The Orchid Shroud

by Michelle Wan

  “Right. Give me a day or two. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

  “Bless you, Iris.”

  “Bless yourself. You’ll need it when Géraud gets through with you. He’s determined to expose you as a fraud, you know.”

  Julian did know.

  Julian drove west, retracing his path toward Sigoulane. The church bells were ringing out noon as he rattled through the village, its houses still and sleepy in the midday sun. He was hungry. Fighting with Géraud always gave him an appetite.

  Julian reached Aurillac Manor by way of a road that ran up from the valley bottom and along the crest of the escarpment. The road eventually dwindled to a narrow lane bordered by ancient chestnuts before ending, almost without warning, in the graveled forecourt of the house. He parked there, ran up the steps to the massive front door, and rang a brass-plated doorbell.

  It was a long time before the housekeeper, Thérèse, appeared. She was a tiny person with a deeply creased face topped by a wispy knot of white hair. She wore a flowered apron over a dark dress that hung to mid-calf. Her feet were clad in stout black leather lace-up shoes. She could have been seventy or a hundred. She belonged to that race of Périgordines who lived long lives and who, from a certain age onward, scarcely seemed to change.

  “Ah, Monsieur Wood,” she cried, letting him in. The name came out as “Vood.” “They’re waiting for you out back.”

  He pecked her dried-apple cheeks and handed her a bottle of champagne. “Put that on ice, will you? And this”—a bag of almonds coated in raspberry liqueur and chocolate—“is for you.”

  “Coucougnettes!” The old woman beamed with pleasure at the sight of her favorite confection. “Mais, c’est très gentil.”

  He took himself through to the terrace. A table, bearing monogrammed silver and an impressive array of glasses, had been placed in the shade of an orange-and-white-striped awning. Christophe rose to clasp Julian’s hand.

  “Eh bien, mon ami. Ça va? Cousin Antoine came through?”

  “He did. But he wants the rock garden done, including a water feature, in time for their marketing launch next month. I’m going to have to work miracles.”

  “That’s why I recommended you.” Christophe’s expression was smug.

  “Well done.” Mara grinned and half rose from her chair to exchange kisses, her eyes conveying a welcome and something like relief at Julian’s appearance. “Christophe’s been telling me about his great-grandmother.”

  “I was just saying”—Christophe waved a hand—“that the poet Aristide Ladurie once described her as ‘walking by day in a cloud of gold’—reference to her hair, of course—‘and charming the night with Myosotis eyes.’”

  “Forget-me-not,” Julian translated, sitting down.

  “She throws plates,” Mara muttered.

  Christophe assumed an air of mock self-reproach. “Alas, I have rather monopolized Mara’s attention with tales of ectoplasms. When she should have been seeing to those dreadful vandals upstairs.”

  Julian murmured in her left ear, “Wouldn’t mind doing some monopolizing myself.” His nose brushed her hair, catching her intimate smell of sandalwood. Her special throaty laughter filled his ear. She kicked him under the table. “Ow!”

  “Don’t scoff, my friend.” Christophe wagged a pudgy finger. “All old houses have their phenomena. Ask Thérèse if you don’t believe me.”

  The housekeeper had appeared with a frosty bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. It was not the bottle he had brought, Julian noticed, but one bearing a far superior label that Christophe must have had at the ready.

  “Tell them about the Wailing Ghost, Thérèse,” Christophe urged.

  “I will not,” the old woman cried indignantly. “It’s not a thing to talk about.”

  “Oh, pooh.” The little man took the bottle from the bucket, worked the cork out smoothly, and tipped the frothing champagne quickly into crystal flutes. “It’s supposed to be an ill omen. Thérèse has heard it many times.”

  “I have heard it twice. Each time before a death.”

  “She used to frighten me into good behavior with it when I was a boy. Santé.” He raised his glass to Mara and Julian, who returned the toast. “Said it lived in the cupboard under the stairs.”

  “That was the cat.” The old woman fixed her employer with a stern eye. “And it was you who locked it in there. You shouldn’t laugh at evil. Bad things happen. Look at that scoundrel Piquet. Always up to no good. The devil claims his own in the end.”

  “Dreadful incident down in Colline Basse.” Christophe shuddered around a swallow of champagne. He plugged the bottle with a silver stopper to conserve the bubbles. “A few weeks ago. You must have heard about it.”

  Everyone had. The media had been full of it. A sanglier-baiter had been killed by some kind of wild animal that had fed on him and left the remains for carrion-eaters to finish off. Local villagers, hunters, and gendarmes from the canton, in collaboration with the responsible office of the Ministry of Ecology, had been beating the woods for the thing ever since. But it was cunning, whatever it was, eluding the best-organized battues.

  “They said it was a feral dog or a rogue wolf protecting its kill,” said Mara. “I hope to god they catch it.”

  “Couldn’t have been a wolf,” said Julian. “There aren’t any in the Dordogne.”

  “It was no dog or wolf,” Thérèse muttered.

  “What was it, then?” Julian asked sardonically. “A loup-garou?”

  The housekeeper glared at him. “Werewolves exist. They have lived in this valley for centuries. Haven’t you heard of the Sigoulane Beast?”

  “Balivernes,” Christophe declared promptly. “Old wives’ tales.”

  “Ah eh? Then what about the maquisard sans tête? Something tore his head off.”

  Christophe looked annoyed. In response to Julian and Mara’s questioning glance, he said, “It was during the war. My gardener Didier and my cousin Antoine found a body—a Resistance fighter, it was thought—in the woods below the house. They brought it up in a wheelbarrow. I was too young to know anything about it, but it must have been awful for Antoine, who was just a kid himself then. The man had been decapitated. They never found the head. The Germans did it, of course. Although a few superstitious ones”—a resentful glance in Thérèse’s direction—“put it about that the Sigoulane Beast was responsible.”

  “It was. If you don’t believe me, ask Didier. He knows a lot more than you think.” Thérèse swept the tray up and marched away.

  “Now I’ve upset her,” their host laughed nervously. “She’s been cranky all morning. Finds all this tearing down of walls as disturbing as I, no doubt—”

  There was a shuffling noise behind them. It was both Serafims this time, without their hammers. By now they were so thickly coated in plaster dust that it was difficult to tell them apart. They conferred uneasily between them as to who would speak.

  “Can we talk to you a minute?” Smokey took the lead, addressing Mara through lips that were startlingly red against the chalky mask of his face. For once he was without a cigarette. His dark eyes, fringed with white eyelashes, were almost alarming.

  “What now?” Mara said, feeling her stomach contract again.

  “Problem. With the wall. It’s a double wall, like, with a gap in the middle.”

  “I know that. It’s the old exterior wall, where the wing was joined to the main building.”

  The stonemason considered this for a moment. “Maybe you’d better come.”

  “Now? Look, if it’s rubble fill, you’ll just have to dig it out—”

  “Not that,” said Smokey ominously.

  “Well, what, for heaven’s sake?”

  Smokey the Greek gave her a long, complex look. “You’ll see soon enough.”

  They followed the brothers at a trot across the terrace, Mara, Julian, and Christophe wheezing breathlessly in the rear. They continued in that order through a door and up the narrow stone staircase serv
icing the north wing, coming into the antechamber that led into the large room at the front of the house where Smokey had been working.

  The scene there was disastrous. Dust roiled in the air. The floor, protected somewhat haphazardly by plastic sheeting, was littered with shards of plaster. Stones, presumably numbered, were piled near a window outside which the brothers had erected a beam and pulley for lowering debris to the ground. Heavy wooden braces shored up the ceiling just above the area of work. The east wall of the room had been partially breached. Smokey and Theo stepped up to the ragged hole they had made.

  “In there,” said Smokey, standing aside, like an unhappy showman presenting the climax of an act he did not like.

  Mara peered into the dark cavity.

  “What is it?” Julian breathed over her shoulder. “Family treasure?”

  “There’s something down there.” Christophe’s voice rang with boyish excitement. “Some kind of a package.” He turned to Smokey. “Well, get it out, man! Let’s have a look.”

  Smokey did not comply. His expression, as best as could be determined, was sullen. Silently, he handed Mara a flashlight. She trained the beam on the object. They all stared down at it.

  “It looks—my god!” Christophe reeled back, hand pressed to his mouth.

  Mara gasped and felt Julian stiffen beside her.

  The small form lay face up, swaddled in some kind of cloth. The darkened flesh had collapsed and dried about the little skull. The nose was a shrunken button. The eyes, fallen into their sockets, were covered with withered flaps of skin. The child, for it was a human baby, had been placed with its arms outside the covering and crossed upon its breast. Stiffly the tiny, clawlike hands clutched a rosary, as if in suspended prayer.

  The discovery itself was shocking enough. However, one detail hit Mara hard: the child’s lower jaw was jammed sideways, dragging the lips apart. As she stared at it, she felt certain that this infant had struggled, had protested death with all the small strength it had possessed. Rudely illuminated, the black, disturbing crater of the mouth seemed to shatter the stillness of the room with its unuttered cry.

  4

  LATER WEDNESDAY, 28 APRIL

  But why?” Christophe cried. “Why the police?” He sat in a chintz-covered armchair, brown eyes sweeping from face to face. “Why not just a priest? I really think a priest would be much more appropriate.”

  They were in Thérèse’s parlor, adjoining the kitchen. The room bore her mark—white lace curtains, not a speck of dust, a threadbare carpet worn as much by cleaning as by use, old furniture polished to a mellow glow and smelling of beeswax.

  “Use sense,” Thérèse snapped. She stood at a table, pouring brandy. She had been told about the baby, although she had refused to view it. Her hand shook. Liquid slopped onto the tabletop. She wiped it up with her apron. “Here. Drink this.” She thrust a glass at her employer, served Mara, Julian, and lastly herself. “It’s what comes of laughing at evil,” she scolded them all. “God save us.” Her voice broke.

  Julian saw that she was close to tears. He put his glass down and guided her to a chair. The old woman huddled there, looking suddenly very frail.

  Christophe returned to his main theme. “I don’t see why we can’t just leave it where it is. Seal it back up. I mean”—the pink had returned to his cheeks; he had regained some of his bounce—“it’s not as if this were a … a recent event. Look, the main part of the house was built in 1505. The north wing was added in 1642. That—thing—could have been in the wall for centuries.”

  Julian scratched his head thoughtfully. “Or put there more recently.”

  “But it’s clearly,” Christophe almost shouted, “an old baby. You can tell from its appearance. Thérèse, what do you know about it?”

  The old woman goggled at him. “Me? Mon dieu. It’s not my bastard!”

  “For heaven’s sake,” shrilled Christophe. “I mean, you’ve lived here all your life. So did your parents. Surely you must have heard something.”

  “I’ve never had time for gossip,” Thérèse told him with a lift of her bony chin. “All I can say is, it’s somebody’s illegitimate kid. Whoever it was had to get rid of it.”

  Mara went a little pale. “Are you saying someone buried a live baby in a wall?”

  “Of course not,” the housekeeper muttered sulkily. “They would have killed it first.”

  “I should never have let myself be talked into this insane renovation,” Christophe moaned, rocking to and fro. “Knocking down walls. See where it’s gotten me! Mara, you must get hold of those men. Your wreckers. Tell them to hold their tongues. At least until we figure out how to deal with this horrible situation. If need be, I’ll make it worth their while to keep quiet.”

  “I expect it’s too late.” Mara ignored his implication of blame and glanced out a window giving onto the forecourt. The Serafims had gone. They had left without a backward glance, slamming the doors of their battered truck and shooting away in a spurt of gravel. “They’ve probably spread the story everywhere by now.”

  “Oh my god,” Christophe wailed as the reality broke on him. “I’m about to publish a luxury quarto edition, Garamond type, calf-bound, on the glorious history of the de Bonfonds. We are one of the first families of the land, representing generations of achievement and unstained family honor. And now a dead baby turns up to be explained. Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is to me?”

  “Oh, come on, Christophe,” Julian objected. “You’re exaggerating.”

  “Exaggerating! This thing is a corpse, literally, at the de Bonfond banquet. You seem to forget that my book is not only intended to honor the long line of de Bonfonds before me, it also commemorates the quarter-century anniversary of Editions Arobas and the impeccable standards Arobas represents. The proofs are nearly ready, and suddenly I have a cadaver to account for. Can’t you see the position this puts me in? Moreover, for your information, small publishing houses like mine are struggling to stay alive. It’s only my personal fortune that’s been keeping things afloat. I don’t necessarily expect the history of the de Bonfonds to cover costs, but I can’t afford to be a laughingstock. This could ruin me. It could bring Arobas to its knees.”

  “Surely it’s not as bad as that,” Julian laughed uneasily. “Is it?” It occurred to him that perhaps the fate of his own Wild Orchids of the Dordogne also hung in the balance.

  “It will be once the word gets out. Arobas Anniversary Release Stifled at Birth. De Bonfond History Hides Skeleton in Closet. Headlines like that can be extremely damaging.”

  No one spoke for a moment.

  “Loulou,” Mara said suddenly.

  “Eh?” said Christophe.

  “Loulou La Pouge. He’s a friend. Used to work with the Police Judiciaire in Périgueux. I’ll give him a call. He’ll know how to handle this.”

  Dead, you say?” the ex-cop’s voice boomed cheerfully into Mara’s ear.

  She replied, “Very. It’s probably been in there for a long time, and it looks like a very young baby.”

  “Hmm. Born out of wedlock and murdered at birth, the body concealed in a wall. Infanticides. Always nasty affairs.”

  “Loulou,” Mara pleaded, “we need your help. We called you because Christophe doesn’t want a lot of publicity. He’s desperate to keep a lid on things.”

  “I can imagine,” said Loulou. “Well, tell him it will probably be entirely straightforward. The gendarmes will come, do their thing, and ça y est. If the body is as old as you think, there’ll be the routine follow-up, more for the sake of form than anything. After all, the perpetrator will be long dead. A headline in Sud Ouest, some local curiosity perhaps. But that’s all.”

  “Good,” said Mara.

  “Although”—Loulou seemed to reconsider—“we must take into account that it’s getting on for summer, and the media are usually hungry for news. This could be just the kind of thing they’d sensationalize. Ridiculous, but there you are.” He went on with growing enthus
iasm, “Moreover, if this proves to be a more recent murder, then that’s a different matter entirely. A full police investigation will be required, the baby’s identity will certainly have to be established, so a search will be done—church registries, birth records, even the national archives—and everyone who had access to the house for the past so many years will have to be found and interrogated. I expect Child Welfare will also want to be involved. The case will probably make headlines everywhere, and so forth.”

  “Er, yes.” Mara glanced over her shoulder at Christophe, who sat sunk in the armchair staring at his feet. She cupped her hand over the phone and hissed, “Look, Loulou, I’m quite sure this death goes back a long way, and I’m asking you as a personal favor to do everything possible to make sure the matter is handled discreetly. It would make things easier all around.”

  “What? Oh. Do what I can,” Loulou promised happily. “Always glad to help.”

  Within an hour, a lone officer from the Gendarmerie in Brames arrived, which was unusual because gendarmes always worked in pairs. Somehow neither Mara nor Julian was surprised that he was closely followed by Loulou. The two men, who appeared to know one another, got out of their cars, conferred briefly, and then walked together across the forecourt. Or, rather, Loulou led the way with the young gendarme seemingly in tow.

  Julian, Mara, and Christophe hurried out to meet them.

  “Alors, mes amis,” Loulou hailed Mara and Julian. He was tubby and bald with a shining, cherubic face. Gravely he pumped Christophe’s hand. “Quelle mauvaise affaire! But never mind. The lad here will take care of everything. Had to come on his own, and you’re lucky they could spare him. Everyone’s out beating the woods for this killer dog, or wolf, or whatever it is. It was spotted last night near Petit Tournant. Killed a sheep. I’m here informally, of course.”

  The lad was Sergeant Laurent Naudet, a gangling young man with a round face, sympathetic eyes, and big ears. His uniform seemed too large for him through the body and too short in the arms. “Really, Uncle, this is highly irregular,” he started to object, but Loulou thumped him soundly on the back.