The mayor, a substantial man in a dark suit with short black hair flecked all over with grey, was subdued by his solemn purpose. He was anxious that his choice of phrases should be appropriately delicate; it was a few minutes before Jane could discern the facts among the extreme regrets and the unfortunate necessities.
At the railway yard at Bordeaux, where the communal train had stopped for fuel, routine checks were made and remains, perhaps human, had been discovered at the front of the engine. A search had been made immediately, although after first light progress had been much faster. It was at the edge of their land that a discovery had been made.
Stephen came out to join her and, steadied by his solid innocence at her side, Jane delivered her account of Michael’s movements the day before. Soon Louisa and Antony joined them and the mayor, reassured to find that the lady had the support of her friends and family, continued with the suggestion to which he had given greatest thought; the scene of such an accident was difficult to speak of. By the afternoon the police surgeon would have supervised the removal to his laboratory. It was unfortunately necessary to make a formal identification, and possible for the family to do so then.
When the time came, they accomplished the affair with due formality and undue tact. She chose to go alone. She was shown an unmarked shoe and a few fragments of Michael’s wallet and the papers in it. It was enough.
The hardest task was to tell the children, but they had few words, death being too large for their understanding to grasp at once. Imogen was ready to be tough, but stopped herself. It was of course Stephen who was distressed. The years of antagonism between Michael and himself immediately weighed on his conscience; he wanted to talk over their last encounter, concerned that his hostility, however well checked, had been a factor affecting Michael’s actions afterwards. The others listened and reassured him. Jane went out to the terrace and stood looking over the drenched land, hearing the night’s rainfall still dripping from, stems. Her mind was washed out now. There would be an inquest, of course, but she contemplated that without alarm.
That was wrong. She strained to find the correct emotions. Where were they – her grief, her remorse, her guilt? Had she perhaps lost the ability to feel what was natural in all those years of collaboration with Michael’s deceptions? A great man was dead – and she acknowledged Michael had been a great man, in the world if not in his home. His children were fatherless, and would never know the circumstances of his death. Try as she might to goad her instincts into life, they did not respond; she wanted to weep but her eyes were dry and she wanted to reproach herself but her heart was unmoved. In hatred, in a foolish conspiracy with a stranger, she had committed a crime – at the very least she should be afraid.
Instead, an unearthly tranquillity possessed her. It was beyond her at that moment to be more than anxious or fearful for the future. Perhaps soon her conscience would rear up and destroy this new peace; if it did, could that be worse than what she had endured before?
Copyright
First published in 1995 by Viking
This edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world
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Copyright © Celia Brayfield, 1995
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