Barbara Cleverly: Strange Images of Death

Provence, South of France, 1926

He studied her sleeping face for the last time.

She was lying peacefully on her back, her fair hair spreading in ripples over the pillow. Warm-gold by day, the waves now gleamed pale silver, all colour bleached away by the moonlight. Her features also were drained and only the lips still showed a trace of emotion. They were slightly open and uptilted, perhaps in a suggestion of remembered and recent passion. He smothered the distasteful notion.

Such beauty!

He felt his resolve waver and was alarmed to acknowledge a moment of indecision. He reminded himself that this beauty was his-his to spare or to destroy-and a rush of exaltation swept away the slight uncertainty. It had been a wobble, no more than a weakness imposed on him by convention. Convention? Even at this moment of approaching ecstasy he paused to consider the word. From the Latin, of course. ‘A coming together’. In agreement and common consent. Well, convention would never direct him . It was his nature to step away from the crowd, to walk in the opposite direction, to think his own rebellious thoughts and to translate those thoughts into action. He would be true to his nature. He would assert his birthright.

He leaned closer until his face was only inches above the still form. He had a fancy that, if he pressed his lips to hers, he might catch her dying breath. The thought revolted and fascinated him in equal measure and he lifted his head. He took a deliberate step backwards. He would not touch her. No part of his body would make contact with hers. To test his resolve he contemplated trailing a lascivious finger along her smooth throat as others had, of allowing that finger to ease over the left collar bone until it encountered the imperfection of a tiny mole half-hidden by a fold of her white gown. His hand remained safely in his pocket. He would look. Admire. Hate.

He stood for a moment, a shadow among shadows. The garment he’d put on had been carefully chosen: an old-fashioned hunting coat (English tailoring, he did believe), it had been abandoned on a hook by the door in the cloak-room by some visiting milord, years, possibly decades, ago. The thick grey tweed was a perfect camouflage-it even had a hood-and, essential for his purpose, not one but two concealed poacher’s pockets. His fine nose was revolted by the smell of decay that lurked in the tweedy depths, still stained with the blood of long-dead creatures, but they accommodated the very special equipment he had needed to carry, covertly, along the corridors.

He played with the notion of taking out the heavy-duty military torch and lighting up her last moments, but an innate caution made him dismiss the idea. The moonlight was all the illumination he could wish for. A resplendent August moon shone through the uncurtained windows, coating the alabaster-fair features with an undeserved glaze of sanctity.

The Moon. Generous but demanding deity! He adored her. She was his friend, his accomplice. He welcomed the white peace and forgiveness she brought at the end of each day’s red turmoil and sin. Like some sprite from a northern folk tale, he came to life in the dark hours. His eyes grew wide, his thoughts became as clear and cold as the moon herself. His senses were sharpened.

He listened. He turned abruptly as a distant owl screeched and claimed its prey. A farm dog across the valley responded with a half-hearted warning howl and then fell silent, duty done. But from within the walls there was no sound. His stretched senses detected nothing though he could imagine the drunken snores, the unconscious mutterings, the hands groping blindly for a pitcher of cool water as his fellows slept, divided from him by several thick walls and a courtyard. He would be undisturbed.

The weight in his right pocket banged against his thigh and prompted his next move. He took out the heavy claw hammer and ran a hand over the blunt metal head; with the pads of his fingers he tested the sharpness of the up-curving, V-shaped nail-wrench that balanced it at the rear. He required the tool to perform well in both its capacities. It would smash with concentrated force and, with a twist of his hand, would lever and rip. It would be equal to the task. But there would be noise. He took a velvet scarf from his neck and wound it securely around the hammer head to muffle the blows.

He was being overcautious. No one would respond, even if the sounds cut through their wine-fuelled stupor. A strange light might possibly have excited curiosity and investigation by some inquisitive servant. No, he didn’t discount a dutiful response from one of these domestics if he were careless enough to draw attention. The live-in staff were well chosen, adequately paid and highly trained. So, no wandering lights. But a few distant creaks and bangs in a crumbling old building went, like the dog’s howl, unheeded by everyone.

He’d savoured the moment for too long. Enough of musing. Enough of gloating over her loveliness. Time to move on. Time to clear this filth from his path to make way for a worthier offering.

He took out the fencing mask he’d thought to bring with him and put it over his face. He wanted no tell-tale scratches raising eyebrows at the breakfast table. He pulled up the hood of the hunting coat to cover his hair. There would be no traces of this night’s activity left clinging to his person, attracting the attention of that sharp-eyed girl who cleaned out his room.

He was ready.

As a last flourish, he muttered cynically an abbreviated prayer for a lost soul in Latin: ‘ Quaesumus, Domine, miserere famulae tuae, Alienorae, et a contagiis mortalitatis exutam, in aeternam salvationis partem restitue. Have mercy on the soul of your maidservant, Aliénore, and free her from the defilement of her mortal flesh …’

As he murmured, his supple fingers ran with satisfaction along the smooth wooden handle of the ancient hammer. He’d used it often and knew its strength. The muscles of his arms were accommodated to its use as those of a tennis player to his racquet, and they responded now with familiar ease as he swung the weight upwards over his head and brought it crashing down into the centre of the delicate face.

France, August 1926

‘To wake or not to wake the pest?’ was Joe’s silent question.

Would she really welcome an elbow in the ribs only half an hour after sinking so ostentatiously into sleep? He glanced again at the suspiciously still form in the passenger seat next to him and the half of the face that was visible. The pure profile and slight smile were deceptively angelic, and he decided to leave her to her daydreams. But a road sign had just announced that they were a mere five kilometres north of the town of Valence. Here they were, booming on south at a speed the Morris Oxford cabriolet could never have reached, let alone sustained, on English roads. Joe Sandilands was no car-worshipper, but he could almost have persuaded himself that it (he refused to call this ingenious arrangement of metal ‘she’) was enjoying swallowing up the huge French distances.

The day was hot; the hood was down. Avenues of plane trees lined the route, offering, for mile after mile, a beneficent shade.

The girl in the passenger seat was fast asleep-or pretending to be. You could never tell with Dorcas. Joe was quite certain that she frequently rolled up her cardigan and pushed her head into it, facing away from him, the minute they got into the car, deliberately to avoid making polite conversation.

And that suited Joe.

Was she being considerate? Or was she bored out of her mind by him? He decided-bored. A seasoned police officer more than twice her age would never be an ideal companion for a fourteen-year-old English girl, however well travelled she might be. Lord! How old was he these days? Thirty-three! But at least no one had yet taken him for her father and Joe was thankful for that.