The Men

by Anthony Masters

  ‘Two years ago. A woman was murdered by her husband. He hid her in the woods.’

  ‘How long did it take you?’

  ‘A week.’

  ‘That’s a long time,’ she said, breaking up a croissant and putting a small piece in her mouth. It tasted like cardboard.

  ‘The woods are thick.’

  ‘Do you think Tim’s dead?’ she asked abruptly.

  ‘No. We have other possibilities. He could be ill.’

  ‘Or?’ Lucy asked ominously.

  ‘Had a purpose we don’t as yet understand.’

  ‘Do you think I killed him?’ she asked, knowing she had to repeat the painful question now that she was sober.

  He gave her an apologetic smile and shrugged. ‘We need to talk.’

  Lucy tried to eat another piece of croissant but it stuck in her throat. Dislodging the obstruction with a draught of coffee, she choked.

  ‘The search party are sweeping the countryside towards the Tour des Oiseaux,’ said Metand. ‘It’s a folly in the woods. Solange said she would wait for you there.’ He paused. ‘You may find her a little strange. She’s not particularly well.’

  5

  29 July

  The heat was sullen and the sky an overcast steel. Above the engine noise of Metand’s Renault Lucy could occasionally hear the sound of a tractor, the cawing of a rook, the distant barking of a dog.

  Gradually the landscape became more undulating. Glimpses of buildings, the banks of a stream, an old man fishing by a bridge, the sudden shouts of children, all gave hints of the hidden community that had become a fixation in her mind. They were all concealed, just like Tim. Was he amongst them? What had she launched him on? A flight into a past that was a sprung trap?

  Metand drew off on to a bumpy track where a dozen or so small trucks and a couple of battered ex-army jeeps were parked.

  ‘Now we walk.’

  ‘How long have they been searching?’ she asked.

  ‘Since early this morning.’

  Lucy felt guilty, as if she was a privileged visitor, Lady Muck, about to review the toiling peasantry.

  As they began to walk up through the dark woods, she caught a glimpse of the Tour des Oiseaux through a gap left by a couple of storm-blasted trees. The dark, ivy-hung monolith, at the top of a steep hill, had round windows.

  ‘We might have a storm,’ said Metand, as he led Lucy up a narrow path through the wood which was largely comprised of ancient oaks. Many of the trunks were being slowly strangled by ivy and there was an acrid, musty smell of vegetation.

  ‘Who owns all this?’

  ‘A bankrupt landowner who left the area before the war. It needs clearing. People don’t even take a Sunday walk here.’ Metand paused and gazed irritably around him. ‘With a bit more money, this countryside could flourish. The soil is good. But there’s not enough capital –’ He began to talk about regional government but Lucy wasn’t listening.

  She was gazing around her apprehensively, seeing Tim’s body under each tree, just like Baverstock with his throat slit on the Clump.

  Police uniforms only made up about a quarter of the search party. The others were largely middle-aged to elderly men, strung out in a long line through the dense woodland, heads down, searching slowly and diligently. To Lucy, they looked as if they were in a painting, carefully planting a crop. All they needed was the tolling of the Angelus bell.

  ‘I didn’t realize you’d have so many civilians,’ she said hesitantly. ‘And some of them are quite old.’

  ‘Since the war – nothing happens. We almost had too many volunteers to search for your husband.’

  ‘It’s not personal warmth? Compassion?’ suggested Lucy.

  ‘No,’ said Metand. ‘Pure curiosity. But, as you can see, they are thorough.’

  They walked on, the ground rougher now and the path only a hint of its former self, leading uphill, beyond the conscientious searchers. A chaffinch sang, sweet and clear, and a couple of rabbits scampered away from them through dense undergrowth. There was a pungent smell of wild garlic.

  ‘Does the folly have a history?’ asked Lucy, needing distraction now, still trying to keep the morbid image of Tim’s body out of her mind.

  Metand launched into an explanation and she listened with increasing interest, soon finding him an eloquent storyteller. ‘The tower was built in the sixteenth century to house a malicious wife. The Goutins were a little less civilized than they are now. Thérèse Goutin was only in her early twenties but she nagged her husband day and night to expand his estates, to buy neighbouring farms. In the end, Thérèse became so ambitious that she had an affair with another landowner and persuaded him to try and kill her husband so she could inherit his land. Then the joint estates of Thérèse and her lover would stretch as far as the eye could see. But the plot failed and the landowner was executed. The tower was built on top of the hill to imprison Thérèse so that she could see as far as the distant horizon but could never own the land or visit it. A servant brought her one meal a day. She was given no books, no comforts of any kind, so that she could brood upon her greed. Thérèse’s only diversion was to feed the birds, to befriend them,’ Metand paused. ‘Do you really want me to go on? The story is pure folklore.’

  ‘Tell me more,’ Lucy pleaded. Directly he stopped talking, she saw a huddled shape under each bush. If only she hadn’t come. If only she had stayed with Monique.

  ‘Apparently Thérèse used to stand on that turreted roof with birds perched on her arms. Then, one day, she attempted to fly. Naturally, she fell to earth. Her grave is in the cemetery.’

  ‘Despite Thérèse’s power complex, her husband’s vengeance was just a little cruel, don’t you think?’ observed Lucy, trying to be arch, trying to stop imagining and only succeeding in sounding gauche.

  ‘Look at the fate of those young collaborators only a few years ago. I’m sure there are men in this search party today who were responsible for that.’ As they struggled up the last part of the rise, Metand paused for breath. ‘Vengeance is the most primitive of all the impulses.’

  Solange Eclave was standing in the shadow of the tower in the dull midday heat, staring intently into a hollow. For a dreadful moment Lucy wondered if she had found Tim.

  ‘Solange?’ Metand’s voice was quiet, almost gentle, as if he didn’t want to surprise or frighten her.

  ‘Oui?’ She turned round and Lucy received an immense shock. Solange Eclave was tall but also extremely broad. Her face seemed enormous, as if she had been taking steroids, the smooth skin stretched tight across her cheekbones, her nose looking as if it had been broken and badly reset. Long, ragged blonde hair swept her large, fleshy shoulders and she wore a smock-like dress of faded blue linen which covered her legs, exposing thick white ankles and feet in sandals. Yet despite all this, there was still a hint of beauty in her full sensual lips and the large cornflower blue eyes that were fixed on Lucy. Brazen was the wrong word for her. Pagan was overblown. Blowzy was better, but it didn’t do her justice. Lucy had the strange feeling that Solange had deliberately let herself go as an act of defiance. Then she shrugged off the idea. How could she make up her mind about the woman at first sight?

  ‘This is Mrs Groves. Madame Eclave.’

  ‘Tim’s wife.’ Her voice was light and delicate with a slight sibilance. She might be bizarre, thought Lucy, but she certainly radiates charisma. Then she was forcibly reminded of her dream of the big red-headed woman straddling the boy-like Tim.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Solange moved towards her with surprising grace and Lucy saw that she wasn’t in the least clumsy. In fact she was statuesque, almost majestic.

  ‘I’m going to leave you alone to talk,’ said Metand. ‘I’ll go back and see how my search party is coping.’

  The woodland goddess. The earth mother. Lucy felt slightly dazed, regretting Metand’s sudden and rather traitorous withdrawal. Was it deliberate? Did he think something might develop between them that his presence could inhibit?
>
  ‘Let’s go up to the tower.’ Solange laid a hand on Lucy’s arm and the intimate gesture made her want to recoil. ‘I am sorry about Tim. Where do you think he might have gone?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ The heat seemed to close in as they walked up the hill. Crows were fluttering soundlessly around the battlements and for a wild moment she imagined Thérèse up there, the birds on her arms.

  There was no track now, just ridges with only a scattering of trees, and they were able to walk alongside each other, picking their way up the uneven ground.

  ‘I only knew Tim for three days, but I admired him. He did not have the same rank as the other two soldiers, although he was very much their leader.’

  Lucy was considerably surprised at the unexpected information.

  ‘Monsieur Metand was telling me about the tragedy of your husband’s death.’

  ‘Tragedy? I don’t think that’s the right word. He deserved what he got. My husband was an opportunist. Shall I give you my version of the events?’

  ‘Only if you would like to.’ Lucy was startled by her frankness.

  ‘It’s common knowledge round here.’ Solange paused. ‘You look tired. Are you sure you want to listen to all this?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘A German patrol came to the château and got drunk. Then Claude brought in a couple of girls from the village. It was not a wise move. Next evening he brought in some friends, Philippe and Robert, who brought more girls with them. They didn’t stop to think what the repercussions would be.’ She paused, looking closely at Lucy. Then Solange hurried on. ‘The Gestapo wanted to requisition the château as an interrogation centre. My strategy was to point out that Pavilly was far too big and uncomfortable for such an enterprise and that a smaller house just outside Honfleur would be more practical.’ She paused again, and then continued. ‘I kept Pavilly safe from the Germans – but I was never safe from my husband. What he did made the French destroy Pavilly. Ironic, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Did you want to stay after the war?’

  ‘The locals could go to hell and back for all I cared. I knew the Goutins would restore Pavilly and this is what they plan to do. The family knew what a good job I’d done. They didn’t blame me for what Claude and his friends did.’ She paused and gazed at Lucy with a cautious smile. ‘The rebuilding will take years and it’s not even scheduled to start yet. For the moment I’m quite happy to be a ruin amongst the ruins. I’ve learnt to enjoy my own company and now I have Anna.’ Solange was staring at Lucy again, but in a rather different way. Her eyes seemed slightly dilated and for the first time there was sweat on her fleshy upper lip. ‘I’ve only been afraid since you brought Tim back.’

  The extraordinary and completely unexpected sentence hung on the air like the expected storm. Lucy was so stunned that she simply gaped at Solange. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I’ve only been afraid since you brought Tim back.’

  The shock waves made Lucy feel faint and she swayed slightly. The folly seemed to lean towards her and then re-settle on its foundations.

  ‘You were afraid of Tim?’ She was incredulous.

  ‘Metand knows nothing of this. I suggest we go up the tower so we can speak privately. The stairs are steep and he suffers from asthma.’ She laughed and Lucy tried to keep calm. Everyone knew Solange was mentally ill. Everyone. She had simply fooled her, that’s all.

  A solitary rook wheeled above the battlements. Was it safe to go up with her? A light wind blew, rustling the ivy that clung tenaciously to the crumbling stone.

  ‘All right,’ said Lucy, much against her instincts.

  She’s definitely batty, she told herself. I shouldn’t be climbing towers with this crazy woman. Nevertheless, Lucy meekly followed the bulky figure as if she was under a spell. She had the instinctive notion that Solange had been waiting a long time to have this conversation. Just as long, in fact, as she herself had been waiting for Tim to recover.

  Lucy noticed that a large key was already in place in the lock of the heavy wooden door.

  ‘I often come here,’ Solange explained. ‘I associate myself with Thérèse. Have you heard the legend?’

  Lucy nodded.

  ‘She cheers me up.’

  ‘I gather she tried to fly.’

  ‘I admire Thérèse for that. I don’t have the courage. Not yet.’

  The stone steps that led up the tower were steep and the handrail was made of rusty iron. The climb was tiring and Lucy’s leg muscles were soon aching.

  ‘There are three floors, each with an identical room off the stairwell.’ Despite her weight, she didn’t seem to be out of breath. Solange took out a set of keys from the pocket of her voluminous smock and opened a door, revealing a dim, empty space that smelt musty.

  ‘Were the rooms furnished?’ asked Lucy, feeling increasingly uneasy. Nevertheless, she drove herself on, hoping that Solange would say more about Tim, however absurd.

  ‘We’ve only got four pieces at the château that I know were in the tower. Three chaises longues – all identical – that must have been placed one in each room. Then there was a table with her name carved on it.’

  They climbed on up to the top of the tower, passing the two other identical iron doors and eventually arriving at a smaller and even steeper staircase that led up to a trapdoor.

  ‘It’s sometimes a bit sticky,’ said Solange casually as she inched it jerkily across. ‘Do you get vertigo?’ Her face seemed like that of an ageing clown. Lucy had always been frightened of clowns.

  The guard rail around the parapet had rusted away in places and the sheer drop to the ground below was unsettling.

  Turning round, looking back to the woodlands, she could see the search party conscientiously moving up the valley, slowly checking the terrain.

  In front of her, with the road in between, lay the ruins of the Château de Pavilly. The view must once have been spectacular, but now it was simply desolate. The gates fronted a long straight drive with plane trees on either side, leading to the front steps of what had been the château. But now the walls were blackened, the roof had fallen in and only one wing was intact although its windows had been boarded up.

  To the right of the ruins lay overgrown parkland, with a lake, a landing stage and a solidly built stone summerhouse. The neatly trimmed lawn was a striking contrast to the surrounding wilderness.

  ‘As far as the eye can see,’ said Solange. ‘I will be queen bee.’

  ‘Did Thérèse make that up?’

  ‘No. I did. Just now,’ said Solange with a careless smile.

  Lucy glanced down and wished she hadn’t, experiencing an unpleasant drawing sensation. ‘How could she ever have imagined she could fly?’

  Solange didn’t reply. Then she turned slowly to Lucy, fixing her with her large, wide eyes. ‘I do have a story to tell you. A true story that Metand doesn’t know.’ She paused. ‘When I heard you had arrived – and Tim had disappeared – I thought you should hear it.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell Metand?’

  Solange’s eyes were on hers, locked tight, ignoring the question.

  ‘Because Tim killed my husband,’ she said quietly, as if she was stating a well-known fact. Lucy was sure she was right: Solange had been waiting a long time for this moment.

  6

  29 July

  ‘Is this is a bad joke?’ asked Lucy. She felt as if Solange had physically attacked her and the shock waves churned hot and cold. ‘Why are you telling me this crazy nonsense?’ She wanted outrage to sweep her; instead she was aghast. The wretched woman shouldn’t be roaming about like this. She ought to be in an asylum.

  ‘Tim shot Claude because he was in love with me.’

  What really happened to make her like this, wondered Lucy. ‘You’re very cruel,’ she said slowly, trying to exert control. ‘At a time like this, when I’m out of my mind with worry, you drag me up here and tell me lies.’

  Solange suddenly grabbed Lucy’s shoulders in such a tight grip
that it hurt, but she forced herself not to struggle. Suppose she pushed her over the broken balustrade? She was gripping her shoulders even more tightly now, but still Lucy didn’t move. Then Solange let her go, turning away, gazing back at the château. The sultry heat seemed to have increased.

  ‘I haven’t seen him. I promise you that.’ Solange stood close to the parapet and Lucy felt her fear mount. Somehow she had to get away, back down to the ground. ‘The reason he’s disappeared is that he’s looking for me. Your husband is a violent man.’

  Lucy forced herself to speak. ‘Tell me what really happened.’

  ‘I’m telling you what happened. Don’t you understand? Isn’t it simple enough for you?’

  Lucy decided to try and humour her, but it was an instinct rather than a reaction. ‘Did Peter and Martin know?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So why should my husband search for you? Want to harm you after all these years?’

  ‘Because I have something he needs, something they all need. If I want to, I can destroy them.’

  ‘How?’

  Solange gazed blankly at her without replying.

  ‘Tim would never hurt you. He would never hurt anyone.’

  Again, Solange didn’t reply.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell Metand?’

  The air of unreality increased. Solange. Thérèse. These lies. Lucy suddenly felt giddy and clung to the parapet for support, while the dense woods seemed to come sweeping up to her. Then her head cleared.

  Solange opened the trapdoor. ‘I’m going back now,’ she said casually.

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Isn’t it enough?’

  ‘It’s a slander. I’ll report you.’

  ‘As long as Metand protects me from your husband, I don’t give a shit what you say.’

  Lucy followed her silently down the steep steps, stumbling once or twice, wanting to explode with fury and indignation but feeling curiously weak and powerless, as if she had to retain what little strength she had for the climb.