Murder at Malenfer

by Iain McChesney

  “Well, forgive me, but your family doesn’t strike me as the forgiving sort. Where is this mill exactly?”

  “Past the village. I know where it is,” said Arthur.

  The Irishman’s brain ground away once more, turning and calculating. He formulated and measured the situation but was missing too many pieces.

  “I need my trunk.”

  Dermot’s statement brought a lifted eyebrow to Arthur’s sulky face. The Lieutenant was intrigued, at least.

  “And what, Irlandais, is so important in your trunk that it needs your attention at this moment?”

  “Come upstairs and see.”

  * * *

  Dermot dragged the steamer trunk to the center of his room. It had arrived the day before, delivered from the station by an unhappy straining fellow. With the assistance of the Malenfer staff, Dermot had gotten it up the stairs. “Careful now,” was all he’d told them as he watched them puff and sweat.

  Dermot turned the key, threw the lock, and drew the bolt aside. The stout lid gave a groan.

  Arthur peered in.

  First on view was a tray of shirts and a folded army uniform: a Kepi hat and epaulets to distract the casual observer.

  “Why do you have a ski-pole?” Arthur was curious.

  “Long story.”

  The tray was lifted out.

  “Bloody hell, Ward!” Arthur exclaimed.

  Sapper, soldier, military engineer – through five years of service in the war, Chief Sergeant Pioneer Ward had been a collector.

  “Bloody hell!” Arthur seemed to feel the need to repeat himself.

  Dermot was tooled up for battle.

  Three pistols – a French Lebel Modèle 1892 standard issue, an English Webley Mark IV revolver, and a P08 Luger, each cleaned, polished, and immaculate – were pegged onto the back wall of the trunk. In the middle, suspended like a rib cage, were three rifles on fitted racks: a French Berthier, a German Mauser (alone amongst its companions this was fitted with a sniper’s scope), and a British short magazine Lee-Enfield. But this wasn’t what occasioned Arthur’s remarks; in fact he had barely noticed these fire sticks.

  “How the hell did you steal that?” Arthur asked of Dermot.

  The gleaming Lewis gun, though partly dissembled, was distinctive by its drum-pan magazine. Weighing thirty pounds and capable of five hundred rounds a minute, it could summon a monsoon of fire. The gun was stowed snuggly at the bottom of the trunk between ambitious boxes of ammunition.

  “You’re probably not allowed to have that.” Arthur peered in.

  The Irishman grinned with the pride of a magpie. “No, but that’s not what’ll get me arrested. They would be much more concerned about this.”

  Pyromaniacs might get it – the feel from a freshly struck match. Dermot reached inside the trunk with the tingle of anticipation. He gingerly removed a small box. “Got to be careful with this one.”

  Safely out, he opened it up.

  “Bloody bloody hell!” Arthur was out of words.

  There are other tools besides picks and shovels for those who play beneath the earth. The detonators, fuse wires, and triggers in the box were clearly bad enough, but Dermot knew that Arthur had recognized the contents of the bottles. The Lieutenant had seen enough of these things to know what they could do.

  “You brought that on the train with me? You let the servants drag that up the stairs?” Arthur was going apoplectic.

  “It was heavy!” Dermot said defensively. “I needed help. And what are you worried about, anyway? You’re well dead already.”

  “This is my family here! You could have blown this whole house up!”

  “Hypothetically” – Dermot was slipping a few things into his pockets, the bottles and the revolver among them – “but not if you’re a careful fellow.” He looked longways at Arthur, a little mischief in his eye. “And I am always careful.” He reached for a stale bread roll.

  The Lewis gun went into a drawstring bag. Dermot added a second magazine and then slung the whole lot over his back. Satisfied he had everything he might need, the Irishman closed the trunk.

  “It’s only a few wild men, Dermot.”

  “Easy enough to say when you’re dead.”

  20

  Deserters’ Desserts

  Deserters.

  Men pushed beyond their limits weighed two futures in despair, their minds worn raw by madmen’s tactics that threw flesh in front of steel. Detestable cowards who gave succor to their nation’s enemies, or desperate men without the fare demanded of them by others? Back in the trenches the closest of friends might speak of such things in hushed voices, for a firing squad awaited those who strayed and were discovered.

  Dermot had seen it happen. He always believed that unless you’d been there, you should not be hasty to judge. The men holed up in the mill had been soldiers just like him once. They were clochards now, wandering tramps, and today they had run out of options. The outcome of a court martial would look bleak by any comparison, so it came as no surprise that these rough men had parleyed with their rifles.

  * * *

  Dermot arrived to a confused scene. Crouched groups of armed farmers were scattered behind cover, and in the distance the squat old mill, her stone walls and tile roof intact. An aging peasant braved a dash across the road to meet him. The gun he held might have been as venerable as he was.

  “Monsieur!” the plowman hailed him.

  “What’s happening? What’s going on here?”

  “It’s not good. Things have gone all out of plan!” he puffed.

  “Just calm down and tell me.”

  The farmer took his advice to heart. After a few deep breaths he went on. “There were a lot of us to start,” he began. “You saw us at the Manor?” He didn’t wait for Dermot’s answer. “I followed the main group up here and more joined in as we came. We were quite the brigade and brave in our numbers! We knew where the murderers were hiding.” He relayed his tale with enthusiasm and not the slightest hint of doubt.

  “They were camped out there” – he indicated – “The old mill. You can still see what’s left of the waterwheel from around the other side.”

  “And what happened when you got here?” Dermot put the same question again.

  “They heard us coming, they must have. We were stirred up and excited, a few of the others a little scared too, perhaps? You understand? There were a lot of angry words. Some of the younger ones…”

  “So they didn’t give themselves up quietly?” The answer was obvious.

  “No, Monsieur, they did not. They shot first, I’m almost sure of it. We hadn’t even asked for their surrender and they shot at us, the brigands! I don’t know what happened next... everyone scattered and took shelter, then they ran, and then more shooting.”

  “They ran?”

  “Like rabbits they did. The scoundrels fled, but one of them was hit. I saw it myself with my own eyes, he took a bullet but was helped up by a friend. His cries were terrible, Monsieur.”

  “But then what happened?” Dermot was frustrated. “Who are you laying siege to here?”

  “They fell back, they knew it was hopeless, but that’s when the worst of it happened. Some of our own, keen in pursuit, were caught when the scoundrels retreated. They have some of ours prisoner, sir, and that’s where we are now.”

  “What are you saying, man? They’ve taken hostages?”

  “They’re barricaded inside, Monsieur! They’ve threatened to kill them unless they can go free!”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. How many of your men are in there?”

  “Three, they have. They won’t give up, and we don’t dare go near them. No one knows what to do.”

  “All right. Stay calm. Who’s doing the talking? What have they done with their prisoners?”

  “One of them is a woman.”

  “The deserters?”

  “No, Monsieur, one of ours. They took her, she came from the big house. They showed her at the window.”
/>   “Why would a maid come up here?”

  “No, monsieur. Not a maid. Madame’s granddaughter. Oh, you know her, Monsieur?”

  * * *

  Dermot ordered the farmer to stay and keep his head down, and he seemed happy to oblige. Dermot crossed the road with Arthur and asked him to scout the mill. Indeed, it was as the farmer had said. Dermot chanced a peek around the corner. The mill sat atop a banked slope not one hundred yards away. Broken or shuttered windows were visible and one big front door, firmly shut.

  It wasn’t long before Arthur was back. “The windows are broken – it was easy enough to get inside,” the ghost related. “She’s shaken up, but she looks unhurt. They’re keeping her in the corner near the front door. Not the spot you’d want to be in if we try to force an entrance.”

  “Or if they try to leave in a fight.”

  Would they take hostages with them? he wondered. Would they simply let them go?

  “There’s a loft in the place too. One of them’s up there, sniping, so watch out where you go. Small window, second floor.”

  Dermot peeked. “I see it.”

  “Keep your head down. The other prisoners are on the main floor with Simonne. I remember one from the tabac in the village; it looks like he’s taken the butt of a rifle and isn’t in the greatest of shape. The other man I don’t recognize, but he’s holding up OK. They’ve been placed so they can keep an eye on them all and shoot them if they move.”

  Dermot had been thinking. “They won’t take them all when they leave. I wouldn’t. Slow them down. Too easy to be found out or given away, dragging others around.”

  “If they go.”

  The thought was sobering.

  “The injured man has died of his wounds. He either wasn’t a smoker or his friends took his cigarettes.” Dermot didn’t ask. “They’re not a happy bunch. The one in charge is a big fellow, completely bald, a bit of a hot head. He’s the one that was firing...” As Arthur said it, another shot went off from near the mill and set off a flurry of gunfire in response. After a couple of seconds of quiet, Dermot got up from the ground.

  “Jesus Christ!” he hollered around the wall. “Hold your fire! We’ve got people in there!” He turned his attention back to Arthur, who stood out for a better view. “How’s their ammunition?” Dermot chased a hope.

  “They’ll hold up well till Christmas.” Arthur quashed it. “Fine for food as well, but your thinking is right if I guess it, Sergeant – they’ll have to make a break for it soon. They can’t afford to wait for real policemen or soldiers to show up, and now their injured friend is dead, he’s not around to slow them down.”

  “Bloody hell, Arthur.” Dermot shook his head, dismayed at the turn of events. “And then what happens? They get a packed lunch and just hoof it? Simonne is stuck in the middle of this. We need to let them go.”

  “Well, Irlandais, you’ll need to convince twenty armed strangers surrounding the place, and then win the trust of the mill.”

  Dermot remembered Pierre again, face down in the clearing, and a scene from Simonne’s dark hallway painting, the one with the little people – a rabble of beetle vigilantes armed with sticks and hooks and scythes, a mob tearing vengeance on their quarry, hacking it into gory chunks.

  “Is there anyone in charge?”

  “Over there – see that house? In there. Crevel is his name.”

  “Why does that sound familiar?”

  “Why? It should be familiar to you, Dermot, the man is practically family. It’s his son Robert who’s engaged to marry my niece, our young Simonne. Crevel dithers because his future daughter-in-law is trapped inside that mill.”

  There had been a knot in Dermot’s stomach since the news of Simonne’s great plight, and it twisted like an ulcer at this reminder of her fate.

  * * *

  “Monsieur Crevel?”

  “Who are you?” The man continued to study his drawings and did not look up.

  “Ward is my name.”

  “Well, you’re lucky no one has shot you, Monsieur, mistaking you for a deserter.”

  Crevel held court at a splintered table in the ruin across from the mill; half of the roof was open to the rain and half of the wall to the air. The man was well-dressed in a dark three-piece suit that looked out of place in the country, but with his neatly combed hair and his calm steady voice he seemed unruffled despite all the violence. On the hand-drawn map in front of him sat a pistol and a wine glass, its rim wet as if recently used, with a bottle open beside it. Crevel sat with one leg up, claiming both the chairs in the room. He rubbed his knee as if it gave him some pain.

  “We need to let them go, Monsieur.”

  “Them?” Crevel still gave him his back.

  “The suspects,” Dermot said tersely. He could feel himself getting annoyed.

  Crevel seemed to find this somewhat amusing. “Maybe you are one of them after all. Are you sure you’re not a deserter, Monsieur Ward, whoever you are, a stranger who comes late to the show?”

  Dermot restrained the urge to kick the chair from under him. “They have hostages, as you very well know, and there’s no way to get them out safely.”

  “They’ll give up.”

  “Don’t be stupid.” Dermot cut him down coldly.

  Crevel put aside the sketches and shifted his reptilian attention. His head pivoted on his stock frame till it faced the new arrival.

  “You’re the Malenfer’s charity case.” Crevel spoke with a cold objectivity. “I heard of your arrival. What on earth do you think you’re doing here? Whatever it is, I suggest that you reconsider. This is no concern of yours. Please crawl away home, Mr. Ward, if you can in fact remember where you came from.”

  If Dermot hadn’t understood the French, its tone would have told him everything. He stared in mounting rage, but Crevel was coolly placid; he’d renewed his attention to map and leg as if the appointment was completed.

  “Robert!” Crevel barked suddenly, cutting short Dermot’s retort. Coming into the pregnant silence his voice rang unexpectedly. A movement from the corner revealed a man who had stood unobserved. “Robert, go and ready the men. We attack at the top of the hour.”

  “Monsieur, this is madness!” Dermot stepped forward. Nothing was more dangerous to Simonne’s chances than what he had just heard.

  “We’ll attack in force from the south and distract them from your fiancée. We’ll get her out, and when we do we’ll finish all the others.” His words were spoken to Robert, but he was loud enough for the audience.

  “You’d risk her life, Monsieur, in an act of desperate folly? And what of the men you have? What risk to them? They’ll be mowed down in the open!”

  “We have the numbers and the advantage of surprise.”

  “Let the men in the mill leave instead. Allow them to go free. Risk no one!”

  Crevel turned on him. The clay mask had been dropped for a look of unguarded hate. “Monsieur Ward” – he almost spat the words – “they are going nowhere.”

  A cool head restrained Dermot’s hand. “Twenty minutes!” he pressed. “That’s all I want. Twenty minutes, and then do what you want.”

  Crevel seemed surprised at the suggestion, but he quickly recovered his poise.

  “What do you mean?” he said suspiciously. “What idea do you have?” Crevel consulted a pocket watch that he fished from his waistcoat by its chain. “What are you going to do that you think might make a difference in such a time?” His eyes narrowed distrustfully.

  “You’ll get a signal,” Dermot told him.

  “What signal?” Crevel demanded.

  “You’ll know it when you get it,” Dermot told him confidently, sensing the opportunity was open.

  “And then what?” The mayor let the conversation linger, conceding his own uncertainty. It was an admission in itself that they were in a pickle and that the situation was desperate.

  “Storm the building. On the signal, rush it. Take the men in the mill alive, unless they offer r
esistance.”

  “I see.” Crevel nodded as if that was the first thing he’d heard of sense. “Twenty minutes is all you get,” he consented, “and then we’ll finish this job properly. Robert?”

  “Yes, father?”

  “See the men are ready for action... and Mr. Ward?”

  “Monsieur?”

  He flicked the watch case open and took a long lazy look at the cold physics within. “I am counting.”

  * * *

  Arthur and Dermot were on the grass verge, halfway down the riverbank.

  “Just what in the hell are you planning to do?” Arthur asked, now that they were alone once again.

  “You said those men were at the front windows?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then the river is out of their sight.”

  “We’re going up there, then?” Arthur asked, but it wasn’t really a question.

  Moving quickly and quietly, crouched over and screening himself behind the riverbank’s vegetation, Dermot drew closer to the mill, Arthur right behind him. There was a stairway at the back of the place, but it fell short and was in ruinous condition. The windows here could not be reached without the help of a ladder. With luck, Dermot thought, the men’s attentions would remain focused out the front.

  He reached the base of the mill. Here the grass path narrowed and then pinched at the river’s bank. A waterfall thirty feet away spilled down into a rocky pool – the sound of the water made it hard to hear but served to cover his own noise. The spray began to soak him. The once-great wheel still stood, though lurched, propped against the side of the building. It looked like a drunken man chasing balance, broken and rotten in poverty. The stream from above had once powered it to turn the grindstone within.

  “You’re going to blow her up, aren’t you? We aren’t here to bag flour.”

  “The thought might have crossed my mind.” Dermot spoke matter-of-factly; he was busy in a professional appraisal of the stonework in the embankment. “Unless you’ve got another suggestion?”