After all, why did the Germans need villagers who no longer respected their new masters?
Three officers had been billeted at Sandrine’s home that first night. They’d wolf whistled and grabbed at Sandrine several times as she’d made her way around them in the small house, pulling at her clothes and cupping her breasts. They’d forced her to cook for them and watched her avidly as she’d served them a stew, made with what little she had, complimenting her with caustic German jibes or muttering dark promises of what was coming for her later.
By morning, there was no trace of them. It was suggested that a British or French patrol had taken them during a sweep of the village. Sandrine too had left the village before first light.
“I’m terribly sorry about all the mess,” said Henry, “I really am. I’ll help you tidy up. I just needed to update the unit’s diary. I was so far behind and there was so much to document. But when I am done, I am relieved and then I can help—”
“Where are the Germans?” Sandrine asked without acknowledging him or his offer, stepping through the rooms with slow and deliberate care.
“Well, uh … we think they’re probably four hundred yards east of here. We sent out a patrol last night. It …”
“Did they put up much of a fight? The Germans?”
“Well …” Henry let himself trail off from answering. “Look, would you like to sit down?” He could see Sandrine’s shock at what remained of her home. “I mean, there’s a lot to take in. To be honest, I’m surprised you were allowed through. I thought they weren’t letting anyone back up the road.”
“The Germans, did they put up much of fight?” she asked again.
“Oh, well, no, they didn’t.”
She was now retracing her steps through the ground floor and beginning to climb the broken stairs to the first. Henry waited at the foot of them until the woman had reached the top for fear of catching sight of her thighs beneath her dress. Sandrine stopped and looked down at him. “Are you coming up, Lieutenant Frost?”
“Please, call me Henry,” said Henry, nodding and trotting up after her.
“What happened here, Henry?”
“Nothing,” the Lieutenant replied. “That’s the thing. There was nothing left. No Germans at all. They’d left the village. No trace of them. They’d left their forward trenches and had gone back. There were only a few we found.”
“What did they say?” Sandrine asked.
He looked down at his boots and then slowly he raised his eyes up to Sandrine. She was standing three paces away from him, amid the clutter and waste of her home.
“Well, it sounds ridiculous but …”
“Tell me.”
“Wolf.”
There was no change in Sandrine’s face. She stared hard at Henry and then looked back across the ruin of her home.
Henry shrugged and forced a chortle. “Have no idea what they meant but, well … that was what they said. I don’t suppose it makes any sense to you, does it?”
She turned and stepped with deliberate slowness along the corridor, vanishing into a room at the far end.
Henry called after her but Sandrine didn’t answer back. He called again and then said, “I’m coming in,” before pacing along with his heavy boots. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m in your house and I don’t even know your name! It’s terribly rude of me. After all, you’ve asked me mine.”
“Sandrine,” she replied, looking around at what was left of her bedroom.
“Ah,” said Henry, spotting the cruel mess. “I am so sorry.”
Sandrine looked at him and her features softened. Henry could feel the inside of him tingle on noticing the thawing of her frosted look.
“Why do you keep apologising, Henry?” she asked. “I don’t think you started the war. I don’t think you have wrecked my home. And it is only that, a home. It is not a living thing. It is not as bad as death.”
Henry shrugged again. Sandrine peered out of the window which, surprisingly, had been left undamaged.
“How long have the British been in Fampoux?”
“Uh, one night,” replied Henry, counting the days and nights out on his fingers. “Tonight is our second night.”
“You sent out a patrol?” she asked, still peering down onto the street below.
“We did, yes. It didn’t come back. We suspect the Germans got it.”
“They didn’t,” Sandrine retorted, looking up at Henry. “You must listen to me very carefully,” she said, stepping forward and taking Henry by the shoulders so that there was no question where his attention would be focused. “Send out no more patrols at night. Only during the day are you safe.”
“What?”
“Make sure that all your men are secured inside at night.”
“My men? They’re not my—”
“Then tell whoever is in charge that every man must be locked inside a building at night. There must be no one outside when night falls.”
“But that’s … well, that’s impossible as well as ridiculous!” Henry replied, laughing. “We need to protect—”
“The only thing you need to protect yourself against in Fampoux is the night.”
“But—”
“Henry! Listen to me! You are not safe here. Why do you think there were no Germans here when you arrived?” Henry went to speak but Sandrine continued. “They were forced to retreat. There are many unspeakable things which appear here in the night.”
Henry laughed nervously. Sandrine shook him.
“Listen to me, stupid British soldier!” she hissed.
“Now steady on!”
“Tell your men, they must barricade themselves in at night. Do not walk the streets at night. Do not go out into the night on patrol. Do not go into the trenches.”
“But—”
“Beware the moon, Henry! Beware the wolf!”
She slipped past him and ran down the stairs.
“But … where are you going?” he called after her, rushing down the stairs and into the street to follow her.
“This door,” Sandrine said, looking at the front door to the house. “Can you fix it?”
Henry looked at the smashed frame and lock where a German boot had broken it open. A few lengths of wood and nails should secure it. He was sure he could.
“And this window,” Sandrine continued, “board it up. We cannot stay here tonight as it is.”
“We?” replied Henry, taken aback at the suggestion of sharing the house with a female resident, especially one quite so beguiling as Sandrine. “Well, I’m not sure we could spend the night in this house together.”
Sandrine looked at him, her head tilted sympathetically to one side, her hands on her hips.
“I mean,” he continued, “it’ll go against all contingencies that are recommended during war-time service.”
Sandrine allowed herself a giggle and wandered away down the street in the direction of the falling shells. “Then you better find yourself other lodgings, Mr Henry.”
FORTY-SIX
1898. SOUTH OF THE URAL MOUNTAINS. RUSSIA.
Tacit sat in the cold dark, his back to the stone, watching the last of the embers die in the fire. The rabbit he’d caught in the trap remained skinned and uncooked on a rock next to him. He wasn’t hungry. He couldn’t eat. Four days ago he had been under the guidance of a master. Now he was alone. Once more alone.
He listened the sounds of the forest, the rustle of the wind through the trees, the screech of an owl. Everything seemed alive, distinct, precise. It felt as if Tacit could hear even a pin drop in that wilderness.
The lights which had come upon him were gone. If they had been fire, they were unlike any flames Tacit knew. They’d left no mark, his clothes remained whole, his body unhurt. But as Tacit sat in the dark and listened to the night and his thoughts, he realised that the flames had left a mark of sorts on him. They had purged him of doubt, invigorated his body and for the first time in many years his mind was clear.
Far off a
lone wolf howled. He knew exactly how the wolf felt.
FORTY-SEVEN
12:19. WEDNESDAY, 14 OCTOBER 1914. ARRAS. FRANCE.
Cardinal Poré had torn the envelope open the moment he was alone in the quiet of the antechamber of the cathedral. He recognised at once the delicate spidery writing of Monteria, a man as graceful with the nib as he could be with his congregation. There were now only three days to go until the Mass for Peace. How the days had flown since they had first gathered in August to consider the event. Time was of the essence and any word from the Cardinal Bishop could not wait. Should anything require Cardinal Poré’s attention, better it be done immediately than let it wait.
Poré’s eyes darted indiscriminately over the words, urgently trying to discover the essence of the letter, whether there were problems or if things were progressing as planned. Patience had never been a virtue of the Cardinal’s. He barely made sense of the words, just snippets of what Monteria was intending to say, and reluctantly he forced himself back to the start of the letter to read it in the order it had been written. After a moment or two, he felt as if he’d been struck a mortal blow and dropped his hands, a long breath of relief issuing from between his slowly parting lips.
Monteria indeed had news, and the news was good.
According to Monteria, all the hotels in Paris were now full, brimming with journalists and exalted guests arrived for the Mass. But there was more. The outgoing American Ambassador to France, Myron T. Herrick, had arrived in Paris just yesterday and would also be attending the ceremony to show his support for its aims.
Monteria had made a special point to underline the line which read, ‘‘We have America’s ear!’’
Poré lifted the letter back to his eyes, excitement building in the ball of his stomach, a sensation causing his fingers to tremble.
‘‘Take care,’’ the letter continued, the conclusion to it taking a darker turn. ‘‘I have heard rumour that some in the Vatican have not taken kindly to our little escapade, as they are calling it. Be doubly vigilant. Take no risks. I suggest you travel to Paris at the next available opportunity. Once here there will be nothing to derail our Mass but, whilst you are out in Arras, I fear terribly for you and your safety. Our Church is capable of many things, when it feels impelled to act.’’
A sudden noise from the Cathedral drew Poré’s ear. Without thinking, he put down the letter and crept slowly out into the ambulatory to see who had come visiting so early in the day.
FORTY-EIGHT
18:17. WEDNESDAY, 14 OCTOBER 1914. ARRAS. FRANCE.
Isabella looked up at the darkening skies over the city.
“It’s too late to go to Fampoux now,” she said, pulling her arms around her as if to illustrate the creeping gloom and cold. “It’s a good two hours’ walk from Arras. We’d never get there before dark.”
“I agree,” replied Tacit, sticking his hands in his pockets, as he trudged through the streets of the city back towards the centre and his lodgings. The hollow echo of explosions further east forced their way between the buildings. The Germans were renewing their onslaught on the British lines with gusto.
“You’re agreeing with me?” replied Isabella, with a brightening tone. “Don’t tell me you’re lightening up?”
Tacit ignored her comment. “We can’t go there tonight. Not unless we can find transport to take us out there more quickly.” A thunderous clatter sounded on the outskirts of the city, sending the last of the birds still to find shelter flocking to the skies. “And I suspect that’ll be difficult.” He scratched his chin and put his hand back into the depths of his pocket. “We shouldn’t go to Fampoux in the dark.”
“We shouldn’t be out in the open either,” commented the Sister, as another shell landed close to the first. The noise of it crumpling into the earth was followed, a short time later, by a cacophony of tumbling bricks and stones. Somewhere in the city a building had collapsed. “The Germans are making up for lost time. We should get inside.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Isabella added, pulling her cape tight around her.
“Really?” Tacit replied, doubtfully.
“We should go see the Cardinal.”
The comment surprised him. He was impressed with the Sister’s dedication to the case. After all, if he was tired, she must have been exhausted.
“Poré?” Tacit growled. “I don’t see why?”
“We should tell him about Sandrine. He might know her. Be able to explain the connection.”
“We know the connection,” retorted Tacit, his mind turning to the drink waiting for him back in the hotel. “The Father’s brother’s girlfriend. Maybe even the Father’s girlfriend for all we know?” The uttering of such a thought seemed to unsettle Tacit. He scowled and wiped his lips, as if the words had dirtied them. “Anyway, I don’t trust him.”
“Who? Poré? Why?”
“His unwillingness to allow us to interrogate the chorister.”
“Who you were threatening with a gun!”
“His lack of openness about just who was with Father Andreas at the end of Mass.”
“An oversight. Come on, Tacit. What have we got? Not much, and if you have your suspicions, a meeting with the Cardinal might help shed more light on just what is going on?”
Tacit scowled and sunk his thick neck into the folds of his cassock collar. “We know who the girl is and where she lives.”
“Yes we do, but Poré might be able to give us something more ahead of seeking her out.”
“I doubt it,” grunted the Inquisitor. “He seemed to make it clear he didn’t recognise her, that we’ll get nothing more from him.”
“Come on, Tacit. We’ve got nothing, other than a name and a description. We have no motive. Nothing. All we have is a body.” Isabella realised then how much she was enjoying the thrill of the assignment.
“Bodies,” the Inquisitor corrected.
A third shell thundered into the city, somewhere closer to where they were walking. The main square and the Cathedral were now just a few blocks away. Isabella fancied her chances more – if the barrage was intensifying – within the solid stone construct of a Cathedral, compared to the exposure of the street.
“Come on,” she insisted, “the Cathedral is just up here. Let’s see what Poré knows.”
“He’ll be starting Mass,” warned Tacit.
“Perfect. We can catch him afterwards. And we can both reacquaint ourselves with the Lord during the service.”
“I’d rather go around and talk to some of the locals.”
“Yes, I know what you mean by talk. I think my suggestion is safer. We’ve got to try and find out more before we head to Fampoux.”
“If she even got there,” Tacit warned, looking skywards. “The Germans are regrouping and attacking. Not easy getting there by road. She might never have made it.”
“If she went by road,” Isabella countered. “Seems to me she knew the tunnels under the city pretty well. Wouldn’t be surprised if she travelled underground the entire way.”
The side door to the Cathedral grated across the tiles as Tacit and Isabella entered, several parishioners nearby turning to look. Cardinal Poré stood at the pulpit performing the Communion Rite.
“Behold the Lamb of God, behold him who takes away the sin of the world,” Poré announced across the congregation gathered beneath the yawning heights of the Cathedral ceiling. “Blessed are those called to the supper of the Lamb.” It wasn’t a disappointing congregation, considering the war, considering the latest barrage upon the city. Some saw it as their absolute duty to attend the church, even more so now, to seek favour before their Lord at Mass. “Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed.”
Tacit and Isabella found seats at the rear of the congregation and sat waiting for the service to finish. Tacit felt around in a pocket and drew out a battered silver hip flask. He pursed his lips for a drink and felt the Sister’s cold stare on him.
He offered her a drink in a gentlemanly fashion, which as quickly surprised the Sister as it was rejected. The Inquisitor guzzled thirstily at the mouth of the flask, his face gathering itself into a scowl as he swallowed. He enjoyed the warmth seeping its way through his body. He wondered how he’d allowed himself to agree to visit the Cathedral tonight, why he had not stuck to his original plan in his mind and headed for the hotel and the bar. He didn’t just desire another drink, he needed a drink. The nauseous vestiges of last night’s wine still clung to fragments of his soul, still needing to be supplanted.
They watched the Cardinal draw the Concluding Rite to a close and with it the service. The congregation rose and slowly gathered themselves and their belongings together, shuffling out of the Cathedral. There were mutters of dismay as people drew open the doors and became aware of the falling artillery barrage spattering the far edges of the town, the Cathedral having masked much of the sound with its broad and high walls. Hats and capes were hurriedly donned and worshippers bustled out to their homes beneath a fiery sky.
Tacit and Isabella waited until the final member of the congregation had left before they wandered slowly towards the ambulatory and antechamber into which the Cardinal had disappeared. Tacit’s heavy boots on the tiled floor drew Poré out to investigate.
“Inquisitor Tacit,” he called, with as much warmth as a stream in December. “Sister Isabella. I trust you are both well?”
“Better than some,” spat Tacit, rubbing a hand under his nose.
“Yes, I have heard about Father Aguillard.”
“Did you know him?” asked Isabella, looking for somewhere to rest herself against and realising that her tired limbs would have to hold her up a little longer.
“I did,” Poré replied, sounding more dismayed than when he revealed the final moments of Father Andreas’ death. “Whilst he travelled much, he was a frequent visitor to Arras. I knew him well.”
The Darkest Hand Trilogy Box Set Page 19
