Cook hovered by his chair with the big pot held aloft. Dermot was left to wonder how the soup would fill his plate. The assorted spoons confused him. Feeling embarrassed, he was about to ask when another servant approached him.
The man’s limp and his gargoyle face repelled and drew him at once. Dermot stared openly at the scars that disfigured the man. They were gas burns, he decided, the kiss of a modern war. Every soldier dreaded the poison that blistered the eyes and mouth. Moist skin was its favorite target, which made the lungs so vulnerable. Dermot heard the man’s rasping breath and knew that he was right. Poor bastard. He felt for the man. He thought of the hole at the end of the tunnel and the miners filling it in.
“Dichlorethylsulphide.” It was Madame’s crisp voice. “That’s what the chemists call it. Isn’t that right, Gustave?”
The footman endured Dermot’s inspection without word or look of complaint. He presented a polished ladle and commenced to serve soup from Cook’s copper cup.
“Yes, Madame. That’s what they say. Mustard gas as to the rest of us.” Dermot put the face to the voice he’d overheard outside Arthur’s room.
“Start from the outside, work your way in.” Arthur helped him out. Dermot settled on a spoon.
It was Sophie who opened the questioning. “Is your room to your satisfaction, Mr. Ward?”
“Wonderful, yes. Very well arranged.” What do you say to such a question? “And I like the resident mammal very much. I think you should feed him a little more often and take him out for walks.” He tried to make light. Simonne smiled.
“Do you like this dress, Mr. Ward?” Simonne asked the question.
“Simonne!” her mother chided. Dermot blushed despite himself.
Simonne sat forward in her chair to give him a better view. It was a lovely dress, but she could have worn anything.
“I recognize the style somewhat...” He waved his hand to summon the word but was never going to get it.
“It’s a Jean Patou, Monsieur Ward. It was my Grandmother’s. Wasn’t it, Grand-mère?”
“It is mine, you’ve got that part right. But it’s not a Patou, it’s too old. Silly girl.”
“It is! You’re just being spiteful. Did you guess right, Mr. Ward? Is that what you were thinking? Do you like dresses, Mr. Ward, as much as you like books?”
He nodded. He didn’t think he should be having this conversation.
“I found it in an old wardrobe upstairs that someone had locked and forgotten. Did I not find it, Grand-mère? You thought it had gone, didn’t you? Despite the color, I like it.”
Madame said nothing further but continued to eat, slowly, methodically, observing.
“Grand-mère has lots of pretty things,” Simonne confided.
As is often the case between the generations, Simonne seemed to have an ease with her grandmother that Sophie could not manage. Simonne’s mother looked horrified at her daughter’s exhibition. Dermot tried to reconcile Simonne’s humor with the agitated girl who’d fled the library. She’d either had a glass too many or was trying too hard to change his impression.
“I find all the secrets, don’t I, Grand-mère?” Simonne boasted. “Nothing here is hidden from me long. Can you believe Grand-mère wore this thing, Mr. Ward? She must have been something! Were you something in your day, Grand-mère?” She looked now at her grandmother.
“In my day!” Half a smile slid out from under Madame’s mask, the first Dermot had seen from her. “What cheek, young lady! And it’s a Poiret, not a Patou, you silly girl, though I’m sure Mr. Ward doesn’t care.”
“It looks like one, at any rate. So it’s a Patou if I say it is.”
“That’s quite enough. Please, Simonne.” Sophie was uptight.
“When was it you were drafted, Mr. Ward?” Madame moved the conversation on.
“I wasn’t, Madame. I enlisted.”
“Oh, I remember, our Foreign Legion, you said. When was that, did you tell us?”
“July 2nd, 1914. I wanted to join up with France.”
“And what would possess you to do such a thing? What was the matter with your own country? Were you running away from something?”
He didn’t immediately answer. Dermot felt uncomfortable and clumsy. The impolite curiosity of his hostess was bad enough, but he caught the eye of the fey Simonne and it served to unsettle him further.
Yet there was something more. Something about the room itself that was making things more of a problem. Akin to the vexing scale of the house, it took him a moment to peg it. As a salvage party stumbles upon a broken ship, so Dermot felt himself amidst the debris of the Malenfers. It was a broken family, a family that once had been but was no more. Three women garbed in mourning gathered around a table too large for them. They were the flotsam of a dynasty that drew sustenance off its memories. The room conveyed a sense of the many who were absent and would never return.
“No,” he answered Madame at last. “No, I wasn’t running away from anything. Perhaps I was looking instead... looking for something that was missing.”
“And did you find it, Mr. Ward?”
He considered the question. “No. No, Madame, I did not.” If the ladies were hoping for him to expand, he seemed reconciled to their disappointment.
Dermot had scarcely touched his soup. “I think we are ready for the meat,” Madame bellowed. “Tell Cook to bring it!”
“The meat, Madame?” The footman confirmed, appearing at her elbow.
“That’s what I said. Have you all gone deaf? I’m ready to eat immediately.”
The staff scurried about clearing dishes. The scarred Gustave whisked off Dermot’s plate with a wheeze that might have been a chuckle.
Madame took a sip of wine. “Mr. Ward, you have come a great way to see us. You said you knew my son Arthur? When, may I ask, did you meet him?”
“Verdun-sur-Meuse.” Arthur and Dermot both said it together. The town was as synonymous with the year, 1916, as it was with the infamous battle.
“It was said to have been horrible.” Simonne spoke with a hushed voice of reverence.
“Verdun saved Paris,” Madame pronounced.
Dermot looked at Simonne through eyes pained by history. “Our side and the Germans ground away at each other for around about a year. If we had lost, Paris would have fallen. Three hundred thousand dead and half a million wounded.”
“You are counting the Germans too, Mr. Ward.”
“As I recall, Madame, they were there.” He continued to Simonne. “General Nivelle had command. He told us that ‘They will not pass’ and put us in the line.”
“He kept his word.”
“Yes, Madame. He did that, at least.”
“And what did you do in the battle, Mr. Ward?” Simonne was clearly curious.
“I was a sapper, Mademoiselle. A pionnier. A digger, a tunneler,” he explained. “My job involved blowing things up. My unit was assigned to a part of the line where your uncle happened to be stationed. We became close friends.”
“We heard little from him,” said Madame.
“I don’t think he was much of a writer.”
“What was he like, my uncle?” asked Simonne. “What did you think of him?”
Dermot did not look at Arthur as he spoke, but the words came from the heart. “He was a very brave man and he was very smart, and he looked out for his soldiers. His men respected him greatly, as did I, and in that place and at that time there was no greater compliment.”
“And what of his death, Mr. Ward?” Madame Malenfer wanted more.
“I was with him at the last.”
The answer froze Madame, who said nothing for a minute. Perhaps she thought of a little boy who had grown up and gone away, or perhaps she thought of a grown-up son lying struggling in pain. Perhaps she thought of nothing at all, and so was able to endure it the better. Whatever was going through her head, she eventually resolved it.
“How did he die, Mr. Ward? How did my son meet his end? Was he brave at
the very last? Was it quick and painless?”
Arthur stood ashen-faced, as if dreading what would come next.
“He died like all the rest. What would you have me say, Madame? I hope the end brought him some peace.”
They squared off. If she thinks me evasive or impertinent, what of it? I’ve had enough of lies.
“You leave me to think the worst.”
“Is there a good way to die?”
“There is honor. And there is courage. And bravery.”
“He had those. I hope they bring you comfort.”
“Then he died doing his duty? It gives me solace to think so.”
“Yes. Be assured on that.”
“Not the worst then. You are embittered, Mr. Ward? Does it come from having no country of your own for which you were able to serve?”
“Forgive me, Madame, if my candor aggravates. Embittered, you ask? Yes. I admit as much, but it comes from seeing good men die for other fools’ illusions.”
“Well, I am surprised my son took you to heart. You have unconventional opinions, Mr. Ward.”
“I arrive at them honestly enough.”
“And you are tactless in their expression.”
Dermot bit his tongue. She’s a grieving mother and widow.
“You didn’t know him very long, Mr. Ward, if you met him at Verdun.”
“Time is relative in the trenches, Madame. I knew your son for a hundred years.”
Madame did not seem to take his tone well; he wondered if he should care. She had started to annoy him, and he knew the reason why: She was the kind that treated loss like a commodity and wanted it all to herself.
“If you say so,” she retorted. He knew he hadn’t won a friend. “Then might I ask about the news that you wished to bring to my attention? Are you willing to talk about that now? What is the purpose behind your thoughtful visit and the pleasure of your company?”
She was riled, her feathers ruffled, but Dermot couldn’t help that. Dermot looked over to Arthur and the big man slowly nodded.
“As you wish, Madame.” Dermot put his hands on the table. “I can tell you now if you wish it.”
“Speak plainly.”
Her hospitality, it seemed to him, had almost reached its end.
“Very well.”
The attention of all the Malenfer ladies were now fully settled upon him, their ears keened, their senses tuned, as were those of all the servants.
“I was entrusted by your son, Madame, with the care of some official documents.”
“Indeed,” she said. “And what, might I ask, is the nature of these documents of which you speak?”
“I obtained them only now. I have a confession to make. Until today I had only the word of your late son concerning their nature and purpose. I am ashamed to admit that I failed him in my belief as to their existence and their value. I doubted him, and I have been proved wrong. Everything he told me was true.
“He entrusted me with the documents’ location and told me to give them to you. He told me that you would know their worth and that you would put things right for him. I survived my war, Madame, and I should have discharged my duty earlier. I am sorry that I did not, and I hope that somewhere he forgives me.
“I am late to dinner because I snuck life a thief in the night through your house. Only one hour ago I got entry into Arthur’s old room. He had told where to look. I thought the documents fictitious, their existence unreal. But on that point I erred. I have read them, and I ask you now to do the same. Think no worse of me than I hold myself – I who doubted a friend.”
Dermot produced the envelope without further explanation, its cover slightly stained by damp but otherwise undamaged.
Madame, at its sight, did not seem quite so sure of herself. “You said you got this from Arthur’s room?”
“I did,” he answered. “This very evening.”
The footman limped forward, bearing a tray, and received the envelope from Dermot. He dragged himself behind a frozen Sophie and offered it up to his mistress. The exercise seemed entirely absurd, for she sat not five feet away. Madame received it in both her hands from off the tendered platter. She turned the envelope over, once, then lifted the flap at the back.
She read the contents, then read them through again. The cursive scrawl of officialdom had taken Dermot a while to decipher. The seals and stamps of bureaucratic pomp were evident to everyone. Simonne looked keenly interested; Sophie appeared pained.
“Mother?” Sophie inquired. Madame had paled. The elder Malenfer folded the papers up before dropping them onto the table.
“I apologize, Mr. Ward. It would appear that you are who you said. I will have to get these authenticated, but it makes sense in a number of ways.”
“Arthur told me that his own father arranged for everything.”
“Well. That might be so. I can’t see how it might happen otherwise.”
“He said he did it to keep them safe. Something about a family curse...”
“Do not speak of that here!” Madame was adamant and shrill. Sophie flinched visibly. Dermot checked his flow of words and spoke no further on it.
Madame’s anger seemed to fade. She sat back in her chair and breathed deeply.
“Mother?” Sophie asked. “Might I?” In the absence of objection, Sophie picked up the papers and read. “Why, these are birth certificates, Mr. Ward! Birth certificates of Pierre and Émile. But why would Arthur have something like this hidden away in his things?”
“Oh, don’t be dense, Sophie.” Her mother was sharp.
“Good Lord! It states Arthur as their natural father. But how could this be the case?”
“The usual way, I suppose,” Madame chided. “Try to exhibit some imagination.”
Simonne looked quite amazed.
“If it’s true,” Madame went on, her mind seemingly flying through the connotations, “then the Malenfer name still lives on. And I have myself two new grandchildren.”
“I hope the news is well received, Madame.” Dermot sensed there was much here he was missing.
“I seem to have lost my appetite,” Madame announced, though not without some cheer. She rose to her feet. “I’ll take that back, please.” She lifted the envelope and contents. “I am going to retire early. There is much here to consider.”
The table rose to its feet and there was a stirring among the servants. Their ears would have heard everything. Their eyes recorded all. News had been promised, news was expected, but nothing like this had been foreseen. Madame hurried out and was gone.
Dermot felt somewhat foolish. “I hope I haven’t upset anyone,” he said, retaking his seat amidst all the hubbub.
“I’ve got two cousins!” said Simonne. “I can’t wait to tell them!” She seemed innocent and gay.
“It might not be true, dear,” cautioned Sophie.
But it was. Whatever the consequences might be.
Arthur stayed alone in the dining room, long after everyone had gone. His children would now find their place, of that he felt quite certain. Yet the sharing of his secret brought no hint of peace to him. Instead a dormant fear was stirred: What if Father was right after all?
15
Downstairs
In the kitchens at Malenfer Manor, the news arrived like a spilled platter.
“Get down there, girl. Tell Cook.” Gustave dispatched Alice the maid, who didn’t need further encouragement. Alice was a local girl: fresh, cheerful, and dim. Cook was fit to throttling her for details she couldn’t give.
“And who said that? The exact words again!”
“The new fella, Cook. You know ’im, yes you does. He’s handsome too, leastways Mary says so, and I’m not mindful to disagree.”
“The words, girl! The words!”’
“Birth certificates he had. Said it was Master Arthur in the war had told ’im where to find ’em. And he’d gone and opened the room – know, that one that Madame had shut in and boarded. Gustave, I mean Mr. Durand, no disrespect
ing him. Mr. Durand says he’s going to put a spike in it now. Shut it up proper, he says. He’s been told to plaster it over too, cover it, though he might be making that up. Do you think? He says that anyone so much as thinks of going in for a peek best pack up their bags before trying. Done and gone, that’s what he says, and I believe him when he’s angry.”
“Yes, yes!” Cook shook poor Alice; her prodigious strength rattled the girl. “Forget about that. But what did Madame say about the boys? Tell me this very instant.”
“‘It makes sense in a number of ways,’ that’s what she said when she read it. ‘It makes sense in a number of ways.’ Then she gets up and goes.”
“Blessed saints, can you believe it? Madame’s for believing it’s true!” Cook was turned over. The idea pushed her conception of credulity and set her world to spin. Alice’s bruised arm was let go.
“You’d better start believing it. It’s happened!” Gustave’s voice boomed. The footman hadn’t waited long. He’d stayed till he was sure there was nothing else to learn and then had come downstairs sharp. Word had spread; they were funneling in, the kitchen their destination. The remarkable had happened at Malenfer.
“Fetch a bottle of wine!” Berthe was right behind him, struggling with her apron. “Dear oh dear, whatever next. Where are the boys at now?”
“Madame Marchand?” Alice addressed the housekeeper.
“What is it, girl?” said Berthe.
“Does this mean that Pierre and Émile will be moving upstairs right away?”
“Oh, bless you dear. I can’t say. I have no idea what’s to happen. Can you imagine such a thing? To think of their poor mother.”
“I can say what’s to happen, you damned fool girl. It means a damn sight more than a change of bedroom – this changes everything. It means their mother was a whore, and that they were lied to, and that they got nothing but toil as reward.”
“Gustave, you can’t say that!” Berthe was scandalized.
“Why not the truth? Out with the truth, I say. Upstairs pulled the wool over their eyes, but today it’s going to change.”
Murder at Malenfer Page 15