“Shall we put up at the Hotel Royale?” asked John, brushing his fair hair back from his eyes and looking at the unpretentious inn, which, as far as they could see, was all that La Bézard boasted in the way of hostelries. Nina nodded. “Yes; oh, John, isn’t this heaven? And look at those booths—it’s just like a picture by Claude Monet.”
She wandered over to the stalls. Immediately the proprietors lost their comatose apathy and, with the shrewdness of their race, prepared to do business with the foreigners that the good God had seen fit to send them. Nina passed the vendors of produce and paused before a great barrow piled with a collection of miscellaneous junk, wherein books, religious figures, bric-à-brac and cheap jewellery jostled each other in intriguing confusion. Immediately Nina was filled with the collector’s acquisitive fever. She rummaged through the medley, finally selecting a small figure of “Our Lady.”
“Darling, I think this might be old. Shall we ask how much this is? It looks like silver but it’s so dirty it’s impossible to be sure.”
John let his pack slump on to the cobbles. Their combined French was fluent, if faulty, and they had none of the insular self-consciousness about airing it. The old man behind the barrow looked at them appraisingly. In answer to their query he replied “forty francs”—and then wondered if he had asked too much. From one of his usual patrons he would have asked “ten.”
“Ridiculous!” Nina moved away.
“One moment . . . to Madame shall we say . . . thirty?”
Nina still contrived to appear disinterested.
“Well, for Madame . . . twenty—and you ruin me!”
They returned to the barrow. “I think it’s worth that, darling,” Nina said, “and it is rather charming.” Meekly her husband handed over two tattered notes patched with stamp paper.
They approached the hotel. Only one more temptation stood between them and their goal. An array of gaily coloured cotton scarves, ties and shirts were heaped on two trestles covered by well-scrubbed boards. Once more Nina hesitated.
“I like those tricolour handkerchiefs—and they’re only five francs each. Let’s get one.”
While their purchase was being wrapped up she caught sight of a number of belts coiled snakelike in a cardboard box. “Oh, John, you want a belt—you’re always giving your trousers a nautical hitch.” She pulled the box towards her. “Get this.” She held up a broad leather belt. Heavy, and fully three inches wide, it was ornamented with steel studs and had a tiny shield let into the leather behind the buckle. It was of a kind worn by workmen and was well polished by much use.
“I can’t wear a thing like that,” John protested.
“Why not? It will give you a tough appearance—like a pirate or highwayman—eminently suitable for our vagabondage.” She turned to the buxom peasant woman. “How much?”
“Twenty-five francs.”
“That’s absurd. Why it’s not even new.”
“But the leather is good, strong, there is a lifetime of wear still, in that belt. And the workmanship. Examine for yourself the workmanship.”
“I’ll give you twelve francs.”
After some minutes’ friendly haggling the belt changed hands for fifteen francs, and together the young couple made their way to the Hotel Royale, where they engaged a room, clean, but spartan in regard to comforts. After a dinner consisting of an omelette and veal they were joined by the owner of the establishment, who complained bitterly of the hard times, due to the fall of the franc to the detriment of such tourist traffic as came his way, and the inefficiency of the reigning government. In spite of a strong smell of garlic Nina found his conversation interesting.
“I think La Bézard is one of the most attractive villages we have yet seen. It is rare in these days to find such quiet and peace.”
“Peaceful! In the name of God,” ejaculated their host. “You should have been here yesterday. The place was crowded not only for the weekly cattle market, but also for the execution of that devil, Henri Larne.”
John raised his eyebrows interrogatively and suggested another drink. The man lifted his replenished glass.
“Yes, he was a bad one! I myself hardly knew him, but Marie, my wife, is from his village and knew him well,” he continued. “Big as a gorilla and strong as an ox and with a temper like a louse-ridden mother-in-law. Well, as I told you, he lived in the next village, Bierthieux, a few kilometres from here. Lived there with his wife and baby daughter, a little thing of three years she was. The wife, that unfortunate, no one knew how she stood him. When Larne had the drink in him he would beat her. It was a scandal. Then on a night in the spring when he had been drinking in the Red Flower he was boasting of his power over women. One of his listeners, Pierre Justand, lost patience with the braggart and told him to hold his tongue, adding that it was common gossip that his only daughter was by another man, so phst for his charm and powers! For that little one was the one child they had! It was a stupid thing to say and untrue into the bargain. Well, Larne went back to his cottage and beat and kicked his wife and the baby to death. And they executed him yesterday—nearly four months later. Yes, he was a bad one!”
The man wiped his moustache with the back of his hand and sighed. “And you say we are quiet here and peaceful,” he ended cynically.
“What a horrible story,” Nina said. “Poor woman!”
Nina turned from the fly-blown mirror and gave a final tug to the handkerchief that she had tied scarfwise round her neck. “Hurry up, John, I’m starving.”
Her husband looked up from cleaning his razor. “I’m nearly ready.” He picked up his belt from where it lay on the chest of drawers and drew it round his waist, pulling it tight and buckling it at the last hole.
“A little on the big side,” he remarked with mock contrariness, as they went down to the little café to breakfast.
They had planned to make for the town of Balincourt that evening, but so great was the charm of La Bézard that Nina wished to stay over one more night and see the ruined château that lay a few miles to the south. Accordingly, provided with sandwiches, they set out. The day was hot but dull, and neither felt inclined to talk. Plodding along by John’s side Nina thought that he looked sullen, but decided not to question him. His usually cheerful face was frowning and his lower lip projected sulkily. The sky was overcast as if a storm was threatening. On their arrival at the ruins they ate their lunch. John’s depression continued and he answered her attempts at conversation with monosyllables. A rumble of thunder growled in the distance.
After lunch, at which John emptied his flask, which, much to his wife’s astonishment, since he was a light drinker, contained brandy, they decided to explore the château.
They were in what had been the kitchens of the vast twelfth-century building when, on looking up one of the huge chimneys, moss grown and ragged Nina heard the plaintive mewing of a cat. She peered up at the place from which the noise appeared to come, but could see nothing.
“John, darling, do you hear that cat? It’s either hurt or frightened.”
They retraced their steps and looked up at the frowning stones. Twenty feet from the ground and on a narrow jutting ledge Nina saw the frightened animal, its piteous complaint silenced as it gazed down at them with alarmed, amber-flecked eyes.
“We must get it down,” Nina said. “It must have been there for days. Look, John, there it is.”
She glanced up at John and was astonished to see his expression. He was smiling and looking at the animal as if pleased by its unhappy predicament.
“I’ll get it down all right,” he said. He picked up a stone and flung it at the cat. His aim was good and the little creature after a moment’s wild scrabbling fell to the ground, where it lay arching in agony.
Nina was horrified. “John, you beast. How could you?”
She ran forward and knelt beside the cat.
“Oh, you’ve broken its back.” A little moan escaped her lips.
She looked up at John, her eyes blazing. “
I hate you,” she said viciously.
He stood with his left hand tucked into the wide leather belt, a smile twitching the corners of his mouth. “Don’t be so silly, Nina. It’s only a stray.” He bent down and, picking the cat up by its hind legs, swung its head against the wall. A little blood splashed Nina’s dress as she knelt at his feet.
There was a second rumble of thunder; and a few drops of rain, soft and heavy as tears, fell on the cat’s blood-matted fur as the storm broke.
At ten o’clock that night, when the Langs failed to return to the hotel, Jules Thieraud was troubled. The thunderstorm had been terrible, but it had spent itself by five and the château was only an hour’s walk from La Bézard. After consulting his wife, they, together with his son-in-law, decided to form a search party. Those ruins were dangerous places . . . and in a tempest so furious!
The moon, softened by storm clouds of moss agate fragility, cast a fitful light as the tiny cavalcade threaded their way among the grass-covered courtyards of the château. Jules carried an old-fashioned lantern which swayed and flickered as he stumbled down the treacherous steps that led to the old kitchens. Suddenly Marie gave a faint cry. “There, Jules, by the chimney. . . . What is that?”
Huddled on the wet grass, her arms raised as if trying to protect her face, lay the body of Nina, her dress torn from her body, which was terribly cut as if a heavy whip studded with nails had torn through her flesh. As they bent over her, her eyelids fluttered. “John. . . .” The whisper was so faint as to be almost inaudible. “John. . . .” Once more her lashes flickered. Her face was cruelly bruised, brutally trampled by heavily booted feet. A few feet away lay the crushed body of a cat and a wide bloodstained belt, set with studs and a small shield.
“Look, Marie . . . it is the husband’s belt . . . lying there, I noticed him wearing it this morning.”
“Mother of God!” Marie bent to look, but fearful of touching it. “Monsieur’s belt you say? . . . it belonged to Henri Larne . . . many times I have seen it. . . .”
Mrs. Sparks was astonished when she read the news in her Sunday paper. “Well, it only goes to show that one never knows,” was her comment. “So happy they seemed, too! And such a pleasant-spoken young gentleman! Well I never! It makes me go goosey, so it does! Such an affectionate young couple, I’d have said! Another cup of tea, Mrs. Noggs? Yes, I did for them for almost two years and never for a moment . . .”
“I always knew there was something strange about those Langs,” said Philippa Togarth to her sister. “If you ask me . . .”
The two young men met outside their communal bath. “See that that fellow Lang has bumped off his wife?” asked one. “Yes. Pretty little thing she was, too,” the other answered. “After you with the bath, old boy.”
The Treymaines gave no opinion, for, as a confused matter of principle, they never read the Sunday papers.
The leather belt was used in evidence, but there was never any doubt as to the outcome of the trial.
HAVELOCK’S FARM
The farm-house overlooked a weed-fringed pond, mottled with that yellow and green vegetation frequently found in stagnant water. A number of barns and outhouses surrounded the main building, while at the back an orchard sloped sharply away down the hillside. The house itself had been built towards the end of the fifteenth century, and the bricks had taken on the exquisite soft red that only the passing of many years can give. In the evening the glory of a brilliant sunset would flame in the glass of the windows, forming a blaze of rich colour that was arresting in its beauty.
Havelock’s Farm had been in the possession of the same family since the day that it had been built. The Havelocks were an odd people living away from the rest of the village, playing no part in the life of the community. For generations they had intermarried with other Havelocks from the neighbouring hamlets of Garth and Stoneley Bridge—dark, beetle-browed men and women, sturdy with the strength of the soil.
Leaseley, where the farm was situated, numbered four hundred souls—the Appins, the Furrowes, the Cartrights, the Masons, the Berries. In the way of remote country districts, it was rare for a new name to make its appearance. Brides, it was true, married into Leaseley, bringing new blood, but the influence of the five families had always remained unchallenged.
As has been said, the Havelocks moved in a different orbit from this little world—tilling their land, tending their cattle and sheep, meeting their neighbours only on market days. “Aye, the Havelocks be a funny lot,” the people of Leaseley would say. “If they want no truck with us that won’t make us fret at nights.” The children indeed were brought up to look upon the Havelocks as a clan apart, feeling for them a queer mixture of fear and mockery.
With the passing of the years it was found necessary to engage a second teacher to help the old man who taught in the tiny school at the bottom of the hill; and a new classroom was added to the original structure. It was for this reason that Faith Harrison was sitting, surrounded by bags and boxes, in the ramshackle cab that had met her at Chartwell station and that was now bumping her over the seven miles of uneven road to Leaseley.
She had been informed that she was to take charge of the twenty children that comprised the “infant” class. The salary was small, but in view of her youth, the position was acceptable, rather for the experience than for the remuneration. Small in truth, for this was according to the standards of nineteen hundred and eight.
It had been after five o’clock when Faith had left Chartwell, and on her arrival at Leaseley she was surprised to find that three-quarters of an hour had passed in the venerable vehicle. She directed the driver to Shirley Cottage, the address that she had been given. With much ado the ancient Jehu helped her with the luggage, then, with a curt “good night” he turned his cab and clip-clopped away into the dusk.
Forlornly, Faith walked up the uneven flower-fringed path. A lighted lamp glowed behind heavy green curtains. She knocked at the door a little timidly. The shuffle of slippers, slithering on a stone floor, came to her ears. The door was opened by an old man not, Faith considered, over particular as to his personal cleanliness.
“Does Miss Parsons live here?”
“No. But my name is Parsons. I’m the schoolmaster.”
The girl was very much taken aback by this answer.
“But I thought my superior was to be a woman, and that I was to lodge with her.”
The old man smiled. “And I, my dear young lady, was under the impression that my assistant was to have been a young man. There must have been some mistake. But come in and have a cup of tea. I’m making some for myself at this moment. No,” he added as Faith turned towards her luggage, “leave that where it is until we can decide what is to be done with you.”
Faith followed him into the sitting-room, where a fire was burning. Her host busied himself with the teacups, adding a second plate to the ready laid table. “My name,” he said again, “is Joseph Parsons, and I am known to the children as ‘Dirty Joe’—nasty little brats.”
Faith was surprised to find that she was liking this strange old man. She sat down in the armchair by the fire and gratefully sipped the hot tea that was handed her.
“And now we must see what is to be done with you,” he continued; “obviously you cannot stay here. In the first place, I have no room—the young fellow would have had to share mine—and in the second place, it would not be at all decorous. No . . . we shall have to find you lodgings in the village until the mistake is rectified. When you have finished your tea we will walk round and see Mrs. George Appin. She is the village busybody and will be sure to know where we can find a bedroom for you.”
But Mrs. Appin did not prove at all helpful. They discovered her sitting on a stool behind the counter in the general store that she owned and which was the sole shop that Leaseley possessed. She looked up in surprise as Joseph Parsons and the girl came in. It was most unusual to see a stranger.
“Good evening, Mrs. Appin. This is Miss Harrison who is to be my ass
istant. I wondered if you knew of anybody who could put her up, until she gets settled.”
Mrs. Appin extended a plump hand to Faith. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Harrison, although I’m sure that I don’t know anyone in Leaseley who could take you in. Fair bursting out of their houses as it is. We’re a productive lot in Leaseley. Ten of my own I’ve got, and never lost a one! Now if you was to ask in Garth perhaps you would be luckier. Garth be six miles from here. But there—that would be too far, I’ll wager. You poor thing, whatever will you do? A shame sending you here and nowhere to lay your head. Ah well, we all have our difficulties! As I was saying to George only yesterday . . .” Mrs. Appin broke off as a gaunt black-haired woman entered, closing the door behind her. “Good evening, Mrs. Havelock! It’s not often we have the honour of seeing you in the village,” she said with heavy sarcasm.
Mrs. Havelock made no answer but put down the string bag which she was carrying on the counter.
“And what can I have the pleasure of obliging you with?” Mrs. Appin continued in the same tone.
“A dozen candles and two pounds of lump sugar,” the woman answered.
While Mrs. Appin was attending to these wants she kept up a running flow of condolence to Faith and Joseph, purposely ignoring the new customer.
“No, I don’t rightly see what there is to be done. It’s too late to go back to Chartwell now, and it looks as if it will be foggy later. Whatever will you do?” She gave a practised twist to the blue paper bag containing the sugar, and turned to get the candles. “It’s too bad. But, believe me, you’ll never find a lodging in Leaseley, search how you may. Here you are,” she added, handing the packets to Mrs. Havelock. She pocketed the money that her customer extended and gave her twopence change.
Devils' Spawn Page 8
