Murder at Malenfer

by Iain McChesney

  Arthur did not. “Simonne’s in there,” was all he said. Neither of them needed reminding.

  It’s best to end this as quickly as possible, Dermot reasoned. Men under rubble would be easier to overcome, providing they’re all still alive. He measured carefully. There was no chance for a surprise raid with a barricaded door, but remove a wall or open the floor and the odds might shift a little. Simonne was at the front – that was the key to this adventure. And if they’d moved their prisoners back? The prospect was unthinkable.

  Dermot went about his business, assessing the retaining wall and the posts and their foundations, the bowl of the riverbank with its curving bank, the forces and blast radius.

  “What’s that you’ve got there?” Arthur asked. “You’re like a squirrel hiding nuts for the winter.” Dermot was crouched down by the foundation wall, rolling something between his fingers.

  “You wouldn’t want to bite hard on this nut.”

  “Dermot.” Arthur spoke it low.

  Dermot turned, fearful of discovery. He saw Arthur staring across the river, but there was no apparent danger.

  “Mmmmmmm?” he answered him back, a firing cap between his teeth.

  “Dermot, there’s a girl over there. She’s watching what you’re doing.”

  “Hmm hmmmmm?” he repeated. What the hell was a girl doing there? She’d be out in the open, a clear straight shot! He looked over but saw nothing.

  “You see her? On the far bank, directly across from the wheel?”

  “Where?” Dermot had freed up his mouth. “Where’d she go? The place is about to go up – she’s got to clear off pronto!” He spoke to be heard above the sound of the river, which passed a few feet from where he crouched working.

  “She’s coming across!” Arthur cried, pointing. “Go back, girl, don’t come any closer!”

  Dermot looked to the side and back up the shore and scanned the short scrub that ran to the river. What the hell’s he on about? There was no one there at all.

  “Look,” he said, distracted, his mind consumed by a ticking watch. “If she comes back let me know, but I’ve got to finish this.” Dermot returned to playing out the blasting cord out as he finished his last few touches.

  “Stay away, girl, do you hear me? Why do you say such things?” There was fear in Arthur’s voice.

  What the hell’s the matter with him? Dermot set the last of the charges and double-checked his wiring. How much time? Four minutes before Crevel’s deadline! Would it be enough?

  Arthur was shouting. Dermot looked up and saw the Lieutenant back away from the river – no girl, no woman, no voices.

  “What do you mean?” Arthur was trembling. “Come no closer! I can guess your name. I’ll strike you, girl, I swear it!” Arthur’s eyes were bulged, his jaw was set, and he held his hands out ready.

  “I’m lighting it, Arthur. I’m getting Simonne out now. Let’s go!” Dermot struck the fuse, warning him as he did so.

  Arthur, oblivious, clawed the air, swinging his arms like a wild man.

  “It’s lit! Let’s go!” Dermot got in his face, and the spell that held him seemed broken.

  “The girl,” he mumbled, looking around. “She was here, Dermot. She was right there.”

  “It’s lit, Arthur!” Dermot pushed him.

  “She was here, Dermot. She was here, I tell you. She told me what she wanted.” Arthur’s voice was trembling.

  “She’s gone now, Arthur, and I’ll be gone too if we don’t make it back to cover! It’s coming down, the lot of it. Get the hell away from here!” Dermot ran back the way he’d come, with the smell of cordite in his nostrils. His legs pumped hard as he made for a rock he’d picked out earlier for shelter.

  They’d just dropped behind the boulder when the sky lit up around them. The noise and the punch of the air hit next like a boxer’s combination. When the falling debris had subsided enough, Dermot risked a look behind.

  The mill had been built into the hillside, and Dermot had taken its footings. The force of the explosion was directed down the riverbank to spare those on the street above it. As the dust cleared a new horizon was revealed. The once-proud slumbering water wheel spun in a final death rattle. It rose and fell like labored breath as it teetered on its axle, and then, like a tossed coin, it gave up its answer and finally went quiet. The mill was gone. A pile of rubble filled the gully beneath where it had stood; tumbled timbers and threshed masonry were visible through the dust. All that had once been the mill was a ruin of a ruin, and in it there were people.

  Dermot sprang up and set off like a deer, leaping through the air full forward. He rushed the site, now sprinting ahead, no more shrinking from sight behind cover. As he went he removed the bag that had hung across his shoulders, and drew from it the Lewis gun and leveled its maw at the wreckage.

  “Jetez les armes!” he shouted – drop your guns – his strides eating up the distance. “Capitulez!” Surrender.

  Something moved in the rubble through the cloud of dusty air. He reached the blasted piles of stones and started to climb over them.

  “Simonne!” he shouted, looking around, and then, at last, he saw her. She trembled and staggered, but managed to her feet and held out her arms towards him. But to her left a man rose up, half visible behind broken beams – a faceless form, unreadable, ensconced in a black balaclava.

  Dermot raised the muzzle of his terrible gun and trained it on the fellow. “Surrender!” he shouted and fingered the trigger. “Show your hands right now!”

  The man stumbled and pushed the wreckage aside and swung his rifle to bear, and as he did so Dermot paused and thought of what Arthur had seen. Was it a vision? Had the Beauvais witch come back again? Was she the girl by the river? Was another Malenfer to die so soon, after Michel and Pierre had been taken?

  “Put the rifle down!”

  The gun came around another inch. Simonne would be in the way.

  Dermot never wavered. Dermot didn’t hesitate. Dermot didn’t close his eyes; he only closed the trigger.

  For three long seconds thunder roared and split the air asunder. The Lewis hammered, back and back, and bruised and punched his shoulder. Empty casings thrown around, confetti at a wedding – the balaclava danced a jig to Charon’s steady rhythm. Then everything was quiet at last. Dermot lowered his weapon.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he thought he told her, practically deaf as he was.

  Simonne stood still, unharmed and unhurt, though the air was singed about her, but at the sound of his comforting voice she ran forward into his arms. Her warm cheek pressed his chest and a sob broke from her mouth. “You came for me,” was all she could manage, and he almost didn’t hear her. She trembled against him.

  “You’re safe,” he said, and held her.

  Simonne sobbed and hugged him tighter. He didn’t want to let go. He held her close, her hair in his hand, and then he forced himself to release her. “What are we going to do about you?” He pushed her hair back out of her eyes. “You’re all right. It’s over.”

  Somehow it had become more important to him than anything else in the world.

  * * *

  Other people were crawling on the wreckage.

  “Robert!” Crevel interrupted. He was close by. “Mademoiselle appears unhurt – bring her away at once! You had best escort your fiancée back safely to her family.”

  “Yes, father,” Robert called back, picking his way across the mound of loose stones. “Of course. Simonne, you’re safe!”

  “Monsieur,” Crevel now addressed Ward, his voice direct and flinty. “This is not perhaps the best place for a lady, as I’m sure you will appreciate.” He gestured to the man Dermot had killed and the stones that were stacked behind him, bloody and scattered with brain and splinters of shattered blasted bone. “Best she be home.”

  “He’s right.” Dermot released Simonne’s hand to the waiting Robert. “If I can check up on you later?” he added.

  She said nothing immedi
ately, but then leaned forward and laid a kiss on his bristled cheek. She turned and left him standing without another look his way.

  Dermot stood with his hand to his face where the warmth of her lips still lingered. He watched her go, with young Robert trailing close behind her. Dermot’s heart beat faster than it had in the previous minutes. “Don’t start,” he said to Arthur, but he thought he sounded pleading. And then he looked around because there was no sarcastic reply. Arthur wasn’t anywhere – he wasn’t close to the wreckage site. Dermot had seen him taking cover at the rock but nothing after that. Where could Arthur have gone?

  Crevel was ordering his men to trawl and search the ruins. Dermot caught his eye.

  “You could have killed them all,” the mayor chided. “You were rash in the extreme.”

  “You would have killed them all,” Dermot replied. “And by the way, you’re welcome.” Crevel meant nothing to him; he was just one of those old men. He tried to sound less bitter, but the adrenaline talked for him.

  Dermot pulled the balaclava off the man he had shot. It came away in pieces. Twenty-one or twenty-two. Just about Pierre’s age. Where was Arthur?

  He watched the couple recede down the road, Simonne now wrapped under Robert’s coat. Around him others dug through the wreckage, till all were accounted for.

  Two other bodies they uncovered: the wounded man who had succumbed before the attack and the sniper from the upstairs loft – the fall sustained when the building dropped proved too great to survive. The remaining hostages were both alive and would recover from their wounds. A shout went up when the bald man was found alive beneath a heavy beam. He was a prize, not just for his information but as a trophy for Madame. The search continued through the day as each brick was turned over afresh, but though they sifted every stone, no rent bag was recovered.

  Arthur did not return.

  Perhaps he went back already, alone. But then why wouldn’t he have told him? Dermot had walked both sides of the river but had come away with nothing.

  What had happened down there?

  “Come no closer. I can guess your name. What do you want from me?” Those were the words that Arthur had spoken, as best Dermot could remember them.

  The girl by the river. And Simonne’s vision at the abbey.

  I can guess your name, Élise Beauvais. Dermot was afraid for his missing friend.

  * * *

  When he got back to the Malenfer house, the sun was once more setting, and its rooftops threw a serrated shadow far across the fields. Lights appeared as faerie fire twinkling in its windows, while animals, somehow disturbed, called madly to the heavens. The Manor had given sober welcome under the shroud of ill fortune, but to Dermot it seemed alive this night as if glutted on the violence, and an unnatural sound carried to his ears – the wild peels of merry laughter.

  21

  Last Night

  It took a hard wash to get Dermot clean from the dirt and the mud and the blood. Arthur was not to be found. Dermot wondered at that while he shaved and changed clothes before joining the company. They were in the parlor: Simonne and her mother, both the Crevels, and what Dermot assumed was the Monsignor – a priest he hadn’t seen before.

  “Mr. Ward, this is Father Meslier.” Sophie made the introduction. “He comes to us in our hour of need, to provide comfort to us all.” Meslier was busy with his glass, but eventually gave Dermot a clammy hand. He looked like a man nourished on the grape as much as the word of God. “I am told you met Monsieur Crevel earlier?”

  Crevel the elder bore an intoxicated glow. His glass of brandy looked undiluted. “I had that singular pleasure,” confirmed the mayor – his voice suggesting it was one too many.

  Simonne shared the sofa with her mother. She rested her head on Sophie’s shoulder as an invalid might do. Dermot was concerned, but the opportunity did not immediately present itself to inquire after her health; indeed Mademoiselle dropped her eyes from him when he managed to catch her gaze. There was an obvious reason – Simonne’s fiancé wore a scowl as he circumnavigated the room.

  Crevel’s boy seemed distracted, like a man in conversation with himself. He almost bumped into Dermot. Robert paused, his brow furrowed, but he nodded acknowledgment, whether in apology, thanks, or recognition, and moved on his way again. Odd fellow.

  The mayor and the priest were celebratory. The excitement of these men in their snifter glasses was occasioned by another’s fate.

  “An eye for an eye!”

  “Bald-headed bugger. He was never going to get away.”

  “You put yourself at too much risk, Crevel. But you got each and every one of them.”

  “He was a damnable murderer, like all the rest. They all deserved what they got.”

  The Father nodded his head judiciously. “Destined for the guillotine, I fear.”

  “Look at the state of the courts today. It’s not like they haven’t got bigger problems. Issues more worthy of their attentions.”

  “How right you are, Monsieur Crevel, how ‘to the point,’ as always.”

  “We’ve spared the citizenry the expense of a trial and the thievery of conniving lawyers.”

  “The profiteering from sin of that forked-tongue fraternity is a blight upon our challenged times.” The Monsignor grew frothy as he grew righteous.

  “What would the army have done with them, I ask?”

  “Their fate was entirely their own.”

  “The outcome of a court-martial was certain.” Crevel inspected his glass. “No doubt, I tell you. No doubt.”

  “The Lord will be their judge, Monsieur Mayor. As he judges us all.” A fat finger was wagged at the room.

  “Good work done, and Madame’s wish...”

  “Why, Monsieur Mayor, I couldn’t put it better myself.” Both cleared their glasses to underline the veracity of his point.

  Dermot was somewhat mystified. He’d seen the bald man only hours before, but though injured he had looked well enough. “He died of his wounds?” he broke in.

  “Lord, no!” Crevel burst out laughing. “He won’t get off that easy!”

  Dermot didn’t understand.

  “He’ll be executed.” It was Robert who told him. The young man looked uncomfortable.

  “The villain will be hanged,” Crevel clarified with relish. There was a slur to his smiling words. “And then his body will be displayed.” Simonne looked pale. “It will be strung from meat hooks, through his torso: here… and here.” Crevel demonstrated the anatomical violations for Dermot’s edification. He rose from his seat and mimed a charade of a worm spitted out for bait.

  “Good God,” Dermot exclaimed. Sophie covered her mouth.

  “An eye for an eye, isn’t that right, Father?”

  “An eye for an eye!” the priest reiterated.

  “Isn’t he a sensitive little egg?” Crevel laughed from his chair. He unwrapped a large cigar to balance the drink in his hand.

  “And what of the gendarme?” Dermot asked.

  “He’ll file his report when it’s over. These are guilty men, Mr. Ward! He’ll get a warrant for their arrest and then close it just as quickly.”

  “It’s outrageous.” Dermot felt nauseous.

  Crevel chortled. “What’s the matter with you? I thought you’d seen a thing or two in the war, Ward? Everything is sorted now. It will set an example for any others.”

  “Do not distress yourself, Monsieur,” Father Meslier consoled. “All is well, don’t worry. The old ways are sometimes difficult, but they are surely for the best. The theatrics are perhaps a bit overdone, but these men were fated for bad ends. Think of all the others who are safer now – we can all sleep easier in our beds.”

  “You know this isn’t right,” Dermot reiterated. “It’s not right, what you propose.” He remembered the bodies in the mill – the face of the young man he’d shot. He tried to push away the picture of what they intended to do.

  “Who are you to speak of ‘right,’ Mr. Ward?” Crevel’s spoke har
shly. “You killed two of them yourself with your own impulsive actions! Don’t preach sensibility to men such as us. The act is justice, and it will bring us peace! Isn’t it peace we want?” Crevel looked affronted, and motioned for the rest of the company to share in the offense. “Well, Mr. Ward? What do you say? Didn’t we lose a generation to this last war just for such an end? Didn’t you lose close friends? What was it they died for, sir, if it wasn’t freedom from fear?”

  “The prisoner should be tried. It is justice, and the law.”

  “I expect to hear illusions from the mouths of babes and children, perhaps even my own son,” – did Robert look bitter? – “but don’t embarrass yourself by pretending that this world is other than it is.”

  “Quite right,” toadied Father Meslier. “The shepherd puts down the wolf in service to the sheep.”

  “What about Madame?” Dermot demanded.

  “What about Madame?” The door had opened, and all who were seated struggled quickly to their feet. Father Meslier shot up like a jack-in-the-box – his feet momentarily trod air.

  Madame it was who entered the salon, accompanied by Émile. Émile acknowledged at last. Dermot hadn’t seen him since they’d found Pierre together. It was an awkward reunion. This was Émile’s first turn to be served upon; he had crossed that invisible line. If the thought had not occurred to Émile, it made no difference either way – he would never again sup below, and if he looked glum for it, who could blame him? He wore his brother’s terrible loss on every part of his face.

  Where has Arthur gone? Dermot’s last idea was that he’d gone after his child, but he did not accompany Émile.

  Having politely risen at the entrance of her grandmother, Simonne was suddenly standing beside him. Dermot felt choked, suffocated by her presence. His knee accidentally touched her leg as he turned to make space between them. The contact, brief, unintentional, sent a jolt through his thighs and up into his belly that tingled long after she’d moved.

  “I distinctly heard my name being mentioned. Might I inquire what you’re talking about?”