The Orchid Shroud (20 page)

SUNDAY EVENING, 9 MAY

I
wasn’t expecting this,” Mara said. They were standing by the low stone parapet of his terrace, admiring a fiery orange western sky. The earth dropped away below them, the ravine bottom already deep in shadow. A drinks trolley nearby held glasses, bottles, and a tray of cold shrimp hors d’oeuvres. She was sipping a Kir Royal, a blend of champagne and cassis. “When you said dinner, I naturally thought—”

Jean-Claude laughed. “That we’d meet here for drinks and then go to some restaurant—a good one, of course, but out. Why not here? I can offer you”—his eyes glowed over the rim of his glass, or perhaps it was just that in that moment they reflected the setting sun—“all the comforts of home.”

She found herself laughing, too, and once more caught the whiff of his sexy, musky odor. He was dressed this time in burgundy slacks to match his Gucci loafers and a gray ribbed silk pullover. His yellow hair, falling either side of a central parting, gave him an almost Renaissance look.

They had dinner in his front room. He seated her at a table set with old silver, antique Sèvres dishes, and hand-cut crystalware. Mara sniffed the air appreciatively. It carried an intricacy of smells: the richness of oven-baked pastry, the enticing odor of pan-fried garlic. Against a background of flowers, soft music, and discreet lighting, he brought out the steaming first course: aromatic wedges of
saumon en croûte
.

“Délicieux,”
Mara murmured around her first bite, a flaky casing
that crumbled exquisitely away from a core of salmon in a creamy caper sauce. “I mean, fabulous. I’m tremendously impressed.”

“Why so? All the great chefs of the world are men, you know.” He gazed archly across the table at her.

“Debatable.”

“All right, name me one really famous woman chef. I’m not speaking about collectors of other people’s recipes, writers of cookbooks. I mean true culinary geniuses.”

“Ma mère
. It’s true. She’s a knockout cook. Comes from a little place called Saint-Louis-du-Ha! Ha!, near the Quebec–New Brunswick border. You should taste her six-pastry chicken pie, to say nothing of her moose steak.”

It was Jean-Claude’s turn to laugh.

She waved her fork over her plate. “But how did you learn to do this?”

Jean-Claude shrugged.
“My
mother—god rest her soul—was an unmentionably bad cook.”

Mara, in sympathy with Madame Fournier, shifted self-consciously in her chair.

“Consequently,” he went on, “I insist on eating well. At least dining well. I don’t mind plain meals during the rest of the day as long as I can look forward to a really good
dîner
. A beautiful companion makes it all the more enjoyable.”

“Jean-Claude, this is supposed to be a business affair.”

“At least you admit the possibility of an affair?” He leaned forward, insinuating.

“Not in the sense I think you mean. Really, I’m impressed all to hell, but hadn’t we better focus on Baby Blue? You said you’ve found out something more about the family. What?”

“Ah.” He gave her a sly smile and rose from the table. “But first, the
plat principal
. One should always satisfy the appetites of the flesh before other things, don’t you think?”

He had prepared his version of a Dordogne speciality,
magret de canard
, grilled duck breast, in a port-and-pepper sauce with a pear compote. Watching him as he served up, Mara thought he had the air—she swept her mind for fitting aphorisms—of the cat who’d swallowed the cream. Or maybe it was that butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth? At any rate, his first course had been replete with both butter and cream, and he really looked as if he’d licked the spoon.

“I am very fond of breast,” said Jean-Claude as he put an artistically assembled plate before her. “Of duck, I mean. It’s the best part because it’s covered with a delicate layer of fat that melts in the cooking. That’s what makes the meat so tender.”

There were side platters of baked endive and
pommes de terre sarladaises
. Mara felt a guilty twinge at the sight of the last. It was Julian’s favorite dish, garlicky potatoes lightly sautéed in goose fat and sprinkled with parsley. The main course was followed by salad, local cheeses, and a plum tart purchased from the Boulangerie Méliès in Brames, which turned out some of the best
pâtisserie
in the region. They talked very little during the meal, both too absorbed in plying fork and knife.

“Superbe,”
Mara sighed at last, laying her napkin beside her coffee cup.

He regarded her with satisfaction. “Then let me propose an exchange. The results of my research, which I think you’ll find interesting, for a great deal more of your company.”

“I’m not your client, Jean-Claude,” Mara told him firmly but with a smile. The excellence of the meal had put her in a mellow mood. “Christophe is.”

He gave an exaggerated sigh. “My efforts go for naught. With you Americans—”

“Canadian.”

“Canadians, it’s always
le business
first. Very well, I shall lay before
you my findings to date with no strings attached. I need a smoke. Shall we go out on the terrace?”

It had grown dark by then, but the warmth of the day lingered. Crickets chirped softly in the ravine below. He opened a packet of Davidoffs, tapped out a mini-cigar, lit up, and tossed the packet onto a wooden bench set into the terrace wall.

“I have been forced,” he began, “to review my conclusions about the de Bonfonds. Thanks”—he swept her a small bow—“entirely to you.”

“Me?”

“Mais oui
. You pointed out the inconsistency in the family
devise
. It set me thinking. I’ve already described to you the de Bonfonds in their unembellished state. But until now I had no idea how really nasty they were.” He exhaled smoke that hung about his head on the still night air. “After you pointed out the spelling discrepancy in the family motto, I did a little more research. Well, quite a lot, to be honest. First of all, I should say that I was able to determine that the painted motto on the scroll came first. The portrait was done in Xavier’s lifetime, probably sometime in the 1780s. However, the mantelpiece was purchased and carved after Xavier’s death—in 1831, according to the bill of sale I found. This led me to ask why the spelling was changed. Was it simply an error? Or a cover-up?”

Mara’s eyebrows lifted. “A cover-up for what?”

“Blood
And
My Right. Blood
Is
My Right. As you said, there’s a difference. In this case, a big difference. The more I probed, the more I began to wonder if the de Bonfonds didn’t have something even more horrific to add to their reputation.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “What do you know about
loups-garous
, Mara?”

“Werewolves?” She laughed outright. “Only that they go hairy and bite people at the full moon.”

“Don’t make light of it. France has a long history of
loups-garous
and a formidable record of werewolf executions.”

“Ignorant superstition and mass hysteria,” she scoffed. “Like burning people at the stake for being witches.”

He said, almost severely, “Everything has its strand of truth. Supposing I told you that I’m convinced that many of the legends surrounding
loups-garous
are exactly what they purport to be: accounts of werewolf sightings and attacks.” Seeing her obvious disbelief, he ground out his cigar and strode swiftly into the house. He returned moments later, a long straplike object draped over both hands.

“Here.” He held it out to her. “Since you’re so skeptical. This is a wolf belt. It was given to me by an old woman a number of years ago, when I was compiling material for my book on Dordogne folktales. Take it.”

The thing was made from some kind of animal skin, greenish gray and supple, with a simple brass buckle. The stitching along the edges was frayed and worn. For some reason Mara felt unwilling to touch it. With a brief laugh she stepped away. “Is this supposed to be some kind of protection against werewolves?”

He shook his head gravely. “Far from it. According to local beliefs, a wolf belt condemns the wearer to become a werewolf at each full moon for a period of seven years. The old woman claimed her grandmother bought it from an itinerant vendor. Against her family’s warning, she wore it to a festivity. The next full moon, she changed into a she-wolf and ran snarling from the house. She was found two days later, hiding in the bushes. Her hair was matted with dirt and leaves, and her nightdress was covered in dried blood. Nearby was a dead sheep. She had killed it by biting its throat out and had fed on the carcass. Go on, since you’re so sure this is nonsense, put it on. Nothing will happen to you if it’s just superstitious rubbish.” He pushed it into her hand, but she recoiled and threw it down. The feel of it made her skin crawl.

“You see.” His eyes were mocking. “You claim to doubt what I’ve said, but when it comes down to it, you won’t even touch it.”

“Jean-Claude, what does all this have to do with the de Bonfonds?” Mara asked angrily, but she was angrier at herself than at him for being so inexplicably shaken.

With a smile—he had made his point—he picked up the wolf belt, rolled it up carefully, and set it on the drinks trolley. “Not a good idea to leave this lying around. These things have lives of their own.” He reached for the packet of Davidoffs and tapped out another cigar. “What does this have to do with the de Bonfonds? Quite a bit, as it turns out. You’ve certainly heard of the Sigoulane Beast. The media are full of it. But have you ever heard”—his face was suddenly illuminated by the flare of a match—“of the Beast of Le Gévaudan?”

Mara regarded him warily. “No, I have not.”

“Then let me tell you.” He drew the cigar to life. It’s fiery tip glowed like an angry eye in the darkness. “Between 1764 and 1767, some kind of creature roamed the hills of Le Gévaudan, which, if you don’t know it, is a mountainous region at the foot of the Massif Central. For three years it left a trail of mutilated bodies. Those who saw it said it was a large, wolflike creature. Some said it had the ability to go on two legs like a man. Others claimed to have met it in human form as a hairy stranger who tried to lure them into the woods. Many believed it was a werewolf.

“The thing was killed. Twice. In both cases, its carcass was displayed to quiet the fears of the local population. The attacks ceased after 1767. The records of these events have been preserved, and nearly two dozen books have been written trying to explain the mystery of the Beast. None, to my mind, satisfactorily.” He paused. “Did the Beast die? Or did it simply change territory?”

“What are you saying, Jean-Claude?” Mara’s chin went up skeptically.

“Just this. Xavier de Bonfond came from Le Gévaudan, from the village of Paulhac, in the very area where the attacks were concentrated. At the time of the Beast, he would have been in his
thirties. Apart from that and the fact that he served as a
gabelou
, we know little else about his early life. He first appeared in the Sigoulane Valley in 1770, three years after the Gévaudan Beast was allegedly killed. Parish records in the Sigoulane Valley show that in 1772 some kind of savage creature began killing a large number of sheep. In 1775 the first human attacks began. People who saw the thing claimed it was not a wolf, although wolves roamed the forests in those days, but a hairy wolflike creature that had the ability to walk upright. The first references to the Sigoulane Beast date from that time. The attacks in the valley peaked in 1787, tapered off in the late 1790s, and stopped entirely after Xavier’s death in 1810. For the next forty-nine years, there were no more sightings of the ‘thing that went on two legs.’

“Xavier did well for himself after he came to Sigoulane, although he was feared more than respected. Not only did he have a reputation for violence, he also had a spooky knack of disappearing from one place and reappearing somewhere else with almost supernatural speed. Still, as I told you, he married into a good family and acquired the trappings of social respectability. But I think the one thing he could not, or would not, obscure was his true nature.” Jean-Claude moved to stand uncomfortably close to Mara. “I think the motto as you spotted it on Xavier’s portrait is the right one. The carving on the mantel,
Sang E Mon Drech
, Blood And My Right, is a later version that was altered by the simple suppression of the letter ‘s’ for the sake of appearances, as was the creation of the fake family tree. The real motto is
Sang Es Mon Drech
. Blood
Is
My Right. You understand the meaning of it now, don’t you?”

Mara took a deep breath. “You want me to believe the Gévaudan Beast and the Sigoulane Beast were one, and that Xavier de Bonfond was a werewolf? I think I’ve heard quite enough.” She turned to walk away. He caught her arm.

“Wait. I’m not finished. We have to fast-forward to 1859,
when Xavier’s great-grandson Hugo was in his twenties. Another rash of ‘happenings’ began about that time. Again, it’s all documented in parish records. Over the next thirteen years, several children went missing and two other children and an old woman were found with their throats bitten out. Hugo died in 1872. The attacks ceased after that date.”

“Unless you count the
maquisard sans tête,”
Mara said, seizing on anything to jam a stick in the smoothly turning spokes of his narrative. “Thérèse seems to think it was the work of the Beast as well. Hugo was long gone by then.”

Jean-Claude shook his head. “That was a wartime atrocity.” He spoke with certainty. “The man was decapitated by a human agent, not a werewolf. Which brings us to the present.” He paused, tipping his face up to contemplate the sky, where the moon, just on the wane, rode high above the treetops. “Things seem to be starting up again.”

Mara stepped back, incredulous. “Are you talking about the feral dog? Oh, come on, Jean-Claude.”

He leaned in. His eyes were serious in the light from the open terrace door. “Is it a dog? There are many who believe that werewolfism is a heritable condition, Mara. Not necessarily passed from parent to child, because there are quiescent periods which suggest the condition skips generations. Xavier was Hugo’s greatgrandfather. Hugo is Christophe’s great-grandfather.”