The Grotesques (12 page)

Ella looked around in bafflement. The other statues had heads that looked like goblins or lizards or cats. They sat with wings outspread, or tightly furled, or raised in front. No other remotely resembled the figure she had seen from below. But the grotesque she had seen had gazed at the houses. She dismissed her doubts. Quite obviously, no injured girl sat beneath the ledge. She made a quick circuit of the roof, head down as she fought the wind, arms spread for balance when she turned back toward the canal. She was alone.

She was a journalist with the perfect opportunity to investigate further. Determined steps took her back to the fifth grotesque. Some feet from it, she noticed a jagged crack through the left wing. The stone had crumbled, leaving a gouge the width of a pencil running top to bottom. Not something she had noticed yesterday. She crouched to finger the crack, wondering what could have caused such damage in solid stone. Her fingers contacted a sticky dampness. She withdrew them to find the tips covered in blood. Her eyes shot to the ledge. A dark stain spread beneath the crack.

She sprang back, keeping her hand at arm’s length as though her fingers were poison.
Don’t be silly
, she told herself.
Don’t be stupid
.
Stone can’t bleed
. Genord had to be playing a disgusting, sadistic game. She found enough anger to overcome her fear. One-handed, she rummaged in her bag, sweeping keys and a bar of chocolate, which she definitely deserved after this, aside to uncover a half empty packet of tissues. She unfurled one and wiped her hand. Intending to swab the wing, she moved forward. As she bent over the statue, a hand shoved her shoulder. She lost her balance. Her legs slid out from under her. She grabbed the foot of the grotesque as she fell against the ledge. Her head struck the edge. Old church bells chimed as she spun to a hut where a black-haired boy whittled at wood for a monk in a brown robe with a belt of rope.

Ella groaned and opened her eyes. She pressed a hand to her stinging head, befuddled by the strange tableau. She blinked several times before the images of the grotesques sharpened. The hallucination had been uncannily clear. She wondered if it was the result of a concussion.

The hunchback, Romain, was staring at her with distrustful eyes. His left hand pointed at the stairs to the belfry. His right arm hugged a pot to his body so tight it might have been full of gold. “Bats up.” The whisper was harsh.

Ella lay stunned and winded.

“You go.” Romain’s frustrated pleading sounded like that of a child.

She felt for the ledge to help prop herself up. Never taking her eyes off the mason, she rose. “What happened, Romain?” She spoke calmly as she would to a child. “What damaged the grotesque?”

“The stone contained an inherent flaw.”

Ella whipped her head round. Genord, his flushed face at odds with his calm words, stood next to the fourth grotesque.

“We shall permit Romain to continue his restoration.”

Left with no choice, Ella battled the steady buffeting to join the caretaker. Eyes stinging, she turned back as she reached his side. Romain was rubbing a cheek over the head of the grotesque. With his hunched back and distressed face, he made a figure as bizarre as the statue as he ran a hand along the spine of the damaged wing.

“Despite the interest Romain’s work generates, he is unused to spectators.” Genord stood erect and unconcerned, despite the raging wind. He gestured toward the steps.

“What is he doing?” she asked, ignoring his obvious indication to leave. The hunchback crouched by the statue, scooped a handful of slurry from the pot, and patted it into the cracked wing. His fingers worked with a dexterity that belied his bulk and awkward mannerisms.

“Restoration, Miss Jerome. You should use those ears God gave you.”

“There was blood around the stone.”

“I have already told you that Romain is prone to injuring himself.”

Ella straightened her shoulders. The blood had been fresh, and the hunchback sported no visible wounds. “Perhaps he should see a doctor?”

“For a cut finger? Really, Miss Jerome, I did not take you as one for histrionics.”

“He is obviously ill-suited to his job.”

“He is a master in his field and disinclined to allow a minor cut to impede his work. If you take his work away from him, Romain will die. He does not know how to do anything else.”

“He really should see a doctor.” She wanted confirmation the blood had come from Romain.

“You must already be aware that Romain dislikes people. An unnecessary examination could grieve him to the point of violence, especially when he is so intent on his work. I am surprised he was not more forceful with you.”

Ella raised an eyebrow. How much had Genord witnessed?

“He is not, I assure you, normally a violent man, but we must make allowances for his nature. Now, we will leave him to his work.”

Although a bare bulb lit most of the belfry platform, the edges still lurked in shadow. Ella descended quickly, aware Genord remained but a step behind on the open staircase. She glanced into its depths, wondering if the bottom was piled high with bodies, but was disappointed to see shadows darkening the wooden floor.

“Does Romain work with wood?” she asked, hoping to find the origin of the chip she had collected.

“His medium is stone.”

That was the end of their conversation until they stepped onto the balcony. Genord locked the door behind them.

“Romain,” she started to say.

“Has a key. The church roof is ordinarily off-limits to the public, Miss Jerome. People in Europe have fallen to their deaths on days such as today.”

Ella couldn’t help feeling it was more a threat than a warning. “I’ll bear that in mind,” she said, spotting Rob enter the nave. She made her way to the stairs, wincing at the trail of muddy footprints which gained definition as she approached. Genord’s appearance on the roof lost its mysterious impact. She had left clear evidence of her trespass, and on a day like today, he was bound to investigate.

Rob watched their progress down the stairs.

“What brings you here today, Detective?”

Rob glanced at Ella. “We received reports of a disturbance.”

“I apologise if my report of an intruder was premature. In the light of recent events it is not possible to be too careful, although I must say I did not expect the station to send a detective.”

“You reported an intruder, Mr. Genord?”

“Assuredly, though I doubt Miss Jerome is the cruel murderer you seek.”

“One moment.” Rob made a quick call. He tapped a finger on his thigh until he nodded confirmation at her. “Miss Jerome?” he enquired.

Professional to the last
, Ella thought. “Someone screamed.”

“The mason injured himself while working in unfavourable conditions. He is, alas, too dedicated to his work. Miss Jerome can confirm he is fine.”

Ella nodded and went outside, catching another drop of water from the hideous gargoyle. Behind her she could hear Rob and Genord exchange a few more words. She headed toward the road and waited by the verge, copping a drenching before he emerged.

“I heard what I heard, Rob.” She crossed her arms. Talking in view of the church was inexplicably unsettling. She felt like the statues were watching her.

He took off his glasses and wiped away the rain. “Could it have been the mason?”

“No. His voice is distorted, husky. This was a clear cry.”

“From the roof?”

“Yes.”

“You went up there.” Not a question. He knew her well enough to know she would not pass up an opportunity to investigate. He squinted at her and put his glasses back on. “Did you see anyone else?” he asked when she nodded.

“No. But you didn’t exactly check, did you?”

“Genord declined my offer to check the premises. He said the footprints led straight to you.”

“So you are just going to let him get away with it?”

“Was there any way an injured person could have evaded you on the way up?”

She had to admit there was not.

“Then Genord has given a reasonable explanation for both the scream and the blood, and I have no valid reason to search the church, especially since he reported an intruder two minutes before you called me. As far as the law is concerned, he’s the victim here.”

Ella shook her head. She hadn’t even been in the church two minutes before she called Rob.

“What were you doing here anyway?” He rolled his eyes. “On second thought, I don’t think I want to know.” His demeanour softened. “I know you want a lead, but his story about Romain checks out. We’ve ascertained the mason has a regular doctor who treats him for cuts from his tools.”

“He didn’t have a scratch on him.”

“That you could see. There have been no more missing persons reports from the area so, from what you’ve told me, the chances I’d find anything when you didn’t are minimal. Besides, I have my reasons for not antagonising Genord at the moment.”

“Yeah, and what might they be?”

“Ella.”

“I’m sorry.” He was here, after all. “Look.” She was using his word again. “There was a lot more blood on the roof.” She opened her handbag and brought out the stained tissues. “Can you analyse these? I’m convinced it’s not Romain’s blood.”

He took them. “I’ll see what I can do. Don’t look so surprised. I asked for your help, didn’t I? And, Ella, please be careful. Racing down here believing you might have stumbled into the clutches of a killer was not what I had in mind when I asked you to investigate.”

“Just doing my job.”

“Stick to interviewing the families. I mean it,” he added when she muttered
yeah
,
yeah
.

She watched him drive away. A prickling sensation along the back of her neck made her turn. On the church roof, Genord’s unmistakable figure was watching her from beside the damaged grotesque. Distance gave the illusion its wings were strong and whole. Despite the gap between them, Ella felt a wave of mal-intent. Genord placed a hand on the grotesque’s head. With a shock Ella realised the beak that had been turned toward its wing now pointed at her.

TOO TIRED TO
do anything constructive, Ella switched on the television. Reality and lifestyle shows greeted her on every channel. Despairing of chirpy banter about drought-tolerant plants, she pressed the off button and tossed the remote onto the sofa. It landed with a thud on the
X-Files
video Matt Hayes had insisted she take. More into thrillers than sci-fi, she toyed with the idea of playing it. Practicality overcame her doubts. If she wanted to snoop into that folded paper Matt had been so eager to hide, she had a feeling she’d better watch it. She turned the entertainment unit back on, slipped the video in and settled on the couch, wondering what she was in store for and whether she’d need a drink or two and a bar of chocolate to get her through the film and its haunting soundtrack.

Halfway through a plot that involved at least as much intrigue as alien horror, Ella discovered she was enjoying the video in spite of herself, so much so, that, when Tilly scratched on the sliding door, she decided the cat could wait until the scene break to be let in. Tilly obviously had other ideas. Her nails grated with annoying persistence against the glass. Resigned to catering to the whims of her feline boss, Ella swung her legs off the sofa.

And froze.

Tilly, ears back, hackles raised, was sitting on the carpet beside the armchair.

Outside, the scratching continued.

Her yowling cat darted down the passage to the bedrooms to hide beneath the bed.

The conversation on the television grew heated. A growl interrupted. It took Ella two heartbeats to realise it had come not from the monster on the video but from outside her study door. Her skin erupted in goose bumps. When her breath misted in front of her, she realised how low the temperature had dropped. Reaching for the remote control, she fumbled until the television clicked off. The sudden, profound silence only accentuated the scratching.

Ella sneaked past the kitchen and entered the adjoining room. The light from the living room reached far enough to bathe the oak dining suite in a ghostly glow. She avoided the temptation to flip the light switch, thereby revealing herself to whoever prowled outside. As the scratching became a dull pounding, she moved around the table and through the arch into the second living area she had set up as a home office. She strained to see into the darkness that blanketed her neglected garden. The thumps turned to flaps and a dark shape shot upwards, a shape she could barely distinguish from the night. She moved within an arm’s length of the outside light switch and waited.

Nothing happened. She let out a deep breath. Then she swallowed. Something large was thudding across the roof. A musty smell wafted past her nose, reminding her of the belfry at the church.
Bats
, she thought. Then,
surely not
. There was one person who would know for sure. She fetched her phone and dialled Adam as she resumed her post by the sliding door. The odour intensified as the line rang and rang and rang. She could feel her heart thumping. Her breathing had become irregular. She was about to retreat when a large shape descended outside the door. Ella screamed and dropped the phone. A vicious eye stared through the glass. Breathing heavily, she snapped on the outside light. The snarling, leonine grotesque from the church, impossibly alive, sprang into the air.