Before the door could shut in her face, Marguerite pushed it open and wedged herself in.
‘A moment please, Madame, there’s something I’d like to ask. I’m certain you can help me just as well as Madame Tellier.’
The woman let out a sound that was neither negation nor acquiescence.
‘May I?’
Marguerite walked into a sombre, high-ceilinged hall, crowded with so much heavy furniture that for a second she had the impression she had stumbled into a warehouse. Near the stairwell, patchily illuminated from above by a stained-glass window, hung dark oils of men in some unplaceable uniform covered in braid. She could feel Martine cowering in the shadows just behind her.
The servant’s none too friendly attention was all on Marguerite.
‘I’m Madame de Landois from La Rochambert,’ she said formally. ‘I trust you’ll tell Madame Tellier I called on her while I was in the area. I’m trying to find news of Yvette Branquart who was, perhaps still is, in service with you.’
‘Yvette! Yvette Branquart? What do you want with her? The strumpet’s gone, isn’t she.’ A broad, gap-toothed grin burst on her face. ‘And good riddance to her, too. You won’t be wanting to hire her, Madame, I can tell you. Madame Molineuf can find you much better. Much better.’
‘I shall remember that, Madame Molineuf. But do you know where Mademoiselle Yvette went? She’s come into an inheritance,’ Marguerite lied.
Calculation lit up the woman’s eyes. Before she could say any more, a thick voice came from below stairs.
‘Who’re you gabbling to?’
‘Quiet. Watch your manners. There’s a lady here. She’s looking for Yvette. You remember her? Of course, you remember.’
A man appeared from the dark depths of the hall. He was broad-shouldered, with a round, rubbery face and bushy eyebrows, and walked with feet splayed outwards. It took Marguerite a moment to understand that despite his alarming size, he was not much more than a tow-headed boy.
‘Yvette?’ he turned a simpleton’s grin on her. ‘Yvette who went away. Yvette went to the doctor and went away…’ His broad face turned into a moon of sadness. He performed the steps of what looked like a dance, then leered. ‘Went away. Let’s all pray.’
‘What are you mumbling about? That’s enough from you. My son sometimes get a little excited, Madame.’
‘Which doctor does he mean?’
‘Oh, I doubt he means anything. Did he say doctor?’
‘Dr Labrousse. The new doctor. Yvette and the new doctor. Doctor mockt’er.’ The lumbering youth laughed. It was an odd, cheerless sound.
‘And where can I find him?’
He said nothing. He seemed to have forgotten she was there.
‘Near the maladrerie perhaps?’ Marguerite thought unhappily of the old leper house. But surely that had long since been abandoned?
There was still no response, so she repeated her question to his mother, who grumbled.
‘At Montoire. At the hospital. Or in his cabinet. But don’t say we…’
A crashing noise from the main staircase of the house put a stop to all conversation. Madame Molineuf and her son stared upwards.
A man appeared to block the top of the staircase. Leaning heavily on a stick, he loomed like a ruined tower, ready to topple at any moment and crush anyone and anything in his path. Vast, burly, unshaven, with a tumble of unkempt, greasy, grey-white hair, his skin was riddled with boils. The features repelled and frightened. The expression on his face was one of uncontrolled rage.
‘Idiots!’ he bellowed. ‘What’s all this noise? You fools. Flea bags. Rotting lumps of stinking flesh. Can’t a man sleep? I told you to let me sleep.’ Bushy eyebrows all but met across the man’s bony nose in a colossal frown. His dark, savage glare floated down and behind Marguerite towards where Martine had been standing half hidden.
The girl let out a scream and raced out the still partly open door.
The man’s roar became a whooping laugh. He turned and, with his stick pounding his passage, made his way back up the stairs.
Madame Molineuf shrugged. ‘You’d better go. The old master stayed the night here at his dear daughter’s and he’s not at his best today.’
Before she could say anything more, Marguerite found herself through the door. She turned back, half hoping to catch another glimpse of the monstrous man.
Instead she saw Madame Molineuf’s son, doing a strange, excited little dance again, loping up the stairs behind his master.
She had wanted to ask about the woman the children called the witch. Too late now. She would have to come back. She would certainly have to come back if she was going to get a clearer notion of what had sent Yvette Branquart running to the doctor. Though it wasn’t all that hard to deduce. The old man had the appearance of a more than brutal master.
FIVE
Martine was waiting for Marguerite in the carriage. She was watching Georges polish the bronze lamps. It wasn’t clear that she was seeing, but she was watching. Her hands trembled uncontrollably.
‘A vile man, Martine. I’m not surprised he scared you. Lucky your sister left. We shall go to Montoire and see if we can have a talk with this doctor. He may be able to give us some clues about Yvette’s whereabouts. You shall also have to tell me a little more about her, so that together we can try and work out what she might have done. Where she might have gone next.’
Martine stared straight ahead at the gleaming wood and whorled upholstery of the carriage. She nodded without replying.
As the horses moved into a rhythmic trot, Marguerite noticed a large black carriage, sporting a whirling gold T on its door, turn off the main road and move up into the village. At the window sat a heavy woman in an elaborate plumed hat. Carefully fashioned empire curls protruded on to a face that was too old to sport them. The woman’s expression wavered between disapproval and blatant curiosity as she took in Marguerite’s vehicle.
So Madame Tellier was back. She would go and see her tomorrow, perhaps leaving the frightened Martine behind. The woman would certainly be able to tell her things, and from the glance she had levelled at Marguerite, it was clear that she had enough social snobbery to welcome a visit from the Comtesse de Landois.
As their carriage bumped along the road, Marguerite chatted to Martine, attempting various strategies to sway the girl out of her timidity. Perhaps it was the sight of the ogre of a man that had spurred it, but she found herself reminiscing about her own childhood, engaging her companion with stories her father had told her about the area.
The former comte had hardly been a garrulous sort and much of their communication had been soundless. But now and again, when his old war wound ached and made him limp, he would recount details of the march of the German armies through the region at the end of 1870. The woods would grow hostile with the enemy’s gunfire.
Marguerite thought she could still recall the rat-tat-tat of guns in the woods, though she wasn’t certain. She would have been three at the time. What she was sure she remembered was the sight of crippled men, their wounds tied up in bloody rags, limping on sticks and crutches through a city street. One man in particular, a red bandana oozing round his forehead, his face gaunt, his eyes like a frightened animal’s, vast and crazed, came again and again into her childhood thoughts. He was the one she would see when her father talked. She would also see bodies falling, blood colouring the ground.
Or she would look up to the sky and see the charismatic politician, Leon Gambetta, floating past in a balloon bound for Tours, where he would rally his countrymen to fresh assaults against the invaders.
At first the brave French had beaten back the Germans at Orléans. Then came the defeats, one after another. The Germans had even taken La Rochambert. They had occupied the château and made it their own for several weeks before moving on. That was in December and January. A bitterly cold January. Her mother and father and the small child she had been had gone to stay with the mill owner downriver. Her mother was already ailing.
There was little to eat and they had all been constantly hungry. Her mother had never properly recovered.
‘So your mother died when you were very young. Like mine?’
These were the first words Martine had spoken since she had run from the Tellier house.
Marguerite took up the cue.
‘Yes. It’s hard, isn’t it? It must have been doubly hard for you and your sister, with your father already gone.’
Martine nodded. ‘We had to go to our aunt’s then. She was kind, but she wasn’t Maman. I can still see Maman so clearly. She had a little mole next to her eye and a kind face. So kind. And she always told us we were the best, the best thing in her life. But then her life went.’
The tears started to flow down the girl’s cheeks. Marguerite squeezed her gloved hand. ‘But you remember her. That’s good. So good. You can bring her back whenever you like. I don’t remember mine. I was too young. But my father continued to worship her. And through him, I think I had a little sense of her.’
‘Lucky that you had your father. I don’t remember mine at all. Nor does Yvette. When we were little we would play this game where we closed our eyes very tight and tried to imagine Papa. Yvette was better at it.’
‘Was she?’
‘Yes.’ Martine sighed. ‘She’s better at everything.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘It’s true. Really.’ A shy smile suddenly illuminated Martine’s face. ‘When we were little, she was even better at hiding. She could hide for hours and I wouldn’t be able to find her until she leapt out and “booed” at me.’
‘Do you think that’s what she’s doing now? Hiding. Waiting for you to come into sight so that she can scare you with a “boo”?’
Marguerite put the question playfully, but the girl darted a fierce look at her. ‘So you noticed. When we walked up the path to the house. You noticed that I thought Yvette might leap out. She didn’t. But it’s all my fault.’
The tears filled her eyes again.
‘What’s your fault? How can it be your fault?’
‘It’s my fault she went to that terrible house. My fault that she’s gone now.’
Marguerite waited. At last. At last the girl was telling her something that might be useful. Telling her a little of the truth she had been so certain Martine was hiding.
‘Yes, yes. You see…’ The girl’s distress was so palpable that Marguerite wrapped an arm round her shoulder.
‘It was me. I was working in that house.’
‘What?’
‘Yes. It was my post first of all. But I couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand that horror. Even now, when he appeared I couldn’t stop myself running. So Yvette took it on. They paid well. And when I said I couldn’t any more…’ Her voice trailed off.
Marguerite prodded her. ‘How long were you with the Telliers?’
‘Two weeks, maybe three, but it felt like an eternity. Then Yvette came to visit. She had a posting in Paris that was about to start. I hadn’t wanted to go to Paris. I wasn’t brave enough. I’m never brave enough. But Yvette did everything…’
The sobs overwhelmed her.
Marguerite tried to make sense of what she’d heard. Martine felt responsible for her sister’s disappearance. Perhaps she even felt guilty enough to believe that her sister was now paying her back for the wrong she had done her by depriving her of a job in Paris.
‘And did Yvette hold it all against you? Did she feel you’d deprived her of a better post?’
‘Ah no, Madame. Non.’ The sobs stopped. Martine was scandalised. ‘Yvette isn’t like that. No. She didn’t mind being at the Telliers’. Not at first. Not in her letters, in any case. The old master was away a lot, I think…’ She stopped herself and stared out of the carriage window.
This time Marguerite didn’t interrupt. Martine was looking out at a particularly pretty little château that belonged to the Marquis de Conflans and rested on the crest of a hill above the stretch of field. In the nearer distance, a train chugged along an open span of track.
Suddenly the girl gripped her arm with her long, gloved fingers. ‘When I saw the dead man, for a moment, I don’t know what it was … I thought, It’s him. Yvette has killed him. Killed the ugly old master. She hated him so much she’s killed him. That’s why she’s had to vanish. Vanish even from me. And it’s all my fault. Because I wouldn’t stay. Because I’m weak and stupid.’
‘Do you think she’d be able to do that?’ Marguerite asked softly.
Martine paused, her eyes wide, before protesting adamantly. ‘No, no. Of course not. It’s just my stupid imagination. I just always used to wish he’d die.’
‘But Yvette is brave, you said.’
‘Oh yes. Very brave. She has a special kind of power. From somewhere. From God, maybe. She’s always had it.’
Marguerite considered her. She was about to ask more about a bravery that even lent itself to the possibility of murder, when she saw that the girl had receded into herself. She let it rest. More questions about where Yvette might have gone would be better delayed.. They had already been through the neighbours in Vendôme and the few family friends. Martine had written to all of them even before coming to see Marguerite and none of them had heard anything from Yvette since the summer. Now, until she actually managed to confront Madame Tellier, the doctor was their only lead.
A regional centre, Montoire was a busy little town, self-important despite its ugliness. It sported a large market square, punctuated by rows of plane trees as regular as stunted columns, a freshly painted mairie, and a nondescript church Marguerite remembered visiting only once for the wedding of some hunting friends of her father’s. From the main square, the ruins of the old castle built to protect the pilgrimage site loomed in the distance. In the murky light they trembled and served as reminders that the town did have a past, even if it largely lay on the other side of the river. The great poet Ronsard had once presided over the ancient Priory of Saint-Gilles and its tiny Romanesque chapel huddled like a family of otters at the edge of the river.
The doctor’s old timbered house lay at the very end of a dirt road whose outstanding feature was the town hospital. There was little to distinguish his premises from others, except the polished brass plaque that proudly advertised his profession.
She let the knocker fall heavily on to the door. There was no answer. Martine, who had come with her, peered through a window then jumped back.
‘What is it, Martine?’
‘Nothing. Nothing. I thought … I thought I saw a skeleton. Look, Madame, there’s a sign. It says the doctor won’t be back until after two.’
‘That’s a nuisance. I can’t believe we’ve come all this way to find no one at all in.’
She looked round her impatiently and noticed a wagon in the drive next to the house. The horse was still tethered to the ramshackle cart, which was filled with blankets and burlap sacks. If the doctor’s wagon was here, he couldn’t be far.
To her left, a field stretched, gloomy in its winter barrenness. Beyond the house and the long, thin garden stood a line of trees. Only now did it come to her that the house gave on to the river.
‘Martine,’ she called back to the girl. ‘Why don’t you wait for me in the carriage? I just want to have a look down here.’
The river was high, swollen with winter rain. It rushed along in a swirl of grey as sombre as the sky and disappeared into the cold mist. How far could a basket stay upright in that current, she suddenly wondered. It would be easy enough to bend over just here, say, and place a child in the river, but surely the basket would be tossed upside down well before it reached the vicinity of La Rochambert. And even if the infant had been strapped in, it would be a miracle if he hadn’t drowned.
She turned and let her eyes rove across the undulating flatness of the roughly ridged field. Only now did she see that two men, half hidden by a row of poplars, were bending over what looked like a dilapidated table. Odd time for a picnic.
No
sooner had that thought moved through her mind than her nerves set up a-jangling. There was a body on the table. It was unmistakable, despite the low cloud.
An unmoving body splayed on an unsteady table in the midst of a winter field that stretched and stretched to disappear in haze and fog.
She picked her way across hardened mud as best she could to get a closer look.
Clothes had been pulled back to reveal a naked man. From her distance, the skin had a grey tinge more sallow than the light.
The taller man had his back to her. His silhouette now bent to lift something from a brown leather bag at his side. She half expected the second man to shout at her from where he stood at the opposite side of the table. But he hadn’t noticed her in the grimy light.
Both men were intent on the cadaver in front of them, and she now understood as she watched their movements that the unresisting body was being carved up, expertly it would seem from the swift, certain thrust of the taller man, the dropping of parts into separate pouches.
From behind her she heard the soft fall of feet on earth and veered round. No one. She wished the cold river mist away. But it persisted, together with an eerie sense that she was being watched. Then, as she turned once more to the chilling spectacle, she felt as much as saw the flash from the corner of her eye, then another and another. A smell of burnt sulphur filled the air. It coincided with a voice.
‘If you’re looking for Dr Labrousse, he’ll be back soon. Just wait in the cabinet.’
The doctor’s front door gave way unexpectedly to a turn of a knob. Marguerite found herself in a small hallway. A sign designated the consulting room. A desk dominated the space. To its side stood an examining table and a screen. The wall was hung with medical diagrams – an entire skeleton, which is what Martine must have seen, though she hadn’t mentioned that its parts were named: a leg, the liver and surrounding vessels. Judging by the sheen of everything, the man was new, at least to the area, and not utterly impoverished.
She read the titles on a variety of tomes in the small bookcase as she waited. Dictionary of Differential Diagnosis; The Memoirs of a Country Doctor; a range of scientific titles and journals, amongst them Le Progrès Médical. The doctor had a scientific bent and evidently struggled to keep up with his reading, despite what she imagined must be arduous hours.
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