Song of the Damned

by Sarah Rayne

  It was nearly one o’clock, so Phin wandered along to the kitchen, where he found bread rolls and cold ham for a sandwich, which he ate in solitary splendour at the kitchen table. He was considerably cheered up by a large envelope lying on the kitchen table with his name scribbled on it in Arabella’s writing. Inside was the book from Olivia Tulliver – Curious Legends from the Guillotine. There was a scribbled note from Arabella as well.

  ‘This is from Olivia – I picked it up when I called on her – I knew you’d want to see it ASAP. Am dashing off to printers now, and then to the Firkins – sorry if that sounds rather rustically rude, and I believe they’re actually a very respectable family, churchwardens and Chamber of Commerce and whatnot. But they’re arranging the marquee for the gala supper, so I need to make sure the tent poles won’t collapse halfway through the pudding, and precipitate the illustrious assembly into the mud, making an Eton mess of the entire thing.

  ‘On the subject of food, I’m looking forward to moussaka tonight …’ This was followed by a smiley face.

  Phin smiled back at the face, contemplated the prospect of the moussaka with pleasure, and took the book back to the library. It would probably be as dry as stale bread and as dull as ditchwater was said to be, and it was unlikely to contain anything of any value. But it would be a welcome relief from The Martyrs.

  But it was neither dry nor dull, and it contained some very startling information indeed. It had been written by one Dr Ernest Quilt, who announced himself as a Fellow of a notable university (he did not specify which one), and who had apparently applied himself to collecting what he declared, with a touch of alliterative whimsy, might be termed gothic gossip from the guillotine.

  In a prologue, he recommended that readers wishing to acquaint themselves with this period of history on a more scholarly level could not do better than consult his own book, A Study of the French Revolution, published in 1860. Phin thought Dr Quilt could be allowed this modest plug, and read on.

  The first couple of chapters did, in fact, provide general details of the French Revolution and the events and the climate that had led up to it. Then came accounts of people ascending the scaffold with varying degrees of courage. These were vaguely interesting, but none of them seemed to have any connection to Sister Cecilia, or to anything contained in Gustav Tulliver’s opera.

  Then he turned the page to a chapter headed, ‘Defiance and Disharmony’, and a name in the first sentence leapt off the page.

  Chimaera.

  Phin realized he was gripping the book tightly, as if he was afraid it might be wrested from his hands. I’ve found you, he thought. Or, at worst, I’ve found something that mentions you, and that might give me a lead to discovering more.

  The section covered several pages, and although Dr Quilt’s narrative hovered between stilted and florid, his words pulled Phin straight back into Sister Cecilia’s world.

  ‘Among the extraordinary acts of courage and heroism – also, sad to relate, of abject terror and selfish cowardice,’ wrote Dr Quilt, ‘the flamboyant defiance and reckless courage of the Italian gentleman known simply as Chimaera must rank as one of the most extraordinary guillotine scenes of all.

  ‘Imagine, if you will, good reader, the scene. A grim fortress – not the Bastille, infamous to us now for its grisly history – but what was, in many ways, a much worse place. It is The Conciergerie of which I now paint word-pictures – the old palace of the Merovingian rulers. The Conciergerie was noble and impressive, but it was also steeped in cruelty and torture.

  ‘It was in a courtyard within this place that the avid and the ghoulish assembled on a bleak morning, to witness a mass execution – not of brigands or of effete royalists who had fed on the downtrodden masses, but the slaughter of a group of ladies. They were religious ladies who had eschewed the world and all its pomps, and who had taken Christ as their saviour and bridegroom. They had travelled to France, so the story goes, to give support and strength to several French nuns who had been imprisoned and who stood under sentence of death. But they, themselves, had been imprisoned, and were now to be executed in accordance with the savage rule of the land at that time. This was a rule which ruthlessly suppressed the Catholic Church, and forced priests and nuns to swear the oath of allegiance.

  ‘There is a faint, additional layer of the story which I also set down. It is no more than the lightest gossamer thread, but it is told that one of the sisters came to France with a secret purpose – that she was not there to help the French nuns, but to incite Catholics to rise against the new regime. The whisper is that she was a member of an ancient Catholic family that had long been a thorn in the side of the Bourbon House for many decades.

  ‘I have been unable to verify this, but I set it down for the reader’s interest and consideration, since there were many strange underground threads and plots at that time, and religion has ever been a source of conspiracy. I do not even know if she existed, that unknown, never-named nun.’

  She did exist, thought Phin. Her name was Cecilia. He glanced at the small, leather-bound book, as if nodding towards a close friend.

  ‘It is unclear as to exactly how many nuns were brought out to the guillotine that morning,’ wrote Dr Quilt. ‘Some reports say it was ten, others insist it was the round dozen, but other sources say it was fewer. It was a small group, though, that is certain. They had been herded into cells – barbarous treatment for such well-meaning souls – but the nun who was suspected of plotting religious incitement had been locked inside the Bonbec Tower, the dread Salle de la Question. The torture room.

  ‘Signor Chimaera, who for reasons I have not been able to uncover had shepherded the ladies into France, seems to have been held in very light captivity. It is fairly obvious that his imprisonment was not intended to be other than transient, and that he was not under sentence of death. I speculate that this was partly because no actual crime could be laid at his door, but more because he was known as a man of the people – as a man of the raffish world of the theatre. He had been one of the motley crew: a troubador, a strolling player, a man who peddled his art and who, while he had known success, would also have known penury and difficulties. These are all things with which the revolutionaries would have had sympathy.’

  Phin thought that although the revolutionaries might have had sympathy with this description, Chimaera himself would have been horrified to have been so portrayed.

  ‘Chimaera was permitted to take meals with the turnkeys, and I set out below a description of a night he appears to have spent getting inebriated with them and the events that ensued. The translation is my own – Signor Chimaera wrote in his native Italian. He also wrote sometime after the event, so he had ample time to refine and embellish his tale. I have taken leave to edit some of the earthier phrases the turnkeys seem to have used, and wish to extend my thanks to the Bibliothèque Municipale de Grenoble, who gave kind permission for the fragment to be used. They have a truly splendid collection of letters and memorabilia, largely culled from the libraries of many of France’s great historians and chroniclers. Sadly, I could find no other reference to Signor Chimaera.’

  Phin thought: I’m about to read Chimaera’s own words – or, at least, his words as translated and diluted by Ernest Quilt. How remarkable. He turned the page.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Chimaera’s diary

  I was a privileged prisoner in The Conciergerie. I know this because I was told it within days of my being taken there. It wasn’t until much later that I found out how widely the treatment of prisoners varied, and how reasonable my own imprisonment actually was.

  Kindly treatment (I use the description advisedly) frequently depended on the personal wealth of the individual in The Conciergerie, and on his (or her) willingness to hand out bribes. Sometimes, though, it was simply a matter of the whims of the gaolers themselves – which is what happened in my own case, and which was fortunate for me, since I had little wealth to hand out; in fact I had none at all. Visitors were somet
imes allowed in, but that depended on the mood of whichever doorkeeper was on duty.

  I was deeply thankful to a merciful god – perhaps the god who looks kindly upon men of the theatre – that even though I was in captivity, the grim blade of the guillotine did not hover over me. It hovered over others, though, and that knowledge was a constant, nagging nightmare. I spent many hours devising a plan to rescue those prisoners with whom I had travelled to France.

  My room was unquestionably a cell, but there were far worse cells – I would go so far as to call them dungeons – in that ancient prison-house. I had a stove, a bed, a chair and a desk, and a window overlooking a small courtyard. After only a few hours I realized the window overlooked the privies.

  That first night I struck up a cautious friendship with one of the turnkeys – a person by the name of Godefroy. He had heard of me! Here was a piece of good fortune, because I saw at once that this might be very useful in devising a plan, not only for my own freedom, but for the freedom of those others who had come here with me.

  I will also admit that I found it gratifying to be recognized in such a way – and in such a place. It was perhaps not surprising, though, because my fame had been widespread.

  It transpired that Godefroy, who spoke a smattering of Italian – had worked as a carpenter in the Teatro della Pergola, which was where he had picked up his knowledge of my language. He had seen me there, although I did feel it unfortunate that he had apparently witnessed that last argument with the dastardly Fredo – the encounter which made it necessary for me to skulk out of the theatre, and then out of the country, in fear of my life. However, it turned out that Godefroy had not liked Fredo and had strongly disapproved of his sister, Juliette. He said he was a man who believed in the sanctity of women; that Juliette had been a modern incarnation of the Whore of Babylon, and that clearly I had been tempted by a harlot.

  Two nights later he brought a bottle of wine for us to share, and then his fellow turnkey appeared, bearing another bottle of wine, and a dish containing pot au feu which he suggested we share. It was nice to have some civilized company, he said; most of the other prisoners were aristos, so bound up with their self-importance that they would not even give you the time of day. At the other end of the scale were the thieves and murderers, who would give you the time of day, but who would slit your throat after doing so in order to steal your last sou.

  There had been a guillotining that morning, and the man had seized for himself several of the victims’ garments – it seems this is a perquisite of the gaolers in this place. He proposed that he and Godefroy examine the spoils to consider which of the garments they could keep. This I found ghoulish in the extreme, but of course I did not say so, and after we had eaten, the two of them began to try on the various clothes, capering around, attempting steps of various elaborate dances, and aping the prancing walk of the aristos.

  I was not surprised when, mid-caper, so to speak, the second turnkey, who was still wearing the unfortunate aristo’s breeches, suddenly excused himself to visit the privy. I had partaken very lightly indeed of the pot au feu, which I suspected to be dubious after the first mouthful, but the turnkey had eaten two large helpings. He made a very hasty way to the privy and, as he did so, a plan began to form in my mind.

  The turnkey presently reappeared, in no good order; in fact he looked distinctly unwell, and he had not buttoned up his breeches – which might have been due to the complicated nature of the unfamiliar garment, but might just as easily have been due to his wanting to leave the noisome privy as quickly as he could.

  A man who has such an indisposition, and, moreoever, whose breeches are unfastened, is at a considerable disadvantage. As the sufferer continued to struggle with the complicated lacing, I poured him another glass of wine, and said, bracingly, ‘Dio mio, in these garments, you have the air of gentlemen, both of you.’ Addressing the unbuttoned one, I said, ‘As for you, my friend, I can certainly believe the story that is circulating around the prison of how you succeeded in that seduction. Francine, did you call her? You remember her, I am sure. The word is that you said she was the easiest glove you had ever known – on or off.’

  This line, of course, was stolen from William Shakespeare, but I felt it fitted the situation.

  At the sound of the name Francine, Godefroy looked up sharply. I had used the name deliberately, of course; not for nothing had I listened to the tales of Godefroy’s family.

  ‘A very inventive lady she sounds,’ I went on, gaily. ‘A room at the top of a house in the Rue de la Huchette was where it all happened, did I hear that correctly? A view towards Notre Dame, and an apothecary’s shop on the ground floor – my word, that must have been useful, in light of the rash you discovered the next day.’

  (As well as listening to Godefrey’s stories about his family, I had also committed to memory the details of where they had lived. His garrulity had turned out to be most useful.)

  Godefroy sprang up, as if a red-hot poker had been rammed up his nether regions. ‘What?’ he shrieked. ‘Francine, did you say? And the Rue de la Huchette?’

  ‘Well, yes, I did say that, but—’ (Never have I portrayed embarrassed bewilderment so well.)

  ‘You ravished my sister!’ yelled Godefroy, and launched himself on the hapless and semi-breechless turnkey.

  I had been almost sure the ploy would work. A man who believes his sister – or his wife or daughter – to have been violated, turns like a snarling hellcat on the ravisher. Especially if he is a man who considers women to be vessels of extreme sanctity and believes those who stray are painted whores and harlots.

  ‘I called you my friend!’ shrieked Godefroy. ‘And all the while … you were doing that to my sister … Oh, you are a rampant lecher – a flesh-mongering warthog, and you shall pay for what you did! I shall cut off your bull’s pizzle and roast it in that very pot on the stove!’

  I threw what fuel I could onto the fire, by saying, with anxious helpfulness, ‘I am so sorry – I spoke without thinking. But the description I was given was so vivid – such a lively sounding girl. Oh dear. I had no idea she was your sister, Godefroy.’

  Godefroy scarcely heard me. He was emitting eldritch shrieks of fury; his eyes glittered wildly in the light from the candles, and his hair stood up around his head like the twisting snakes of a male Medusa. The unbuttoned turnkey had got to his feet, and he was clutching the pilfered breeches around him, but as he backed away he let go of them, and they promptly slid down around his ankles. He tripped backwards, and Godefroy fell on him, seizing his head between his hands, and banging it hard against the stone floor, then grasping the knife that had been used to slice the bread, and brandishing it in a way that suggested he really was about to inflict the gruesome punishment he had threatened moments earlier.

  That was when it happened. The turnkey reared up, reaching for Godefroy’s throat, and as he did so, the knife Godefroy was wielding slid straight into the man’s gullet. Blood poured out, soaking his chest and soaking into Godefroy’s clothing as well. For an extraordinary moment the two men stayed motionless, clutching one another in a parody of a lover’s embrace, staring into one another’s eyes. Then there was a dreadful, choking, bubbling sound, and the turnkey fell back on the floor, his eyes rolled up so that only the whites showed.

  Godefroy recoiled, pushing his hands out in front of him as if to push away what had happened.

  I said, in a voice of extreme horror, ‘What have you done?’ And the horror was genuine, for that had been no part of my plan. An argument between the two men, certainly, providing a situation in which I would have had a chance to seize their keys, and to take my opportunity to get out and find my friends.

  I bent over the man – careful to avoid the gore that splattered his front and that had dripped onto the floor as well. It was abundantly clear to me, as it would have been to anyone, that he was dead.

  As I stood up, Godefroy clutched my arm. He said, ‘Help me. If he’s found – if I’m found covered w
ith his blood …’ He broke off, shuddering. His face was pale – it was very nearly green – and for a moment I thought he was about to add to the mess on the floor by being sick.

  ‘They’ll execute me,’ he said. ‘It will be the guillotine – and it will be a bad guillotining, for, believe me, Chimaera, those executioners have their ways.’

  I was still staring in horror at the dead turnkey, but at these words, I said, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The actual blade is weighted,’ he said. ‘Heavily weighted, so that it falls with great force straight down onto the victim, very fast indeed. But if the lighter weights are substituted, or even removed altogether …’ A shrug.

  ‘That’s surely never done?’

  ‘If they take a dislike to a person, yes, it is,’ he said. ‘I have seen it.’

  ‘But – do they dislike you?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ He nodded, then went on nodding, as if he had forgotten how to stop. ‘They jeer at me and make fun of me. I have strict beliefs, you see. I drink very little and I do not carouse or have the women. So I am an oddity. But this one …’ He indicated the lifeless body at our feet, ‘This one is very popular indeed. So, as his murderer, I would be hated and they would turn against me. For me, they would remove the weights altogether, and the blade would fall little by little – a series of jerks – at a snail’s pace. And I should be beheaded slowly. It’s a fate I would not wish on any man. I have seen it done.’

  There was a very bad moment when I found myself considering whether I might be suspected of the crime, but Godefroy’s garments were covered in blood – and mine were not. And it was not very likely that I, a lone prisoner, would have been able to overcome and kill a gaoler with that gaoler’s companion there with him.

  So I said, with decision, ‘We must hide him. And we must do it so well that the body won’t be found, and people will simply think he’s gone away of his own accord.’