Murder at Malenfer

by Iain McChesney

  Madame seemed smaller than he remembered her, but as flinty as before. A heavy jade necklace rose and fell on her chest, a splash of color on her customary black.

  Meslier was quick to mew his attentions with a puerile show of concern.

  “I’m perfectly well enough, Father, and I was talking to my guest.”

  Meslier was indefatigable in rejection, as all good clerics are.

  “I was inquiring whether it was possible, Madame?”

  “Possible, Mr. Ward?”

  “Concerning the man taken into custody after the incident at the mill.”

  “And what about him?”

  “I expressed my disbelief that you knew of any such plan.”

  “He will hang, Mr. Ward.”

  “Then it’s true.”

  “Damned insolence!” Crevel burst out.

  “True, Mr. Ward? I don’t understand. What else would you suggest?”

  “The police. A court-martial. A trial.”

  “My grandson was gutted like a trophy deer. Might you remember that, Mr. Ward?”

  “I was there, Madame,” Dermot spoke frostily.

  “Then where is your objection? Or does your abandonment of your own family preclude any empathy towards another?”

  Dermot liked to think he had the makings of manners, but his patience was about used up. “I’d think any family would want to see justice for just such a crime, terrible thing that it was.” He spoke these last words in almost hushed reverence, catching a glance at Émile. “Whether you’re poor, honest, and hard-working, or rich, spoilt, and self-serving, justice isn’t the preserve of the pocket book.”

  “You think my justice bought?”

  “There is no justice here, Madame, that’s what courts are for. It’s loyalty and fear that you have at your command, nothing more than that.” Perhaps he had overstepped himself a little, but in good conscience he figured the gloves were off when she had thrown the first blow.

  Madame was clearly not used to being talked to in this way. She tightened like pulled rope.

  “Respect,” she said to him at last, her voice as clear as ice. “Respect is what the people have for the Malenfer ways. The people share our values. They respect that we value justice, that we don’t let murderers go free.” She was thin and sharp and precise with her words – a seamstress snipping cloth.

  “Or maybe you’re just another landlord,” he interrupted her, “same as all the rest. Thing is, no one’s got a right to do what you propose to do.” He ran on now without pausing, sensing he might never have a word in again. “Even if you’re correct, even if they are guilty men, no one has that right. No one does. And that is all I’m saying.”

  He was aware of all eyes turned upon him, but Simonne’s most of all. In her look he saw an adoration that flustered him beyond Madame’s glare.

  “Your tone is insulting, Mr. Ward!” the Mayor put in, championing his hostess. “You repay your hospitality in cruel coin! The family here suffers enough without you bandying your blatant nonsense.”

  “Where is the evidence against them? They were not seen. They left no marks to betray themselves. They did not confess. Did they?” There was a silence. “Why, you haven’t even recovered Pierre’s rents, which would be their only motivation.” Dermot threw out his words.

  “Your hands were stained in their blood!” Crevel shot back.

  “But only because she set the pack on them. They were always going to fight back.”

  “Mind your place, you mongrel dog.” Crevel slapped his chair.

  “You keep your mouth shut!” Dermot stood up to him, jabbing a finger at the older man with a head of steam in reply.

  “Why?” Crevel squared off. “So you can spew your lies in your guttural French? So you can be alone to charm the pretty Mademoiselle that you look at with loose eyes?”

  Dermot went red.

  “You are a disgrace, sir! You take the food and roof of a gracious hostess, and how do you repay her? By slurring the memory of Pierre? By slandering Madame, who does everything to protect and avenge him? By sniffing around her granddaughter?” Simonne let out a gasp. “I saw you at the mill, sir, endangering us all! You’re an animal without thought or conscience, you act on your passions alone! And the Mademoiselle is engaged, Monsieur, as if you didn’t know.”

  Dermot could not reply; he was furious but embarrassed, not so much for himself but for Mademoiselle Simonne. He clenched his fists in frustration, wondering at the fallout if he pummeled the bastard right now.

  “Yes! See?” Crevel pointed out Dermot’s pent up fury to all the room to view. “The common soldier has little manners, no honor, and base desires! Perhaps he means us violence? I do not mean to disturb Madame” – he turned his speech to entreat her directly – “but I worry that your generosity of spirit has been taken advantage of. You offer your hospitality with a naïve liberality that recommends you while it exposes you, Madame. Certain disagreeable types of company will always overstep.”

  Sophie stood up. “I can not tolerate this!” she announced amidst the bedlam, and fled the company and the room.

  “I’ll check on her.” Simonne followed her mother out with a more composed withdrawal. Father Meslier curled his lip in disapproval while Robert stood mouth agape. Seconds it took for the ladies to leave, and then Madame was left with five men: Meslier, Crevel, Crevel fils, Dermot, and her new grandson, Émile. The lady was imperial, a caesar in state, attended by a querulous rabble of petitioners.

  “I was telling you about respect, Mr. Ward.” Madame did not miss a beat. “You came here at the invitation of my late son to whose memory you are, quite frankly, a disgrace. I don’t care a jot what Bolshevik opinions you hold, or false grievances you nurture against God’s natural order, but I do care about my family.

  “You put my granddaughter in a great deal of danger today, Mr. Ward, and I don’t take lightly to that. I will take your word for it that you will leave us in the morning. You will be good to it and spare me the duty of throwing you out on your ear.”

  In Madame’s departure there was a vacuum. The train of her mourning dress sucked the air from the room as she took her leave.

  “Party’s over, Robert.” Crevel straightened his jacket, his face flushed from the bottle and events. “Time we left.”

  “I think, Crevel, I’ll join you?” Father Meslier scurried along as only the best of fawners know how.

  The servants had scattered, keen to spread the news. Only two now remained.

  “Mr. Ward?” Émile addressed the despondent Irishman. “I believe you, what you said. I too worry that these men... that they did not kill my brother.”

  He had not said a word all night.

  “I’m sorry, Émile,” Dermot said gently, “I don’t mean to worry you, but I think you should be careful.”

  “You think the curse will get me too?” He asked it simply.

  “Oh, Émile, I just don’t know.” And why again, Dermot felt, was it he who was at the center of this whirlpool, fielding questions he didn’t understand? He who was seeing glimpses of another world beyond the understanding of a rational man? “I don’t know if there is a curse, Émile, but those men at the mill had no part in this. I’m almost certain of that.”

  “You believe that whoever killed my brother still walks free, then?”

  Dermot laid a consoling hand on the twin’s arm. “I’m sorry,” he said, “Yes, I do.”

  Dermot got up. He left Émile alone on the twin’s first night as family in the Malenfer Manor. He had his own bag to pack. It seemed that this was to be Dermot’s last night in that mysterious old house, just when his heart was telling him to stay. Just when he was growing fond of it. And he still had not found Arthur.

  22

  Sleepwalkers

  Some time later, when most of the house lay deep in slumber, at an hour when no honest person willingly labors, two rough fellows approached Malenfer Manor en route to a summons. They came without the benefit of lantern
or torch, invisible to the wariest of sentries under that dark and tousled sky, the ill weather and the hour both befitting their trade.

  “Are you sure this is the right way, boss? Wasn’t that a path we passed back there?” The man that spoke was rake-like thin, and his teeth chattered out the words. A soft down beard of first-growth fluff showed him but a lad.

  “Keep moving,” replied his walrus companion, impervious to the cold, “we’re late enough already.” Water rolled off his pate and jowls – he had no neck to speak of. “Stop your whining and pick up your feet. This is the way, I tell you.”

  Experience spoke true. Shortly thereafter the men took shelter beneath the eaves of the barn.

  “Can’t we go in?” asked the lanky fellow, nodding towards the house. He pulled his overcoat tightly around him and huddled against the stone.

  “Can’t we go in?” his compatriot mimicked, aiming a cuff to the back of his head. “Her place? Really? The Malenfer house? What are you thinking, Stéphane?” The brute warmed the boy with his boozy breath, but his abuse did not lack for affection – he might have been the other’s father if they weren’t born of different species.

  With faces knotted against the wind, they peeked around the corner, and clouds lit up like ashen lanterns above the manor’s leering towers. Sunken windows cast bright reflections in puddles across the courtyard; they glinted like a score of eyes, predatory and watchful.

  “You’re late.” A low voice spoke, unheralded, from behind them. The watchful pair shrieked in reply.

  “You old troll!” The bald man recovered. “What are you doing sneaking up on us like that?”

  “Is that a joke?” stuttered the younger twig, angry in his embarrassment. “Well, it isn’t bloody funny.”

  The Malenfer footman chuckled. “A pair of little girls, the both of you. Are you sure that you’re quite capable?” Gustave eyed them skeptically now that the thought had come to him. “Well, follow me, the pair of you.”

  Gustave led them a short distance off. The bald man lay beaten in a stall, separate from the pigs. He groaned awake and rolled to his knees as Gustave applied the boot.

  “Get up. It’s time.”

  The bald man struggled a bit when he saw the rope draped from the rafters. He was persuaded to take his place on the stage. He didn’t want for assistance.

  “What’s he done again?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “I’m just asking. He’s a big one.”

  “Shut up, the pair of you.”

  Gustave saw her shrouded in the corner, her face covered by a veil. He wondered if Madame ever had her doubts. Second thoughts never seemed to plague her. Did she know something? Had she guessed? Then why this change of plan? He wished for light to pierce the shadows that he might read what she was thinking.

  He waited for his Mistress’s pleasure.

  The veil gave the briefest of nods.

  * * *

  Stéphane chanced a rogue glance back as they pushed their parcel in the cart, and woe that he did, for what he saw almost froze his bean-pole heart. Not since Lot’s wife had a look behind been so ill-timed – there were two seconds of light from the thunderstorm before all was turned to black.

  It had been there, above the glass, above the highest windows; it had scurried, bent and animal-like, across the wet slate rooftops. A girl it was, or had the shape, her dress long and clinging, yet small and dark, on hand and foot, it moved too fast for nature. Insect-like she had scuttled to the garret window, probing the house for admission, but lit up in that briefest moment her face had crooked around to see him. Unlucky eye that he had! Oh, Stéphane why did you do it? Her gaze had sought him truly before the darkness returned and claimed her, leaving him with a sickness of heart.

  Stéphane heard the fat man’s biting curses as he pumped his legs and passed him. The prospect of pay for this dark night’s business was cold consolation now. It was a long while yet, and much road covered, before he risked another look back, and some sixty years later, with his last dying breath, he asked his confessor to save him from her.

  “You’re up late, Berthe. Couldn’t sleep well?”

  “I was worrying about Émile.”

  “Any chance of a glass of wine? How’s he doing anyway?”

  “Not great. I don’t think he’s got over it at all. I think he’s getting worse. There you go. There’s still some soup. The pot’s still warm. Can I fetch you up a bowl? No? It won’t take a minute to heat, I promise. What gets you up at this hour?”

  “Nothing much. Something I had to take care of. You raised those boys like they were your own. I don’t wonder that you’re anxious. It seems to me that you were more a mother than anyone else they knowed.”

  “I tried, Gustave. Oh, I did try. You know how it was. I’d have liked my own, once upon a time. But things were what they were. All the same, I wasn’t ready for this, none of what’s happened. I’m not.”

  “You did well by them, Berthe. By Émile.”

  “I don’t know where I’m at.”

  “Don’t distress yourself, girl. Oh, thank you, just a splash. You’ll make sure the boy comes through it. I know that you will.”

  The old retainers took a sip of their respective glasses.

  “Gustave.”

  “Yes, Berthe?”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course. We’ve got no secrets.”

  “You and Pierre. You never saw eye to eye. I know that he could be difficult.”

  “He was young and wild. We were guilty of that in our time.”

  “Maybe, I suppose. But you do miss him, don’t you? You miss Pierre? I just worry.”

  Gustave said nothing for a bit, and then: “It’s late, and I’m tired. Good night, Berthe. I think I’ll retire. Get some rest yourself. God give us the strength to change that which we can, and the sense to accept what we can not.”

  Midnight had come and gone and the fire had burned down low, but Arthur’s ghost had yet to return, and Dermot found his absence troubling. He made a decision. There was no sleep to be had; too much going on in his head. He opened the door to go look for him and fill the time productively.

  He crept down the hall to Arthur’s old room. It was the closest place he thought of, but he found the door nailed shut with a plank, all pretense at disguise discarded. Arthur couldn’t get through that, he knew. He’d have to look elsewhere instead. Watching him was the painting of the cavalier, still gloating above his kill. “You don’t know which way he went?” he asked. “Not much help, are you, mate?” Dermot moved away. There was one whole floor that he still hadn’t seen, and he made his way there now.

  All houses possess intelligence, and some, like people, grow cranky with their years. The Malenfer Manor knew Dermot wished stealth, and so it amused itself by denying him. It creaked loudly with each feathered stride, the softest tread scorned by a groan.

  It was a pained Dermot that mounted the third floor, relieved to remain undiscovered. At the top of the stairs he stood stock still, not risking another murmur. His dark sight was attuned by now (for there was no lantern on this level), and he spied the stub of a candle on the table by the balcony. Dermot struck a match from his pocket and put it to the wick, and then he chose the passage to his right and wandered in that direction.

  The rain drove across the windows, rapping against the panes. The cough of nearby thunder was close enough to shake him. The hallway twisted and dropped and rose, by little groups of steps. He protected the tiny flickering flame as he meandered further in. Dermot passed beneath the pointed rack of an enormous glass-eyed deer, and he wondered if he had not just seen its twin in the painting down beneath. Was this old Malenfer’s quarry? Arthur was nowhere to be seen. He was thinking of calling it an evening when he saw a muted light. Its pulse grew stronger, dancing bright, and he heard a floorboard creak. Someone was coming towards him, and they were made of flesh and bone! Dermot did not wish discovery, but there was no time for esc
ape. He fumbled for an explanation to account for his presence here.

  “Hello? Who’s there?” It was Simonne’s voice. “Oh, Mr. Ward! You startled me!”

  “Please excuse me. I hope I didn’t frighten you.” He couldn’t fathom what she was doing up here so late.

  “I’m fine. I got a little scared. I didn’t know who it was. I’m glad it’s you, Mr. Ward. Please, won’t you take a seat?” She put herself down on the top tread of a step and patted the space to her left.

  “Thank you. I’m fine.” He regretted saying it; he rather wanted to sit down next to her now. Why on earth had he said ‘no’? Had she taken offense?

  Her dressing gown was the color of a Van Gogh night over a nightgown of white flannel. Her rich thick hair was pinned up behind her head, which struck Dermot as strange for bedtime. Being unfamiliar with the mysteries of women, he kept silent his curiosity.

  “Shouldn’t you be in bed by now?” he asked her instead.

  “I think I might ask you the same question.”

  Dermot was pleased. She wasn’t upset. He’d been worried about her all day. “I was looking for a friend.” He said it without thinking.

  “Well, you’ve found one,” she said in reply.

  For a moment he couldn’t speak, and then he found his honest tongue. He couldn’t help himself. “You look absolutely beautiful.” And they both reddened a little in reply. “I’m sorry!” he blurted straight away. “I’m not really thinking. I didn’t mean to embarrass you...” but she didn’t seem offended. “I don’t suppose I’m meant to say that sort of thing at all.”

  “No?” she quizzed him. “And why not? Why not say things if you think them true?”

  He liked her dimples when she smiled like that.

  “Well...” He hesitated, his thoughts a tumble. “I suppose, good manners? … Say, what on earth finds you up here, anyway?” He’d been so surprised by her, expecting Arthur first and then assuming discovery by one of the staff, that it hadn’t occurred to him to ask her.