Bright Hair About the Bone

by Barbara Cleverly

  In despondent silence their minds ranged over the possibilities for mayhem.

  “You don’t suppose, do you, William…?” said Letty hesitantly. “No! Of course not! It’s an insane notion…”

  “Go on, Letty.”

  “He might be proposing nothing less than a sea change in religion? A change in focus as significant as…as…oh, a switch in the Earth’s magnetic poles? North becomes south overnight and everything is turned to chaos. We’ve had a change from agricultural societies who worshipped the Mother Goddess to the invasive, Father-God–worshipping, militaristic states, and humankind has suffered the consequences. Could Edmond be planning to start a movement back to the old religion?”

  “Possibly. But not all the way, and not straightaway, back to paganism. Wherever you look in France, there are churches (increasingly empty and disregarded these days). The shrines are all there, in place! Many are already dedicated to a Mary—the Mother or the Saint. It would not be a devastating change to bring about—not nearly so life-changing as the utter obliteration of the orthodox faith by the Revolutionaries in the 1790s. And even those rascals had the sense to make the replacement a female entity—the Goddess of Reason.

  “I think d’Aubec’s icon, his banner, his siren for the soul, is an essence of female authority, an amalgam of three idols the French hold dear—the Mother, the Priestess-Lover, and the Goddess—be she wearing her Celtic or Egyptian or Greek garb. The Triple Goddess. Anselme has hinted as much.” He considered for a moment. “Rather more than hinted. Taken me into his confidence, you might almost say…sounded me out…And you have to agree with him—how many people, disillusioned, bereft, rudderless, and…yes…frightened…would not find such an image appealing? Remember the Angel of Mons! Tell men and women suffering stress what they subconsciously want to hear, reinforce it with colourful pictures and miles of newsprint, and the upshot will be a fervent reanimation of a nation’s faith. Give it the endorsement of a charismatic priest of impeccable character, a newsworthy and glamorous standard-bearer…”

  “But you’d have to be mad, surely, in this masculine age, to rally to a female banner?”

  “What? Mad like the followers of Boadicea? Of Elizabeth? Jeanne d’Arc? Victoria? Men fight all the more determinedly for such a cause. And, anyway, on a personal level—if it were to come to a choice between a ‘rich-haired, deep-bosomed goddess, bringer of seasons and giver of good gifts’ and a crazed, egotistical god who behaves like a spiteful child yet demands unquestioning obedience, I know which would have me on my knees! But I’d prefer that mankind learned to do without the prop of all this imagery.”

  “That’s all very well,” said Letty, “but most men and women, like the disciples, need their external emblems. They need their parables to be able to approach the truth. They need the support of a physical image—a black virgin, a man writhing in torment on a cross, to focus their emotions. They need to stick their fingers in the wound. They need to hear bells and smell candles, worship on a given day, and have their sins forgiven.”

  “D’Aubec knows this. He’s blending all these elements in the crucible and passing through it a current of twentieth-century technology. Heaven knows what the result may be! Precious metal? Utter dross? Blackened faces all round? Stay away from the flame, Letty!”

  Letty managed a laugh. “Well, I enjoyed our canter through the realms of fantasy, William. You’ve spent too many evenings swapping ideas with Father Anselme.”

  She began to move nervously about the room and turned to him to share her anxiety. “We’re prisoners here, aren’t we, William? In the most correct and hospitable way, he’s keeping us here.”

  “Oh, yes. I think if we strolled down to the gates in our boots, we’d be politely herded back. If we tried to start the Wolesley, we’d find the engine mysteriously failed to function. If we asked to use the telephone, we’d be told regretfully that there was a fault…perhaps tomorrow when the engineer could attend? When did you realise this?”

  “I went to my room to change. My trunk had been fetched. And unpacked. He’d had time to leave a note on the dressing table. ‘Suggest Talbot livery for dinner.’ D’Aubec’s even telling me what to wear! It was at that moment I heard in my mind the creak of a drawbridge coming up. How long do you think he expects us to stay cooped up in the library?”

  “Until the dressing gong sounds, probably. An hour perhaps? I’ve known worse places to be incarcerated. Settle down, Letty. You’re making me nervous, pacing about like a panther. Want to play I Spy?”

  She smiled and joined him at the table. “How about a game of cards? A game for two? Piquet? I can just about manage at piquet. But I’m unbeatable at Snap!”

  The unwelcome thought flashed through their minds in the same instant, and they stood and stared at each other until Gunning asked, “Remind me, Letty—what did the countess tell you about that last evening Daniel spent here? Can you remember exactly what you told me? I had assumed that she and Daniel passed the time tête-à-tête?”

  “That was the impression she gave…‘We played a game or two of belote…we danced a tango…’ She made quite a show of girlish embarrassment about that revelation. And now I know her better, I’d say that was definitely not in character. She was misdirecting me like a conjurer because she’d made a slip!”

  “Yes. Belote! All the rage at the moment. Takes two to tango, all right, but for belote you need four. I wonder who were the other two around the card table that evening? The ones whose presence was never declared to Huleux and the police. The last people to see him alive. How would we find out?”

  “We obviously can’t just ask a d’Aubec. Tell you what, though!—the housekeeper knows everyone’s movements. I don’t think anything happens here that she doesn’t know about. I’ll go and ask her.”

  “Are you mad? Why would she tell you?”

  “Two reasons. As far as the staff are concerned, I’m the future châtelaine and they are not displeased by that notion—when, as far as they are aware, the alternative might be Gabrielle! And the second? I’d rather you didn’t ask!”

  “Your speciality, Letty? A slight touch of blackmail? I can’t imagine that…”

  “Madame Lepage’s sister’s husband, the town pâtissier, has just bought out the baker on the opposite side of the square. Now, I wonder where he came by the sudden influx of cash? If a public-spirited individual were to make a fuss…demand an enquiry?”

  Gunning groaned. “They’ll stuff you down an oubliette!”

  “Listen! There’s the dressing gong. I’ll wait a minute to let all the guests get up to their rooms, then I’ll pop along to her office and see if I can catch her before supper. If d’Aubec wants to know where I am, hiss out of the corner of your mouth, ‘Women’s problems, old chap.’ I find it paralyses any man.”

  Letty made her way confidently through a bustle of servants, along to what would have been called, in her home, the butler’s pantry. The door was ajar but the room empty. She accosted a scurrying maid. “Madame Lepage? Is she about?”

  “Sorry, Miss. She’s in the kitchens. There’s trouble with the aspic. Shall I tell her she’s wanted?”

  “No. Don’t disturb her. Aspic demands one’s full attention.”

  Letty ducked inside and looked about her with approval and familiarity.

  She’d spent many hours as a child in just such rooms. Lonely, evasive, and quite often forgotten by adults, she’d passed the time cleaning silver, polishing glasses, mending broken crockery, and chattering to the butler. It was snug but well organised. In spite of the season a wood fire crackled in the hearth, dispelling the chill from the vaulted stone walls. A gouty sofa, a polished table, racks of patterned china, and a case of silverware. Everything had its place in such a room, and Letty looked for the desk. And there it was. On it, in solitary state, to her surprise and delight, stood a gold and black telephone. Mme. Lepage’s link with her domestic suppliers, of course. She wondered whether the d’Aubecs even remembered it was
here. She picked up the earpiece and listened, triumphant to hear a familiar buzzing. She gently replaced it. Later. Above the desk was what she had hoped to find: a shelf of leather-backed books. Ledgers.

  She glanced at the titles handwritten in black ink on white card and stuck along the spines. Recipes…Wages…Accounts…She pulled down the one marked simply Housebook. It was carefully kept. At the back, guests and visiting family were listed in alphabetical order and their tastes and preferences noted. She would have been happy to spend time exploring this section but contented herself, as she riffled through to the front, to note an intriguing fact about Cousin Gabrielle. Never think you can keep secrets from the housekeeper! Mischievously, she stored it up for future use.

  At last, she found what she was looking for. Today’s cast list. Not quite the method of notation Dawkins used, but near enough. Carefully inscribed, in spite of the turmoil of yesterday, were details of everyone on the premises. Gunning appeared, booked in as Mlle. Talbot’s cousin. His room was listed. The family’s arrival had been noted. Having got her eye in, she flipped back nine months and counted down to the day before Daniel’s death.

  There was his name: Souper. Le professeur Thorndon (v). Visiting for supper. Leek soup and potted partridge had been enjoyed evidently. And there was his hostess and alleged tango partner: Mme. la Comtesse.

  But it was the other two names that she was intrigued to see listed. Two men who had, over the card table, listened to Daniel, argued with him, quarrelled with him perhaps. She remembered her godfather had once overturned a card table in his wrath. And that quarrel had started with nothing more than an accusation of cheating. The cheat in question (herself aged eight) had at once admitted her guilt but could not understand the fuss—surely he would want her to win? Her mother had banned him from the house for a week for bad behaviour.

  What then would be the punishment exacted from quick-tempered, upright Daniel for challenging this nexus with its sinister aims? She knew the answer: a dagger in the throat.

  But the command passed down to the hand that wielded the dagger—to Jules—would, she guessed, have come from one of these two men. She thought she knew which of the pair would have given the order to kill. Laetitia rationed her seriously offensive swear words for special occasions. She used one now. “Got you, you bastard!” she murmured.

  CHAPTER 42

  Where’ve you been? Your fiancé is combing the castle for you.”

  Gunning caught up with her hurrying back down the portrait corridor a few minutes before they were due to gather for aperitifs in the summer salon.

  “In the chapel. Just saying a prayer, coming to an understanding with the two Marys, and…” she added mysteriously, “doing a little stage-managing.”

  A triumphant bellow from the foot of the staircase cut her short and they were instantly rounded up by d’Aubec and ushered along to the salon. He sent William in first and held Letty back for a moment. “You look lovely, my dear,” he murmured, arms sliding around her slim body in its wisp of black silk. She was intrigued to find that, although she was well aware of his intentions in running eager hands over her, the embrace was disconcerting. Pleased with the response he had evoked, he moved a finger slowly under her gold necklace.

  “Heraldically correct?” she reminded him.

  “In every way correct. For me. I’m sorry for my cousin’s behaviour, and I’m sorry I lied to you…a pathetic attempt to rouse the demon of jealousy, but I perceive he has no place in your heart?”

  “Oh, he’s there but lying dormant, I think,” said Letty. “And I apologise for my cousin’s behaviour. Well, shall we go in and dazzle them with the glamour of a happy couple?”

  After five minutes of unobtrusive assessment, the countess relaxed. Laetitia was behaving impeccably. Talking lightly, moving easily from group to group, she was even observed to make a comment that provoked a spurt of laughter from Gabrielle and a warm response. After a conversation with the girl, the countess’s brother-in-law, Auguste, had caught her eye across the room, smiled, and nodded. Yes, a good choice. But the Englishman was a bit of a mystery.

  Edmond had assured his mother that the man’s provenance—as he called it—had been scrutinised and found acceptable. In the course of the day, she had come to suspect, though Edmond would never admit it, that he admired the man. And for deeper reasons than the most obvious: that he had quite possibly saved her son’s life. Edmond had never made friends readily. Surrounded by close family, protected, aware from an early age of his special status, he had been concealed and prickly with others. Not an easy companion. He had craved approval without possessing the qualities to attract it. Mistakes had been made. And corrected.

  This latest pair—the Talbot girl and her vicar friend—were, in the countess’s eyes, on trial this evening. Suitable company for Edmond? How would they be judged? She hoped Laetitia at least would impress—she fitted easily into their life and the countess had never seen Edmond so struck with a girl. Yes, she would hand over her keys to Laetitia Talbot with some relief and the sooner, the better. But where was the clergyman in all this?

  She had insisted: “But what is his connection with Laetitia? They seem very close?” And her son had replied casually enough: “Do you remember, Maman, the Arab stallion Papa had before the war? The skittish grey that bit him? That horse was only at ease in his paddock when he was in the company of a moth-eaten old donkey. His friend.”

  His mother had looked at him quizzically. “But that is no moth-eaten old donkey! Never think it!”

  Her eyes were drawn constantly to Gunning. According to Anselme, the man was open-minded and enquiring, and had a cerebral approach to religion rather than a profound and visceral belief. A man still choosing his path, was Anselme’s judgement. And, of course, a man who understood the workings of the Church of England. Could be useful. Who knows? He might even prove to be the Saint Paul of their movement?

  And her judgement had been upheld over the dinner table. Her niece, Gabrielle, seated uncomfortably between Gunning and Constantine, had been prepared to turn her attention anywhere but in his direction, but his undemanding charm had won through and before the first course had been cleared, there they were—smiling, heads together.

  The countess sipped her Montrachet. It might not be the disastrous evening she had feared.

  Towards the end of the meal, a footman entered and announced that Father Anselme had arrived and been shown to the chapel. The countess looked around the table, gathering attention and quietening conversations, and invited her guests to accompany her, adding, for the benefit of Laetitia and Gunning, that the service would be short, non-denominational, and in French.

  The chapel was serenely waiting, and Father Anselme, with arms outstretched and a broad smile, welcomed them at the door. His long white robe and the green-embroidered stole draped about his shoulders were reassuringly formal. They entered and seated themselves to the sound of voices singing in Latin. A recorded sound. Gunning’s comment about the current of technology sparking and transforming ancient ingredients was proving apt, it seemed.

  Silkily, the ancient words were calling on Mary:

  O Maria virginei, flos honoris,

  Vitae via, lux fidei, pax amoris…

  Clinging to Gunning’s arm, Letty had chosen a seat by the door. Whilst the company settled, coughing and shuffling, Letty put her nose to a low arrangement of trailing ivy leaves and white roses on a table at her elbow, inhaling the calming scent and trying to still her shaking hands.

  The curtain had been drawn back to reveal the stained glass labyrinth and the ear of wheat. The warm rays of the evening sun filtered into the chapel, spreading pools of honey and amber on the floor, casting a golden glow onto the faces around her, listening with reverent attention. Sunshine, honey, amber, gold. Timeless ingredients, a bewitching alchemy.

  Letty allowed herself to become ensnared.

  When the last pure note had faded, Anselme switched off the gramophone and spoke quiet
ly, echoing the sentiment: “Shining star, moon without darkness, sun giving great light, Mary of great beauty.” He walked to the lectern and began by announcing that he was present merely to lead the worship; as with the Quaker religion, the congregation was free to make contributions—in any language—even if that contribution were simply silence and thought.

  So far, so familiar, Letty thought. Esmé could not have objected.

  She was further lulled when Anselme began to read from a psalm which she’d heard many times before. At Harvest Festivals, she thought.

  “Thou causeth the grass to grow for the cattle, and herb for the service of man: that he may bring forth food out of the earth.

  And wine that maketh glad the heart of man and oil to make his face to shine and bread which strengthens a man’s heart…

  Oh, Lady! How manifold are thy works!

  In wisdom hast thou made them all: the earth is full of thy riches…

  All that thou givest us, we gather. Thou openest thy hand, we are filled with good.

  When thou hidest thy face, we are troubled; when thou takest away our breath, we die and return to dust.

  When thou sendest forth thy spirit, we are created and thou re-newest the face of the earth…

  Lady, hear our praise!”

  The worshippers repeated the last line then joined him as he finished:

  “Our words falter.

  The Goddess sings a hymn of silence

  And we are silently singing.”

  The certainty in the firm voice was persuasive, the phrasing hypnotic. At that moment it seemed entirely reasonable to Letty that all these good things—grass, corn, wine, the fruits of the earth, and the earth itself—should have been created by a female deity.

  Letty stole a glance at Gunning. He had the attentive but slightly strained expression of a doting father being required to hear a child recite the thirteen times table.