Murder at Malenfer Read online

  “Feeling all right over there?”

  “Back with us, Irish?”

  “Want to cut that green stuff out.”

  Dermot felt a pall of fear, but he chanced another glance. The man he had seen was nowhere in sight. The tree in the courtyard was alone.

  “What’s the fairy brought you tonight, then? What’s hiding there out in the shadows?”

  The green fairy. The gift of the absinthe. A foot into another world. Dermot had heard of hallucinations before, but nothing like this had happened– yet the vision had looked so real. Dermot drew his hands to his lap, conscious that they were shaking.

  “I just saw a man,” Dermot confessed. “He was a friend from long ago.”

  “Then bring him in. What’s all the noise for, Irish?”

  “The man I saw died in the war.”

  2

  Last of the Malenfers

  The doctor drove carefully through the black and raining night. The unpaved road rattled the suspension and kept his speed down low. The tires bounced through puddles in the ill-kept potholed road, little more than a grooved track scoured by centuries of carts.

  He knew he was getting close.

  In his headlights, he saw the barrier gate and then the flag of the approaching man.

  “Quarantine!”

  He made out the one shouted word, but the rest he could not hear. He shifted the car into neutral and stood firmly on the brake.

  The young man wore a damp flat cap beneath a long waxed sealskin cape. “Oh, doctor, it’s you. I couldn’t see. I’m sorry, go on through.”

  For a second, a square splash of vivid color stood out in the headlight. It was the gateman’s yellow flag to warn of plague, a signal to keep the unwary away. The doctor rolled his window up and slid the car back into gear. The gate hinged open before him, and he drove on through. Once past the outbuildings, the courtyard was lit up from the manor. He rolled his car to a rest and lifted his bag from the seat. A stooped man met him with an umbrella – he had emerged when the car drew near.

  “Any change?” the doctor asked.

  “Not that I hear, sir,” answered the figure, and then they were both indoors. They shook the rain onto the floor; the wind had rendered the umbrella symbolic.

  The doctor didn’t wait. He headed for a wide grand staircase, all too familiar with the way.

  “Any others with new symptoms?” he asked, quickly mounting the steps, ascending above the servant.

  “No more, sir. None come down with anything new, just the young master as before.” The man’s voice trailed behind him; the doctor was in a hurry. “Madame is up there with him now.”

  At mention of that name, the doctor stopped cold, one foot left hovering an inch above the tread, suspended as if frozen. Without turning or answering, the doctor recovered. He slowly lowered his foot back down and continued his ascent.

  Michel Malenfer was grievously ill. He was all of sixteen years old. Two weeks before, he’d been robust of frame and full of strength, befitting a boy on his way to being a man. Two weeks had changed everything for him. The Spanish Flu had returned.

  The disease had run its first course through the Ardennes countryside nine months before, in May of 1918. “La Grippe,” they had called it then. With vast armies squared off, with millions of troops on French soil, who was concerned about a simple disease? Who had the time for a cold? But La Grippe was no ordinary flu, and it would not be ignored. It fell on the land like a judgment; it fell like the hand of God.

  The war had raged for four long years, and the government sensed its closure. A plague, of course, would be bad for morale, so the local news was censored. But Spain next door was neutral, and so didn’t have such restrictions. Spain was the first to report widely on La Grippe, and the doctor had read the newspapers. Born in the Pyrénées, his father had taught him the language. Madrid said that one patient in five was dying, if such a number could be believed – that the young and healthy were succumbing the most, that the old were left to live. It was a conscription engineered by Satan himself in tribute to Europe’s great powers.

  Then on November 11th, 1918, the Great War ended with an armistice. Ten million soldiers had died to bring the peace. Ten million dead. Such a number.

  An armistice may stop a war, but a plague respects no treaties. The Spanish Flu was contagious; one in four came down with it everywhere. And it spread, and it spread, and it spread. Five hundred million around the world might eventually be contaminated, and fifty million of those might perish. Fifty million dead! Such a number. Impossible perhaps to imagine such a thing, but the troops coming home to their families brought more than their love, their scars, and their stories. Some of them brought a temperature that soon turned into a cough. No, La Grippe was no ordinary cold, and one month ago it had returned. As if France had not suffered enough, the Flu’s second coming proved worse than the first, and the doctor was kept very busy.

  The Malenfer farm was miles away from the town. It was distrustful of strangers; its inhabitants kept to themselves. Yet eventually, perhaps inevitably, it too had finally succumbed. Michel Malenfer had taken ill, and his physician had been summoned.

  The doctor’s stride resounded confidently against the polished floor – his walk, at least, was more assured than what he felt inside. His leather bag of balms and tools knocked rhythmically against his leg.

  His patient was fortunate enough to be afforded every conceivable comfort. Every remedy against the plague had been put at his disposal. He was attended round the clock – staff and family shared the burden – and three nurses had been brought up from town to sit shifts inside his chamber. Constant care was therefore given to Michel’s precarious state. This personal attention might have been called an indulgence, when others went so stretched, but to the doctor’s mind Michel’s prospects looked grave, and he cautioned against anything less. His patient enjoyed his own rooms in which to suffer and linger, and a large bed with pillows aplenty where he might sweat and waste away. Good light if the doctor ordered, and thick drapes if dark was best. There was a fine chair for lucid moments if he managed to sit up, and most handsome of all was a prize view to the rolling fields beyond.

  If the patient needed reason to live beyond the indomitability of youth, then he might dwell on his inheritance: Michel was the last male in the Malenfer line and heir to the vast estate. The doctor considered the possibility of a wealthy grateful patron. It never did a gentleman harm to have friends among the gentry.

  Madame is up there. That’s what the help had said. The doctor wiped his forehead on his sleeve and tucked his damp hat under his arm. He pulled his shoulders back and squared his chin, and then pressed down on the bedroom handle. It opened. The doctor walked stiffly within.

  “Madame?” The doctor didn’t immediately see her. Shadows filled the place from a smoking oil lamp and the glow from the warming fire. He wasn’t sure if she was there. He closed the thick door behind him. It swung easily on silent hinges and clicked loudly when it shut. The nurse’s chair was vacant.

  The wood fire was reduced to a crackling husk of radiating embers; unlike his own small house in town, the manor had no need for coal. The fireplace threw a dancing light across the bedroom floor, and Michel, his patient, he could just make out, half-hidden amongst his covers. The doctor saw her then: She stood still beside the tall drawn drapes, black like ancient sorrow.

  “Do whatever you came for, doctor, but I know that he’s no better.” She didn’t look at him as she spoke. She stared beyond the high bay window as if able to see through the blackness.

  The doctor drew up short, startled for a moment. “It might be better to turn up the lamp?” he suggested.

  “No. Leave it. Things are fine just as they are.”

  She was petite. Her gray hair was pinned severely back, and she wore a conservative gown of black silk. Everyone knew Madame habitually wore mourning and had done so since she was widowed. The doctor found her disturbingly appealing. He was o
f an age with her and a widower himself. He thought her beauty crystalline: too cut, too sharp, too clear. He thought of such things when he was lonely, late at night, or had the company of a drink, but to Madame he never presumed, and to the world he said no such thing.

  The doctor left the lamp as it was and took his patient’s signs. He lifted back the quilt and prodded around his neck. He took a pulse from the boy’s limp arm. Michel lolled. He looked emaciated, black hair damp with perspiration. The doctor withdrew his thermometer from the armpit and noted the boy’s temperature had not changed. Michel managed one lucid glance and then nodded off again. Gray eyes. Such clear gray eyes. The doctor made some further notes and flipped back through his book.

  “He hasn’t gotten worse, Madame,” he ventured to please. “That is fortunate.”

  “Hasn’t gotten worse. What do you people know?”

  “Excuse me?” Ever wary in Madame’s presence, he was still taken aback by her tone.

  “What do you know about anything?” This time he didn’t deign to answer; he sensed there wasn’t a point. “I’ve had six children, doctor, six of them! And this one my baby boy.” She was stiff, rigid with antagonism, her shoulders tense like a striking clock just before the hour.

  “He’s stable for now,” the doctor said cautiously. “We need to make sure that he drinks.”

  “What good are you doing here? Only two I’ve got left. Only two of my babies are left me.”

  “We’re all doing our best for him, Madame.”

  “You can’t help. None of us can. It was the Curse that did for all of them. It’s the Curse that will have us all.”

  The doctor stalled. He knew the talk, but he’d never heard her say it.

  “It’s a disease, a flu, Madame. A…” – he struggled for the words – “...a terrible thing. But, Madame, we know how it works...”

  “Knowing doesn’t help anything!” she cut him off.

  They both stood quiet and unmoving, but he did so because he was lost. The fire danced low, and the rain tapped like fingers on the windowpanes. The doctor wondered if he should go.

  “Knowing won’t make anything better, doctor. I know already how this ends.”

  The doctor closed his bag.

  “One by one I’ve lost them all. It took all the rest of my children from me, and it will have Michel yet. And when they’re all gone, I’m not too proud to think that somehow I’ll escape. Oh, no. There’s no escaping fate. So why do I bother sending for you? Why do we fight it at all?”

  “He isn’t getting any worse,” he tried once again. “Fluids, he needs fluids. Soup is good if he’ll take it.”

  “Go home, Doctor.” Her back was to him still, her long neck pale and thin. “Close the door behind you, doctor, go and prepare your bill. Science will be proud of you; you’ve done an excellent job. All you could do and more, I’m certain, and still not nearly enough.”

  He took a last look at her, fighting his temper, baited by her disparaging tone. He swallowed his tongue, picked up his hat, and left with no final word.

  The kitchen at Malenfer Manor was snug and low and warm. Its ovens were always on early for bread and worked hard till dinner was served; they boiled water for drinks at all hours of the day and heated milk when the sun had gone down. A vegetable broth could normally be found simmering and ready. Catacomb pillars buttressed its ceiling and the stone floor gleamed polished and gray; it glowed with the sheen of lifetimes of service that had worn the hard surfaces down.

  At difficult times, the kitchen was a refuge on the estate: It gave heat, which was in short supply; companionship to those in search of it; and protection from the family above that rarely ventured downstairs to see it.

  The kitchen was, as usual, occupied.

  “You think he’s getting better?” The young man sat on a thick scratched table over which he dangled his legs.

  “No, I don’t. I don’t. I think he’s just the same,” a doughy, white-haired lady answered with sincere concern. She wore a pinstriped apron of office and her hair up in a clasp off her neck.

  “And what happens if he gets worse?” continued the young man, looking down upon the housekeeper, who sipped slowly from her cup as she talked.

  “Émile, don’t say such things! You’ll bring the boy bad luck.” She spoke with a maternal care; indeed, she had seen them all grow up.

  Émile put a boot upon an empty chair and rested a hand on his chin, the habit of a thoughtful child that looked dim-witted on a man. He was robust, barely twenty, blessed with waves of chestnut hair long enough to tie back in a ribbon. He wore it loose and with his wildling’s eyebrows he looked ever ready to dash about. “Berthe, dearest. There’s no use hiding from these things. As bad as it is for them upstairs, what’s it going to mean for us? You know how it is. What happens next? It’s no sure thing if the worst should happen. That’s all I’m trying to say.”

  “It’s not right to think of ill coming to him, the young master,” Berthe chided. “It don’t help any,” she persisted in her defense, and retreated again to her cup.

  “You’ve worked for them all your life,” Émile pressed. “He’s the last of the line. No more Malenfers after Michel.”

  Berthe refused to be drawn.

  “Who’ll you end up working for if he’s gone? You see Sophie going to run this place? Or maybe you think Madame will skip a generation, and give it all to Simonne? How do you see that working, then?”

  The housekeeper gave a snort of derision.

  “Well, exactly! That’s just my point.”

  There was a draft and a door slammed, followed by stamping feet. They both broke off and looked up expectantly to catch sight of who had come in.

  “Don’t stop for me.” The voice preceded the appearance of the hunched older man.

  “Where have you been?” Berthe asked him, rising to fetch him a bowl of soup. Émile pushed back the chair his foot had been on to give the arrival a seat. The old man shook himself, throwing rain around, and hung his overcoat up. He moved quickly to join them, belying his advanced years and despite a stiff left leg.

  “I just saw the doctor leave,” he informed them with a grin. “He was right put out, I tell you. He’d barely even been!”

  “What was the matter with the doctor?” Émile asked.

  Berthe put the bowl in front of the Malenfer footman and passed him the wine and a glass. “Madame’s been loitering all day,” she put in, while the footman took a sip.

  “Well, that explains that. I’m sure she had a few choice words for him.” Émile was amused. “Bet she tore right into him!”

  “Better him than us,” said the sage footman.

  “Did he make mention of the young master?” asked Berthe.

  “Like I said, not a word. Face like fizz was all. I think he’s got a shine for Madame.”

  “Get away!”

  “Dirty old man.”

  “No, I do. Can’t see’s why. Can you imagine that pair? But what were you all talking about before I got in?” The twisted man used both of his hands to steady his shaking glass, his fingers struggling to manage.

  “We were talking about What Happens Next, to them upstairs,” said Émile.

  “Ah...” said the old footman, a disfiguring scar twisted across his cheek as he smiled at the revelation. “We’re back to the Curse again.”

  “Gustave!” Berthe chastised, as if she’d heard something vulgar. Émile looked about to speak.

  “If you’re not actually talking about it, then you’re thinking it,” Gustave challenged them. He appeared to take a measure of pleasure in watching the housekeeper squirm. “The Curse will get them all!” he cackled.

  “Gustave!” Berthe repeated, paling, which brought a laugh from the grinning old man.

  “Well, it’s done a pretty good job up till now.” He turned the soup bowl around with his hands as if to chase its heat.

  “How much money do you think there is?” Émile put in; he looked guilty for imagining.<
br />
  “Christ! Who the hell knows? What a question, lad.” Gustave shook his head as if considering. “Heaps,” he mumbled, the answer bubbling out of the side of his mouth. His head looked to be working to do the sums but in the end didn’t quite get there. “A serious pile, anyway.”

  “So if Michel doesn’t make it, flu or curse or whatever, what’s your best guess then? Sophie or Simonne for the inheritance?”

  “God, I did miss it, didn’t I! Have you two been talking about this all night?”

  Berthe looked away, slightly ashamed of the answer, but didn’t make a move to go.

  “Sophie should get it,” Émile pronounced. “She’s Madame’s daughter. She’d be the only one left after Michel.”

  “But then what?” Berthe couldn’t resist. “You know what Madame’s thinking. Will she marry again? Who would she marry? Might she have any more children?”

  “God almighty, you lot have been talking. I don’t know! She might, obviously. Why not? She could do whatever the hell she wants.”

  “Madame’s always so hard on her, though,” Berthe joined in, pointing out the obvious.

  “So... you think she’s not worthy? Would that matter? Simonne might get it, instead?” Émile was officiating, not backing sides. “That’s what you’re saying, is it then?”

  Gustave let out a roar of glee, his split face lighting up. “Can you imagine? This place run by her. The nutcase granddaughter getting it all? She’d give it away to the cats.”

  “I don’t know.” Émile shook his head. “How bad could it be? How much worse could it be than now?”

  “You’d just better watch your tongues. That’s all I’ll say.” Berthe got up and waddled back to the stove. “Madame’s likely around for a good long time yet, and God help you if she hears you talking like that – you’ll be lucky to stay on the farm.” The kettle went back on with a clatter. It took its treatment stoically, as one familiar with such handling.

  The young servant and the old servant traded glances, sharing the image that went with the thought of Madame overhearing their gossiping. Both recoiled in horror.