by Michelle Wan
Mara positioned herself squarely before the table. “Please listen to me, madame. I believe that nineteen years ago a man named Julian Wood brought my sister to the forest below your château. Something happened there. I think you were a witness.”
The shears paused over the ravaged shirt.
Mara gripped the table’s edge. “Madame, I need to know what happened.”
Unwillingly, Jeanne raised a troubled face, eyelids fluttering like withered petals in a faint stirring of air. Her gaze fixed on Mara. Then she said it: “You look so much like her.”
Mara’s heart lurched. “Yes,” she breathed. “You saw the likeness the moment you met me. And the only way you could have known is if you’d already seen my sister.” Gently but firmly Mara removed the shears from the other’s grip and set them aside. “You were there, weren’t you? You saw it all. What did he do to her?”
“Oh, my dear.” Jeanne recoiled, looking genuinely shocked, as if Mara were broaching a socially embarrassing subject. “One doesn’t speak of such things. Ce … ce n’est pas convenable.”
Pas convenable. Not seemly. The arid gentility of the old woman’s choice of words made Mara want to shake her. She gripped Jeanne’s arm. “Madame de Sauvignac, I have to know. Tell me what happened to my sister!”
“As to that,” a voice spoke harshly at her back, “it’s a question you would have been much better not to ask.”
Mara whirled around to face Henri de Sauvignac. He stood in the doorway, breathing heavily and white with fury. Under his arm he still carried his gun. It was pointed at the floor, but this time the barrel was not broken. “You should be more careful where you park your car, madame.”
Mara confronted him accusingly. “You! You know, don’t you!”
“Enough!” Henri cried in a choking voice. “Why couldn’t you let it be? Go away from here. Go now, before it is too late!” He brought the gun up sharply so that the barrel pointed at her breast. His eyes burned darkly in their sockets. He was old, but not without force or malice.
In desperation, Mara swung back to the wife, grasping at the slender thread that held her to Bedie. “Madame, for the love of God, tell me! What happened to my sister?”
“Jeanne!” The husband strode across the room. “Jeanne, I forbid—”
But Madame, hands fluttering up like frightened birds, cried out before he could stop her mouth. “It was her head,” she moaned, rocking as if with pain. “Her poor, poor head!”
•
That evening, Julian, carrying an envelope of slides, arrived at the monthly meeting of the Société Jeannette. It was held in the Sainte-Anne community hall, which had once been a primary school. The words garçons and filles were cut into the stone lintels above the doorways of the separate boys’ and girls’ entrances. It was a good turnout—some thirty members. Iris and Géraud were there, Géraud looking smug, Iris cheerful and heavy with wooden beads.
“Come sit with us, Julian.” Iris patted the empty chair next to her.
“I give you fair warning,” she confided in a mock whisper as Julian settled himself. “Géraud’s full of himself. Wait till the members’ bit.”
“Just let him wait,” Julian grinned. “I’ve got something that’ll knock his socks off.”
The meeting started off with general business. Julian took the opportunity to alert the gathering to Edith’s disappearance. They then moved on to nominations for the Prix Vénus. This was a prize awarded annually to the member who had contributed most to furthering the society’s botanical knowledge or to the protection and public appreciation of flora in the region. In practice, this meant whoever had provided the best Bring and Brags. Inevitably, Julian and Géraud were nominated. Julian, who had joined the society only half a dozen years ago, was regarded as the upstart contender against Géraud, who won the prize with boring regularity. Julian was damned if he was going to be beaten out again.
The last part of the meeting was always reserved for the Bring and Brag. Here, there was usually a slight tussle as to order. Because Julian and Géraud almost always had something to show, it was understood that any other members wishing to make presentations (invariably inferior in point of botanical interest) had right of way. The issue of contention between Julian and Géraud was not which of them went next, but who went last, claiming the honor of rounding off the evening with the main spectacle, so to speak. The two men generally engaged in a species of wrangling, disguised as polite deference, each urging the other to precede him.
This time a resident German, Wilhelm Schroeder, led off with a nice series of slides of mountain wildflowers he’d snapped while hiking in the Ariège. When he stood down, there was a ripple of appreciation followed by a pause. Heads turned expectantly to Julian and Géraud. Julian sat back, knowing that what he had to show was well worth waiting for. To his surprise, Géraud did not demur but edged past him to the slide projector without ceremony.
“Just un petit amuse-gueule,” he snickered at the gathering, “to whet the palate for the undoubtedly splendid botanical pièce de résistance that I’m sure my colleague Julian Wood has prepared for us.” And he projected a close-up which caused Julian to sit forward agog.
“Saprophytes, as some of you may know, live on decomposing matter and are relatively rare. This fine example of the saprophytic Neottia nidus-avis, popularly known as Bird’s-nest Orchid, is not at all common in the region. In fact, in all my years of spotting, I’ve come across very few examples—”
“Voyou!” Julian choked, outraged, to the consternation of those who sat within hearing.
Géraud continued unperturbed. ”—and certainly nothing to match this magnificent colony, which I just happened to come upon recently.” Julian’s stand, in all its dense, brownish-yellow glory, flashed on, covering the screen.
“The immense size of this colony,” Géraud went on, “is an excellent example of successful vegetative propagation. As you know, orchids, in addition to dropping seeds, spread underground through rhizomes or tubers, which clone off more plants, and so on. This way, quite massive carpets of a species like the Neottia here can grow up over time …”
Amid the murmurs of admiration, Iris turned to Julian. “What did I tell you?”
There was loud applause as Géraud wound up his presentation and sat down.
“Pirate!” Julian spat out as the other sidled past. “Voleur!”
Géraud smirked. “No such thing, mon ami. Believe me, your directions were more of a setback than a help. But don’t keep us waiting. Allez, the show is all yours.”
Julian glared. “Bugger the show!”
EIGHTEEN
A scampering sound brought Mara to her senses. Rats. Or more probably a fouine, a stone marten, she figured once she realized where she was; for she could make out a paleness that resolved itself into a dormer window. She was somewhere in the loft of the château. Judging from the quality of the light, it was early evening. Her head throbbed terribly. She tried to move and found that her hands and feet were bound. She rolled over on her stomach and attempted to push herself into a kneeling position. The effort made her sick and dizzy. With a moan, Mara collapsed onto a hard, filthy mattress that bore traces of her own blood.
The pain was mostly concentrated on the left side of her head. That was where Henri de Sauvignac had struck her, hard, with the butt of his shotgun. She remembered now his look of desperation and fury as he crashed the weapon, held like a club, into her skull. Her last conscious thought had been that he intended to kill her.
She tried again to raise herself up to a half-reclining position against the wall. Another rush of nausea and dizziness. When her vision cleared, she saw that she was in a small garret containing only the bed she lay on. The space, which had been walled off from the rest of the loft, had an air of long abandonment. The floor was thick with dust.
She sensed movement. A small door at the far end of the garret opened. Jeanne de Sauvignac stepped into focus, carefully balancing a basin of liquid before h
er. Reaching Mara’s side, she stooped worriedly over her.
“How are you, my dear?” She seated herself on the bed. Dipping a cloth into the basin, she began to dab very gently at the side of Mara’s face. The pungent smell of vinegar hit Mara with such force that she recoiled.
“Lie still,” the old woman murmured, pausing in her ministrations. “This will do you good. You’ve had a very nasty fall.”
“Fall!” Mara gasped hoarsely. “Your husband tried to kill me. Surely you must realize that?”
“Ah.” The other thought for a moment. “But then you fell.”
With a sinking feeling, Mara recognized that Jeanne de Sauvignac was either crazier or more cynically sane than she had thought.
“Untie me. You can’t keep me here. I’m hurt. I need a doctor.”
“Hush,” said Jeanne, studying her patient with interest. “I’ll take very good care of you. I know a great deal about head injuries.”
It occurred to Mara that Jeanne herself might be the product of a head injury. Then she remembered Bedie.
“What happened to my sister?” she croaked. “Did someone hit her on the head?”
Jeanne’s regard shifted to the basin. She fingered the wet cloth. Mara waited, her own temples throbbing, willing the other to talk. At last, the older woman spoke. “He was born that way. He couldn’t help the things he did.” She said it simply, as if of some beast shaped by nature to violence, and with a compassion that sounded somehow out of place.
Was the woman talking about Julian? Fighting against an overwhelming drowsiness, Mara forced herself to concentrate. Her blackmail theory seemed insufficient reason for the violence of Henri’s reaction. Surely the de Sauvignacs would not go to the extent of attacking and tying her up just to protect their hold over Julian and what had to be a meager source of money. Unless, of course, it was their own complicity they were desperate to hide. Then her thinking cleared, and she realized there was a simpler explanation. She turned to the woman at her side, who was now gazing distractedly into the basin as if seeking something in its cloudy depths. Jeanne had not been referring to Julian at all, probably had no inkling of who he was.
“Vrac,” Mara said with a long release of breath. “It was Vrac all along, wasn’t it? You knew, but you did nothing. Because he and his mother are ‘your people’ you kept silent. Mon dieu, you probably even helped them dispose of her body! But why?” She pulled away in revulsion from the other’s touch. “Why did you cover up for him? Why did you risk so much to protect someone who’s probably a psychopathic killer?”
Mara had her answer even before she finished her question, guessed it from Jeanne’s quickly averted face, heard it in her silence. Henri’s sense of noblesse oblige. The games of cache-cache. There was only one reason why children of the château would have been allowed to play with a common washerwoman’s spawn.
“The blood tie,” she concluded. “That’s what binds you to him, isn’t it? Vrac is your husband’s bastard.”
“Let me go,” Mara cried. “People will be looking for me. “They know I’m here. Your son—” an uneasy thought crossed her mind—“does Alain know about my sister?”
Jeanne sighed, a soft, sad rush of air. “My boy was away. In Africa. Building roads and bridges. His father won’t let him live here. That’s why he works abroad.”
“Well, your boy is going to be back on Sunday,” Mara challenged. “How will you explain me?” Then doubt edged in. Would they tell him? Would he even know she was up there in the garret? Would he help her if he knew?
•
She had no idea what the de Sauvignacs intended to do with her, only that she was one against many. A half-mad woman. Henri, arrogant, desperate, and armed. Behind him, the lurking specter of Vrac. And la Binette. Mara balked a little at the thought of Henri taking his pleasure with someone whom she had heard Gaston describe as big as a tree, ugly as a troll. But perhaps, when young, the woman had offered a brief attraction. Where had it happened? Mara wondered. At the stream where she routinely took the washing? Had the young milord taken her from behind, like an animal? She did the rough, the old man had said with fine distinction. How many couplings had it required to produce her misbegotten son?
Finally, there was Alain. Was he really ignorant of what his parents had done? Could they have kept something so monstrous from him? She wanted desperately for him to have no taint of collusion. Because if Alain had known, then his silence made him as guilty as they.
•
Later that night, Jeanne returned with a blanket and a bowl of soup. Mara caught the disheartening whiff of celery and onions. The soup was greasy, oversalted, and thickened with bread. The woman seemed to take pleasure in helping Mara to eat, cradling her torso against her own bony, stale-smelling body, lips moving in sympathetic movement with each mouthful that Mara took. Despite her revulsion at the physical contact, Mara ate it all. She needed her strength to fight against them. The light from a single, naked bulb suspended from the ceiling threw their shadows against the wall in a slow, wavering duet of motion.
When Mara said she needed to relieve herself, Jeanne offered her the use of a dusty chamber pot that she pulled from under the bed. Mara refused and insisted on being taken to a proper toilet. Jeanne untied her legs and escorted her out of the garret, down the spiral stairs to the floor below. Any thought Mara had of making her escape faded when she realized how weak and dizzy she was. She could hardly walk, let alone run. The water closet, situated off the gallery, was none too clean. Since Mara’s hands were still bound, Jeanne had to help her. Mara recoiled from the intimate physical contact, but at least the woman was quick about it, pulling down her jeans, wiping her as efficiently as a nurse. Also surprisingly strong. Then Jeanne brought her back and tied her legs again, but not as tightly as before. With a murmured “bonsoir,” she clicked off the light. Mara heard the grating of the key in the lock.
She waited breathlessly in the dark. The great house was absolutely still. Awkwardly she dropped her legs over the side of the bed and slid to the floor. It was a painful process, rolling over the hard floorboards, and she had to stop many times to let her swimming head stabilize. When she reached the door, she pushed herself up to a standing position. She slid her cheek against the wall until she found the old-fashioned switch and flipped it on with her chin. Once again the single bulb came to life, filling the garret with a weak light.
Her exploration of the garret told her a few things. The door was made of solid timber with no knob or handle, only a metal plate housing a deadbolt lock, an unusual fitting for a garret. No hope of escape there. The dormer window was boarded off at the bottom. That was enough to tell her it was the one she had noticed from the rear courtyard during her stakeout. She stored up this precious piece of information. At some point the PTT van would drive up the rear lane and park by the scullery door. If there was some way she could open the window, she could shout for help when the dark-haired rouleur arrived with the next mail delivery.
But how to do it? The window was set high in the wall, and the boarding made it impossible for her even to see out of it. There was no chair or table in the garret, nothing to climb on. She would have to shift the bed over to the window somehow. She tried moving it the only way she could, by rolling onto her back and shoving it with her feet, using the power of her legs. It was extremely heavy. She managed to slide one end of the bed a small distance from the wall before a sudden wave of nausea overcame her. She rolled onto her side and vomited a pale-yellow liquid in which gobbets of undigested bread floated. Exhausted, she closed her eyes. She slept.
•
The following morning broke cool and overcast. Julian was standing sleepily in his kitchen, pouring himself a first mug of tea. He took it well sweetened, with a dash of milk. The back door was open, admitting a moist breeze. The phone rang.
“Julian?” It was Iris.
“Yes?” he inquired coldly, the memory of Géraud’s scoop making him uncivil.
“Look,
I’ve been stewing about this since last night. I felt I simply had to call you.”
“About what?”
“Géraud, of course!” Iris’s indignation crackled in his ear. “He told me what he did to you. He was laughing about it all the way home from the Société meeting. For what it’s worth, I think it was a perfectly filthy trick.”
“Oh that. Finder’s rights.” Behind feigned indifference, Julian was still furious. The only thing that had saved the evening for him was the fact that he had arranged a double billing: the Neottia, which he did not show—what was the point?—and his slides of Hammarbya paludosa, the Bog Orchids he had discovered on his first day out with Mara. The effect, however, had been much discounted by the fact that they were not yet in flower.
“But you don’t know the worst of it,” Iris went on.
“There’s worse?” He pulled up a chair and sat down heavily.
“Géraud purposely misled you to buy time for himself. He made up that Bird’s-nest colony outside Le Double! Meantime, he checked out your locations, which, of course, were genuine.”
Julian swore. The thought had crossed his mind, but he had been unable to believe that Géraud would stoop so low.
“Listen, Julian, I think it’s too bad, what he did. I want you to know I had no part in it.”
“No, of course not.”
“However, to be fair to Géraud, you’re always trying to one-up him, too, and he feels the pressure. Everything’s so competitive nowadays. In fact, it’s perfectly disgusting, the tricks some Société members play to outdo each other. In old Henri de Sauvignac’s time, such things would never have happened. All the same, I think Géraud needs to be taught a lesson. The only way to punish him is to hit him where it hurts.”
