Madeleine went cold, her hands falling slowly to her sides. Thoughts she had never dared even to entertain dropped into her mind with the awful, leaden certainty of truth. Richard had deliberately chosen to stay away for all this time. He had most probably been nearby, lying low, avoiding her. He had cut her loose without a word–discarded her as one might leave an unwanted newspaper on the seat of an omnibus.
She was not aware of having left the farmhouse or crossing the yard. The next sensation she registered was the coarse weave of Richard’s new coat between her fingertips as she took hold of its sleeve and pulled him off to the side of the road. Together, they lurched down a gentle slope. She dragged him behind a ruined outhouse. Some of the Guardsmen, seeing this, let out lewd whistles.
They did not kiss, or embrace, or even touch. She released his sleeve as soon as she could. Richard did not seem particularly surprised at her sudden appearance. For a moment, his face was expressionless; then he smiled, and reached out a hand towards her.
She dodged it as if it were a bayonet. ‘Where have you been?’ she asked coldly.
‘Look at you, Maddy,’ he murmured softly. ‘Out here in your petticoats.’
Madeleine ignored this. She repeated her question. Three feet of empty space gaped between them. The sound of tramping boots drifted over from the road.
Richard let out a condescending sigh, as if her behaviour was somehow irrational. ‘Over in Balaclava, that’s all. Writing my reports.’
She glared at him in astonishment, feeling her tenuous composure slipping away. ‘Writing your reports,’ she echoed flatly. ‘What about me, Richard? What about our love?’
He seemed to be considering reaching out for her again; but the violent anger gathering in her eyes deterred him. ‘Maddy, it was growing dangerous for both of us. You must admit this. Your husband was poised to act. There was talk—’
‘Talk?’ she spluttered incredulously. ‘You said–you said you would risk anything to be with me–that you loved me. You said it many times, Richard. What is Nathaniel, next to that? Il n’est rien–rien de tout!’
‘Calm yourself, for God’s sake.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I–I would have come for you, when the time was right. Taken you to Andalusia. I still will.’ And then, after a pause, he smiled at her again, an expression clearly intended to convey rueful longing. ‘I missed you, Maddy. By God, how I bloody missed you.’
Glowering, Madeleine looked back at him, studying his face. It had changed; something was deeply, deeply wrong. Her Richard was gone. This person before her was a charlatan, an impostor, playing his part with a terrible lack of conviction.
‘You are lying,’ she said, her voice trembling with fury and anguish. ‘You are a liar, a wretched liar. How could you leave me in this place for so long, without a word? Have you no notion of what I have endured in these past months?’
‘Maddy, come now…’
The first sob almost doubled her up; she thought she might be sick, so tight and hard was the convulsion. ‘I have been deserted,’ she managed to cry, gulping for air, ‘oh, I have been cast aside!’
Her defences down, Richard managed to take hold of her. ‘Maddy, my girl,’ he said firmly. ‘You have grown overexcited. Go back to the cottage, this instant. I must continue on to the front now, but I will come to you after the battle. We can discuss this then.’
She writhed with all her strength, trying to free herself from his arms. ‘I do not believe you! You are a liar!’ Realising that she could not escape, she clutched his coat tightly, sinking her nails into the fabric. ‘I stayed out here for you,’ she hissed, their faces close. ‘Out here in hell. I risked my life. Did this mean nothing to you at all?’
Overbalancing in this desperate clinch, they staggered to one side. Madeleine’s bare foot caught on a root; she stumbled, losing her grip and collapsing to the ground.
Richard managed to remain upright. His cheeks were flushed. ‘Return to the cottage, Madeleine,’ he instructed tersely. ‘We will talk later.’
Then he turned back in the direction of the advancing columns, rounding the corner of the outhouse, leaving her sight for ever.
For a while, she lay where she had fallen, in a pool of splayed petticoats, looking up at the fading stars, feeling the tears dry on her face. Then she rose and walked back numbly to the farmhouse, drawing curious stares from the trickle of soldiers that still moved along the road to the front. She passed the glowing window where, only ten minutes earlier, she had sat dreaming fretfully of the chance of being reunited with her lost love; not knowing then that he was not lost at all but false, false to his very core.
Nathaniel was standing by the hearth in his trench uniform. He held some worn sheets of paper in his hands.
6
Kitson opened the flap of the Courier tent and peered inside. It was empty, but the smoking wood-pile at its centre and a strong odour of fresh sweat suggested that it had recently been occupied. He entered carefully.
Miss Wade followed a moment later, her lips pursed and her fists clenched, as if ready to help with the restraining of a writhing madman–ready to bind him with stout rope and have him hauled off to Bedlam. She was visibly disappointed to discover that such assistance was not necessary. Kitson quickly checked the shadowy corners of the tent, soon moving back into the light of the guttering fire.
‘Heavens above, would you look at this place!’ the Scotswoman muttered. ‘If ever proof of derangement were needed, Mr Kitson, this clammy den would certainly suffice.’
Kitson walked to the desk and surveyed the drawings that covered it. ‘Styles has certainly been busy,’ he said quietly. ‘It would seem that he has—’ He stopped dead. There was an old hip-flask at the edge of the smouldering fire-pit, standing in the dust like a tiny gravestone. ‘Cracknell was here. This night.’
Miss Wade shook her head. ‘No, that scoundrel’s been gone for almost as long as yourself, sir–as I told you. He’s still writing his grand-standing nonsense for the Courier, but he’s departed from the front.’
Kitson looked at her. ‘I’m afraid I must disagree, Miss Wade. He has returned, for this great assault I suspect. And despite everything, it would appear that he’s come to claim Styles as a companion for his mission.’ This scenario, although terrible to consider, was the only one he could entertain. ‘They must be stopped. I have to find them.’
Kitson’s hard conviction was causing Miss Wade to doubt herself. He could tell that her thoughts were turning to Madeleine Boyce–to the new threat that the return of Cracknell posed to her young friend. ‘I shall go to the Boyces’ farmhouse,’ she declared, starting for the tent flaps. ‘This very minute.’
As Kitson made to follow, a ferocious din started up outside, from the direction of Sebastopol–an enormous clamour of voices backed with the crackle of musketry. Emerging into the crisp dawn air, he saw Mrs Seacole standing in her stirrups, her blue feather bobbing as she strained to make herself as tall as possible in order to see over the surrounding tent-tops. The next second, there was a sequence of loud blasts, issuing from the Allied lines. The battle was starting, but they all knew at once that the plan had gone seriously awry.
‘Good Lord, my dears,’ proclaimed Mrs Seacole, ‘I do believe that the Russians are attacking us.’
There were no lights at any of the farmhouse’s windows. Annabel reached into her bag of supplies and drew out the clasp-knife she had secured there some weeks earlier for the purpose of protection. It occurred to her that Cracknell might be inside with Madeleine right now, leading her into further sin, subjecting her to his foul usage. She lifted her knife, thinking that maybe, if this was indeed the case, she would permit herself to cut him a little for the good of his soul.
The front door was ajar. She eased it open with her palm, the hinges squealing as it swung back to reveal a scene of disorder. Several chairs had been smashed, and the parlour table knocked on to its side. Annabel caught her breath.
It had to be Styles. Mr Kits
on was wrong–he was not at the front at all. He must have forced his way in, and embarked on an orgy of destruction. Perhaps Madeleine had chased him off, and then gone for help; or perhaps she lay hidden and trembling beneath a bed, whilst the madman stalked the house searching for her with evil mischief in mind. Annabel gripped her blade, asking God for courage.
‘Madeleine?’ she called out, her voice strong and clear. ‘Madeleine? It’s me. Don’t be alarmed. It’s just Annabel.’
No one answered. Annabel edged forward through the gloomy room, knife first, her feet dragging through fragments of chair and pieces of broken crockery, expecting at any moment that a stooped form would lunge at her from the shadows, a savage cry on its foaming, poisonous lips. She cursed the choices she had made. Why had she gone to the British Hotel? Why had she wasted so much time listening to that strange Mrs Seacole witter on? Madeleine had needed help–and where had she been?
‘Styles,’ she said, putting some steel into her tone, ‘Styles, if you’re in here, you show yourself right this minute. Styles, you demon, if you’ve hurt her…’
Outside, in the distance, the sounds of battle were escalating, but the small farmhouse seemed quiet and empty. Annabel advanced into its narrow hall. In God I trust, she mouthed silently, her heart thumping; I will not be afraid. What can man do to me? Only one door was open, the doorway seeming bright in the surrounding darkness. It was the door to Madeleine’s bedroom.
Through the bedroom window, as she approached, Annabel could see a deep blue sky, still tinted by night, flashing with shell-fire and signal rockets. The room itself was neat and orderly, at least compared with the parlour. Indeed, the only possible sign of any discord was the stripped bed, its sheets piled loosely on a chair by the window. Annabel almost relaxed, her knife lowering a little.
Then she saw the foot.
It was naked, waxy white and quite lifeless, sticking out from underneath a brown woollen blanket, just past the end of the bedstead. Annabel’s clasp-knife clattered to the floorboards as she rushed, staggering, into the room. Dark stains dappled the blanket; Annabel felt the dragging weight of wet cloth as she tore it back. Madeleine lay on the floor, her arms folded neatly in her lap. She was staring blankly towards the window. Blood saturated her petticoats, and pooled over the boards around her. Into it were pressed several sheets of sketching paper, entirely soaked and crumbling apart, whatever had once been drawn upon them obliterated.
Annabel dropped down into the blood, slipping in it a little as she lifted Madeleine up, trying vainly to support her lolling head, and whispering her name frantically; then, after only a couple of seconds, her desperate hope suddenly disappeared, and she abandoned her friend to death. A ragged, sobbing sigh burst out of her lips. She hugged Madeleine with all her strength, the dead girl’s arms poking out stiffly from her tight embrace.
A moment later, Annabel looked around her with savage fury, half-expecting the murderer still to be in the room, hiding behind the door or lurking over by the wash-stand. No one was there. She was quite alone. Her anger faltered; she tried to make herself search for some definite indication of who had done this–to study Madeleine’s wounds and the area where she lay. But her dear young friend, cradled in her arms, was so terribly cold. She could not think.
Bowing her head, Annabel attempted to pray, to beg Almighty God for strength and understanding. This too, however, was utterly beyond her. There was no consolation to be had on that bloody bedroom floor. Her Madeleine, her beautiful, precious Madeleine, was lost.
7
Boyce’s arrival in the crowded rifle pit drew a throaty, impatient growl from the senior officers assembled within. They had been waiting for him for nearly fifteen minutes: the meeting of a general and eleven other colonels, poised to lead a major action that could bring the enemy to its knees, kept in suspension solely by his tardiness. At the centre of the pit, dressed in a dark blue frock-coat rather than the tweeds worn by his subordinates, stood General Sir John Campbell. He looked pasty and drawn; rumour had it that the terrible tension of commanding the impending attack was rapidly bringing his health to ruin.
‘Mr Boyce!’ he snapped. ‘What is the meaning of this?’
By the General’s side was Colonel Yea of the 34th, appointed as second-in-command, who was as florid as Campbell was pale. He scowled through his monocle. ‘Bad form, Boyce. Damned bad form.’ There was a rumble of concurrence from his fellows. ‘The French are fighting, y’know, whilst we linger here! The Bear has launched an attack against the Mamelon!’
Boyce ignored everyone in the pit but Campbell. He came to attention. ‘My apologies, General, but I have just discovered that my wife has been killed. That is the cause of my regrettable lateness.’
The disposition of the pit towards him changed immediately. Campbell was aghast. ‘Killed, man? But how?’
‘A Russian, sir.’ Boyce was careful to keep his voice sorrowful, but calm. ‘Dressed in civilian clothes–a spy, perhaps, or a deserter thinking to steal a few items from my house to fund his flight to the mainland. My wife appears to have disturbed him. He shot her with a pistol.’
The dismay of those around him was palpable. ‘Did you catch this villain?’ one of the colonels asked.
Boyce nodded. ‘A couple of privates from my regiment pursued him out into open country, at the rear of the plateau. They managed to bring him down with their miniés.’ He paused. ‘But nothing could be done for my poor Madeleine.’
There was a brief silence. ‘My dear fellow,’ mumbled Campbell. He looked at the ground uncertainly for a moment before coming to a resolution. ‘You must be relieved of your command,’ he said firmly. ‘Who is your lieutenant-colonel? You must be relieved, Boyce, straight away. I insist.’ The colonels, now filled with pity and a little guilt for their impatience, made a range of sympathetic sounds, signalling their agreement.
Boyce, still at attention, looked into Campbell’s bloodshot eyes. ‘General, I humbly request that you permit me to fight this engagement. My place, sir, is here. It is where my dear wife would wish me. What use has war for a man in mourning? Far better that I serve my Queen and country, and face those who took my Madeleine from me.’
The assemblage of officers and adjutants, their attitude to Boyce now quite reversed, murmured admiringly. ‘Jolly good show,’ someone pronounced; ‘A fine display,’ declared another.
Campbell nodded understandingly. ‘Very well, old chap, very well,’ he said, laying a hand briefly on Boyce’s shoulder. ‘Now, I’m afraid we must proceed.’
The old General turned slightly, and raised his voice, addressing the group. They were told that Lord Raglan had every confidence that the French would repulse the Russians from the fort of the Mamelon, and then go on to take the Malakhoff Tower as planned. Once it was theirs, the attacking brigade of the Fourth Division, led by Campbell himself, would approach the Great Redan from the left; and that of the Light, under Colonel Yea, would approach it from the right.
Campbell looked around the men in the rifle pit. ‘Go to your men and await the signal–two rockets, to be fired together. But be aware that when the Tricolour flies above the Malakhoff Tower, we attack. May Heaven watch over us, gentlemen. God save the Queen.’
‘God save the Queen,’ repeated the officers, coming to attention before moving off into the trenches with their aides.
Boyce stood still as his peers strode past him, uttering awkward words of condolence. Madeleine’s voice still rang in his head, screaming at him as he pursued her around their little farmhouse. She had shown him contempt and anger before, countless times, spitting names at him in her mother tongue, glaring at him defiantly after he’d quieted her with his fists; but all the ordeals of their wretched marriage had been as nothing compared with the searing hatred that had poured out of her then. She had reacted to the drawings as if they were the product of his turpitude rather than her own, as if the stigma of her repulsive wrongdoing was somehow reflected off her, like bright sunlight off a polish
ed silver tray, dazzling the accuser instead of the accused.
Her immediate wish, naturally enough he supposed, had been to seize them, and tear them to pieces. This could not be allowed. He had decided that the sketches were to form the centrepiece of a divorce case so devastating it would see her all but driven out naked into the wilderness. She dived across the room; he moved to avoid her; furniture was upset before them both. Realising the futility of her pursuit, she started to throw plates, cups, pans, even chairs. Tiring of this after a minute or two, he strode towards her purposefully–prompting her to flee into her room, shrieking as she went.
The first flies of the day were stirring in the trenches. Boyce waved some of them away with his hand, trying to remember what action he had thought he was going to take as he followed her. The memory seemed somehow dislocated from him, as if it were something he had seen someone else do, or perhaps read about somewhere. She had slammed the door behind her and attempted to shut him out, but she was no match for him in a contest of strength. He forced his way in, gripped hold of her quite savagely, and asked if she was aware, if she had any conception in that empty, frivolous head of hers, of the irreparable damage she had done to him? Of the deadly blows her shameful conduct had cast against his name, his reputation, his honour?
Even as he walked through the British works, with the sounds of mortal struggle drifting over from the Mamelon, the recollection of the laugh Madeleine gave in response to this question made Boyce shudder. It had been so bitter, so caustic and scornful that it made him let go of her and take a step back. The drawings slipped from his grasp, scattering on to the floor around her. She was no longer interested in them, however. Crouching in the candlelight like a vicious animal, she started to speak, in a strange, rapid voice, of how openly she had defied him; of how she had assisted her lover with the concoction of his venomous reports for the Courier; of how she had been in his arms only minutes before, exchanging words of eternal love; of how he was going to be watching the attack that very morning, alert for errors.
The Street Philosopher Page 39
