In Pale Battalions (13 page)

Dinner was the only occasion which drew together the residents of Meongate. We officers wore uniform and took our respectful 84

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places at a table where Lord Powerstock presided with all the tattered observances of landed propriety. Leonora would join us in a simple dress and willingly consent to be overshadowed by Lady Powerstock, who wore daring Edwardian gowns and dominated the conversation. Sometimes guests would be present who followed her lead and bestowed upon us their ill-founded opinions of the progress of the war. Others—whose husbands were often still where we had lately been—said less and deferred more. I waited for one of the strangers to announce himself as Mompesson, but I waited in vain.

One day of soft September rain I strayed into the library in search of idle reading matter. As I might have guessed, the contents were scarcely for the frivolous reader, which is all that I was: so much leather-tomed anonymity gathering the duty of lordly neglect. If Lord Powerstock had ever frequented this place, he did so no longer. The davenport stood empty by the mullioned window and the books unread on their shelves.

The strangest feature of the room was not its books, but the large oil painting on the one wall not shelved in: a scene from some medieval fantasy, vaguely Pre-Raphaelite in style with slashes of a more sensual purpose, bathed now in aqueous light from the window, arresting, even arousing, in its depiction. The curtained, stone-walled bedchamber of a castle. A naked woman, well formed and wantonly draped across the bed, yet looking over her shoulder in evident alarm at the door; it stands open to the chain-mailed figure of a man, who is unbuckling his sword-belt and gazing at the woman with obvious intent.

It was an unpleasant picture, not merely because of its voyeuristic effect but also by its placing, there in the library where culture might seem to excuse such explicitness. But that was not all. As I peered at the face of the woman, her painted image streaked by the rain-refracted light, I felt, for an instant, that I knew her. And, if I did, it could only be one person, though years younger and far removed from her present station. It could only be Olivia, Lady Powerstock, as I had never thought of her.

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The following evening, after dinner, the ladies left us and Cheriton reluctantly consented to a game of billiards with Thorley, who always played against odds and always won. Lord Powerstock for once lingered in the drawing room, sitting with his brandy by the fire; he seemed to need its warmth for all that it was a mild night. Gladwin sat between us, puffing at the cigar which was his present topic of conversation.

“They must mix rhubarb with the tobacco these days; tastes bloody awful . . . Finest cigars I ever had were a gift from Count Nogrovny in St. Petersburg . . . to seal a bargain over some sable pelts . . . What a daughter he had . . . I fought a duel for that girl, you know . . . Or for the sables . . . I’m never too sure which it really was . . . Winter of ’61 . . . The river was frozen solid . . .” Before his reminiscences could progress much further, he was asleep. Powerstock smiled indulgently and I took the opportunity to ask a question that had long been in my mind. “Your son referred once to a houseguest here named Mompesson. Am I likely to meet him?” Powerstock frowned. “Mompesson? Oh yes. A friend of my wife.” He swallowed some of the excellent brandy with apparent distaste. “She has many admirers, you know. Something of a celebrity in society before we married.”

“Really?”

For once, he didn’t hold back. “Yes. A handsome woman, as you’ll have noticed.”

“Indeed.”

“In her youth, she modelled for some of the foremost artists of London and Paris.”

So I’d been right. “The picture in the library: is that . . .”

“What picture?” He seemed vexed. “Couldn’t say. Never go there . . . As to Mompesson, yes, you’ll be seeing him. Due at the weekend . . . so my wife tells me.”

I thought I saw everything then. An elderly husband deceived by a younger wife. It was not unusual. Perhaps it accounted for Hallows’s preoccupation when he returned from Christmas leave. If only that had been it. But the Meongate mystery was of another order. Quite another order altogether.

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I woke early the next morning, after one of those nights all too familiar to me then, when dead, dismembered comrades returned to salute me. A tramp round the grounds before breakfast was my usual antidote, but that morning—being earlier and brighter than most—I decided to venture further afield.

September had chilled with its mists a summer’s dawn, but a feeble pastel sun filtered through to gild the dewy lawns as I walked down the drive of Meongate and took in the airy promise of the day. I set a good pace along the lanes towards Droxford and passed not another soul on my way. Nearing the village, I cut down through a wood to the river, crossed it by a narrow bridge and so came by a muddy footpath to the church. There, where I’d attended morning service with Lord and Lady Powerstock the previous Sunday, I turned in to pursue a point I’d had no time for then. Some sheep grazing amongst the gravestones scattered in panic and a rook made its cawing flight from the roof, but they were the only signs of life.

Inside, the strengthening sun was shafting into the dim interior, catching the dust in its perpetual swirls and eroding the damp accumulations of closed night air. I prowled amongst the pews and pillars, eyeing stones and plaques, until, in a small side chapel behind the choir, I found what I was looking for: a canopied stone tomb with clinging shards of paint and the worn effigy of a knight, resting in armour upon a pillow. The inscription was faded and in shadow; I stooped to read it. It was rendered in Latin, most of it beyond me, but the name and dates were clear: WILLIAM DE

BRINON, KNIGHT OF DROXENFORD (1307–1359), with a mention of Crécy in the dedication. There was no doubt. It was the tomb Hallows had told me about.

As I rose from my haunches, there was a startled cry from the choir. I looked across in alarm and there, beyond the decorated wooden screen, stood Leonora, with her hand to her mouth.

“Oh . . . Oh my . . . ” she said. Then, recovering herself: “Mr.

Franklin. You startled me.”

“I’m sorry. I was just reading an inscription.”

“Of course. It was just that . . . Well, I don’t know.”

By now, I’d joined her in the choir. “You didn’t expect anybody else to be here? Actually, neither did I.”

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“I often come down here at this time of day . . . to be sure of some solitude.”

“I’m sorry to have invaded it.”

“Nonsense. You have every right. It’s simply that that tomb has . . . associations.”

“With John.”

“You know then?” She looked towards me and moved slightly as she did so, stepping unconsciously into a waiting portal of granu-lar sunlight. And as she did so, in her felt hat and simple grey cape, I realized again how beautiful she was. What would I not have given then to be Hallows, come back to lift her veil of loss?

“He spoke of it once, when we were based near Crécy.”

“I see.”

“Would you like to be left alone?”

“No, no.” She smiled. “In fact, why don’t we walk back to Meongate together?”

I readily agreed and we set off back the way I’d come, down to the river and up through the wood. For once, Leonora seemed eager to talk.

“I’m sorry if we haven’t seen much of each other since you arrived,” she said.

“Lady Powerstock explained that you had to take things easy.”

She laughed, with little humour. “I’m sure Olivia told you what she thought you ought to hear. I dare say all the officers who come to stay are fed the same line. Sedatives to prevent hysteria . . . isn’t that it?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“Since you were my husband’s friend, Mr. Franklin, you should know that his stepmother is a congenital liar.”

“I see.”

“I wonder if you do.”

“Since, as you say, I was your husband’s friend, won’t you call me Tom . . . as he did?”

“Very well . . . Tom. No doubt you’re embarrassed by the friction in John’s family.”

“No. It’s just that . . .”

“You don’t know who to believe.” She laughed and stopped to lean back against a tree trunk. “I see your difficulty.”

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“What I was going to say was that, as a guest of the house, I’ve no right to question how it’s run. But I don’t have any difficulty knowing who to believe.”

“Thank you.”

“John loved you very much, I know.”

She looked down sharply, as if upset.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have . . .”

“It’s all right.” She smiled stiffly. “Despite what Olivia says, I’m very self-controlled. I think of John always of course. As a matter of fact, when you appeared in the church, I thought . . . for a second . . .”

“That it was him?”

“Yes. Absurd, isn’t it?”

“No. It’s only natural. If there’s anything I can do to help, I . . .”

“There’s nothing.” Suddenly, her face was stern. She walked on quickly ahead and I followed. For the first time, the thought was forming in my mind that maybe there was a way of lessening Leonora’s desolation along with my own, a way of doing so together.

For the first time, the war was holding out to me a prospect—a distant, uncertain prospect—of something good.

three

That evening, Mompesson came. I was in my room when I heard the throaty roar of a high-powered sports car coming up the drive. I looked out the open window as the car drew to a halt in a spray of gravel and the engine growled into silence. I knew it must be Mompesson: a tall, square, good-looking man in a loud check cap and dark travelling coat. He jumped down onto the drive and flung a bag at Fergus, then strode towards the door. There was somebody waiting for him there: Lady Powerstock.

“Ralph: it’s good to see you.”

“Naturally. How’s my Olivia?” He bent to kiss her hand and murmured something else as he did so. Her laugh was almost a giggle.

I was introduced to Mompesson before dinner. He was wearing evening dress and downing Scotch and soda in the drawing room with Thorley and Lord Powerstock. When I walked in, he rose and shook my hand.

“It’s Franklin, isn’t it? I’m Ralph Mompesson. Pleased to meet you.”

“I think I heard you arrive earlier, Mr. Mompesson.”

“Call me Ralph. The motor is a mite noisy, I know. Frightens the peasantry, I’m told.” He laughed, a touch loudly, and Thorley joined in—unnecessarily, I felt. I wasn’t warming to this glad-handed American with the flashing smile and dark, lacquered hair.

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“Have you come far?”

“From London. ’Less you mean originally, in which case I’d have to own to New Orleans. As you’ll have guessed, I’ve no part in this European war.”

“Then you’re a fortunate man.”

“Reckon so.” He leaned closer. “It was rough about John. I liked him.”

“So did I.”

If Mompesson really had liked Hallows, I suspected the feeling hadn’t been mutual. I could have attributed his excess of charm to the American character and my reaction against it to pure preju-dice, but there was some edge to his remarks—some hunter’s stealth in his eyes—which told me the charm was only a front. I instinctively mistrusted him.

Over dinner, my instinct strengthened. Olivia sat next to Mompesson and laughed at his jokes with shrill indecency. She wore more jewellery—and a lower-cut dress—than I’d seen before and drank with unladylike enthusiasm. If Powerstock noticed this, you couldn’t have told from his drawn mask of a face. As for the rest, Thorley revelled in the more exuberant mood of the occasion, whilst Cheriton retreated into the shadows of his troubled thoughts. Leonora said little, though she responded to Mompesson’s remarks with measured politeness. Gladwin was conspicuous by his absence, pleading a chess-playing engagement with a neighbour, so for light relief we relied upon Mompesson’s lubricated wit. And wit indeed there was, though little humour. Just what sort of a joke he thought the war to be became swiftly evident.

“Zeppelin dropped a bomb awful near the Stock Exchange last week,” he drawled. “Otherwise, we neutrals have been left pretty much alone lately.”

“How long will the U.S. remain neutral?” I asked, remembering that Hallows had asked the same question.

“For ever, I hope.”

“Going to leave us to it, are you?” put in Thorley, who was too drunk to take offence.

“You bet,” Mompesson replied. “The people who win wars are those who sit them out.”

I asked him what he meant by that.

“I’m a man of business, Lootenant, and war is good business.

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“ ’Course, I appreciate you gentlemen couldn’t choose to stay out, but once was enough for me. I served in Cuba under Roosevelt in

’98 and learned all I needed to about war. Glory for the generals and death for those who loyally follow. It doesn’t even pay well.”

A silence fell. We were embarrassed, I suppose, not so much by his frankness as by his chilling accuracy. But what could we say, obedient still to the stilted public image of patriotic duty? I was no longer taken in by it, of course, but it was about the only thought likely to comfort Hallows’s grieving family and I for one didn’t have the heart to dispel it. Why did they like him, I wondered, why did they invite him to their house? A well-mannered wit to amuse Lady Powerstock and brighten the dinner table? There had to be more to it than that.

I had a further opportunity to probe Mompesson’s character after dinner, over brandy and cigars. Cheriton and Lord Powerstock had left us and Thorley had fallen asleep, snoring inelegantly in a corner. But Mompesson remained agile and alert, strolling about the drawing room with none of the deference a guest might be expected to display.