Thunder On The Right (11 page)

He made an involuntary little movement. "That's what I'm trying to do, Jenny, can't you see? I don't want you to go building up some fantastic story—and perhaps getting yourself into an excessively awkward jam—by imagining accusations against people who're hardly likely to be the sort of criminals your story makes of them."

"It's only Doña Francisca, and she------"

"Fair enough. She lied to you, and you don't like her. That doesn't make her a criminal."

"I didn't say she was a criminal! But if you'd seen her today and talked to her, Stephen, you'd be convinced, as I am, that she's not all she should be!"

"Just who is the woman, anyway? What's she doing in the convent?"

She related what Sister Louisa had told her. "And later on I tried to pump the novice who showed me out of the convent. She was a nice girl and obviously in terrific awe of Doña Francisca. I gathered that she—Doña Francisca—pretty well runs everything that isn't directly a religious concern. I also gathered—not from anything the girl said, but from her general manner—that none of them like Doña Francisca very much, and they think she presumes on the Reverend Mother's blindness, but nobody likes to say anything. They're mostly simple souls and tend to take the woman at her own valuation."

"She seems to have a lot of authority for someone who's never professed."

"Yes. I almost think that's the very reason. I did get the impression that the Reverend Mother lets her have her head over a lot of things as a sort of compensation for not accepting her into the Order. You know what she made me think of? The good old days when queens and duchesses and high-up disappointed ladies retired into convents when politics got too much for them, and made perfect nuisances of themselves with lapdogs and visitors and condescending to the abbess."

He laughed at that. "You didn't mention any lapdog."

"Well, you know what I mean. Even without the lapdog, and discounting the Velasquez getup, she's—oh, she's
off key
, Stephen! Not only over Gillian. There's the chapel. She's obviously been spending an incredible amount of money over that, and------"

"My dearest Jenny, there are such things as copies of El Greco. Could you tell?"

"No, of course not. But I can tell when things are made of gold and ivory, and even that kind of copy would cost real money! And where does she get it, tell me that?"

"You said she'd been rich."

"Her family lost their money. She brought nothing with her. Sister Louisa said so,"

said Jennifer. "And if it's all aboveboard, why does the Reverend Mother apparently know nothing about it?"

"Ye-es," said Stephen slowly. "I admit that's queer. But, once again, there must be some easy explanation ... I mean, where can she possibly lay hands on that much money? There must be millions of francs involved."

"Millions of francs . . ." breathed Jennifer. She thrust her hand into her pocket and brought out a crumpled piece of paper. "Here, Stephen, read this."

"What is it?"

She told him how she had found it stuck in the frame of the triptych. He held the letter low in the shelter of the wall, and flicked his lighter into flame. The wayward breeze was lying still, and the flame burned steadily. Then he looked up, and extinguished the light. He was frowning a little.

She said quickly, "What d'you make of it, Stephen?"

"I? Nothing, But, all things considered, the mention of a sum like three million francs makes one wonder. . . ." He handed it back to her and she returned it to her pocket Then he stubbed out his cigarette on the stone.

"Well?" inquired Jenny, the tautness back in her voice.

He said levelly, "If you still insist on your mystery, my dear, I can't stop you from hurting yourself. But neither can I see what the hell one can do about it"

"The polk------"

His voice sharpened. "For God's sake, Jenny, no! You're a foreigner, and a Protestant, alone in a pretty wild part of the country. And Gillian was a French citizen by marriage. You can't go stirring up all sorts of stink without some pretty convincing proofs."

"N-no. I see that. Then there is only one thing I can do."

He looked at her doubtfully. "And that is?"

Jennifer stood up with an abrupt movement, and ground out her cigarette with her heel. "Go up and stay at the convent till I do unearth something."

He rose, too, looming over her in the dusk.

"Jenny, will nothing I can say persuade you that it's all nonsense? That you'll simply get yourself embroiled------"

She said evenly, "No. You see, I've got to find out where Gillian is."

"My darling child------"

She flashed at him then, her precarious control snapping, "For heaven's sake, Stephen! You can call me every kind of a fool if you like, but
I just don't believe
that Gillian's in that grave!
Can't you understand that simple fact?
I don't believe
she's dead!
"

She faced him, her breath coming rapidly, her body taut and vibrating with anger and excitement. She stood there in the dusk, a glimmering ghost, but slender and alive against the background of dead rock and the threatening immensity of darkness. She seemed all of a sudden alone, touching, a trace forlorn in the bravery of her nonsensical defiance, and very young. Stephen, looking at her, felt a wave of desire so strong that it startled him, and he wondered that she could stand there, unnoticing, watching him with angry eyes.

He began shakenly, "My darling child------"

"And don't keep calling me your darling child!" snapped Jennifer.

He laughed then, capitulating so suddenly that her anger slid into surprise. It never occurred to her that he was grasping at any chance that would keep her in Gavarnie, the
princesse lointaine
outside her guarded bower. . . .

He said, "All right, my fragile little blossom. You win. Only count me in."

"You mean—you
will
help me, Stephen?'

"Oh, yes. If you're going to look for trouble, I'd rather you didn't do it alone. Only don't cast me as the hero of your story, Jenny. I'll do what I can, but melodrama isn't my line."

She drew a long breath, and smiled up at him, wondering even as she did so why there was no answering glimmer in his eyes, and why he should be watching her with a face as shuttered and remote as that of an Egyptian king.

"I knew you would!" Triumph and relief lighted her voice, and she moved toward him, her eyes brilliant in the moonlight. Almost without knowing what he was doing, he took her by the shoulders and drew her toward him. She came unresisting, taut with excitement . . . only to lift to him that enchanting face and ask eagerly, naively,

"What do we do next?"

His grip tightened for a second. "Do you really want to know?"

"Of course!"

"For a man of my unstable temperament," said Stephen through his teeth, "I find myself remarkably single-minded." He dropped his hands then, and laughed down into her bewildered face. "Skip it, sweetheart. The next thing we do is to see you safely up to your convent." He put a finger under her chin, lifting her face in the moonlight. "A convent. That should suit you, Sleeping Beauty."

She moved her head away. "Why d'you call me that? You're saying a lot of queer things tonight."

"It's the moon."

"And I'm
not
a fragile little blossom."

"You're telling me," said Stephen. "In fact, my heart at this moment is bleeding with pity for Doña Francisca."

Jenny laughed, excitement still lifting her spirits. "And well it may. . . . Well, I suppose if I've got to get up to the Vallee des Orages------"

"I think I can borrow a car. Aristide Celton—he's the local
gendarme
—is a drinking companion of mine, and he has a little Renault that I'm certain he'll let me use."

"That's marvelous. I was wondering what on earth to do about my cases."

"If I can't get the car, one of the muleteers will take your heavy stuff up in the morning. One of them lives in your valley at a farm above the convent; he's called Pierre Bussac. I believe he ferries goods up when required. And there's a lad called Luis who has horses------"

Her interest quickened. "Three horses? Chestnuts?" "Yes. Why?"

"Oh, nothing. I think I saw him today." They began to walk slowly down the hill.

Jennifer, now that the decision was stated, and a plan, however tentative, was made, felt the tension in her slackening perceptibly. She glanced sideways at Stephen. He caught the look, and smiled. Whatever had been odd and withdrawn about him had vanished. Things were normal again. He put out a hand to help her, and she took it.

They went downhill together, still holding hands.

"This boy," she said, "does he live in the valley, too?" "His home's at Argeles, on his uncle's farm, but he brings the cattle up here in summer and lives with them, so to speak, in a hut on the other side of the Vallee des Orages."

"You appear to know him very well!" said Jennifer, amused.

"Oh, he's come and had a look at my sketches several times. He's always up and down between Gavarnie and the Vallee des Orages."

"It's very brave of you to risk local criticism, Stephen! I'm sure it's devastating!"

He grinned. "They're pretty frank. Luis is always wanting me to draw his horses, which I couldn't do, and Madame Bus-sac;—she had a look at my things once—said simply and flatly that paintings meant nothing to her and she preferred photographs. . . . Shall I see you tomorrow?"

"I don't know, Stephen. It's a long way------"

"I'll come. I'd like you to feel I'm there if you want me. I know, Jenny------"

"Yes?"

"If I collect some food and a bottle of wine, will you meet me tomorrow—say at the bend in the track below the convent—for a picnic lunch, and we'll exchange discoveries?"

"Of course. I'd like that. But—exchange, Stephen? What discoveries are you going to make?"

He said, "I thought I might have an idle chat tomorrow with the local doctor, and the priest. They both saw Gil—this woman, after all."

They were on the bridge. She stopped and turned to face him. "Stephen . . ." She added, slowly, "I know you think I'm crazy, and I expect I'll be proved a fool at every turn . . . but. I must do this. You see, don't you?"

"Yes, I see."

She touched his hand almost shyly. "And I'm terribly grateful. I—I'm awfully glad you're here. . . ."

He said, steadily, "That's fine. . . . Have you packed?"

"Yes."

He was looking at the luminous dial of his watch. "It's not too late. We'll go and ask Aristide Celton for his car, and then, if you like, we might see the priest tonight."

"That sounds delightfully compromising," said Jennifer primly, and led the way up the path.

Though it was long past service time, Father Anselm was in his little church. Having been directed there by his housekeeper, Jennifer and Stephen climbed the steps that led up the hillside behind the village toward the dark-spired bulk of the church. The triple-lanced light of the east window glowed above them, at once remote and welcoming, yellow against the stars, steadily asserting its three-fold link between the immensity of that star-hung darkness and the squat, earthbound building that hugged the hillside. Within, they were met by the fragrance of dead incense mingled with the sharper smell of snuffed candles, a dusky fragrance, nostalgic as the scent of potpourri. It hung between the pillars, over the bristling taper brackets, in front of the niches where lurked the little saints of stone and plaster.

There did, indeed, appear to be a veritable convocation of saints. To every pillar, three niches; to every niche, a saint . . . the side aisles were lined with them, large and small, plain and colored, merry and sad. And it was in front of a small, sad saint that they found Father Anselm prosaically busy with a duster.

He was a little man, with a thin face, sharp eyes, and a remarkable nose. He was not old, but what hair he still had was gray, and his shoulders were bent, as if with much peering at badly printed books. The gray hair, and the soutane which he wore, saved him from too closely resembling Dr. Beetle—a resemblance to which otherwise his nose might have condemned him. He greeted the visitors with a lively flourish of his duster, incidentally dispersing over a rather wider area the dust he had just laboriously gathered. They returned his greeting, and Jennifer began politely to admire the church. Father Anselm beamed with pleasure, and, almost before they realized what was happening, they were being carefully conducted from saint to saint.

"Polycarp . . ." said Father Anselm, pausing at length. "St. Britius; St. Machutus . .

." He stopped to whisk some wholly imaginary dust off the pedestal of St.

Machutus.

Stephen took a quick breath. "We came to see you,
mon pere
, about------"

"St. Remigius, Bishop of Rheims," said Father Anselm, and was off at a brisk trot, his duster at the alert.

They followed him to the next pillar. "St. Enurchus," he demonstrated. "St.

Boniface; St. Alphege; St. Lucy . . ."

"—About a woman------"

"St. Perpetua, Virgin and Martyr ..."

"—Who died about a fortnight ago------"

"St. Blasius, Bishop of Sebaste," and he was off again. "St. Simon, and, of course------"

"St. Jude?" supplied Jennifer automatically. This, surprisingly enough, had the effect of checking Father Anselm's hagiolatrous progress. As if aware of them properly for the first time, he turned and beamed at Jennifer.

"And St. Jude," he acknowledged. "Mademoiselle is familiar, then, with the calendar of the blessed saints?"

"Oh, no," she said hastily, "not really. Only some."

Father Anselm's face assumed an expression of pleased anticipation. "Have you heard," he asked anxiously, "of St. Bidulphus?"

"No."

"Of St. Onesimus?"

"No-o."

"Of St. Augustine of Hippo?"

"No indeed."

Father Anselm returned in triumph to his pillar.

"All here! Every onel" And he waved his duster with satisfaction.

Stephen, with a surreptitious glance at his watch, opened his mouth to speak, but was ignored. Jennifer and Father Anselm, evincing the liveliest satisfaction in one another's company, had already vanished around another pillar, presumably to identify St. Bidulphus and his rarer fellows. Stephen lifted an eyebrow and followed them.