by Michelle Wan
“Where’s that?” Julian asked with interest.
“The Prix Vénus. He’s won it seven years running. Beat him out for it.”
Julian snorted. “How, if he’s prepared to cheat?” All the same, he was gratified by Iris’s blatant betrayal of her lover.
“Well, I don’t know. You’re the botanist.”
Something Iris had said earlier only now registered with him. “Wait a minute, Iris. Who did you say?”
“Géraud, of course.”
“No, before that.”
“Henri de Sauvignac? He founded the society, didn’t you know? But, of course, that was well before your time. Lovely old gent. Absolutely gaga about wildflowers. You’d have liked him.”
“Are you talking about the de Sauvignac of Les Colombes?”
“Well, not the present châtelain, of course. Henri de Sauvignac père. Avid orchidologist. Both of them.”
“Both of who?”
“He and his daughter-in-law. The two of them used to prowl the countryside collecting specimens for their plantations. Had them dotted all over the estate. He named the society for her, you know. ‘Jeannette’ is a jeu de mots, the diminutive for ‘Jeanne,’ which is her name. It also stands for jeannette jaune, yellow daffodil. He died years ago, god rest his gentle soul, but Jeanne de Sauvignac is still around, flitting through the woods.”
“And her husband, the present Henri de Sauvignac, does he share this interest in botany?”
Iris gave a peal of laughter. “More interested in les jeunes filles en fleur, budding young women, than daisies, if you get my meaning. A real lady-killer in his day, with a penchant for rough sex, or sex in the rough.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he had a liking for village wenches and he took it where he could get it, in field and forest. They say his youngest son drowned in a pond because the maid who was supposed to be looking after him was otherwise occupied in the tall grass with her employer. It destroyed his wife, which was very sad, especially as it’s poor Jeanne de Sauvignac who’s had to pay out all these years to hush up her husband’s sexual indiscretions. She’s the one with the money, you see. Or was. They’re poor as church mice now, but he refuses to sell that barn of a place they live in. Family pride. Still, give the devil his due, after the old man died, Henri fils did his bit as Société president for many years, made pretty speeches at the annual assembly, handed out the Prix Vénus, which his father also founded, that kind of thing. Neither the present Henri nor Jeanne has come to meetings for donkey’s years, of course.”
Julian’s mind was racing. “The Prix Vénus … That wouldn’t happen to have been named after the Sabot de Vénus, would it?”
“Why, now that you mention it, I believe it was. Yes, I’m sure of it, because I remember that Henri senior and Jeanne once tried to grow Sabot de Vénus on the grounds of their château.”
Julian was on his feet and gaping. “Are you saying they tried to breed Cypripedium calceolus here?”
“What?”
“Cypripedium calceolus. Sabot de Vénus. Lady’s Slipper.”
“Ah. I forgot that’s what you experts call it. Well, yes, come to think of it, I believe they did. From rootstock they took from, mmm, I can’t remember where.”
“Look, I’m not just talking about one or two show plants, Iris. I mean, do you know if they actually tried to establish a viable plantation of them?”
“Might have.” He could almost see her shrug. “Although, if they did, I doubt it came to very much.”
“However, you don’t know for certain that they failed, do you?” Julian was breathing hard.
“Oh,” Iris murmured vaguely, “I rather think that if old Henri had succeeded we’d all have heard about it.”
“And does Géraud know about this attempt to grow Cypripedium?”
“Bound to. But you know Géraud, vain as a peacock, scoffs at anything anyone else tries. Doubt he ever believed in it.”
Until, of course, Julian thought sourly, I turned up with that photo. Aloud, he said, “Thanks for telling me this, Iris. You’re a real treasure.”
She chuckled conspiratorially. “Just give the old devil what’s coming to him, all right?”
“You’re on,” he assured her.
Julian hung up with two thoughts driving everything else from his mind. First and foremost, if Cypripedium calceolus had been established at Les Colombes, then the plant could have mutated and the resulting flower could have been the one Bedie had photographed nineteen years ago. Second, Géraud, nobody’s fool, was, like himself, on the hunt for the Lady’s Slipper, probably closing in on it at that very moment.
A panicky urge to rush back to Les Colombes seized him, but he restrained himself. Les Colombes and the surrounding forest encompassed a large area, and he might be looking for a single plant. If it had survived. The logical approach would be to find out from Jeanne de Sauvignac where she and her late father-in-law had tried to establish the Cypripedium rootstock. That at least would narrow the search. Assuming the woman could remember. She sounded barmy, from Mara’s description.
He took it for granted that he could count on Mara’s cooperation. She wanted to find the Cypripedium as much as he—for different reasons, of course. However, he was aware that a coolness had set in between them ever since that damned Alain had happened along. Julian was quite certain that she looked at him differently of late, almost as if—Well, it was past thinking. All the same, it gave him a stab of uneasiness.
He drove straight out to Ecoute-la-Pluie. There he found Mara’s front door open and the cleaning woman, a bony person named Madame Audebert, on hands and knees in the main room, vigorously waxing the floor. The smell of encaustic hung sweetly in the air. She looked up at Julian with eyes like olive pits. He asked if Mara was in.
“But her bed has not been slept in, monsieur,” Madame Audebert told him sardonically, as if to imply that, if he did not know why, then it was none of his business.
Alain, Julian, concluded wrathfully.
The femme de ménage added that she came at nine twice a week and let herself in with her own key. Sometimes Madame Dunn was there when she arrived and sometimes not. This time not. Regardless, she got on with her work. She gave him an acid look.
“Oh, right—” He was about to leave her to it when he was startled by a deep bark. “Wait a minute. Is Jazz here?”
By way of answer, Madame Audebert jabbed her hairy chin in the direction of the back of the house. Julian strode across the room. Through the glass panels of the double doors, he could see the dog straining at the end of a chain, looking anxious amid the Patsy Reicher statuary.
“He hates the vacuum,” Madame Audebert muttered at his back, “so I put him in the garden. He barks a lot because he doesn’t like being tied up.” She seemed to imply that Julian should do something about it.
“Look,” Julian said, “I want to leave Mara—Madame Dunn—a message.” He peered about for something to write on. The woman was unhelpful. He settled for the back of a bill he found in his pocket. Hastily he scrawled: Mara—where the hell are you? Call me. Urgent. Julian.
“I’ll put it here, shall I?” He placed it conspicuously on one of the Louis Something consoles.
“Comme vous voulez, monsieur.” From the floor, Madame Audebert pursed her lips, as the French picturesquely called it, en cul de poule. It was a fitting description, Julian thought nastily. Her puckered mouth really did resemble a chicken’s arse.
No sooner had he returned to his van than he regretted leaving a message at all. What was the point of waiting for Mara to take her sweet time getting back just to tell her about his discovery? Now that she was so thick with Alain, he wouldn’t put it past her to cut him out, use the son to get the information from Jeanne de Sauvignac, and try to find the Cypripedium herself. Just to spite him. And the damnable thing was, the bloody woman might succeed. After all, her sister had stumbled on it. His anger and his resentment mounted.
He w
as considering retrieving his note when another volley of barks, desperate this time, sounded from the garden. Julian hesitated, then walked around to the back of the house. Jazz, frantic with delight, lunged and scrabbled on his tether.
“Oh, all right,” Julian gave in grumpily. “But just this once.”
“Tell Madame Dunn,” he called to the femme de ménage through the front door, “I’ve taken Jazz.”
She gave him a look that said he could go to the devil for all she cared, the dog with him.
•
“Count yourself lucky,” Julian snarled at Jazz as he started the engine and roared out of Ecoute-la-Pluie in the direction of Les Colombes. For want of information from Jeanne de Sauvignac, he had to make assumptions. He had already guessed that the ridge on which the château stood offered the kind of soil and the cool, wooded environment that Cypripedium liked. That’s where he would have chosen to establish a plantation of Lady’s Slippers if it had been up to him.
He had come away without any of his usual hiking paraphernalia, but at least he had his compass and maps, which he normally carried in his van. Using a Série bleue, he found a road that allowed him to approach the estate from the east. That way he could avoid crossing La Binette land, which lay to the west of Les Colombes. He had no desire to be caught trespassing by Vrac or his hulk of a mother.
He parked at the roadside near a scattering of tiny Burnt-tip Orchids. The high tree canopy offered him no view of his destination, so the first thing he did was to set a westerly bearing on his compass that would orient him roughly in the direction of the château and the ridge. Since there was no path, he would have to break his own trail, and he estimated that he had a good hour’s hike ahead of him.
He set out. Jazz vanished immediately (Julian had also not thought to bring a leash). Slightly alarmed, Julian called him back. The dog took his time coming but eventually returned. This happened repeatedly. Finally, Julian got tired of calling and left the animal to his own devices. When he came across a mass of pink Heath Orchids growing in a clearing, he forgot entirely about the dog. Later he found a fine stand of Limodorum abortivum. The tall, handsome plants were in peak condition, with their mauve blossoms spiraling up each individual stem. He made a mental note of their location.
After about twenty minutes, Julian stumbled on a path that seemed to be trending in the right direction. He followed it. It took him past a crudely fenced pasture where a nervous huddle of ewes and lambs broke apart at his approach, skittering away before wheeling around from a safe distance to stare at him sideways with stupid, squarish eyes. At this point, he had no idea whose land he was on. The pasture sloped down to a stream so heavily overgrown with willow brush that although he heard the sound of water he could not see it until he nearly fell into a narrow, deeply cut rivulet that rushed away at his feet.
His path ended there. A network of faint tracks led off in several directions. Referring again to his compass, he chose one that snaked along the water’s course. He had not gone far when a shrill, inhuman scream brought him to a startled halt.
“Bloody hell!” he uttered. “What was that?” His first thought was that Jazz had seized on some poor, unwary animal. The sound had come from farther along the watercourse. He ran forward, breaking through a heavy screen of willows. What he saw caused him to pull up in sheer terror. Vrac stood below him on the other side of the stream, bare arms spattered in blood. In one hand he grasped a knife, in the other the thing he had just slaughtered. It was a lamb, which he secured by the hind legs while he disemboweled it. Bluish intestines spilled onto the mud. The water of the stream ran a ghastly shade of red.
For a moment Vrac stared stupidly up at Julian. The mono-lens sunglasses blanked out one eye, but the look in the other turned quickly ugly. Julian took two involuntary steps backward, spun about, and fled.
Counting on speed he did not really have, Julian crashed through the trees. Behind him he heard a fearsome bellow and the thud of heavy footsteps. The realization that Vrac had been merely poaching someone’s livestock, probably for his evening chops, did not make Julian less inclined to put distance between him and his pursuer. Poaching was a serious offense in those parts, and Vrac clearly resented being caught at it. Julian did not like to think what Vrac could do with that knife of his.
Dodging branches, Julian found himself at another section of the stream, where it curved off in a wide, shallow bend. He flailed across it. The splatter of water in his wake told him that Vrac was not far behind. Gasping for breath, Julian scrambled up the steep, wooded embankment on the other side. Small avalanches of scree rattled down behind him as he surged over the top of the rise. The land fell away precipitously before him. He galloped down recklessly.
A root caught his foot. He spun sideways, rolled wildly, and came up hard against the base of a tree. The impact knocked the wind out of him. He lay fighting for air. Painfully he dragged himself on his elbows into the cover of a dense bed of ferns. Pressing himself flat against the ground, he listened. The only sound he heard was the hammering of his own heart.
Cautiously, Julian raised his head. Small white butterflies danced over a gray-green sea of bracken that spilled thickly down the slope. Light filtered lazily through the treetops. All about him the woods were quiet. He lay still for a few moments longer, then congratulated himself on a close escape. Vrac appeared to have abandoned the chase and was probably going back for his lamb. Julian judged that he would finish gutting it and make for home as fast as possible.
Julian pushed himself upright, reoriented himself, and set off again, scrambling along the steep side of the embankment. A break in the trees gave him his first, distant glimpse of Les Colombes, or, rather, its chimneystacks. It stood high on its prominence across a broad, wooded valley. He took another compass reading and headed down into the valley floor, pushing his way, often with difficulty, through the tangled undergrowth. When he came across another network of trails, he chose one trending in a westerly direction. It took him through a gloomy pine forest.
Now the land began to rise before him. Pines gave way to beeches, old-growth chestnuts, and oaks. After another fifteen minutes, he found himself in a hornbeam grove at the base of the ridge. The château stood high above him to his left. The trail veered off toward it. To his right, the ridge continued on for a kilometer or so before coming to an abrupt end in a spectacular hanging cliff.
He decided to begin his search by working diagonally up the slope face, away from the château and toward the cliff, sticking to tree cover as much as possible until he was out of sight of the château. There was no path, and large boulders frequently blocked his way. One, as big as a house, rose up before him. He was edging around it when the ground suddenly gave way beneath him. With a startled cry, he found himself dropping into a void and managed only just in time to catch himself with his outflung arms. Panicked, he kicked about to find some purchase with his feet, which only caused him to slip farther. A shower of earth and stones struck bottom somewhere ominously far below him. He now dangled over nothingness, supported only by his hands and forearms. Gradually, as the friable soil crumbled beneath his weight, he lost even this precious hold. In a minor avalanche, he plunged down into a pit of darkness. It was as if the earth itself had swallowed him up.
•
Mara awoke to daylight. She was on the floor, where she had collapsed the night before. She felt cold and clammy. Then the sour smell of her own mess hit her. Miserably she rolled away from it and found herself staring into the dim, dusty space beneath the bed. Something shiny was wedged in a gap between the floorboards just by one of the legs of the bed. Frowning, she scooted forward and picked it out with her teeth, dropping it out in the open where she could study it better. It was a plain, narrow metal band, slightly pitted with rust and bent tightly in upon itself. A hair clip of some kind, too flimsy to be of use to her. Disappointed, she rolled away. Then faint recognition stirred. She closed her eyes and struggled to visualize. Hair. Bedie’s hair, pinn
ed back at the temples. This was a woman’s hair clip such as Mara had seen in every one of her nightmares for nineteen years: Bedie’s barrette.
Her brain in turmoil, Mara struggled to understand how it came to be there. She fought to concentrate, staring at this terrible and yet precious token of her sister. Her mind went back to the knobless door, the deadbolt lock, the dormer window that had been altered to let light in but blocked any view of the outside world. The garret was fitted out like a prison.
I know a lot about head injuries, the old woman had said. Bedie—who had been struck on the head, but who had not died, at least not right away—Bedie had been there once. Mara was sure of it. The bed bore the impression of her body; the walls, the enclosed space of the garret held her presence like a bottled ghost.
She struggled to rise, ignoring the pounding in her head. Hobbling on her knees to the barrier of the door, she fell against it, pivoted around, and hammered at it with her feet, shouting with all the force she could muster.
“Get up here, you monsters! Get up here and tell me what you’ve done with my sister!”
•
Julian landed heavily. Instinct told him not to move. In the dimness, he saw that he was on a limestone shelf only slightly wider than himself. It was, in fact, what had saved him, for it projected out over a chasm, the depth of which he could only guess at by the rattle of debris still on its way down. He was in an edze, a typical geological feature of the region, where rifts in the calcareous mantle of the earth, dissolved by rain, opened out into deep pits underlain by subterranean rivers. He sat up carefully. Apart from being stunned and shaken, he did not seem to have broken anything. Above him, he saw a ragged patch of daylight, the hole through which he had fallen.
Julian’s horror and revulsion at encountering Vrac at the stream were now replaced by a strong desire to see the man again, for there was no way he could climb out without help. The mouth of the edze was perhaps five meters up, more than twice his own height. The shaly sides offered no hand-or foothold. To make things worse, the pit interior was wider at the bottom, sloping inward at the top. Despite his belief that Vrac was capable of slitting him open like a hogget, Julian got to his feet and began to shout.
