The Retreat

by Anne Morgellyn

  The Retreat

  Anne Morgellyn

  © Anne Morgellyn 2014

  Anne Morgellyn has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  This edition publised in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  For Cara

  Table of Contents

  Aboard

  Part One : The Think Tank

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  Part Two: Menace

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  Part 3: The Examining Magistrate

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  Part Four: Incendiary Matters

  1

  2

  3

  4

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  Part Five: The Rat Catcher

  1

  2

  3

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  Disembarkation

  Other Titles by Anne Morgellyn

  Aboard

  The chains groaned and the siren roared. Mackie climbed up to the deck where the bar was situated and asked for a bottle of Perrier. She wanted to stay alert for the long drive down to Brittany. The bar was full of truckers, mostly Polish and Ukrainian. She had seen the huge articulated lorries in the queue as she was waiting to board the ferry. The drivers were busy with their beer and cards. None of them looked up at her as she crossed over to the port side to watch the white cliffs recede into the skyline. Cloud capped towers. We are such stuff as dreams are made on and our little life is rounded with a sleep... Mackie was a doer, not a dreamer.

  ‘Face it,’ Rudyard told her. ‘You have three choices, none of them entirely satisfactory. If you blow the whistle, you’ll be waiting in limbo for the result of the inquiry, assuming that there is an inquiry. You could drop the allegations and go back to work and try to do your job in an atmosphere of naked hostility. Or you could sit it out at home and wait to be formally suspended.’

  She had thought he had come to sell her something when he had rung her doorbell. Insurance, perhaps. Double glazing. Solar panels. Then he had shown her his ID.

  ‘The wrong man was arrested,’ she said.

  ‘He won’t stand trial. He’s in a secure unit. Psychiatric.’

  ‘What’s this place you want me to go to?’

  He smiled. ‘You’ll make an ideal guest — a disaffected police inspector, considering her options.’

  ‘Would I tell them that?’

  ‘Of course. You’ll keep your Met status, in case they check you out. We’ll protect you. We look after all our operatives.’

  ‘Can I get back to you?’

  ‘By all means. Don’t think it over for too long though. We need someone to go for us soon. All you have to do is watch and wait — low grade observation.’

  ‘Observing what?’

  ‘We’re hoping you’ll tell us that when you get there.’

  She picked up his card. The table was bare. She hadn’t offered him a drink. Was that rude?

  Part One : The Think Tank

  1

  The trucks parted company with her at the docks. They would be heading for the super highways that would carry them northwards and eastwards across the French border. The B-roads from Calais to Finisterre were long, but straight, and she preferred to contend with tractors and old Renault vans than with speed fiends on the motorway. She made four pit stops for coffee to offset the monotony of flat, hedge—free fields and groves of poplars. On surveillance operations, she had learned to control her bladder, but when she had to go here in France, after the third café noir, she was unimpressed by the facilities this side of the channel. The only hole in the floor she had seen in Britain was in the women’s section of the Regent’s Park Mosque.

  It was nearly five o’clock. Niall would be on his way to Covent Garden now. It was a new production and she would miss his opening night, but he’d encouraged her to go to Brittany.

  ‘It’ll do you good, ma. It’ll stop you brooding about your job.’

  He didn’t know that this was work, not leisure. Had she been twenty years younger, she might have danced with it but she was forty two and jaded after twenty four years in the force. She remembered what she had said to Mike about the Chief Constable: He doesn’t scare me. I’ve reached my level of incompetence. They had it in for her because she knew too much. But her knowing too much held them over a barrel.

  At last the junction appeared: Pont du Calvaire 1.5 kilomètres She drove into the town, pulled up on the market square, and consulted the map. She needed to drive past the school then take the first left towards Le Verger. The Retreat was the first right turn on that road.

  The turn off was marked by an ancient gatehouse which belied the age and status of the building at the end of the drive. This was a country mansion, not a château-of-the-Loire type of edifice. It looked no more than a couple of hundred years old, like one of those fancy Anglo-Irish mansions that gave no shelter to the starving in the famine. Knowing nothing about French architecture she couldn’t place it chronologically, but it was clear that it was newer than the gatehouse, which looked as though it belonged to a medieval castle with a turret. The château looked benign in the early evening sun that caught the mellowed stone of the front elevation, but as she got out of the car, she noticed a bad smell coming from a heap of crayfish shells outside the side entrance.

  The door was opened by a middle aged woman in regional dress. On her head was a tall starched coiffe with lace and ribbons.

  Mackie introduced herself. ‘I have a booking to stay here for two weeks.’

  ‘Entrez. Asseyez-vous là.’ The woman pointed to a wooden chair, the uprights topped by what looked like masonic carvings — a set square and a compass. A linnet chirped in a gilded cage on a marble console. A ginger cat was eyeing the bird with malicious intent.

  She was dog tired after the journey. She closed her eyes and sat still and quiet while the woman went to find the director of the community.

  ‘Mrs Divine? Welcome.’ A tall man with blue-black hair like hers, only his looked natural, had come into the hall and was holding out his hand for her to shake. She stood up and shook it.

  ‘Are you Peter Roman?’

  ‘Just Roman, please. Everyone calls me by my surname. And you’re Immaculata. Are you a Catholic?’

  ‘I’m known as Mackie.’

  ‘Mackie Messer. Mack the Knife. Let me show you to your room. I’ll take your holdall. Scout, our driver, will bring up the rest of your luggage.’

  ‘That’s all I’ve brought.’

  ‘Just this?’ He swung the hold—hall to and fro. ‘You travel light. But that’s not a bad thing.’

  She followed him up the sweeping double staircase. There were portraits of men, mostly ugly men, in what you might call pensive poses. ‘Unusual’, she commented. ‘They all look like philosophers.’

  ‘They are philosophers. Are you interested in philosophy?’

  ‘I don’t know much about it.’

  ‘There’s Voltaire and Sartre. And Nietzsche next to him.’

>   ‘I’ll have a good look at them later.’

  ‘Of course. You must be tired.’ He ushered her down a corridor on the left of the staircase, and stopped at the last door. ‘Here we are,’ he said, opening it. ‘I trust you’ll be comfortable. We’re rather spartan here.’

  She looked over the room. It was spacious enough but sparsely furnished. Student style. Beneath the high ceiling was a single bed, a night table with a reading light, a metal desk and collapsible chair, a closet with louvered doors, and a chest of drawers. Above this hung a framed piece of embroidery with the legend Love Conquers All.

  ‘That was done by one of our residents,’ he said, seeing her eyeing it. The bathroom is just across the corridor. There’s a lavatory next to it.’

  ‘Are there no ensuite rooms?’

  ‘Only in the conference centre, They’re reserved for the delegates. I should point out that this is not a hotel break. The more

  you join in with the community, the more you’ll get out of your time here. That said, you can do nothing if you want a quiet retreat. Just join us for meals. The minibus leaves for the town at ten o’clock every weekday morning, except Wednesdays when it goes to Quimper. That’s an old cathedral town with a river and department stores. There’s nothing like that in Pont du Calvaire. To come back, you call our Joe le Taxi or use one of the bikes. It’s an easy ride, all on the flat.’

  ‘I’ve come by car.’

  ‘By car?’ He went over to the window. ‘Is that your car?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wasn’t it explained to you that you could be picked up at Roscoff?’

  ‘Yes, it was explained to me when I booked, but I like to be independent. And I wanted to see something of the country.’ She couldn’t stop herself from yawning.

  ‘You’ll get far more out of the experience here if you leave the motor out of the equation. You can leave it in the barn. We have a conference booking tomorrow. The front drive is reserved for delegates’ parking. I’ll ask our driver to garage it for you.’

  ‘That’s fine. As long as I can make a quick getaway.’

  He didn’t return her smile.

  ‘I don’t mind using a bike,’ she told him, ‘though I haven’t ridden one for thirty years.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ He looked at his watch. Supper’s at eight. You’ll meet everybody then. I’ve heard these introductions many times but it never fails to surprise me how people vary the way in the way that they present themselves. I suppose they have different perceptions of themselves according to how they’re feeling. Good mood — positive and assertive. Bad mood — reclusive and unsocial. Perhaps you’d let me have your car key so that our driver can clear the drive.’

  She got the key out of her handbag and handed it over. When he had gone, she sat down on the spartan bed and thought of her house in Euston. The kitchen. Always a mess. The new walk-in shower. Niall’s studio. The performance would be under way by now. He was understudying Lensky tonight in Onegin. It was a brilliant opportunity for him to shine, and she was missing it. No point in regretting it. She was here now. And out of sorts.

  2

  At eight o’clock she went downstairs and opened a few doors in the hall, happening on an office, a craft room, and a library before she found the dining room The community were already at table when she arrived. A silver soup tureen idled in the middle. They all looked as though they wanted to get into it.

  ‘I’m sorry to be late,’ she said.

  ‘Not at all.’ Roman flashed his even, white teeth. ‘Did you manage to sleep? Come and sit here by me.’ Naturally, he was seated at the head of the table. He placed her on his right. ‘May I introduce our guest, who will be staying with us for the next few weeks? — Immaculata Divine.’

  ‘Is she a Catholic?’ asked a woman with faded blonde hair and a pale wrinkled face.

  ‘I’m lapsed,’ she replied. ‘And I’m known as Mackie.’ This thing about her Christian name being Catholic was becoming tedious.

  Roman nodded at the woman who had asked the question. ‘Iris is a daughter of the Church of England, but she left the fold when they began ordaining women priests. She is now the anchor woman of our community, and she keeps us all up to the mark.’ He turned to the woman on his left, who had purple streaks in her greying mane and a stud in her nose.

  ‘I’m Sofka Phocas,’ she said, looking Mackie in the eye. ‘I’ve lived here since the beginning. My father was Greek and my mother is Russian. I’m an icon painter.’

  ‘One doesn’t paint an icon. One writes it, and one doesn’t sign one’s name,’ Iris pointed out. Her blue-grey eyes were hard as pebbles.

  Roman pointed to a muscular young man with a shaven head. He was heavily tattooed. There were black and red flashes all the way down his bare arms. ‘Scout?’

  ‘I live here and drive the minibus.’

  ‘Scout, Scout... Don’t be so reticent — Scout was in the Foreign Legion for five years and now he’s a French citizen. Moving on.’

  An elderly, pale man with a dripping nose spoke hoarsely. ‘My name is Gerald Strong. I’ve come here to die.’

  Mackie put her hand over her glass, causing Roman to pour the wine on the starched while tablecloth. ‘Don’t worry. He’s pulling your leg. Moving on.’

  The fourth man, whose only significant feature was a pair of old fashioned glasses with tortoise shell frames, said he was a retired musician. He liked growing orchids and had won prizes for them in Taunton, but there were only competitions for vegetable growers here. ‘Any fool can grow vegetables.’

  ‘And your name is?’ Roman prompted.

  ‘You know what it is. Sheen. Herbert Sheen.’

  ‘Moving on.’

  A red-headed girl stood up. She looked like a student dropout. ‘I’m Joanna. I’m new. I’ve been here for three weeks.’ She took the lid off the soup tureen. ‘Pass me your plates, please. Yes, pass them along,’ she told Mackie.

  The soup was excellent: a thick, smooth blend of fresh-tasting root vegetables. Mackie complimented the cook. ‘It’s like my grandma used to make. Potage. I can taste the butter.

  Roman wiped his mouth and took a sip of wine. ‘We don’t stint on food here. We produce a lot of it ourselves.’ He handed his empty soup plate to Joanna, who was waiting patiently while Herbert, who had helped himself to the remains in the tureen, finished slurping. The housekeeper appeared a minute later with another covered dish. A plump, plain-faced young woman stood behind her with a bowl of green salad.

  ‘That’s Madame L’Oiseau and her daughter,’ Sofka told Mackie. ‘They don’t speak English, only French and Breton. Madame cooks and Marie-No cleans.’

  ‘Collectively they are Les Oiseaux.’ Roman smiled. ‘The Bird family.’

  ‘Bird brains, ‘ Herbert muttered, helping himself to a plate of pork and prunes.

  ‘Resuming the introductions, which have been somewhat sparing tonight,’ Roman said reproachfully. ‘My name, Immaculata, you already know. I founded the community and set up the conference centre. It’s our bread and butter. We’d be relying on donations otherwise.’

  ‘I wondered how you funded this place if you don’t charge.’

  ‘Visitors are expected to chip in,’ Iris told her.

  ‘There are no expectations here.’ Roman touched Mackie’s arm. ‘No one expects anything of any one. Please tell us something about yourself, Immaculata. ‘

  ‘Mackie.’ She could have been briefing the hostile crew at Albany Street. ‘I’m a detective inspector in The Metropolitan Police. I’ve been a police officer for twenty four years but now I’m looking for something else to do with my life. I thought that coming here would give me time to think about it. I’m from Liverpool originally, as you can probably hear, but I now live in central London.’ She stepped back as the L’Oiseau girl changed her plate. Her mother placed a large platter of cheese and fruit in the centre of the table. ‘Where are you from?’ she asked Roman.

  ‘London. Just off Curzon St
reet.’

  ‘I know Curzon Street,’ she said. ‘The Aces Club.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have taken you for a gambler.’

  ‘I’m not. I was investigating the place, or trying to. I was told to back off.’

  ‘Who told you to do that?’ Herbert asked.

  ‘It came from the mouth of the chief constable via the superintendent. The chief has friends in high places and didn’t want to upset them.’

  ‘My grandfather was in the police,’ Gerald quavered. ‘He was the village bobby. If children misbehaved, he’d give them a clout around the ear so they’d never do it again.’

  ‘Times have changed. We’d be done for assault.’

  ‘Is this why you’re thinking of leaving the police?’ Sofka asked.

  ‘The failure of law and order and no free hand?’

  ‘I’m just having a break, to think it over.’

  Roman nodded. ‘I can see where you’re coming from. We could all say something about wanting something different, couldn’t we?’ He looked encouragingly at the others. ‘I looked and I found. I was looking for a property to buy in France and saw that the château was for sale. My work here mainly consists in running the conference centre. The community tends to run itself. I believe very strongly in community, living out a communal aim, everybody pulling their weight. Residents take responsibility for their own welfare, as well as that of the community. It begins with small domestic tasks like making one’s own bed and peeling potatoes. The simplest tasks can be very therapeutic. The simple life is our purpose. No rat race for us. No expectations or competition.’

  The coffee arrived. Iris rose unsteadily, as though she had arthritis, and went off without bidding anyone good night.

  ‘I won’t have coffee either,’ Joanna said. ‘If I drink too much coffee, I get agitated. Like I’m on steroids or something.’

  ‘I’m on steroids,’ Gerald sighed. ‘Coffee makes no difference to me. I never sleep.’

  Mackie wondered what was wrong with him. She didn’t like to ask. It was time for her to go to bed. ‘Please excuse me,’ she said. ‘I had a long drive today.’