered, “who was it?”
“Desi.”
“Desi!”
The Countess picked up the lethal blade and studied it. “I think we’ll find this is the carving knife from the kitchen.”
“But why? Why?” he repeated, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I’d only be guessing if I answered that question, though I’m fairly certain I’ve got the right answer. I’m going to speak to her now.”
“Don’t even dream of unbolting that door,” he warned sternly, tossing the doll on the bed and following quickly after her. “Desi’s dangerous, possibly mad. There’s no saying what murderous rage she’ll unleash the moment she gets out of that garderobe.”
“I promise not to unbolt the door. Let me do the talking. She’ll clam up if she knows you’re listening. You need to keep your trap shut.”
The Countess put her ear to the door. Within, all was quiet.