Bright Hair About the Bone

by Barbara Cleverly

  In the grey unnamed folder under Constantine’s elbow, the one he privately called “War Technology,” were details of the scientist’s brainchild, a sweet-smelling, highly toxic pest-control substance. Already tested and ready for production. And there the scientist sat, smoking a cigar and dropping names: “…my good friend Albert Einstein once confided…It’s not generally known, of course, that the Kaiser is pathologically afraid of the dark, but…” Tedious upstart! The second guest, a Swiss, owned the factories and the resources to turn the formulae into drums of poison gas.

  And d’Aubec owned the Swiss.

  Sharing a table with members of his family in his uncle’s gracious town house, the newcomers had responded to the courtly good manners and warm welcome they had experienced. His mother, present as hostess, reassured them with her well-bred confidence and her openness. And who could fail to be impressed by the chairman, his uncle? D’Aubec exchanged a glance of weary amusement with Auguste. He owed everything to Auguste. The elderly aristocrat had taken in hand the distraught younger son he had been when, at the age of sixteen, he had acceded to the title on Guy’s death. Auguste had understood the boy’s grief and his urge to throw himself at once into the conflict, but he had successfully counselled against it, calling on the strongest motives. And, in the way of younger sons who have seen no action, d’Aubec had set about acquiring the panache he considered the world might expect of a descendant of the Dukes of Burgundy. Discovering that no one takes any notice of a sixteen-year-old even if he is shaving twice a day, he developed a peremptory bark and a decisive manner. With his uncle’s guidance and the genius of Auguste’s man Constantine, he had set about repairing the family’s fortunes, sunk to a low ebb during the war. The unfathomable Constantine’s first loyalty—d’Aubec was under no illusion—had always been to his uncle. And there he sat, his literal right-hand man, peacefully making notes and exchanging asides with Auguste.

  D’Aubec examined their profiles, the elderly and the young. He could see no physical resemblance but, as he occasionally did, he played with the thought that Constantine might have a closer relationship with his uncle than had been publicly admitted. In the days of the ancien régime, illegitimate sons were given similar influential positions within a noble household. Constantine would have worn the splendid satin coat of a gentilhomme servant and been charged with the administration of the household. He would have had the ear of the lord and wielded considerable power. Nowadays he chose to call himself a secretary; he wore dark suits and stayed discreetly in the background. But the influence remained. And so carefully was it managed that d’Aubec himself was never quite certain how far it reached. He knew neither the extent nor the quality of that influence. What he did know was that difficulties and difficult people were often ironed away as they arose, following a calm “Leave this to me, Edmond.”

  And perhaps he’d left too much to Constantine? Could he ever manage his enterprise without the man’s acumen and his executive abilities? Probably not. D’Aubec had no delusions; he was clever enough to calculate and accept that his own intellectual powers were inferior to those of his secretary. And he was not unaware that to be the dashing figurehead of any movement was to occupy a dangerous and exposed position.

  Well, today he intended to surprise them all. He’d had quite enough of standing at the prow, jaw to the wind, feeling but not occasioning the power surge and the direction changes happening behind him. Today the figurehead would suddenly show itself capable of acting as steering oar!

  He looked around the table assessing alliances and allegiances and wondering in whom he could safely trust. Strangely, he’d have felt more confident with Laetitia at his side. She would support him, watch his back, make him feel less alone.

  He’d enjoyed leading her on a wild-goose chase, a Gothic treasure hunt, trailing the lure of Daniel’s clues to a secret that was no secret to him, and he felt no guilt at the deception. The distracting trail of ancient books he’d put in front of her had been an inspiration! And he’d dreamed up the scheme himself.

  He pictured again the delight with which she’d fallen on the texts, tears of emotion in her eyes as she’d swept up her godfather’s notes. She’d even secreted something from the wastebasket into her pocket when she thought he wasn’t looking. It had been the work of a moment to bring out of storage the boxes of material Daniel had left behind and spread it out in a semblance of the disordered mess in which he usually worked. And he’d obviously got it right. He remembered Laetitia’s barely contained eagerness to grapple with the translation, so reminiscent of Daniel’s enthusiasm. He smiled at the memory of their last evening when, with wide-eyed solemnity just failing to cover a bubbling glee, she’d revealed to him “his treasure.”

  And, much to his amusement, that’s exactly what it had turned out to be—a treasure of sorts. He had felt proud to be the owner, the inheritor, of this nationally important cache of texts. Auguste had agreed with him that it should be exploited and as soon as possible. Their man at the Louvre had it in hand already, and the resulting news reports would have the power to knock any Egyptian Pharaoh off the front pages. The whole country would rediscover, in the most sensational way, a pride in its Celtic roots. Thanks to Laetitia, they’d taken the first step.

  Unexpectedly, he had caught her fever. He’d fallen victim to his own manufactured excitement—been hoist with his own petard. Her instinct had been right and he was the more the fool…so unaware of what had been there in front of him, available yet ignored.

  He’d shrugged off suggestions that he was spending too many precious hours in her sole company, but the pressure on him to “resolve the problem of Miss Talbot” as they delicately put it, was increasing. Was she on their side or not? No halfway position would be tolerated. No objections or queries had ever been raised by his previous fleeting amours. He’d always dealt with the consequences himself, amicably, satisfactorily. Easy enough to do if one was circumspect. Upper-class, married, Parisian. This was the preferred order of qualifications—and all three, for choice. He stirred in his seat at an uncomfortable and usually suppressed memory. He’d made a mistake. Barely out of adolescence and testing out his newly acquired position, he’d fallen for and tempted a village girl. It would all have been a disaster if Constantine hadn’t been brought in to negotiate with the outraged family, calm anger, and divert recrimination. This was the first occasion on which he’d been grateful to hear “Leave this to me, Edmond.” And he’d defused the bad situation. D’Aubec was not encouraged to ask by what means.

  But he wanted Constantine nowhere near Laetitia Talbot. He remembered standing with her before Guy’s portrait, his arm about her supple waist, her blouse still damp from the spring, the delightful scent of the top of her head under his nose…herbs? grasses?…and a gentle female glow, at once reassuring and arousing. A woman who felt right at his side. A choice of the heart and the head. Perfect! He smiled to himself at the memory of her face in the grove at twilight, eyes huge with a blend of excitement and trepidation. He’d been a fool not to go through with it. He should have made certain of her there and then, as he’d intended, in the shade of the rowan tree. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, feeling a rush of anger and regret. Yes, that would have done it.

  A girl of her background—she’d have considered herself instantly committed to him. Undoubtedly a virgin. And you didn’t expect an English girl to have acquired the sophisticated knowledge of someone like Gabrielle, with the addresses of discreet Parisian clinics in her notebook and their intriguing products secreted away in jewellery cases and powder boxes. He couldn’t now imagine why he’d held off—she’d been very willing. Attracted to him, that was obvious; allured by his way of life but a girl not to be impressed by expensive gifts…He was sure he’d got that right. And if he’d insisted, they could have presented everyone with a fait accompli. He wasn’t obliged to wait for Constantine’s nod—or his mother’s approval.

  The old lady had had her doubts at first. “Da
rling, are you sure?” she’d asked. “My friends report that this English girl is somewhat…er…farouche. She goes around the town in trousers and boots with her hair all over the place and—they tell me—galloping about like a goatherd. Daniel gave us no warning of this, I’m quite certain.”

  D’Aubec had reassured her that at Laetitia’s appearance at the Lion d’Or, heads had turned; appreciative eyebrows had been raised at the sight of her severely elegant evening dress. Every hair of her blonde head had been in place, her manners impeccable. “This is, after all, Daniel’s daughter, Maman!” he’d reminded her with emphasis. “Would we expect anything less than good breeding and charm?” And Laetitia had won his mother over, though Constantine remained impervious to the alleged charm.

  As he watched, his secretary leaned to his right and made a comment to the old countess. She laughed and whispered something in agreement. Odd that; the man never said anything deliberately to amuse d’Aubec.

  There was no doubting the parentage of the young man on d’Aubec’s right. Very much his father’s son, François had grown up with Edmond: his playmate, more of a brother than the cousin he was. François had just returned from a trip to the United States where he had plunged into a study of communications, particularly the possibilities of journalistic and cinematic propaganda. And he had returned invigorated and inspired. An ally, but more than that: his trusted lieutenant. Another young man unwilling to adapt his step to the slow march imposed by the Old Guard. His mother was supported in everything by her confidant, the priest Anselme. And their litany was unchanging: “This is not the time. We are still in the era of the fish. We must wait, prepare, strengthen, pave the way…There will be far graver challenges at a future time…Another ninety years must pass…”

  Anything but take action. Edmond and François were ready. Fish? To hell with the fish!

  D’Aubec had paid close attention to the scholarly Anselme’s explanation of the ancient time patterns displayed by the astrological device to which his family paid such close attention. The Zodiac they kept on the wall of the chapel was the twin of the one discreetly displayed in Chartres. Such an obviously pagan symbol—he was surprised that it had not been routed out. He wasn’t quite sure that it had a place in his own chapel, warning him of Sirius rising, red path intersections, ecliptic perihelions of the Dark Star…mumbo jumbo! He’d tried to come to grips with it but, really, you’d need the mathematical brain of a Pythagoras to decipher it. And who was to say that some devious old Greek wasn’t responsible for the contraption in the first place, or even—if Anselme’s hints were to be taken seriously—an earlier witch doctor…some ancient Egyptian. He entertained himself briefly with the thought that the ardent amateur Egyptologist and archaeological scavenger Napoleon had sweated his rapacious way through the deserts of Egypt with his squads of scientists when such arcane knowledge had been all the while right under his nose in Chartres.

  And if one of his savants had been able to interpret it and use it to unveil the future for him? D’Aubec wasn’t entirely certain that it would have been possible even for a Champollion, but the Emperor would have been appalled at what he saw. Death and disaster in snow and in desert, on land and on sea. Loyal Frenchmen dying by the uncounted thousands for years in his service. And, at the end of all the slaughter—the bloody English, left strutting about, cock of the walk! Never again. The next attempt to secure supremacy—and the peace it would bring—would be short-lived, unexpected, and delivered with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. Good thought! He scribbled on his notepad. Yes, he’d mention the scalpel…

  Timing! It was all in the timing, and d’Aubec wasn’t prepared to be restricted by the predictions of some worm-eaten old piece of astrological rubbish. He’d worked out a perfectly timed scheme without the aid of oracles or computation or even advice from anyone. A scheme that stunned by its simplicity.

  François had been left gabbling with astonishment and approval when he’d confided it to him, and with his support he intended to put it before the gathering. Constantine was unaware; d’Aubec longed to see his expression when the plan unfolded before him. All the key players were here. A decision could be arrived at before they rose from the table. D’Aubec smiled, grim but elated. The security of Europe—perhaps the world—would be decided by his words in the coming minutes. He was no orator. He would keep it short and blunt. The substance of his proposal was shattering enough to pin them to their seats. He squared his shoulders, cleared his throat, and resolved to speak slowly.

  His uncle caught his eye. “And now, I believe Edmond has a proposal of a practical nature to put before us…Edmond?”

  D’Aubec set aside his notes and looked around, waiting until all eyes were turned on him. The eyes were chill and reserved. He caught expressions ranging from outright suspicion to his mother’s lightly questioning wariness.

  “Gentlemen, you have your diaries? I’m going to ask you to enter some dates.”

  At his prosaic opening, stiff postures began to relax. Diaries and workbooks were duly opened, fountain pens uncapped.

  “You will already have noted an entry for July the fourth last year? The day of the National Socialist rally in Weimar? Larger than their Munich assembly in ’23. The movement, as we had predicted, is growing at a pace to make our graphologists gasp. I want you now to note down the twentieth of August of this year.”

  No one wrote. Pens poised, they stared at him, waiting.

  “The third Party Conference is to be held this summer in Nuremberg. They have booked the Leitpold arena, where they are to stage what they are calling their ‘Day of Awakening’ rally.”

  François gave a knowing and cynical laugh. “We have had sight of their arrangements. No secret. And their organisation has never been difficult to infiltrate. Our information is of the best. François?”

  His cousin rose and went to a display board installed at the end of the room and pinned up a poster-sized sheet. He returned to his seat. François had learned the importance of the visual image in manipulating perception. And the carefully chosen press photograph he’d had enlarged and printed spoke volumes.

  D’Aubec allowed time for everyone to absorb the subject, noting the grunts of disgust and amused titters that ran round the table.

  “A group photograph of the leading lights at last summer’s shindig,” said d’Aubec. “Hardly impressive. What a crew! Take a look at the circus-master in the centre. I leave a moment for you to fall victim to the pastoral charm of the costumes—the hearty socks, the woollen knickerbockers, the feathered hats. And—take a further moment to be entertained by the leader’s theatrical pose. I’ve seen the same gestures on a flic directing the Paris traffic!” His tone was amused but full of scorn.

  “But our instinctive reaction of frivolous dismissal, though understandable, is—unwise. It is less easy to speak lightly of the muscled, brown-shirted legions who step and strut before him in increasing numbers. No, we are not deceived. Nor is his government who look anxiously on, indecisive and impotent.” He waited for and received a regretful nod of assent from the German politician. “His following grows. Thousands are expected to turn up at Nuremberg in August. The height of summer. The crowds will be in holiday mood. We may confidently expect to find there, packed into the arena, the whole of the Nazi party, their followers from every corner of Germany, and—since a recruiting drive for his SS brigade is to follow at the end of the proceedings—all the strong-arm bullyboys in the country who are sympathetic to his cause. For that one day, the city of Nuremberg will become the pest-hole of the western world.”

  He paused for a moment, enjoying their puzzlement.

  “Gentlemen, the rats will follow the Pied Piper. And on the twentieth of August they will all be conveniently gathered together in one place, cheering their leader, Herr Hitler. Gathered onto less than one square kilometre of German soil.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Auguste exchanged sharp glances with Constantine. The countess looked fearfully at
her son but did not interrupt.

  “We have been watching this…this…boil grow and gather until it is bursting with pus! I reach for the scalpel! This is the moment.” D’Aubec spoke with calm certainty.

  He nodded at each man around the table. “Your gas, Erhard, will be delivered by one of your aeroplanes, Eric, using your detonating device, Claude, into the centre of this arena. No need to be concerned about the vagaries of the wind. Sufficient explosive power will be used to spread it over a neatly calculated area. In minutes we will have rid Europe of the menace of National Socialism. ‘Day of Awakening,’ gentlemen? ‘Hour of Oblivion’ is perhaps the phrase we may expect to feature in their obituary in the footnote of history that will be accorded them.”

  No one spoke.

  “Eight weeks’ preparation time is what we will have if we decide today on this action. We have the time, the resources, the skills, the right men with us, to achieve our aim. I need only to be assured we have the will. The practicalities will follow the decision.”

  “But the scandal, d’Aubec!” objected the German politician. “The aftermath! The Weimar Democratic Republic can not be expected to sit down and accept the wholesale slaughter of a section—albeit a despised section—of its own population! Enquiries would be made, reprisals taken. They would have to take action. Action involving the Great Powers. You would not be taking on one small political group, d’Aubec. You’d be cocking a snook at the world!”