Murder at Malenfer

by Iain McChesney

  “Scrap iron for the war?” She was apart from the other young ladies, long black hair and deep green eyes; he’d been watching her since he got there.

  “No, silly. Religion.”

  “That’s a bit strong for a church lunch, wouldn’t you say? The old girls here are liable to eat you alive if you keep saying things like that.”

  “I’m Simonne,” she extended her hand, “and next week is my birthday.”

  Mademoiselle was turning eighteen and had the presumption to invite him along, the dashing young man from Paris. His father had been very pleased to hear of it. He’d gone, of course, and the courtship had progressed by bounds. The war had ended on November 11th, and to celebrate he’d asked for her hand.

  “Yes. I suppose that’s what comes next.”

  He remembered that when she’d said it, the world had seemed so bright.

  * * *

  “What are you saying about Simonne?” His father repeated himself.

  “I don’t think I want to marry her after all.”

  Robert watched as his father digested the news; he didn’t think it had gone down very well. His father made his distant smiling face, the one he wore when he wanted to kill.

  Crevel finally continued in a soft, slow staccato. “And what would make you think to break off your engagement with the eminently suitable Mademoiselle?”

  “I don’t know.” That wasn’t the right thing to say. “I don’t know, it just doesn’t seem right,” he tried to elaborate. Robert was surprised at himself. He’d managed to say it. “She’s different, father, and not in the normal way. She’s nice and all, but the things she talks about sometimes... the way she looks at things... I’m not entirely sure she’s all there.”

  “And what” – Crevel often started his sentences this way when he was annoyed (his voice was in the habit of pitching high over the ‘t’) – “does that have to do with anything?”

  “Well, she is, she’s great... but she’s going to be my wife, father. I mean, I’d like one that’s right in the head.” He stumbled a bit for his words. “It’s just, well, it’s forever, you know, dad? There’s so much out there to do and none of this has to be now, and maybe Simonne isn’t right?”

  Crevel restrained the urge to lift his cane up and rap Robert’s thick curly head. Tact, he thought, taking deep breaths, use tact.

  “I thought you loved her?” Crevel went for the reasoned approach. “I thought she was everything and a delight?” He mimicked his son quite well.

  “Oh I do, I do,” Robert defended. “Well, I thought I did.”

  “You’ve met another girl?” Crevel interrogated.

  “No, no! It’s not that. It’s just Simonne. She’s just... I just think that keeping her happy is going to be a bit of a chore.” Robert sighed.

  “Dear God.” Now it was Crevel’s turn to sigh. He thought for a moment. “Have you told her this?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “What about anyone else?”

  “No, just you.”

  “Then look here, Robert, there are a few things you should take into consideration, a few things it’s important to know.”

  Robert was listening. He was happy to listen to advice; it was taking it that he sometimes had difficulty with.

  “You’re going to marry her,” Crevel said.

  “But I don’t think I want to, father...”

  “I hear you, Robert,” Crevel cut him off, “but in this instance you are going to do what you’re damn well told.”

  Robert looked sulky. Crevel ignored this and relayed his advice.

  “You’ll continue to pay her attentions, but don’t fawn over her – women hate fawners.” He paused then went on, as if reading now from a list. “Pay her a compliment, do so regularly, but don’t ooze it, it can’t seem contrived. Sparingly, but it should seem sincere; spontaneous is better yet.

  “The next bits are important,” he went on, as if consulting a manual. “Don’t ever forget her birthday or your wedding anniversary, and if you can manage it, surprise her with something on the day that you first met, that anniversary too, she’ll love that. The first two are absolutes; treat the latter as a bonus. Importantly, if she says she wants nothing or needs nothing or you should pay such things no heed, do not for a single moment believe her! Are you listening?”

  Robert nodded, though unsure of where his father was going here.

  “Now, this funeral is a great opportunity for you,” Crevel resumed. “They’re all a little fragile about poor Michel.” Crevel wrung theatrical tears from his eyes. “What you need to show here is that you are a pillar of strength! You!” He jabbed a finger at Robert. “They like that. It shows dependability, a strong arm to lean on. Good husband material.” He painted the air with his hands.

  “But I’m already engaged to her. I don’t want to marry her now...”

  His father ignored him. “You must play her like a fish, Robert! And what a fish she is!”

  “No, father. I’ve got her, I just don’t think I want her...”

  “Nonsense!” Crevel boomed, and then quieted down. He feared the coachman would hear him over the trundle of the rolling spokes. “Do you know what it is you have here?” His voice turned thick like cold treacle as he asked the question of his son. There was no answer forthcoming, so Crevel provided the answers himself.

  “Is she alluring, beautiful even? Yes she is, she is ravishing, and still only half the woman she might become. Just look at her mother... no, you’re still far too young. Consider yourself lucky and just take my word. Then consider, Robert, whether she is intelligent. A match for you and more... don’t look sour, boy, you don’t want a boring one.” Crevel was being unkind but not insincere. “Is she of a suitable age? Eighteen and a peach, ripe for the plucking; no dowager for you, my boy! And is she of good family?” Here and only now did Crevel pause as if his train of thought had hit a washed out bridge or was going so fast as to leave him breathless and incapable of speech.

  Crevel had hunched forward over his knees as he spoke, leaning into Robert, forcing his son to retreat. But now he sat back, sprawling in the coach as Robert had done, lolling like a libertine. He glanced out of the window at the fields and gray sky as a carefree man of leisure might, knowing the day before him was his, and whatever he chose to make of it.

  “Simonne’s an heiress, my boy. Michel is dead. This isn’t a farm we’re rolling through, son, it’s an Empire in the making!” He capitalized the word for Robert’s benefit. “This sweet little girl all of eighteen years old has fallen for you, and the Fates have gifted her a picnic basket with everything you see stuffed inside it. All you view here will one day be hers!

  “Let me tell you, Robert.” Now Crevel was steaming, his boiler lit and stoked well. “Let me tell you!” he repeated. “If she were half as rich with one third the brain and plain as stone to look at, you would still damn well marry her for what she brings. Do you understand me? Pennies from heaven, Robert, these are pennies from heaven!”

  Crevel fought to control himself; he saw Robert was sulking and changed tack to accommodate.

  “Some things we do from the heart, Robert, and some things we do from the head. In the matter of your engagement, I wish you could satisfy both.”

  Robert was quiet. He didn’t argue – he already knew where this was going.

  “But if that’s not to be,” Crevel continued, “then don’t be a fool. Do the right thing, Robert, marry the girl, and find your happiness elsewhere.”

  * * *

  The procession eventually arrived. It was a regal affair inside the chapel. The Crevels shared the front pew with the Malenfers, Robert and Simonne sitting together, the crowd filling the place and beyond. When it came time, Crevel rose, as arranged, to say a few words. He chose a route up the center aisle to reach the dais, his purple sash of office crisp and unmistakable across his medaled breast. All eyes that day were his.

  He did not rush or hurry or fluster, nor did he tarry, but in h
is bearing and pace he conveyed both the weight of his elected office and the occasion that had brought them all together.

  He spoke of the Michel that he might have known – memories of a youth with a tanned smiling face, a boy he saw running through high grass, pumping legs chasing after a ball. He spoke of a lad full of life and promise, a boy that cared about others (Robert raised an eyebrow only here), a joy to his family, so full of potential, and taken all too soon to the grave.

  The war had touched so many, and the flu was everywhere. There was not a family present that couldn’t relate to the speech. Crevel himself even managed a tear.

  Sixteen years old, dear God. Crevel reflected on the Fates. In pace requiescat, young man. Rest in the peace denied the rest of us.

  8

  The Life Hereafter

  Dermot was up early despite his libations of the previous evening. His excesses were only externally evident around the shadows of his eyes. Arthur was already awake.

  “Still here, I see?” Dermot said. “No change of heart?”

  Evidently not. Arthur was dressed and sitting in the solitary chair. The Lieutenant smoked contentedly on his Meerschaum pipe.

  “Darmannes.”

  “What is that?”

  “Darmannes,” repeated Arthur. “It’s the closest station to where I live.”

  “Do you know the time of the trains?”

  Arthur did. Unless they fancied overnighting it there wasn’t much time to spare.

  Dermot washed at the only basin and changed his shirt for another. He kept on the suit he’d worn the previous night; indeed he had no other. The rest of his things fit easily into a duffle kit bag.

  “I thought I traveled light,” Arthur said to him, noting Dermot’s Spartan bundle.

  Dermot finished shaving. He dried himself with a towel, and then used it to wrap his few toiletries in. These were the last to go into the top of his bag before he pulled the laces shut.

  “The hand luggage is easy,” he said. “It’s my trunk that weighs a ton.”

  It weighed a ton.

  “Give us a hand.” Dermot dragged the large lock box from out of the corner where it had been covered by a blanket.

  “I can’t, mon ami. I’m no help at all.” Arthur was regretful. “It’s a problem with the life hereafter.”

  “Oh, you’re still on about that, are you?” Dermot had hoped it would pass.

  “You’re not trying to steal out past your landlady?” Arthur chastised, seeing the room now quite deserted. “Are you planning on coming back here?”

  “Well, that depends a bit on you, don’t you think?” The Irishman strained at the load.

  The gray bun guarded the street door, disapproving of the noise and the early morning disturbance. No one was sneaking past lines while she was on picket duty.

  “You look better than you should, Monsieur Ward.”

  Dermot settled his accounts with her and went out to hail a motor taxi.

  The trunk was loaded and secured, though not without bad language, and they made the Gare de l’Est with an hour to spare before their train’s departure. Dermot, giving Arthur a look, surrendered to the porters. At ten past eight the stationmaster blew on his whistle shrilly; the guard signaled with his flag, and their carriage gave a shudder. It lurched again, bucked, and creaked while both men looked out the window. They set out first class to Malenfer Manor with Dermot refreshed from the joy of travel. They floated east on clacking track, each saying their own farewells to Paris.

  “Tickets, please.” Their carriage was at the rear of the train, the furthest from the boiler.

  “Two for Darmannes, one way, please.” Dermot asked.

  “Two, monsieur?” The conductor checked.

  “Yes, two, and he’ll be paying.”

  “He?” said the conductor.

  “I told you,” Arthur said helpfully.

  Dermot looked like a man hit by a snowball in July. Arthur, sitting across from him, shifted in his chair, and raised his broad wide shoulders in a “What can I do?” appeal. Dermot turned to the conductor. “Are you telling me, honestly, that you don’t see that man right there?” He pointed to make it clear, lest there be confusion with all the other empty seats.

  “Monsieur.” The conductor was a sensitive man; he had fought in the war himself. He had known men that returned home troubled, and he had a measure of respect. All the same, this was a first class carriage, and he had a job to do.

  “If Monsieur needs assistance, perhaps he best take some air at the next station? Otherwise, a one one-way ticket to Darmannes will be two francs, ten centimes.”

  “Two francs!”

  “And ten centimes.”

  “Do you have two francs on you, Arthur?”

  “I regret, Dermot. Money means nothing to me now.”

  Dermot dug out two francs. It left a hole in his wallet big enough to crawl inside.

  “Merci, monsieur.” The conductor left him alone.

  “You know what that means?” Dermot continued after a minute for reflection.

  “Prices have gone up?” Arthur suggested.

  “It means I really have lost it. I’m on a train to goodness knows where, I’ve quit my rooms, and the friend I’m helping is only in my head.” Dermot seemed resigned.

  “Not one bit of it, my friend,” Arthur continued sucking on his pipe. “Choosing first class! I do like your style. But you see what I mean about behaving around others? Mind how you act – you’ll get funny looks otherwise.”

  “That’s great advice. The talking thing in my head is now giving me advice. This keeps getting better.”

  “I am not a ‘thing.’ You’re doing well. Honestly, sit back, it will be fine, don’t worry. You’ll like the place when we get there.”

  Dermot raised his eyes to Arthur at last. “You’re really not in my head. Are you?”

  “Well, no and yes. I know what you mean. I’m not your imagination.”

  “Jesus wept.” Dermot examined his hands. He thought he should find them shaking. “How did this happen, Arthur?”

  “I told you last night,” he replied.

  “Well, last night I wasn’t really asking.”

  “I don’t know,” Arthur told him again. “It just did. I’m not sure why or what or anything. But I died. I died, and then I was still here.”

  “It’s a long haul to Darmannes, Arthur. I’m in a listening mood.”

  And so Arthur told his tale.

  Lieutenant Arthur Malenfer sat alone on the empty terrace, tightly wrapped in his plaid blanket of red dyed wool. He was sunk low in the wicker seat into which he’d squeezed himself. The spot Arthur took, his spot, as the Lieutenant liked to think of it, commanded a clear view over wide lawns and bedded gardens that only now were emerging, hours since his vigil began, from the mist of a winter’s dawn.

  A towering maple tree with branches bare stood in the center of the garden. Bearded moss dripped from it. The tree caught the first morning sun in its dewy coat and glittered good cheer. The ground beneath it opened gradually to the human eye’s caress. It was a pleasant view over which Arthur gazed, and it was familiar to him. He knew, though could not yet see, that in the distance behind the grand tree, beyond these manicured lawns, there was a high brick wall behind a hedge that marked the end of the hospital grounds. And in this wall was a tall wooden gate that the staff would lock at sundown.

  His fellow convalescents, those who were physically able, were encouraged by their doctors to take the air and seek out the gate in the wall. They would stroll out to the wood, under the canopy of ancient trees that pressed up tight against their garden. The wood stretched its limbs invitingly and beckoned you to join them. Arthur liked that route and took it often. If you opened the door in the tall brick wall and followed the path behind it, it would bring you to a bridge of sorts, rough planks and windfall branches. Someone (he’d often wondered who) had gone to a lot of trouble. The bridge itself spanned a small fast creek, the last obstacl
e before the fields.

  At this moment, Arthur could hear the distant churning of those waters, the stream in spate from the heavy rains that had fallen the preceding evening. They’d gone on, uninterrupted until two hours ago. Arthur had noted the hour. To this faint burble of worldly song a trilling tune was added, the morning chorus in the country air that lofted through the branches. Arthur felt a beauty in that moment, one that perhaps existed for him alone in all the broken world. Not a stir had he heard from the army hospital whose rooms sat close behind him.

  The mist on the garden shifted. Arthur drew up and peered over the balcony, alert to the emerging scene. Tiny things still, small green fingers, pushed up from below through the grasses – crocuses had sprouted in a tight druid’s circle from the roots of the giant maple.

  It was a faerie vision, life sprung from the frozen ground, and it was filled with such bright promise! Here he was in February, the month not yet half over, and here was the gift of flowers. Crisp flint blues and spotless whites, the whole flecked with gold. Soon, he knew, their blooms would shine, and spring would surely follow. They were inconsequential in their own way, but for Arthur they held a hope. They were proof of a sort, evidence even, that the earth held not only the dead things.

  Lieutenant Arthur Malenfer smiled at the picture and wrestled with his blanket once more. It was a pleasure he knew, and he’d take what he could, but it brought no peace to his soul.

  Before the Great War, the hospital in Épernay had been a country residence for one hundred and seventy years. It was owned by a grasping family, a tribe of palming pompadours who leased it only grudgingly to the Ministry of the Interior. They got an unfavorable rent for it, draconian terms imposed by the Prefecture of the District and presented to them by a Commissar. In June of 1914, the Ministry took what it wanted.