“What’s going on? What’s happened?” Émile appeared, fetched by Mary, his jacket undone in his hurry. He feared that someone was hurt, given the commotion – the maid had said nothing beyond her summons. He saw them all here, the regular staff, those that had the running of Malenfer: Gustave and Berthe, Mary and Alice, Cook and Pierre his brother. Where was his brother?
“Pierre! Where is Pierre? Is he hurt? Has something happened?”
“Oh, something’s happened all right, my boy. Prepare yourself for a shock.”
Pierre walked in, to Émile’s relief. “What’s going on in here?” he asked. “A regular conspiracy by the looks of it. What are you all up to now?” Pierre looked like he might have been sleeping. He smelled of drink, his clothes were ruffled, his eyes were bloodshot and swollen.
“Madame Marchand,” Émile addressed Berthe, “Would you explain what’s going on?”
“Boys, it’s about your mother…”
“More about your father,” Gustave imposed.
“… it’s about your mother, and how you were raised, and what happened to your father.”
The kitchen, so often a place of warmth, took on a chilly air.
“What about our father? What business is that of yours?” Pierre, perhaps with the grape in him, was caustic with his words.
“Mind your bloody manners. Just because you’re a Malenfer bastard, don’t make you better than us.”
“What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
“No, Gustave! Pierre, calm down.”
“Why is he saying that, Berthe?”
“Because it’s true, you selfish mongrel. Your whore mother passed it around.”
Pierre’s punch would have landed hard if Émile hadn’t stopped his arm.
“You shut your mouth, you twisted old sod. I won’t hold back from beating a cripple, even one as pathetic as you.” He tried to push his brother away but couldn’t shake him off.
“Don’t fight. No! Please leave him.”
“What’s he on about, Berthe?”
“Upstairs… Madame… Boys, they have what they think is your birth certificates, and Arthur Malenfer is listed as your father.”
There was a moment when the kitchen fell silent but for the noise of a body at rest: the gentle sputter of a kettle of soup; the popping of wood in the stove belly.
“It can’t be true.”
Gustave snorted.
“It must be very hard to accept, boys, but Madame believes it herself. Don’t go thinking the worst of her. Madame didn’t know herself.” Berthe was near tears, and Émile broke from Pierre to console her.
“How is that possible?” Pierre challenged.
“It’s true, Pierre, I heard it. That visitor had the news.”
“The Colonel it was who fixed things up between Arthur and your mother, that’s how he told it,” spoke Alice. She’d taken her time collecting all the plates, and had overheard Dermot speaking to Sophie.
“And the Colonel arranged for all this?” Émile was stunned.
“Arthur went along with it. The idea was to keep the both of you safe.”
“To hide us and keep his shame a secret! I think that’s what you mean.” Pierre was dark with aggression.
“To protect you from…” Berthe interrupted. “Well, you know.”
“From what?”
“The Curse.”
“Alice!”
“Well, he said as much, Madame Marchand, begging your pardon, you knows he did. He knew. It was his words, honest, the stranger’s words. I didn’t make ’im say it. I swear.”
“So what are you waiting for, you little Lords? Shall I fetch your new silk pajamas and go and run you a bath? Perhaps you might ring and I’ll bring you a brandy before wiping the pair of your arses,” Gustave baited.
“You watch your mouth, I’ve warned you already! Any more of that talk from out of your mouth and I’ll give you a nice broken lip.”
“You see?” Gustave played to the room. “You see why they were hidden away? A whore of a mother and this is what you get. Can you imagine this one running the place?” Pierre hit him hard on the mouth. The Malenfer footman landed on his backside.
“You had that coming!”
Berthe was wailing. The maids jumped in to stop it; Cook wrung her aprons to end it. Nothing rougher took place, however, for the wounded Gustave did not rise to defend himself. He smirked and wiped his wound, a red smear over the back of his hand.
“Yes, Pierre Malenfer, this place has been ruled before by those as brutish as you, but none of them, from what I know, were ever quite as stupid. For the sake of the estate, and for all of us downstairs, I hope you never inherit. I trust Madame will see your quality and leave you as her rent collector. You’re barely fit for that. Now get out of my way.” He rose to his feet. “The little people have a dinner to clear up.”
Gustave made his way to his room at the end of the servants’ hallway. His leg had been giving him pains all week, and he was fearful of worsening arthritis. His lip had swollen – little bastard – he touched it and it proved tender. He’d give it a wash in salted water before he turned to bed.
Gustave worried about Madame. She had taken to her room after dinner was interrupted and she had neither asked nor sent for anything. He had paid a call from curiosity, bearing warm milk, but even that overture Madame had spurned.
“No, Gustave. Leave me be. I want peace for the rest of the day.”
After the ‘to do’ in the kitchen earlier, he’d finished up the last of his duties. He’d dug out old clothes that Berthe was looking for, and then he’d waited for upstairs to retire. He was on his way to his rooms, and was almost at his door.
“There you are. About time too. I’ve been waiting for you, dog.”
Pierre. Pierre Malenfer. Sodden with drink. A nearly empty wine bottle dangled from his hand; the blowhard could barely stand erect. Gustave decided that if the pup swung now, he’d give him a beating to remember.
“What do you want?” he grumbled. “Are you worried we haven’t made you a room upstairs yet, or are you scared that the curse will get you? Get out my way, you unworthy drunk. I’m going to my bed.”
Pierre blocked him with an arm.
“Steady, boy,” warned Gustave.
“Shut up, old man. I want you to listen to what I’ve been thinking.”
“Can’t take long then. What is it?”
Pierre missed or ignored the insult. “I’m a Malenfer. Do you hear me, old man? Today I’ve become a Malenfer. Madame and everyone knows it now, and I have more rights than her daughter to the title. I am the son of her first-born son, which means I am going to inherit.” He toasted the long-serving servant.
“You’ve got a brother, bastard, or have you forgotten that with your manners too?”
“And when I run this place,” Pierre carried on, “when I run this place, and I’m in charge, I just want you to understand something. You think you’re Madame’s pet, but you are no friend of mine, old man. I’m going to throw you out on your ear, I want you to know that now. No pension. No home. No nothing. Out you go like the bad dog you are. How much have you got in your savings?” Pierre laughed. “How do you think you’ll find work elsewhere? A broken and crippled old man. That’s all. I just wanted you to know that, to think about that, so you can sleep all the better for knowing. Things will change soon, and I’m sick of your face. Now run along, dog, to your kennel.”
Pierre staggered off.
Gustave waited alone for a moment and then slowly made his way to his room.
The wine was talking, he knew as much, but there was far too much truth mixed in with it. Gustave bathed his broken lip in the stinging solution; if he’d had a wife she might have done better. The Malenfers were all he had. He had served them all his days.
Gustave didn’t know it, but he wasn’t alone in finding sleep difficult that night.
16
Lay of the Land
On most nigh
ts sleep came fleetingly to Dermot, and when it came he would dream, and when he dreamed his war returned – there were no other dreams for him. The scenes would vary at the start; happy days and boring days and fearsome days between. But no matter how his dreams began, they would always end the same. And then he’d be back, beside that hole, for all his dreams led there.
He would see it in the black and white of a clicking newsreel that he watched alone from the second row. Sometimes he’d scream and sometimes he’d plead, but mostly he’d watch it and tremble. The man that worked the projector never gave him a care – he played the same reel again. Over and over, the chattering film would tick by once again. Dermot would watch as down he went, back inside that hole. Down once more into that tunnel, down into the void below.
Dermot jolted awake. He was feverish, breathing hard. He could feel his heart still battering, trying to escape his chest. He was grateful to be pulled back out but was shattered with fatigue. Every night it happened, every night the same, evicted from the earth’s dark womb to gasp his breaths awake. Reborn, he rose from the couch, the long lonely hours still ahead.
Arthur was settled in the long chair, smoking his pipe contentedly.
“What are you thinking about?” Dermot bothered him.
“This is my first morning back home, Irlandais. I’m thinking about that a little. But mostly I wonder about Pierre and Émile. My boys have been occupying my thoughts.”
“They’re handsome fine boys. Not at all like their pa.”
“This is their first morning too. They’ll know by now. The house will be alive with it. They’ll have gone to sleep knowing. What do they think of me now? What kind of father was I to them? Will they ever forgive me? These are the selfish things I ponder. I’m a selfish man, Dermot. I know it.”
“Get away. You’ve done all right.”
Arthur continued. “Do you know, I half thought that by doing this I might end up moving on.”
“Moving on?” Dermot was muddy with sleep, but he had half an ear open. “What are you on about?”
“I had to do this, I knew I did. I had to let my boys know. But now what? Is it done for me? Yet I don’t see any change from yesterday; everything continues as before.” Arthur’s pipe had gone out. He cleaned out the bowl with a short-bladed knife and refilled it before he continued. “I thought this would resolve things, Dermot, for me as well as them. It sounds crazy, but I thought this one act would fix everything. Does that sound like crazy talk to you? I don’t know. Perhaps it is. But what is stranger is the reality I am left with. Tell me, Dermot, what should I do?”
Not getting an answer, Arthur looked over, but Dermot had nodded off.
* * *
Dermot woke up, stiff on the couch.
The day had broken, cloudy and wet. Arthur was gone. Dermot wasn’t worried; a housemaid must have come because a fire was set, and Dermot assumed that he’d slid out the door. He had family to see, after all. There was a bowl of water set out for shaving, barely warmer than the cold from the tap. It would have been hot an hour earlier, but Dermot didn’t object.
Dermot’s proposal that he leave in the morning had been refused out of hand last night. On the matter, Sophie and Simonne had been adamant: Dermot was simply the messenger, and as a friend of Arthur’s he must oblige them and stay, and do them the honor of his company. A few days at least, they had insisted, anything less would be rude. Dermot would see the estate – horseback was suggested – and he raised no further objections. “Some of the Colonel’s old riding gear,” was the answer to the question. He saw it now, stacked and folded, waiting for him on a chair. Along with the change of clothes had come a tray of breakfast things: coffee – real coffee, not chicory – warm bread, and raspberry preserves. Was that a bar of chocolate wrapped in paper? Chocolate! Dermot ate voraciously, licking jam off his fingers. He rubbed his stubble chin. A razor had been furnished with the water. A little smoother and much fuller, he turned to the matter of dress.
His shirt went over a muscled chest that banded him like iron, a knotted strength that peacetime and rationing hadn’t managed to soften. The tweed jacket he’d been loaned proved tight – he left it unbuttoned – but the pants fit well enough. The late Colonel Malenfer, Madame’s husband, had been almost exactly his size. The Colonel had been fuller around the middle than Dermot was right now, but Dermot didn’t judge. He knew that with a few quiet years he would struggle to get them on.
* * *
Daylight changed Malenfer. It was no longer a groaning, drafty stack of stones. Above the ground floor it was full of windows – the fields ran up to its walls. It was airy, open, and full of sky despite the grayness of the clouds. Imagine this place when the sun is out. Imagine calling this home.
Below him, in the courtyard, Dermot could see Émile. Arthur’s son, whatever had happened last night, was still playing at Malenfer groom. He was brushing down a spirited animal, a spritely chestnut mare. Dermot watched him unclip her halter from the cross-ties before leading her back to her stall. He had a comfort with the animal, an assured command, that Dermot respected and admired. Émile came back out and spread a blanket over a waiting horse’s back, then lifted her leg with a trusting hand to check for any stones lodged in her hoof. The young man went about his daily work with a serious expression. If Émile had heard the news at all, he seemed stoic and resilient.
Simonne emerged from the house directly below him. She was masculinely dressed for a wet day’s riding: a green twill jacket with a scarf at her neck, a hat and a crop in her hand. She wore high polished boots with a dull spur, and bore a cape or a blanket over her arm. For all the cloth that covered her up there was no escaping the woman beneath; her coat was tailored, her pants fit snugly, and her braids bounced with each step. Dermot watched with false detachment until she disappeared into the stable. He shook his head clear, like the chestnut mare, when the spell of her passing was broken.
Simonne; Émile; the horses; the family; the house; the farm; and the land. It was all so alive, Dermot mused, all so knitted together. He was glad he had stayed, he had to admit, he was glad that he’d agreed to come.
When Dermot got outside it was to join a small crowd, all in evident good cheer. Sophie raised a hand in greeting. “Good morning,” she welcomed him.
“I’m sorry. I hope I’m not late again.”
“Is it a habit of yours, Mr. Ward? Did they let you sleep-in in the army?” Around her bonnet was a wide silk ribbon of respectful mourning black.
“We never fought anyone till after ten. It was very civilized that way.”
Simonne was already mounted, happy as a lark. She chatted to a young man who could only be Pierre. The brothers were both colored dark from a life spent out of doors. Pierre’s horse tossed its head playfully, mimicking the rider it bore. The boys weren’t as big as their father, but their hair certainly carried his curl.
“Good morning,” Dermot hailed the assembly.
A chorus of “good mornings” returned.
“You slept well?” Simonne asked.
“Like a log. I haven’t slept that way in months.” No one liked a whiner. “I almost missed our outing, you know.”
“Oh, we’d have sent someone to kick you out of bed sooner rather than later,” she smiled. He liked her hair that way.
The housekeeper appeared with a basket.
“I’ll take that, Berthe. Thank you.” Simonne took it from her arm.
“But Mademoiselle?”
“It’s all right, Berthe, I talked to Alice. I told her she won’t be needed this morning. I told her to stay at home. I’ll bring the lunch and set things out. No need to drag her out.”
“Simonne, really,” Sophie clucked, but there wasn’t a hint of fight.
“Bread, cheese, pâté, sausages, and wine.” Simonne inventoried the contents. “Will that be good enough, Mr. Ward, or is there something particular you desire?”
“It all sounds mouth-watering.” She’s something else, he thought.
Then, as an afterthought, “Is Madame coming?” Not seeing the elder Malenfer anywhere, he was starting to get his hopes up.
“I’m afraid Grand-mère has declined us the pleasure of her company today,” Sophie passed on the reply. She held a dappled gray by the reins, the nose of which she rubbed. Émile was tightening the girth on it, and adjusting the occasional buckle.
“These days the old dear hardly sets a foot outside the walls.” It was Pierre who piped up. “Too wet, too cold, too windy! Always some excuse.” He had a denigrating voice that Dermot found grating.
“Show some respect.” It was his brother, Émile.
Pierre gave his twin an annoyed look that Dermot observed but that his brother did not; Émile had moved on to adjusting the leaping horn that showed Sophie would be riding sidesaddle.
“We’re going to head up to the abbey,” Sophie told him. “What about you, Pierre?”
“I’d like to join you,” answered the athletic youth, “but I have six overdues. They’ll take me all over the estate.”
Pierre was the Malenfer’s factor, as Dermot had heard the night before. A factor liaised with the tenants on the estate, and was responsible for collecting their rents.
“We had a quarantine here until recently, Mr. Ward. You might have heard? Got all the schedules behind. You don’t know how much you miss your freedom till somebody takes it away.”
“Well, if you get through them early, Pierre, please come find us up that way.”
“I don’t see it as likely,” he answered, “but I can’t say no to that.”
Dermot moved about the stables until he found what he thought was his horse. It was the only animal left in the stalls, and the reason for that was obvious – the old plug was a massive slobbering beast, and had clearly seen better days.
“He doesn’t get ridden much, not since his youth.” Émile apologized.
Dermot reached out a hand.
“Cyclone’s his name,” said Émile to introduce them.
Murder at Malenfer Page 16