Thunder on the Right

by Mary Stewart

  Pierre Bussac lunged forward at that, almost as if he would have struck her, but she never moved. He paused by the table, leaning his great fists on it, and snarled something across at her.

  She said coldly, watching him: ‘But you know I’m right, don’t you? I usually am. If you thought with your brains instead of your body you’d know that the only safe course is for us to get rid of this woman. Madame Lamartine’ – her voice crisped a little, and the listener felt her nerves tighten – ‘Madame Lamartine is dead of a fever, and lies in the convent graveyard. She must stay there … One question, one doubt, one spade in the side of the grave – and the hue and cry would be on in this valley – and the end of you, my friend!’

  ‘And of you!’ he countered fiercely.

  She laughed. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. I was an innocent party. All I stand to lose is my private income.’

  He raised his head at that. ‘All? All?’ He gave a hard little laugh. ‘All you stand to lose, my fine lady, is the dream you live for – the dream of the power and the glory that money’s going to bring you! Why else do you stay in this God-forsaken valley if it isn’t that you’re afraid to lose your “private income”? Do you think I don’t know the plans you hug to yourself in that chapel of yours, Señora Francisca, waiting – ay, and praying for the old Mother to die … waiting and hoping that when there’s nobody left who knows you as well as she knows you, you’ll get where you want to get? That’s it, isn’t it? Madam Prioress of Notre-Dame-des-Orages. Not a humble little orphanage any more, oh, no! but a grand place with its new buildings and its fine and famous chapel that folk crowd from all over the world to see!’ His voice thinned into a sneer. ‘No, you’d never want to leave the pipeline from Spain that pumps the gold into your pockets and the power into your hands that it’d kill you to be without!’

  She had listened without moving, but at this the heavy lids dropped over her eyes. He laughed again. ‘Ah, I know you, you see! Power, Doña Francisca … that’s what your money spells to you …’ His voice dropped to a vicious whisper that came clearly in the lull. ‘And what do you care if it’s sticky with blood?’

  She moved at that, but stilled herself immediately. Her face seemed to hood itself, to become again the wooden mask that Jennifer had so mistrusted. The hooded lids lifted. ‘Tomorrow night. You’ll get rid of her tomorrow night.’ The black eyes burned through the mask.

  The man moved then. He was shouting something. He had raised his great fists, and seemed to be shaking them in sudden rage, but she still held him away, it appeared, by the sheer strength of the personality that blazed from her eyes.

  She said, still in the same clear, bitter tones: ‘I shall come up tomorrow night, after Compline, at the usual time, and see it’s done. And you’ll do it, my stupid friend!’

  He said, hoarsely: ‘How?’

  She lifted her shoulders. ‘That’s your affair.’

  ‘There’s nowhere – you know as well as I do that I’ve nowhere to send her!’

  Her eyes held him. She did not speak. The wind still lay quiet. Jennifer could see Bussac, still leaning on the table-top, his head thrust forward, staring at the woman. His back was towards the window, but there was about his still pose some powerful suggestion of horror. And the horror was in his voice when he spoke again.

  He said: ‘Are you suggesting – murder?’

  She said sharply: ‘I’m suggesting nothing. I told you it was your affair. You got into it: well, now you get out of it. I know nothing.’

  ‘I’ll not do it, damn you!’

  Her lip curled. ‘You credit me with your own evil, friend. All I demand is that you get her out of sight, out of France. Gésus Maria, you, of all men, know the way to do that!’

  ‘My bridge? Take her up there and show her the road to Spain? The way she is? That would be murder and you know it! You might as well cut her throat and have done.’

  ‘You exaggerate. If she’s fool enough to lose her way, what concern is that of yours – or mine? If she were given her freedom, and the road to Spain, I should certainly not feel that her murder lay at my door! I repeat, all I’m asking is that you get her out of France. What happens after that …’ She paused. The black eyes glinted at him. ‘You’re mighty nice all of a sudden, aren’t you? Who are you to prate of murder? What’s another to you, more or less?’

  He said nothing, but stood staring at her. There was a pause, then across the silence the wind began to whine again, clawing at the shutters, and whipping Jennifer’s damp skirts flat against the cottage wall.

  Doña Francisca’s voice came again, clearly: ‘Then you understand. Tomorrow night. And if you refuse …’ For the first time she moved nearer to him, and, though her body was still held stiffly upright, it was as if she had lowered her voice and leaned forward in hideous confidence: ‘If you refuse—’

  The wind screamed through the broken eaves. Jennifer, in a fury of frustration, saw the bursar’s lips moving dumbly. The man was shaking his head; he took a step forward and brought his fists down on the table as if in a passion of refusal. Doña Francisca, ignoring the gesture as if he had never moved, flung at him one last, contemptuous, vitriolic phrase. Then she turned her back on him and picked up her cloak.

  Jennifer waited for no more, but fled into the shadows and down the stony track faster than even the wings of the furies would have carried her.

  As she crept through the stone tunnel that led between chapel and refectory, she was halted by a faint sound, which seemed to come through the unlatched west door of the chapel. She hesitated a moment, then, reckoning that she had sufficient lead from Doña Francisca, she moved soundlessly to the door, pushed it open a further crack, and looked in.

  At first she could see nothing, then, in the dim red glimmer of the sanctuary lamp, she saw, again, what she had encountered once before. Celeste was kneeling, crouching rather, before the altar of Our Lady of Sorrow. Jennifer could hear, faintly, spectrally, the tiny whisper of a sobbing prayer.

  She drew back, but not before she had seen, on the shoulders of the girl’s cloak, raindrops glittering in the red light like a scatter of rubies. Mindful of who was to follow her in a moment, she withdrew swiftly into the shadows, and closed the heavy door on that small desperate whispering.

  13

  Caprice Espagnole

  It would certainly be easy enough, now, to convince Stephen that she had been right. Jennifer, with one eye perpetually on her wrist-watch, saw the tiny hand ticking away the morning, herself in a rising fever of impatience and indecision.

  No immediately useful purpose, she could see, would be served by laying her story straight before the Prioress: if Doña Francisca was to be exposed, it must be by those who could forthwith restrain her. There must be no risk of alarming her, and driving her before her time to ‘destroy the evidence’ that was hidden away at Bussac’s farm.

  For this same reason she dared not hurry too early, and too eagerly, out of the convent to meet Stephen before the time arranged. She had, after all, accepted the convent’s hospitality for the avowed purpose of making inquiries there, and to fail to carry out this programme might arouse the very suspicion that she wanted to avert. Nor could she have escaped at all easily had she wanted to, for, so eager was the Prioress to atone for the convent’s ‘mistake’, that she sent for Jennifer as soon as breakfast was over and asked her in Doña Francisca’s presence what inquiries she proposed to make.

  ‘Doña Francisca,’ said the soft old voice, ‘will do her best to help you.’ And the bursar, looking at Jennifer with those hooded, unreadable eyes, was understood to say that she would indeed.

  But Jennifer had had a long time to think and she was prepared for this. She merely took Doña Francisca painstakingly and repetitively over what she knew to be safe ground – the car-crash, the storm, her ‘cousin’s’ arrival at the convent, the course of her illness, the summoning of Father Anselm, death …

  The bursar answered the questions with no sign of hesitatio
n; her voice was even and pleasant, her face as usual expressionless, but her eyes watched. Jennifer, for her part, let it be seen from the beginning of the interview that this morning she was already repenting her unworthy impulses of yesterday. She began with slightly apologetic hesitation, and her artless questions, running the gamut of shame-faced persistence and, finally, reluctant conviction, brought the faintest shade of contempt into the line of the woman’s mouth. Jennifer saw this with some pleasure, and saw, too, the slight relaxation of that steady, watchful stare. She proceeded, with a charming air of apology, to lull the watch-dog further …

  It was a performance that would have amused Stephen, and shaken Mrs. Silver to the roots of her being. The interview ended at last in as pretty an exchange of hypocrisies as could be imagined, Jennifer, in so many words, retracting her nonsense of yesterday, and Doña Francisca admitting that a mistake had undoubtedly occurred somewhere, and that if there was anything the convent could do she had only to let them know …

  Here the bell went for morning service, and, both in her rôle as the convent’s guest and as repentant mourner for her cousin, Jennifer could do no other than accept the bursar’s invitation to accompany her down to chapel, and there fret her way through what seemed an interminable service.

  Nor was escape possible afterwards. When, after chapel, Doña Francisca suggested, in the kindest possible manner, that she might like to see her cousin’s baggage and decide what was to be done with it, Jennifer could think of no convincing way of refusing. The idea did cross her mind that Doña Francisca was, as it were, deliberately keeping her close, and at this idea she felt a pang of uneasy fear. But to her relief she was handed over to Sister Marie-Annette – a fresh-faced woman of perhaps forty – while the bursar went about her own duties.

  It was a full hour before Jennifer could decently tear herself away from the practical sympathy and obviously passionate interest of the gossip-starved Sister Marie-Annette. But she did escape at length, on the only possible excuse that would have made the good sister let her go alone – that of making another pilgrimage to her cousin’s grave.

  She hurried along the bright corridor, down the saint-watched stairs, and across the hall. The orphans, attended by two of the younger nuns, were congregated in the stone tunnel by the refectory, on their way to some lesson, so Jennifer turned aside, to pass through the western end of the chapel into the garden.

  She did not see, till she had reached the middle of the nave, that both Celeste and Doña Francisca were in the chapel, busy with some sort of job of cleaning. She was instantly sorry she had come this way.

  But they took no notice of her. It was doubtful, in fact, if Celeste even saw her. She was sitting on the shallow altar step, with a fold of tapestry pulled out from the wall towards her, mending it with tiny meticulous stitches. The bursar, who sat above Celeste in what must be the priest’s chair, was polishing one of the candlesticks from the altar, her long fingers loving each curve, as they caressed, rather than rubbed it, into brightness. But she was not watching what she was doing; her eyes were fixed on the down-bent head of the girl, and Jennifer, with a vivid memory of that tormented, furious face of the previous night, saw, with a sense of shock, the expression that it now held. It was as if, from who knew what dark and bitter depths, a kind of fierce and yearning tenderness had been dragged up, and was straining like a passion at features which fought to deny it. Love, in a place that knew only barrenness and the fires of frustration.

  Jennifer, shocked again at the wave of acute distaste which swept over her, moved quickly and quietly towards the south door. Doña Francisca’s eyes lifted for a moment, watched her without expression, then fell to the task in her hands.

  Jennifer, her heart beating uncomfortably hard, almost ran out into the sweet sunlight of the garden, and the healthy presence of the gardener.

  It did not take her very long to satisfy Sister Louisa’s unexacting inquiries. The old nun was too relieved to see Jennifer restored, apparently, to sanity, to reopen herself the dangerous questions of yesterday. Jenny said enough to reassure her, then left her to her weeding, crouched happily under the peach-trees like a benevolent toad, and went back through the gate into the graveyard.

  There she stayed just long enough to give colour to what she had told Sister Marie-Annette; then, with a glance at the shut south door of the chapel, she went swiftly over to the gate in the wall, and let herself at last out of the convent buildings.

  Even then she was delayed, for as she skirted the outer wall of the garden she heard the sound of hoofs on the valley track, and rounded the corner to see the young man of yesterday’s encounter approaching the convent. He was riding the same big chestnut stallion, and the other two horses followed as before.

  She waited in the shade by the convent gate. It had occurred to her that it might be useful to know a little more about Pierre Bussac and his wife, and that this boy, who also lived, so Stephen had said, in the valley, might be able to tell her something.

  He drew rein as he came up to her, eyeing her uncertainly, while under him the big horse sidled and fidgeted, raking at the bits and blowing gustily through flaring nostrils.

  They made a sufficiently striking picture, the horse with the sunlight glancing and rippling off his shifting muscles, and the rider sitting him so effortlessly, his shabby jeans and stained blue shirt only serving to emphasize the beauty of his hard young body. He had the rather startling good looks of the young Spaniard, the long-lidded dark eyes, short upper lip, and proud, sensual, beautifully cut mouth. He waited, eyeing Jennifer, who was startled to see under the insolently drooping lids the unmistakable glint of dislike and suspicion.

  It threw her off balance, and she could only say, lamely: ‘You must be Luis.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The two loose horses thrust forward then, eager to get into the shade of the wall. One shouldered the other, which turned with flattened ears and snapping teeth, and they crowded into the wall’s shadow, heads low now and tails switching. Jennifer moved nervously away, and saw amused contempt curving Luis’s arrogant young mouth.

  The interview was decidedly not starting well. She began again, almost at random.

  ‘I saw you last night.’

  This innocent gambit had a startling effect. Amusement vanished, and the dark eyes narrowed and hardened. She did not see him move hand or heel, but the stallion shifted his quarters, swishing his tail as if at some quick discomfort.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You were jumping the stream lower down the valley. You live over there, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Luis for the third time, but his intent gaze had relaxed a little, and the stallion was quiet. Luis jerked a head westwards. ‘Over the ridge beyond the Petit Gave.’

  This positively garrulous reply encouraged Jennifer. She walked forward and put out a hesitant hand towards the stallion’s neck.

  ‘He’s lovely. Is he your own?’

  ‘They all are,’ he said proudly. ‘I hire out the other two, but’ – his hand smoothed the glossy neck – ‘not this one. Not Foix.’

  She stroked the horse’s shoulder softly. The skin was warm and alive under her fingers. ‘Does he bite?’

  There was a gleam of a smile. ‘Only if I let him.’

  ‘Then please don’t!’ She glanced up at him, still feeling her way through that intangible barrier of unfriendliness. ‘Your name – Luis. You’re Spanish, are you – not French?’

  He said politely: ‘Half, mam’selle. My mother was Spanish, yes; but my father came from Orthez.’

  ‘Gascon? I see.’ She added, tentatively: ‘You must find it very lonely in this valley?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Again that imperceptible withdrawal.

  ‘Does anyone else live in the valley, Luis?’

  ‘Only the Bussacs. They have a farm higher up.’

  ‘Do you visit them?’

  His lips curved. ‘Pierre Bussac doesn’t encourage visitors.’

  ‘But you
’ve been there? You’ve met his wife?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It must be a very lonely life for a woman. Has Madame Bussac no – companion?’

  ‘I don’t know. How should I? Why?’

  His tone was hard again, almost rude. She said, ignoring it: ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘Yes. You’re the cousin of the woman who died here. Everybody knows that.’

  ‘Do they? … Then you’ll understand why I’m interested in this valley. You live here throughout the summer, so I suppose you know most of the things that go on here? And quite a lot about the convent?’

  Under his hand, perceptibly, the snaffle-rings jerked, and the horse flung up his head angrily, and began to sidle. Luis soothed him with hand and voice, but without taking his eyes off Jennifer’s face. Not until the horse stood still again did he answer, and then his voice held no expression.

  ‘Perhaps,’ was all he said.

  She persisted. ‘You remember the night of my cousin’s accident?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You never – saw her?’

  ‘How should I?’ he countered again almost fiercely, and she was suddenly reminded of the way she had seen him sitting his horse last night, with his head sunk between his shoulders like a waiting hawk.

  ‘And no one else – you’ve talked to no one else who saw her?’

  The rein gleamed and tightened along the glossy neck. Luis’s heels moved. The stallion threw up his great crest and whirled round on his haunches towards the convent gate, almost shouldering Jennifer out of the way. She jumped aside.

  ‘Be careful!’

  He took no notice. His dark face was blazing. ‘You ask too many questions!’ He flung it at her over his shoulder as the horse plunged past. He made no attempt to stop it, and in spite of her startled anger she caught her breath at the picture they made. A Centaur? That was hackneyed. This was a more than physical union. It was as if – so much a part of each other were boy and stallion – he used the great beast to express his own violent emotions. If the rider was flushed with anger, the stallion actually blazed with it. The hot light sparkled and flew off red-gold hide and glittering steel, the dry dust mushroomed up under the sledge-hammer hoofs; sweat sprang up dark along the bunching flanks as the beast shot forward in a series of vicious jarring bounds that were patently intended to hurtle his rider into the dust at his feet, there to be smashed at leisure. For perhaps thirty seconds Luis let him go, then wrist, heel and body moved together, and the great stallion came round and up to the bit, forced sideways, still viciously plunging, towards the convent gate. The wall’s shadow quenched the silk-and-steel glitter of the sweating hide, and the horse was thrust – it seemed – sideways up against the gate, Luis holding him now with one thin brown hand. The other hand shot to the breast of his shirt, dragging out a package of letters which he threw, all in the same fluid movement, into a box on the gate.