Murder at Malenfer

by Iain McChesney

  “I am very pleased that you’ve come, Monsieur.” She showed all the emotion of wax. “We are all of us here far too miserable. You will cheer us up, I hope.”

  “I’d be glad to try, Madame.”

  “You were with Arthur’s regiment?”

  “No. Seconded. I was with the Legion.”

  “Your rank, Mr. Ward?”

  “I was a sergeant.”

  “Indeed. Not an officer, then.”

  “I was an engineer, ma’am, but I’m now discharged from the service.”

  “My family has a long honorable tradition, Mr. Ward. My husband was a Colonel. He fought in the last war with Prussia and was recognized for it.”

  “So I understand. My condolences again, ma’am.”

  “This war has almost done for us, Mr. Ward. My family is very close to me, and there isn’t much left of it now.”

  It seemed rehearsed. She held her hand out, palm down to him, and Dermot didn’t know whether to shake the thing or kiss it. He floundered and did neither. Madame withdrew her small hand with a murmured “Hmmmmm” and a look he couldn’t fathom.

  Noisy footsteps preceded the return of Émile. Accompanying him was a bulwark of a woman on the downside of middling years.

  “Berthe here will show you to your room” – Madame took notice of his damp condition – “that you may change. Where did you put the bags, Émile?”

  “The luggage is to follow, Madame.”

  “Well, you’re wet,” Madame observed, “but we’ll take care of you.” She looked Dermot over. “Berthe, see to it that everything is provided for.”

  “Yes, Madame,” said the housekeeper.

  “We dine at eight sharp, Mr. Ward,” Madame announced. “As luck would have it, we are on a farm, so we can offer you a dinner. Starvation is about the only thing we haven’t died of lately.”

  “Thank you Madame,” Dermot bowed; addressing her this way seemed natural. “That would be just grand.”

  Madame did not return his smile nor give another word. She turned back to the staircase and returned the way she’d come, but a quarter of the way back up the steps a sharp cough broke from her lungs. It racked her chest and paralyzed her; she leaned against the banister. Dermot thought to move and help her but was stalled by the reaction of the others. The servants ignored the episode completely; they behaved as if it had never happened. It passed in seconds, and Madame took her leave without further explanation. Dermot and Arthur shared a look. Both of them were left to wonder.

  “If you’ll follow me, sir, I’ll get you settled. And welcome to Malenfer Manor.”

  * * *

  The doughty housekeeper brought him to a door, down a wainscoted hall, up one flight of stairs. “Please make yourself comfortable in the study, sir, while I arrange for your rooms to be made ready. It shouldn’t take too long.” Not waiting for an answer, the efficient woman turned and made off, the tightly pinned bun of her hair not the only reminder of his landlady. Dermot watched her retreat. He was going to say a word to Arthur when he caught sight of another figure, a sober-looking woman, observing him from a distance, the open stairwell between them. Dermot lifted an arm in greeting.

  At first Dermot thought it was Madame. Like her, the lady wore mourning dress and was of similar frame and coloring. His confusion was only fleeting, however, as this woman was clearly younger.

  “And now you have seen my sister, Sophie,” said Arthur, a tone in his voice betraying him. Arthur waved, hopefully. He got no sign of reply.

  “Are all the Malenfer women good-looking?” Dermot wondered aloud.

  “You’re a disgraceful man, Irlandais.” Arthur didn’t sound annoyed. “Her husband was a nice enough fellow; he died the first year of the war. It’s her daughter that painted that picture you saw, downstairs in the hall.”

  It all fit for Dermot. He saw the family now. The Malenfer boys all gone. Madame left with her sole remaining daughter, the pair of them both widows. And then there was the still elusive heiress. The three women all rattling around in this grand old house of memories.

  “Can she see you?” Dermot asked. “Perhaps she sees you and doesn’t recognize you?”

  “Hello, Sophie!” Arthur bellowed. “Your brother returns and walks the earth, doomed to life eternal!” He slapped the wall for added effect, but Sophie didn’t so much as blink.

  “I guess that’s a no, then.”

  Arthur seemed sad. “She was born one year after me. We both grew up here together. She left home as soon as she was married, and she married very young. My mother hated him, her husband.” He didn’t elaborate. “I missed her sometimes, back then.” Arthur gazed after her. “It can’t have been easy on either of them.”

  Dermot, conscious of his audience, raised a hand in greeting again. There might have been the briefest of nods, and then the woman walked away.

  “Friendly lot, your family,” Dermot said, tongue-in-cheek. “I think she likes me.”

  “Let’s go into the study, or Berthe will be annoyed with you.” Arthur took his eyes from his sister, a mournful look on his face. “You look like you could do with a drink.”

  The study was warm and cozy. Unlike downstairs, there was a fire going, with four leather smoking-chairs camped around it. There was a round end table bearing two decanters and a collection of glasses. A single kilim rug took up the center, pinned in place by the furniture. There were two bay windows that Dermot found as he opened the drawn curtains; any view they had to show would have to wait till morning. Dermot’s shoes brought a creak from the wide-planked varnished floor. With the door closed the place was snug; it kept the heat in well.

  “Brandy?” Arthur suggested.

  Dermot didn’t refuse, and poured himself a glass. He slaked his thirst with the relish of a temperate man gone bad. Standing with his back to the fire, the steam rose from his pants.

  There was another door leading from the room.

  “What’s through there?” Dermot asked.

  “The library,” Arthur told him. “But don’t get lost – Berthe will be back and dinner can’t be far off. And there’s the matter of the certificates.”

  Dermot, for whom books were a weakness bordering on vice, tried the handle out of curiosity.

  “It’s open. Fancy that.”

  “Enjoy yourself,” Arthur motioned him away. “I’m staying here for a while.” The ghost of Arthur dug out his pipe and slid his hip flask from his jacket.

  * * *

  Some libraries are made for show. Such shelves are half-filled and harbor dusty curios. They play host to ornaments or the bric-a-brac of the unenlightened. The Malenfer library was no such thing. It was five times the size of the study. The room was stuffed and its shelves sagged down beneath its substantial inventory. The stacks must have risen twelve feet up until they scraped the ceiling. The shelves were tightly spaced, admitting the minimum of daylight, and were swollen with a multitude of volumes, some of which looked antediluvian. Dermot set out to meet the inhabitants and make a few new friends. Most were locals, the titles in French, but some were foreigners like him – the English and the Germans, he noticed, had muscled their way in here.

  As in a crowded barracks where the soldiers outnumber the beds, so the books were crammed on shelves and had set up makeshift posts. Leaning towers waited to be billeted wherever space permitted, and Dermot found the passageways jammed, inhibiting his progress. Great slabs of books were piled on their sides, like slate cairns ready for toppling. Dermot was wary lest he knock a pillar and send the temple down.

  It was as he slipped by such a pile that Dermot heard a curious sound – the noise of little whispers and the scuffle of shuffling feet. “Hello?” he asked, and was answered with a child’s retreating giggle. Dermot peeked around the shelf, but the children must have moved on. They couldn’t be far, whoever was there, past the next shelf over but one. As he made his way around to follow the noise he heard them move further off. They were talking again in excited murmurs, bu
t he couldn’t make out their words – the young voices of little people, full of excitement and fun. Dermot crouched low and stared through the shelves, but couldn’t catch a peek of the children. He decided to beat them at their game and fixed on a plan to ambush them. He tried to keep as quiet as he could and crept up very slowly.

  It was dark at the back of the tall heavy shelves, where the light from a sconce barely penetrated. As he wove between the books, his back to the light, he filled the space up with shadow. They no longer retreated and he was gaining on them; he could hear their whispers getting louder. Only one more row to go. “One, two…” he counted in his head.

  “Got ya!” he shouted, as he pounced.

  There were no children at all. No scurrying feet; no small hands; no hushed secret voices. To his great surprise there was only a charming young lady, who looked up from her page.

  “You’re new,” she said in greeting. She wasn’t flustered at all.

  He didn’t know what to say. Where had the children gone? Where had the whispers and giggles come from? Who was this lovely girl?

  “My name’s Simonne,” said the girl, lowering her book. “I suppose that I’m pleased to meet you.”

  Dermot stood gobsmacked. It dawned on him that he must look an idiot. Madame had been regal, Sophie aloof; but this girl, this woman, was stunning. Her raven tresses ran loose and wild, spilling past her shoulders to her waistline. Her hair framed a bosom that was high and tight, which Dermot tried hard not to notice.

  “Dermot Ward,” he managed, only starting to recover.

  She was unblemished, like a cameo piece. Her lips were thick, pulled wide in a genuine smile, and dark next to her pale skin. She had a small fluted nose and tiny ears that defiantly held the hair from her face. Her eyes were green but flecked with hazel, and Dermot was lost in their gaze.

  “Mother said you might be here.”

  Dermot noticed she inclined her forehead every time she spoke. She was slender and short, and her eyes met his through wisps of lovely dark locks.

  Dermot awoke. With great embarrassment he saw that she’d extended her hand in greeting; a doll’s hand it was, a porcelain hand, with shaped clean healthy nails. He tried to free a hand, juggling the books he’d lifted, but was incommoded by the brandy glass that he’d brought along for company.

  “Dermot...” he shuffled the books back. Idiot! he thought to himself.

  “Ward,” she answered. “You’ve said that bit already.”

  What am I doing? Sharpen up, man. Pay attention, won’t you!

  He managed to liberate one of his hands with which he took her own, and at her touch a joy consumed him, far warmer than the alcohol. He held her fingers perhaps a moment longer than propriety allowed, and once having released the Mademoiselle he found he missed her touch.

  “Mademoiselle,” he managed with what he hoped was confidence. He smiled as he cringed on the inside. What is the matter with me?

  “You like books, Mr. Ward?” She smiled at him again and he loved it when she did so. He nodded like a fool. “Good,” she said, “I like them too. That’s a coincidence.”

  “Simonne?” A woman’s voice came from the far corner of the room. Dermot hadn’t been paying attention.

  “Simonne?” Someone was walking towards them. “Ah, there you are. Why didn’t you answer me when I called?”

  Sophie drew up when she saw the tall Irishman leering over her daughter. Dermot recognized her from the hall.

  Dermot bowed from the neck. “Madame, we have not been introduced.”

  “His name is Dermot Ward, mother.” She smiled mischievously. “He’s stealing the books and drinking all the brandy, but he seems all right besides that.”

  “Really, Simonne. Please ignore my daughter, Mr. Ward. I saw you, of course, and I heard your name mentioned earlier. I must say we’re curious to know what brings you.”

  Simonne piped in. “There is never anyone new here, Mr. Ward, so strangers bring us running. And we rarely get news, and your telegram spoke of news, so you’re a very popular fellow.” She tilted her head to one shoulder. Dermot smiled back like a marionette happy to have his strings pulled. “Mr. Ward is a reader, mother. Aren’t you, Mr. Ward?”

  “I didn’t mean to disturb,” he said. “They’re making my room upstairs...” Why did he have to explain? “Wonderful place you have here,“ he went on, needing to talk. “And this is very special.” He waved his leather bound book for their view, and raised his glass to salute to the pair of them. “An illustrated Dumas and a Calvados... and the pleasure of two charming ladies!”

  Simonne laughed heartily while Sophie only stared, perhaps shocked by the liberty of her houseguest. Arthur at that moment appeared behind her shoulder, and Dermot felt somewhat relieved. He felt he was making an ass of himself and needed the moral support.

  “I see,” said Sophie, not enamored, any suspicions about her new guest seemingly confirmed. “I’m glad to see you laughing, Simonne. We haven’t had much occasion to be happy of late, Mr. Ward.”

  Dermot’s jaw hung loose for a moment while his brains searched around for his manners.

  “I wished to say also,” he began, “to you both, I mean, how sorry I am for your recent loss... your brother Michel, Madame; your uncle, Mademoiselle.”

  Simonne calmed down, the ladies both nodding their heads in polite acknowledgement of the ritual.

  “But you must call me Sophie, Mr. Ward, Madame is only my mother.”

  “Trying times for the family,” Dermot continued. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “Why are you here?” It was Simonne that asked, sincerely and pointedly. “What news can there be about Arthur?”

  “Simonne. Manners,” her mother censured.

  Dermot felt he could refuse her nothing. I have brought secrets to share? What could he say? He glanced up at Arthur for answers.

  A curious thing happened. Simonne turned her head to follow his gaze, and then flexed as if struck by something. She trembled.

  Arthur didn’t notice anything. “Don’t look at me, Dermot. Tell them what you want.”

  Is she listening? Dermot saw the once laughing girl become quiet, pensive and troubled.

  “But I wouldn’t let the cat out of the bag until Madame hears it first. You’ll end up in her bad books. And you still don’t have the birth certificates.”

  Why wouldn’t Arthur shut up?

  “Are you all right?” Dermot asked her, concerned. Simonne’s head snapped around to Dermot as if only just seeing him now.

  “Why did you come?” she spoke harshly, urgently.

  “I have some news,” he stumbled. “I promised an old friend.”

  “What did he mean, ‘cat out of the bag’? What is the secret you’re keeping?”

  Sophie intervened. “Simonne? Simonne!” She took her daughter’s arm, forcing her attention.

  Simonne came to as if from a daze, fading in and out of lucidity. “It spoke to you,” she accused.

  “Pardon?” Dermot was unnerved.

  “You know it did. Don’t you?” She reached out her hand towards him, as if skeptical he were real. Her face was in awe, as if the world she had known had been usurped and replaced.

  “Simonne!” her mother shouted and slapped her daughter’s arm away. Simonne stopped, chastised. Then seized by a madness none could determine, she turned and twisted away. Breaking free of her mother’s hold, she up and fled the room.

  “I’m sorry,” Sophie apologized.

  “I’m sorry.” Dermot was red-faced.

  “She’s a nice girl,” defended her mother. “Sometimes she has these... episodes.”

  “It’s perfectly all right,” Dermot answered, embarrassed, but he was talking to Sophie’s back. The mother had gone after her child.

  Arthur clicked his teeth on the end of his pipe. “She knows I’m here, Dermot. You heard her.”

  13

  An Envelope

  The Blue Room turned out to be a suite of s
orts, far grander than the garret he’d vacated. Off to the side of a four-poster bed there was a sink and his own private toilet. He tried the flusher and pronounced the receptacle in splendid working order. A sprung settee and mismatched chaise longue dominated the cluttered living room; they commanded the space in front of the fireplace, displacing a school desk to the corner. The Azorean wallpaper was a disappointment – Dermot had visions of sapphires.

  “I remember this old fellow. He’s been here forever.” Arthur was petting a bedraggled badger, a specimen of ingenious taxidermy. The beast was perched above the mantle, posed rampant and imperial. Though steely clawed and fang bared, it instilled a measure of sympathy. Arthur seemed to remember it fondly. Dermot dropped his hat on its head.

  “You’ll find everything where it should be, sir.” The Malenfer housekeeper was all efficiency. She invited Mr. Ward to ring for anything, though the tone of her offer lacked sincerity. She left with a final scan of the place as if tallying the candlesticks and linen. With the doughty Berthe out of the way, the subject returned to the library.

  “She knows something, Dermot, it’s perfectly clear.” Arthur referred to Simonne. He talked to Dermot from the requisitioned couch, his ankles crossed over one end.

  “I thought the same thing. But what ‘episodes’ was your sister referring to? Didn’t you find that strange?”

  “She was just a young girl when I saw her last. I don’t know if Sophie was covering for her, or if she’s behaved this way in the past.”

  “And where did the children get to? That I want to know.”

  “What children? What are you talking about?”

  “I was following… oh, never mind. It’s not really important. Regardless, Simonne knows.”

  “Yes, heard. She knew I was there, or she knew that something was.”

  “There can be no doubt – she repeated your words. But I’m certain that she couldn’t see you.”