The Darkest Hand Trilogy Box Set

by Tarn Richardson

  He turned and dropped the body onto the bed before looking up into the ceiling of the room to where the shadowy smoke hung like a death mist, dissipating amongst the shards of sunlight striking through the shutter holes. He took out a small glass jar from the folds of his coat and trapped some of the last of the smoke within it. Tacit had always been a hoarder of curiosities from vanquished foes. In his experience, curiosities would often have a value when least expected.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed and exhaled loudly. He rubbed his eyes with a thick thumb and forefinger. He looked down at his hands and turned them over, examining the cuts and calluses about them. Busy hands, too busy to be of use for the devil.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  11:44. THURSDAY, 15 OCTOBER 1914.

  FAMPOUX. NR. ARRAS. FRANCE.

  A shadow moved across Henry’s eyes, shielding the light and warmth from his face. It drew him awake and instinctively he smiled, his eyes still closed against the sun, listening to and smelling the world around him. He smelled roses and damp earth. He could hear the idle chatter of men, the uniform pounding of spades in the dirt, as another trench was being dug. He felt a weight on the mattress beside him and stretched himself out, enjoying the tightness in his limbs, the groaning of his muscles that only a long and nourishing sleep could bring.

  “Hello,” he said, opening his eyes to Sandrine sitting next to him.

  “You snore,” she said, smiling.

  “I do when I’m that tired,” Henry replied, masking a yawn with a hand. “What time is it?”

  “I brought you a cup of tea.” She handed the cracked cup over to him with the handle facing.

  “You are a very kind woman,” he said, taking it from her. He shuffled himself up into a sitting position against the wall at the head of the bed, careful not to spill any of the tea onto the sheets, this despite them looking grey with filth. He sipped cautiously at the hot brown liquid, aware of Sandrine’s eyes on him. “What?” he asked finally, looking over the brim of the cup and smiling, his spirit teased by her attention. “What is it?”

  “You,” she replied, stretching forward with her hands just short of Henry’s leg beneath the covers.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you,” she said, coyly, scrunching up her nose and looking to the window. She looked back and saw that Henry’s deep blue eyes were focused on her intently. For so long she had chased love, longing for the feeling of being desired, being adored, being cherished as something of value and worth. For so long she had wanted someone, anyone, to show her love beyond lust, beyond a base carnal desire. Since she’d left Fampoux she’d sought out love, as if it was a prize to be hunted. For too long she’d felt starved, using the brief relationships she took in Arras to snatch brief glimpses beyond love’s ajar door. But always, when she looked through it, she’d found that nothing lay beyond.

  She’d lain in the arms of so many men since leaving her village, soldiers and businessmen, traders and Priests. Alessandro had lavished her with gifts and praise but his attention had always been too cloying, too anxious. His brother had loved her with a passion and desire which almost overwhelmed her, but his remorse after every climax cast a shadow across their afternoon dalliances, an abrupt curtain drawn across the confessional box.

  She remembered the politician she’d seduced at the Central Hotel in Arras, with the large belly and small manhood, who liked to be beaten, and how he’d promised her wealth and the power of his connections if she came away with him. But none of them had fired her soul like this quiet and gentle man, drinking tea in bed in front of her. She thought it funny how, after all her chasing, she felt peace and the first pangs of love within the ruins of her village, from where she had set out to find love she’d never known as a child.

  She reached forward and pushed the short curl from his eye. He blushed and she sat back, saying with a shake of her head, “You really are not my type, Henry.”

  “And what is your type, may I ask?”

  She hesitated because she didn’t know. And then she realised that he was sitting in front of her; someone who loved her for who she was, not what she was. In short, the opposite of her father.

  Henry grew uncomfortable at the silence and coughed quietly. “What time is it?” he asked.

  “It is lunchtime. Maybe two o’clock?”

  “Two o’clock!” he cried desperately, setting down the cup on the floor and springing from the bed in a single leap. “I didn’t expect to sleep so long! Why didn’t you wake me?” he asked, hopping about the room with a leg in his trousers.

  “Because you looked so at peace.”

  “I won’t be when I’m in front of Major Pewter for sleeping in. Bloody hell, I’ll be for the chop! I should be securing defences, not lounging in my bed.”

  He drew up his trousers and secured them with his braces. Urgently he pulled his shirt over his arms, hiding the vest and his keenly muscled chest beneath.

  “You have good arms,” said Sandrine, pretending to test her own biceps.

  “They’ll do me no good when I’m on report!”

  He sprang from the room and tumbled down the first few steps. He then stopped and stuck his head back through the open door.

  “Thank you,” he added, “for the tea.” He vanished again and Sandrine listened to the thump of his heavy feet down the steps, the sudden stop and curse as he manhandled his boots on, and further heavy footsteps out of the house. She looked down at the bed and lowered her hand onto the tangled warmth of the sheet where he had lain.

  SEVENTY-TWO

  14:00. THURSDAY, 15 OCTOBER 1914. ARRAS. FRANCE

  Cardinal Poré knew there was something different about the communiqué due to the fact it had been typed. He tore the delicate bond which kept the message secret and stared at it hard. Unlike Monteria’s letters which could be long-winded and detailed, touched with the use of beautiful language, this letter was abrupt, cold, precise. The Inquisitor, unnamed (but Poré knew who was meant) was heading east to Fampoux. Arras was no longer safe. The plan was in jeopardy. The Cardinal was to leave immediately.

  Poré roared, tearing the letter into shreds, which he let fall like confetti into the waste bin beneath. Was he to be forever cursed by their kind? Would he never be free of them? Everything he had worked for, everything he had envisaged, had dreamed of achieving, was it to be snatched from him at the eleventh hour?

  He looked up at the clock and thought of what he needed to take with him. He wouldn’t need much, and much was already packed and ready to be loaded into his own private carriage. Once in Paris, as Monteria had previously said, he would be safe, the plan too. Tacit was too far behind, with no time to catch them now. Indeed, there was all probability that he would never even leave Fampoux.

  Pain shot up his leg as he turned without thinking, having forgotten momentarily about his wound. His hand clutched around the seeping hole. He’d noticed how it had started to smell. He needed to find medical help. But not yet. Not till he was finished. Once his part had been played, he would seek help then. Until that moment, he would carry his wound as Christ had on his final journey to Calvary.

  Grimacing, he limped from his office and into his waiting carriage.

  SEVENTY-THREE

  14:02. THURSDAY, 15 OCTOBER 1914.

  FAMPOUX. NR. ARRAS. FRANCE.

  There was no sun. Just mist and a haze, hanging in the air like a shroud. The rain had come to a halt. The ground was damp and mud clung to the soles of boots like glue. Henry tore out of the house, still tugging his coat over his shirt. He careered down the street, leaping sideways to avoid a patrol of soldiers coming the other way. One of them shouted something and the group laughed. Henry put his head down and ran.

  He had never been on report. It was rare that officers were on report, more something reserved for the infantry, the engine of the British Expeditionary Force. As he ran he wondered what it would take for an officer to be put on report. Abandoning his post? Sleeping when he should have been at his post
? He cursed as he ran and considered his fate all the way down to the front. But, within that tangle of uncertainty and fear of what Major Pewter might say, he could feel the indiscernible prick of excitement, the gush of adrenaline within him as he recalled the voice and vision that woke him from his sleep, the sight of Sandrine beside the bed as he lurched back into consciousness. And as he ran for his life, he smiled remembering the warm glow created within his chest.

  He turned into the sunken road which had once been the main street through the village, pitted and scarred by so much shell fire that no wagon or carriage could pass down it any longer. He spotted Major Pewter, standing stiffly in the road, his hands clenched sharp behind his back, deep in conversation with two figures dressed in the garb of a Priest and a Sister, but quite unlike any religious persons Henry had seen before. The Priest appeared to be a bear of a man, more suited – if appearances were anything to go by – to patrolling the more insalubrious clubs Henry had visited with his unit in Nantes. The woman, whilst clearly dressed as a Sister, had a style and a flair at odds with her profession. If anything, she looked more like some of the female workers at those same clubs in Nantes, her flaming red hair giving her a seductive, slightly dangerous appearance.

  Henry slowed to a canter and then to a walk as he neared, to give the pretence that he was not rushing, that he was in no urgent hurry to reach his position in his trench to direct his men.

  Pewter looked over at him and called. “Ah, Lieutenant Frost!” he said, his head turned sideways, a supercilious look upon his face.

  “Major Pewter. I am sincerely sorry I am late. I—”

  “Don’t you worry, Frost. I am sure you had more pressing matters to deal with,” he said, his eyes narrowing above his cold thin smile. “This here is Father Tacit and Sister Isabella,” he continued, removing a hand from behind his back and raising it as a host might to direct a plate of hors d’oeuvres.

  Henry nodded in greeting. He began a smile but noticed that their faces were stern and chose not to proffer a hand.

  “They have come to Fampoux in search of someone.”

  “Oh, I see,” replied Henry, turning from the Major back to the darkly clad pair. “I do hope it’s not someone who’s been reported missing. I mean, that is, most of the villagers have now moved west, back to Arras or beyond.” Henry looked back over his shoulder, as if to indicate the direction of Arras, and immediately felt foolish for having done so. “I think all have been accounted for, either safe or deceased.”

  Pewter chuckled and rocked himself on his feet between his heels and toes. “No, Lieutenant, they’re not looking for someone who’s been reported missing. They’re looking for someone who’s very much alive.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sandrine Prideux.” There was a relish in Pewter’s eye as he said the name. He couldn’t resist watching Henry’s reaction and was impressed when the Lieutenant feigned ignorance.

  There was something in the way the Major said it, combined with the Father and Sister’s grim appearance, that suggested all was not well with Sandrine or the reasons the pair were keen to locate her.

  “Sir?” he replied, adopting his most perplexed of faces, so much so he was sure the bear of a Father watched him with even greater suspicion.

  “Sandrine Prideux. Come come, Lieutenant. You know her, don’t you? Lives in Fampoux.”

  “I’m afraid the name isn’t ringing any bells, sir,” Henry insisted, looking between his commanding officer and the visitors from the church.

  “Let me remind you, Lieutenant. She’s quite memorable, from the sounds of things. Tall. Dark. Quite beautiful.”

  Henry rose his eyes to the haze of the horizon and beyond in a bluff of thought. He narrowed his eyes, feigning deep consideration. “No, sir,” he said, now rocking himself on his toes, his arms too tight behind his back for comfort.

  “You surprise me, Frost. I thought you and this woman were quite well acquainted.”

  Henry could feel the heat rise within his collar. “Forgive me, sir, I’m afraid I’m at a total loss.”

  Tacit grunted and began to move away. Isabella stayed and stared at Henry. He could feel the colour in his cheeks. He shrugged ignorantly, as a way of deflecting the gaze. He looked across to the Major and was a unsettled to find Pewter staring at him, smirking. Pewter turned his eyes back to the woman. The Father had distanced himself from them and was now peering up into the heavens, as if checking for rain. Henry thought him then to be a most peculiar fellow, silent and suspect.

  “Well, there we go, Sister,” said the Major, turning to face her with the hint of a smirk still on his face. “I’m afraid it appears that you’ve drawn a blank. Disappointing. She sounds a lovely filly. Would have quite liked to have met the girl myself, judging by the description, not that you would appreciate that, I am sure!” he said, feigning a laugh. “Now, I am sorry to move you along but we have defences to secure.”

  They watched the pair of visitors from the Church step into the depths of the village. Eventually Pewter said, his eyes still in the direction the pair had gone, “You’re as bad a liar as you are a soldier, Frost. She’ll do you no good, you know?”

  “Sir?”

  “Oh, come on now, Frost! Play the game!” Pewter spat, ending his words with cold laughter. “Why’s she so important to you, eh? Why lie to them about her? To a Priest and Sister as well! Goodness me, she must mean the world to you.”

  “I don’t know what you mean ...”

  “I should point out that I touched her, Frost,” he announced, turning to Henry, his eyes wild with an insidious pleasure. “You do know that, don’t you? In case you’re getting any ideas. I touched her on leave in Arras. Between the legs. Just the other day, as it turns out. She parted them for me and urged me inside her.”

  “Again, I don’t know what you mean, Major,” replied Henry, but Pewter could sense the tension in the Lieutenant’s voice and how he held himself.

  “Of course you don’t,” Pewter sneered.

  Henry could feel the heat rising within him again. “So why didn’t you say something?” he snapped back angrily.

  “I’m rather enjoying your pathetic little dalliance with the strumpet,” he hissed, leaning close, savouring the anger rippling Henry’s face. “And I do like a nice hunt.” Pewter looked in the direction the Father and Sister had gone and then back at Henry. He cracked a smile and stood up, smirking and shaking his head. He felt in a breast pocket for his cigarettes. “I’ll enjoy it even more when those two from the Church find her and drag her away screaming.” He removed a cigarette from the packet and set it between his moist lips, the edges of which curled in quiet delight. “Do they still burn witches? If not, they should.”

  Rage shook every fibre of Henry’s being. With hands drawn tight to his sides in balls of fury, the veins in his neck and face standing proud, he wrenched his face away and turned to leave, but Pewter called after him, drawing him to a halt. “She came back to me, Lieutenant. Followed me to Fampoux. Came back to find me. Yesterday, was it? Well, who could blame her, after what I could have done to her? What I could have given her?”

  Despite his wrath, Henry stood staring towards the network of trenches to the east of the village. He watched the slow labour of the men, heard the strike of match and crackle of lit tobacco from the Major’s cigarette. “She realised her mistake, you see. Regretted not taking me home that night in Arras. She came to me begging. Pleading. Thought she might have a chance to win me back. But I showed her the door. Not my way, to go back when I’ve moved on. Not my way, at all. But, each to their own, Frost. Afraid to break it to you old boy like this, it would seem you are her second choice.”

  At that Henry walked on, his hands still clenched by his side as he marched, his teeth gritted in his skull.

  “I just hope you fuck her as well as old Lieutenant Colonel Wood did, from what I heard. She’s a good lay, they say. You don’t want to lose her because of any lack of skill on your part. And I hope you fig
ht better than you lie. Rumour is the Hun is on the move again. Don’t let anything cloud your judgement, now. Oh, and Lieutenant,” Pewter called, louder still, “I took the liberty of giving some of your men an order. They’ll be engaging in their assault just about now, hoping to catch old Fritz unawares.”

  Henry twisted in the dirt, as if skewered to the spot. “What?” he cried. “But there’s not enough of them to carry out a forward assault, even if you used the entire unit!” Henry cried, looking with startled horror to the front line and, at that moment, hearing the shrill peep of a whistle blown in the distance. “They’ll be annihilated!” He threw himself forward into a sprint.

  “Not my problem, Frost. Sadly, you weren’t around to take charge, so I did.” But Henry never heard him. He was away, down the road, charging towards the front trench. “If you choose to sleep ahead of commanding your men,” Pewter continued to bellow after him, “on your head be it.”

  In the street into which Tacit and Isabella had turned, the Sister leaned close to the Inquisitor and asked, “Is he lying about Prideux?”

  “Of course he’s lying,” muttered Tacit, his hand instinctively dropping his side and onto the handle of the revolver strapped to his thigh. “It’s not a big village. Let’s track her down.”

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  1906. THE VATICAN. VATICAN CITY.

  The mood in the Inquisitional Chamber was bleak. Talk had been of the ending of the Russo-Japanese war, a massacre of twenty-four Catholics in the Middle East and the rape of a young acolyte by a senior Cardinal, the acolyte apparently turning out to be the son of a prominent Italian politician. It was little improved when the agenda moved onto Poldek Tacit.