The Orchid Shroud (36 page)

“’Course I’m here.” His patois was heavily drawn out, everything
ending in “mm” and “ng.” “There’s a bell.” He pointed with a blackened forefinger to the side of the door. Buried in the ivy to her right Mara saw an old brass bell, green with age, riveted to the stonework. Neither she nor Julian had noticed it when they were there before. “What do you want?”

“Well, I was hoping I could speak with you. It’s important. It concerns Christophe.” She invoked his employer’s name for effect. Beyond the old man, Mara glimpsed a cavelike room, a fireplace, and a chair. She could make out nothing more of his living environment. Did he have indoor plumbing, electricity, a television?

Didier considered her suspiciously for a moment. “Wait here,” he said and ducked away. He returned a minute later with a plastic sack. “Come on.” He pushed past her, pulling the door to behind him. In the way of many country people, he never bothered to lock up. Folks in the valley went about their business as they should. They didn’t have time to steal your belongings or pester you with useless questions.

Mara hurried after him. For an old man, he was surprisingly agile and walked at a terrific pace.

“Where are you going?” she barely had time to ask before he cut abruptly off through the trees, onto a faint trail probably known only to himself. She scrambled after him.

“Morels,” he said cryptically.

The morel was a favorite spring mushroom that made its sudden appearance after a rain. An ungainly-looking fungus with a wrinkled head that reminded Mara of brains, it was highly prized by locals for its mild, smooth flavor. Didier was off to gather a bag of them. That he so readily allowed her to accompany him told Mara two things: first, he didn’t regard her as competition, for mushroom-hunters were notoriously secretive about their favorite sites; and, second, he had somehow correctly surmised that even if she were given a morel she wouldn’t know what to do with it.

Mara trotted after his retreating back. “Didier,” she said a little
breathlessly, “you told me Jean-Claude Fournier was asking you questions. You know that Christophe has made me responsible for this Baby Blue thing. That is, I commissioned Jean-Claude for Christophe to find out who the baby was. Therefore”—she dodged in time as a branch, pulled forward by Didier’s passage, snapped back into her face—“I really do need to know what Jean-Claude talked to you about.”

They were now descending the back slope of the Aurillac estate, Didier bobbing down the trail like an elderly but sure-footed chamois.

“It could be important,” she called after him, running now because he was fast disappearing through the brush. In the next minute, she nearly fell over him. He was bent, nose to ground, over a ring of morels growing in a small clearing.

“Good crop, this.” He cackled.

“I said it could be important.” Mara found herself almost shouting into his rather dirty left ear. Was the man deaf or purposely ignoring her? “Didier, you know Jean-Claude was killed. I think someone murdered him because of something he found out about the de Bonfonds. And the baby. Surely you see that you’ve got to tell me what he asked you. It could be the clue to everything.”

“It was none of his business, and none of yours,” muttered the old man. He was now harvesting mushrooms with a small wide-bladed knife and popping them into his sack.

She decided to take a firm hand with him. “I think you’d better let me be the judge of that.” And when this produced no response, she said, “Didier, how do you think Christophe will take it if I tell him you refused to cooperate with me?”

“He’s not here to say, is he?”

A thought occurred to Mara. “Do you know where he is?”

The gardener slid an eye in her direction. “No, I don’t. He don’t
confide in me. Anyway,” he added, “this is family matters that’s best not spoke of by you nor me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. This thing has gone beyond the family, Didier. Let me tell you what I think. I think Baby Blue was the child of Christophe’s great-great-aunt Cécile by her own brother. I think Cécile killed her baby not just because he was the product of incest but because she also believed that werewolves ran in the family! You’re from here, Didier. Your family has worked on this estate for generations. You know the old stories, so you must know that people really did believe in werewolves at one time. And that’s what Jean-Claude came to ask you about, wasn’t it? He wanted proof that the de Bonfonds were behind the creature known as the Sigoulane Beast, proof that Christophe has inherited the strain, and that he’s the one who’s responsible for the recent attacks in the valley.”

The old man straightened up to stare at her, knife in hand. He looked angry, but that might have been because his face was flushed from bending over.

She pressed ahead. “Now, what if we try a slightly different take on that story? What if Christophe isn’t a werewolf but suffers from an illness that makes him act like a wolf? It’s called lycanthropy, Didier. It’s a real condition, and it’s treatable, or at least controllable with drugs. Christophe goes into hiding with every full moon, doesn’t he? You and Thérèse have always covered up for him because until now you’ve been able to control him. What do you do, tie him down? Lock him up? Except that he’s learned to give you the slip. You can’t shield him anymore, you know. Christophe may have been relatively harmless before, but this time he’s turned violent. I think Jean-Claude tried to blackmail Christophe because he’s a lycanthrope, and Christophe threw him from the terrace and finished him off by strangling him and maybe even biting his throat out.”

Didier continued to stare at her. A droplet of mucus had formed on the end of his nose and now snailed onto his upper lip. He wiped it away with his sleeve. “I’ve got nothing to say,” he muttered finally, “bar one thing.” He shuffled off, glaring back at her over his shoulder. “I never heard of no whatever-you-call-it, and you’re
folle
. You’ve lost your senses.”

“Listen, you stubborn old man,” Mara shouted in frustration, catching up to him. “You don’t have to believe me, but there’s one thing you have to understand. Jean-Claude was murdered, and you’re probably the only person who knows why. Can’t you get it through your head that there’s a killer on the loose? Forget your loyalties, Didier. You can’t let Christophe go on—”

The sudden explosion came from behind her and to her right. Didier spun around with a look of bewilderment on his weathered face. Confusedly, Mara remembered the shooting she had heard earlier. Was some careless hunter firing nearby? The old man was standing at a funny angle, tipping awkwardly to one side, knees slightly bent, his left arm dangling loosely. She realized that he had been hit when she saw blood dripping from his fingertips. Then she screamed as another shot rang out, leaving a spattered image of scarlet and the dead certainty that whoever was shooting at them had made no mistake.

They both struck the ground together. That was because she had thrown herself on the old man. Didier lay under her, sprawled on his back, staring up at the sky with the same puzzled expression. Blood was pumping out of him at an alarming rate. Out of her, too, she realized. She felt suddenly sick and light-headed. A searing pain spread through her right shoulder. She watched with amazement as dark, wet patches blossomed vividly on Didier’s chest, on her own clothing, soaked into the earth.

They were at the edge of the clearing, in plain view, with no cover at hand. Even if there was, their assailant had only to circle around and come at them from their unprotected side. Their only
defense was Didier’s little knife. It lay beyond her reach among a scattering of cut morels that had spilled from the sack when the gardener had fallen. Play dead, the functioning part of her brain ordered. Very shortly they might not have to pretend. She pressed herself down against the old man. Didier’s breathing, at first raspy, had now trailed away to a light, rapid squeak. His eyes were closed; his skin was ashen. Where was the shooter? Her ears strained to pick up the soft swish of grass, the sounds of a killer’s approach. At any moment she expected to feel the barrel of a rifle jammed into the back of her neck, imagined her brain exploding with the devastation of the bullet.

Didier made a gurgling noise. His mouth was filling up with blood. She had to do something or he would choke. Carefully, she turned his head to the side and pulled down the corner of his mouth to let the blood drain. He struggled weakly, trying to speak.

“Stay still,” she whispered urgently.

“’coutez.”

“Oui?
I’m listening. Just don’t move.”

“Should’ve told you.”

Yes, you should have, you pigheaded old coot, she raged inwardly. Whatever he had to say, it was now too late.

His speech was heavily slurred, but she made it out well enough. “More than one.”

“More than one? Didier, more than one what?”

Blood had welled up again in his mouth. His lips pushed together in the effort of forming a single word.

“Baby.” He choked. His final words before they both lost consciousness were “Cut off his head.”

L
aurent, who had just come on duty, took the call. A minute later, he ran down the hall and burst into his superior’s office.

“There’s been another shooting, sir,” he shouted. “This one sounds serious.”

SUNDAY AFTERNOON, 16 MAY

S
he’s conscious.”

Mara turned her head in the direction of the voice. A face came near her. Glasses reflecting twin orbs of light, the eyes behind them invisible, the rest of the features blurred. She wondered if she was still in the little clearing. However, the air had a different quality, a kind of denseness. There was a smell, too, sharp, sour. Then she made out a white ceiling, a green curtain, the corner of a stainless-steel cart. She tried to move and found that her right arm was immobilized.

“You’re in hospital,” said the face. The voice was feminine. “I’m Dr. Villotte.”

“Why—?”

“You were shot. Fortunately, it’s a flesh wound. The bullet passed directly through the deltoid without doing any serious damage. You’ve lost blood, but you should be out of here in a few days.”

“Didier?” Mara asked, remembering.

“Intensive Care and well looked after.”

The truth of the matter was that it was doubtful Didier would make it. A bullet had been removed from his left lung. The surgeon gave him a thirty-seventy chance. His granddaughter had been there earlier, crying her heart out in the visitors’ bay. Sergeant Naudet had questioned Stéphanie closely, pressing her to think of anyone who might have wanted to harm her grandfather. Sobbing,
she had shaken her head, her pigtails dangling like sad little sheaves of corn over her breasts. Breathing hard, the kindly gendarme had taken her hand and promised solemnly that he would do everything in his power to ensure that the assailant was apprehended.

Dr. Villotte conferred with someone
—“Très bien
. She’s heavily sedated. Fifteen minutes”—and withdrew. The pockmarked features of Adjudant Compagnon came into view. Behind him Mara glimpsed Laurent’s gangling form.

“Alors, madame,”
said Compagnon, pulling a chair up to the bedside. He sat down heavily. His tone was unusually gentle. “You had a lucky break. A group of hunters and their dog found you. Their appearance probably interrupted whoever did this. Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill you?”

“Not me,” Mara murmured. “Didier. Stop him talking.”

“Stop him talking about what?”

Mara’s lids drooped against the eyebrows that hovered above her like orange wings. “It has to do,” she whispered, “with werewolves.”

To his credit, Compagnon listened to her without interruption. Only when she reached the part about lycanthropes and the modern Sigoulane Beast did his face contract into a scowl so violent that it looked as if it were being squeezed sideways in a duck press. Behind him, Laurent scribbled rapidly on his pad.

Compagnon pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “All right. Let’s say your theory is right. Jean-Claude Fournier tried to blackmail Christophe de Bonfond for being a lycanthrope or whatever, and de Bonfond felt sufficiently threatened to eliminate him. Why shoot the gardener?”

“He knows something.” Mara’s voice was barely audible, and both gendarmes had to strain to catch her words. “His family’s been with the de Bonfonds for generations.”

“Then why wait a whole week to silence him? Fournier was killed on the ninth. Today’s the sixteenth. Why not eliminate the old fellow straight away as well?”

In the absence of any response from the woman in the bed, Laurent suggested, “Maybe de Bonfond thought he could trust Didier to hold his tongue, sir. Loyal family retainer, that kind of thing. Until Madame Dunn went to see him. Maybe de Bonfond was afraid this time Didier would talk. He could have seen her questioning the old man and realized it was too risky to let either of them live.”

Compagnon stared at the gendarme and then turned back to Mara. “Madame Dunn, have you been in contact with Christophe de Bonfond?”

A shake of the head. “Not him.” Mara was beginning to drift into space again. “Dr. Thibaud. Midi-Pyrénées Psychiatric Hospital … Ask her. If you don’t believe me, ask her.”