In Pale Battalions - Retail

by Robert Goddard

  It was an unpleasant picture, not merely because of its voyeuristic effect but also by its placing, there in the library where culture might seem to excuse such explicitness. But that was not all. As I peered at the face of the woman, her painted image streaked by the rain-refracted light, I felt, for an instant, that I knew her. And, if I did, it could only be one person, though years younger and far removed from her present station. It could only be Olivia, Lady Powerstock, as I had never thought of her.

  The following evening, after dinner, the ladies left us and Cheriton reluctantly consented to a game of billiards with Thorley, who always played against odds and always won. Lord Powerstock for once lingered in the drawing room, sitting with his brandy by the fire; he seemed to need its warmth for all that it was a mild night. Gladwin sat between us, puffing at the cigar which was his present topic of conversation.

  ‘They must mix rhubarb with the tobacco these days; tastes bloody awful … Finest cigars I ever had were a gift from Count Nogrovny in St Petersburg … to seal a bargain over some sable pelts … What a daughter he had … I fought a duel for that girl, you know … Or for the sables … I’m never too sure which it really was … Winter of ’61 … The river was frozen solid …’

  Before his reminiscences could progress much further, he was asleep. Powerstock smiled indulgently and I took the opportunity to ask a question that had long been in my mind. ‘Your son referred once to a houseguest here named Mompesson. Am I likely to meet him?’

  Powerstock frowned. ‘Mompesson? Oh yes. A friend of my wife.’ He swallowed some of the excellent brandy with apparent distaste. ‘She has many admirers, you know. Something of a celebrity in society before we married.’

  ‘Really?’

  For once, he didn’t hold back. ‘Yes. A handsome woman, as you’ll have noticed.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘In her youth, she modelled for some of the foremost artists of London and Paris.’

  So I’d been right. ‘The picture in the library: is that …’

  ‘What picture?’ He seemed vexed. ‘Couldn’t say. Never go there … As to Mompesson, yes, you’ll be seeing him. Due at the weekend … so my wife tells me.’

  I thought I saw everything then. An elderly husband deceived by a younger wife. It was not unusual. Perhaps it accounted for Hallows’ preoccupation when he returned from Christmas leave. If only that had been it. But the Meongate mystery was of another order. Quite another order altogether.

  I woke early the next morning, after one of those nights all too familiar to me then, when dead, dismembered comrades returned to salute me. A tramp round the grounds before breakfast was my usual antidote, but that morning – being earlier and brighter than most – I decided to venture further afield.

  September had chilled with its mists a summer’s dawn, but a feeble pastel sun filtered through to gild the dewy lawns as I walked down the drive of Meongate and took in the airy promise of the day. I set a good pace along the lanes towards Droxford and passed not another soul on my way. Nearing the village, I cut down through a wood to the river, crossed it by a narrow bridge and so came by a muddy footpath to the church. There, where I’d attended morning service with Lord and Lady Powerstock the previous Sunday, I turned in to pursue a point I’d not had time for then. Some sheep grazing amongst the gravestones scattered in panic and a rook made its cawing flight from the roof, but they were the only signs of life.

  Inside, the strengthening sun was shafting into the dim interior, catching the dust in its perpetual swirls and eroding the damp accumulations of closed night air. I prowled amongst the pews and pillars, eyeing stones and plaques, until, in a small side chapel behind the choir, I found what I was looking for: a canopied stone tomb with clinging shards of paint and the worn effigy of a knight, resting in armour upon a pillow. The inscription was faded and in shadow; I stooped to read it. It was rendered in Latin, most of it beyond me, but the name and dates were clear: WILLIAM DE BRINON, KNIGHT OF DROXENFORD (1307–1359), with a mention of Crécy in the dedication. There was no doubt. It was the tomb Hallows had told me about.

  As I rose from my haunches, there was a startled cry from the choir. I looked across in alarm and there, beyond the decorated wooden screen, stood Leonora, with her hand to her mouth.

  ‘Oh … Oh my …,’ she said. Then, recovering herself: ‘Mr Franklin. You startled me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was just reading an inscription.’

  ‘Of course. It was just that … Well, I don’t know.’

  By now, I’d joined her in the choir. ‘You didn’t expect anybody else to be here? Actually, neither did I.’

  ‘I often come down here at this time of day … to be sure of some solitude.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have invaded it.’

  ‘Nonsense. You have every right. It’s simply that that tomb has … associations.’

  ‘With John.’

  ‘You know then?’ She looked towards me and moved slightly as she did so, stepping unconsciously into a waiting portal of granular sunlight. And as she did so, in her felt hat and simple grey cape. I realized again how beautiful she was. What would I not have given then to be Hallows, come back to lift her veil of loss?

  ‘He spoke of it once, when we were based near Crécy.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Would you like to be left alone?’

  ‘No, no.’ She smiled. ‘In fact, why don’t we walk back to Meongate together?’

  I readily agreed and we set off back the way I’d come, down to the river and up through the wood. For once, Leonora seemed eager to talk.

  ‘I’m sorry if we haven’t seen much of each other since you arrived,’ she said.

  ‘Lady Powerstock explained that you had to take things easy.’

  She laughed, with little humour. ‘I’m sure Olivia told you what she thought you ought to hear. I dare say all the officers who come to stay are fed the same line. Sedatives to prevent hysteria … isn’t that it?’

  ‘Well, not exactly.’

  ‘Since you were my husband’s friend, Mr Franklin, you should know that his stepmother is a congenital liar.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I wonder if you do.’

  ‘Since, as you say, I was your husband’s friend, won’t you call me Tom … as he did?’

  ‘Very well … Tom. No doubt you’re embarrassed by the friction in John’s family.’

  ‘No. It’s just that …’

  ‘You don’t know who to believe.’ She laughed and stopped to lean back against a tree trunk. ‘I see your difficulty.’

  ‘What I was going to say was that, as a guest of the house, I’ve no right to question how it’s run. But I don’t have any difficulty knowing who to believe.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘John loved you very much, I know.’

  She looked down sharply, as if upset.

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have …’

  ‘It’s all right.’ She smiled stiffly. ‘Despite what Olivia says, I’m very self-controlled. I think of John always of course. As a matter of fact, when you appeared in the church, I thought … for a second …’

  ‘That it was him?’

  ‘Yes. Absurd, isn’t it?’

  ‘No. It’s only natural. If there’s anything I can do to help, I …’

  ‘There’s nothing.’ Suddenly, her face was stern. She walked on quickly ahead and I followed. For the first time, the thought was forming in my mind that maybe there was a way of lessening Leonora’s desolation along with my own, a way of doing so together. For the first time, the war was holding out to me a prospect – a distant, uncertain prospect – of something good.

  THREE

  THAT EVENING, MOMPESSON came. I was in my room when I heard the throaty roar of a high-powered sports car coming up the drive. I looked out of the open window as the car drew to a halt in a spray of gravel and the engine growled into silence. I knew it must be Mompesson: a tall, square, good-looking man in a loud check cap an
d dark travelling coat. He jumped down on to the drive and flung a bag at Fergus, then strode towards the door. There was somebody waiting for him there: Lady Powerstock.

  ‘Ralph: it’s good to see you.’

  ‘Naturally. How’s my Olivia?’ He bent to kiss her hand and murmured something else as he did so. Her laugh was almost a giggle.

  I was introduced to Mompesson before dinner. He was wearing evening dress and downing Scotch and soda in the drawing room with Thorley and Lord Powerstock. When I walked in, he rose and shook my hand.

  ‘It’s Franklin, isn’t it? I’m Ralph Mompesson. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘I think I heard you arrive earlier, Mr Mompesson.’

  ‘Call me Ralph. The motor is a mite noisy, I know. Frightens the peasantry, I’m told.’ He laughed, a touch loudly, and Thorley joined in – unnecessarily, I felt. I wasn’t warming to this glad-handed American with the flashing smile and dark, lacquered hair.

  ‘Have you come far?’

  ‘From London. ’Less you mean originally, in which case I’d have to own to New Orleans. As you’ll have guessed, I’ve no part in this European war.’

  ‘Then you’re a fortunate man.’

  ‘Reckon so.’ He leaned closer. ‘It was rough about John. I liked him.’

  ‘So did I.’

  If Mompesson really had liked Hallows, I suspected the feeling hadn’t been mutual. I could have attributed his excess of charm to the American character and my reaction against it to pure prejudice, but there was some edge to his remarks – some hunter’s stealth in his eyes – which told me the charm was only a front. I instinctively mistrusted him.

  Over dinner, my instinct strengthened. Olivia sat next to Mompesson and laughed at his jokes with shrill indecency. She wore more jewellery – and a lower-cut dress – than I’d seen before and drank with unladylike enthusiasm. If Powerstock noticed, you couldn’t have told from his drawn mask of a face. As for the rest, Thorley revelled in the more exuberant mood of the occasion, whilst Cheriton retreated into the shadows of his troubled thoughts. Leonora said little, though she responded to Mompesson’s remarks with measured politeness. Gladwin was conspicuous by his absence, pleading a chess-playing engagement with a neighbour, so for light relief we relied upon Mompesson’s lubricated wit. And wit indeed there was, though little humour. Just what sort of a joke he thought the war to be became swiftly evident.

  ‘Zeppelin dropped a bomb awful near the Stock Exchange last week,’ he drawled. ‘Otherwise, we neutrals have been left pretty much alone lately.’

  ‘How long will the US remain neutral?’ I asked, remembering that Hallows had asked the same question.

  ‘For ever, I hope.’

  ‘Going to leave us to it, are you?’ put in Thorley, who was too drunk to take offence.

  ‘You bet,’ Mompesson replied. ‘The people who win wars are those who sit them out.’

  I asked him what he meant by that.

  ‘I’m a man of business, Lootenant, and war is good business. ’Course, I appreciate you gentlemen couldn’t choose to stay out, but once was enough for me. I served in Cuba under Roosevelt in ’98 and learned all I need to about war. Glory for the generals and death for those who loyally follow. It doesn’t even pay well.’

  A silence fell. We were embarrassed, I suppose, not so much by his frankness as by his chilling accuracy. But what could we say, obedient still to the stilted public image of patriotic duty? I was no longer taken in by it, of course, but it was about the only thought likely to comfort Hallows’ grieving family and I for one didn’t have the heart to dispel it. Why did they like him, I wondered, why did they invite him to their house? A well-mannered wit to amuse Lady Powerstock and brighten the dinner table? There had to be more to it than that.

  I had a further opportunity to probe Mompesson’s character after dinner, over brandy and cigars. Cheriton and Lord Powerstock had left us and Thorley had fallen asleep, snoring inelegantly in a corner. But Mompesson remained agile and alert, strolling about the drawing room with none of the deference a guest might be expected to display.

  ‘It’s sad to think,’ I said, ‘that this house has lost its heir.’

  ‘That’s not peculiar to Meongate, is it?’ he replied. ‘It’s a universal condition. This whole war is Europe’s surrender of its birthright.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Of course. What you’re caught up in, my friend, is the death agony of an era, the end of Europe as the centre of Western civilization.’

  ‘And you think your country will inherit that role?’

  ‘In part – the British part, that is. And we’ll be better at it, because we’re a younger, more vigorous people. We’re not shackled to our past.’

  ‘It’s an interesting point of view.’

  He smiled. ‘It’s very British of you to take it so well. As for this house, it will survive, though to do so it may have to pass into new ownership.’ Then he smiled again and left me to guess at what he really meant.

  I was still sitting there after Mompesson had gone to bed and Thorley had hauled himself away, when Gladwin returned, shortly before midnight, with a great crash of the front door.

  ‘Still up, young Franklin?’ he said, striding in to warm himself by the dwindling fire.

  ‘Just about. Mulling over my first meeting with Mr Mompesson.’

  ‘So he got here, then.’ He grunted and said no more.

  ‘How was the chess?’

  ‘We adjourned. I’m not sure I’ll live long enough to finish this game.’ He glared down at the fire. ‘You might have kept this in for me.’

  ‘Sorry. Is it cold out?’

  ‘Cold and fine. Clear as a bell. It was on nights like this that John used to take himself up to his observatory to study the stars. No one goes up there now. I’ve not been since the comet in 1910.’

  ‘That’s the turret on the roof of the wing?’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t you know John was our resident astronomer?’

  ‘I’m not sure he ever mentioned it.’

  Gladwin grunted again and looked doleful. The memory of Hallows as an enthusiastic astronomer seemed to depress him. He plodded to the door. ‘I’m away to my bed. Sleep well.’

  I went up a little later. The house was dark and silent now, though, when I looked out of my window, I saw that, as Gladwin had said, it was a fine night, moonless and velvety black, the stars thickly sprinkled across the sky’s impenetrable dome. I felt wide awake: Mompesson’s prophecies had left me restless. Inspired by the night and Gladwin’s recollections, I decided to take a look at Hallows’ observatory.

  The guest rooms were on the first floor of the main building, facing the drive. The family rooms were in the wing of the house where the stairs to the observatory were, and so I felt something of an intruder as I made my way there, careful to make as little noise as possible, anxious not to disturb anybody. The house seemed wholly at rest as I located the spiral stairs and began my ascent.

  It was a wasted journey. The door at the top, leading to the observatory, was locked. Not surprising, I supposed, in the circumstances. Stifling a vague annoyance, I retraced my steps.

  As I reached for the foot of the stairs, a figure moved swiftly past in the darkness. I stopped short, taken aback by this silent manifestation, then looked out into the passage. It was Mompesson, I felt certain, padding noiselessly and swiftly away from me and evidently unaware that he had been seen. At the end of the passage, a line of light beneath a door seemed to mark his destination. I watched as he reached it.

  He turned the handle and pushed the door open. It was a bedroom, richly furnished and softly lit. I could see for certain now that it was Mompesson and, as he took a step into the room, I could see that he was expected. Lady Powerstock rose from her chair by the dressing table and turned to face him. she wore a pink, full-length silken gown and – to judge by the hugging fit of the material – nothing else. Her long hair fell freely in dark tresses over her shoulders. She spoke and Mompes
son replied, but I could not make out what was said. Then she turned away. As she did so, Mompesson released the door and it swung slowly towards me, narrowing the angle of my view to Lady Powerstock’s retreating figure. She pulled loose the sash of her gown and shrugged it casually from her shoulders. She was naked beneath. The gown slid down her back, clung momentarily to her hips, then fell to the floor. What she was offering Mompesson was clear in every mature and sensuous curve of her body. And, on what she was offering, the door in that moment clicked shut, leaving me in the dark, with only a remembered glimpse of her body.

  * * *

  Even as I stole back to my room, my reaction began to appal me. I felt no outrage on behalf of a dead friend or his betrayed father, rather a keen and self-centred resentment. Why, after all, should an arrogant, uninvolved American be able to walk into a war-wounded house and make free with its luscious mistress? Why were those of us who’d suffered months of torment and denial to be left to spectate as he came, and took his fill, and went? It was too much. Even sleep – when it came, fitfully and late – did not assuage my anger, nor relieve the awful, unconfessed desire that lurked behind it.

  As is the way of restless nights, dawn brought slumber and it was mid-morning when I woke suddenly, roused by the clopping of horses’ hooves on the drive. I rose and stretched and walked to the window.

  I suppose I’d expected it to be Fergus, leading out Lucy, but no, it was two horses I’d not seen before, one a tall black hunter with Mompesson in the saddle, cutting an imposing figure in top hat and long coat. Aboard the other – a smaller, quieter animal – was Leonora, in black riding skirt and cape, with a grey scarf around her hat. There was, in her dress and bearing, an observance of mourning, but why was she out riding with Mompesson? All I’d learned of her since first coming to Meongate would have led me to expect her to refuse such an invitation. Yet, there they were, heading away together across the park. I thought of what I’d seen the night before and of Hallows’ widow associating with a man who held in contempt both Lord Powerstock and the cause for which Hallows had died. There was something wrong, I knew, something awfully wrong.