by Lazlo Ferran
***
I was in my office, drinking coffee and browsing through Le Monde when the headline on page three caught my eye:
Young Woman’s Mangled Body Found in Lyon Back Street
I read on. “The young woman, dressed in evening attire and now identified as Seline Godin was found on the night of Friday 11 July in the Rue Calas, a quiet street in Lyon. Police would like to speak to anybody in that vicinity around 11.40 pm. An intense police search is under way to catch the killer and although there is little evidence to go on, the body is described as being crushed, ‘as if by a giant fist’.”
Spluttering into my coffee, I swung my legs off the table and reread the article slowly. When I finished, I picked up the telephone and dialed our home number.
“Darling. Have you seen the article in Le Monde today?”
“No. What article?”
“I am coming home. Wait there!”
I slammed the phone down, grabbed the car-keys, and paper, and drove home as fast as I could.
“God, you look a mess!” She leaned close to me. “And you stink. Look at this.” She pulled at my shirt front. “You lost a button.”
I showed her the newspaper.
“Um hm. Yes it is interesting. You know what I think?” she said after quickly scanning the article.
“What?”
“Well I hardly like to say, really?”
“Go on?”
“Well it could be the same murderer. Perhaps he is back.”
She looked nervously at me for my reaction. Obviously I knew she was thinking of a human murderer, but I didn’t care. For now it was enough to have caught her interest.
The newspaper was dated Friday, 14 July, 1985. Rose, or the dragon as I now called her, and I had drifted apart and I spent more and more time at the office; often staying late to read my occult books and getting very drunk, mainly on ouzo. We were moving towards divorce and we both knew it. Since the day Annie had died our marriage had been a train heading for the buffers. Nothing we could do or say seemed to make things any better. My one slim hope of redemption, and thus of saving the marriage had been somehow to prove that I really had seen what I had described to her, but the very pursuit of this truth seemed to her further proof of my madness.
I didn’t stay, and back at the office, I rifled through piles of documents looking for just one particular one with a telephone number on it. In the years between the death of Annie and now, I had joined several occult societies. One such society I had joined – the Venerable Order of St. John of Jerusalem, a revival of the Knights Hospitallers – had only gained general acceptance as a serious society in 1963, and through their newsletter I had started up a correspondence with a Henry de Silva.
Henry lived in France, in Lyon in fact, but had been born in England and served in the Army in World War II. Shortly after his wife had died of cancer he had moved to Lyon to pursue his passion for genealogy. He believed his ancestors to have been Huguenots although I always thought his family name sounded more Spanish, which would make them unlikely Protestant refugees. However he was a genial fellow and his knowledge of Medieval France and the Occult was impressive. I was sure I could recall seeing his telephone number on one of his letters and I wanted to call him straight away. After turning half the office upside down I found it.
“Henry.”
“Yes?”
I reminded him who I was.
“Have you seen that article in Le Monde? About the girl who was found dead in Lyon? You must have heard of it?”
“Yes. Of course. How could I not. It’s been all over the papers. Strange isn’t it?”
“Strange? Well no. I didn’t think so. It sounds just like what happened to Annie!”
“Ah yes. I thought you would say that. You shouldn’t get too excited dear boy but I admit, it has potential.”
“Listen. Can we possibly get together some time? I really need your confidence and I have a lot of stuff to show you.”
“Well certainly. I would love to see you.”
“When is good for you?”
“Well anytime. My social calendar is hardly full you know.”
“Tomorrow? Midday?”
“Um. Yes I think so. I will have to get my cleaner to brush the house down a bit.”