AHMM, Jul-Aug 2005 Read online

  "Enjoy your dinner, monsieur,” she said. The candlelight made her face look hollow.

  "You wouldn't like to stay and keep me company?” he asked. “It's really dark and lonely in here."

  "I am expected back in the kitchen to serve my sisters, monsieur.” She gave a little bow. “If I were you, I'd go to sleep right after you've eaten, so that you can be up at first light and get your job finished. If you put your tray outside your door, one of us will collect it."

  She turned to go.

  "Marie.” He grabbed at her wrist. She gave a little gasp, went to struggle free, then stared down at his big red, workman's hand around her small white one.

  "Don't do it,” he whispered. “Don't shut yourself away from life. There's a wonderful world out there. You should be dancing and letting some fellow kiss you in the moonlight. God must have made us to live our lives, not bury ourselves prematurely."

  "And where would I find this fellow who would take me dancing and kiss me in the moonlight?” she asked, looking up with a little smile on her lips.

  "I wouldn't mind volunteering for the job myself.” He smiled back.

  "Mother warned us of temptation. Perhaps you were right—that is why she assigned this duty to me after all. My big test. I must go. I'll be missed. I'll have to answer to the novice mistress and to Mother."

  He looked around the bleak little room. “I wish I could understand the appeal of this place. I mean, what is there in it for you? Locked away with a bunch of dried-out old women? Your reverend mother came halfway around the world to be here—there must be something."

  The smile this time was slightly wicked. “They say that Mother came here after she was betrayed by a young man in France. It may be just gossip, but Mother is certainly distrustful of all men."

  "She may have reason,” Jacques said, and his gaze held hers. “We sometimes get carried away by a pretty face or a neat little figure."

  She jerked her hand away from him. “I really must...” She turned and ran.

  Jacques heard her light feet echoing back along the cloister. Then he sat on the hard wooden chair and ate the meal—a thick vegetable soup, more coarse bread, some stewed fruit, and a cookie. A glass of milk accompanied it this time. He drank it, longing for beer, then put the tray outside the door. He hesitated as he did so, staring down the long dark hallway and wondering if she would be back for it and would tap on his door if he forgot to put the tray outside.

  "You'll burn in hell for trying to seduce a nun,” he told himself firmly, then reminded himself that she wasn't a nun yet. There was still time. He had flirted with her that time at her grandfather's farm, but hadn't shown enough interest to make a second date with her or even to drive out that way again. It must be the old saying about forbidden fruit tasting sweeter. Now that she was in that nun's uniform, he couldn't wait to rip it off her.

  At last he fell into uneasy sleep and woke to the crowing of a rooster and the first gray streaks of light in the eastern sky. He washed at the sink down the hall and was busy at work when the breakfast tray arrived.

  "Your breakfast, monsieur."

  He looked into the round, expressionless face of a round, middle-aged nun.

  "Where's Marie?"

  "Marie?"

  "The girl who brought my meals yesterday."

  "I don't know, sir. I was instructed by Mother to bring your breakfast and one always obeys Mother's orders. Bon appetit, monsieur."

  He sat, resting his back against the new wall, to eat the bowl of oatmeal, the boiled egg, and toast, then went back to work. The wall would be finished by lunchtime if he worked hard.

  It took him longer than he anticipated setting the final bricks into the curve of the archway and a lunch tray was brought by the same round-faced sister. He went straight back to work and finished by mid afternoon. Mother Superior arrived, again as if on cue, as he was gathering together his tools and loading the leftover bricks into the wheelbarrow.

  "Leave that, monsieur. One of our sisters can attend to the clearing up."

  "But the bricks are heavy. Wouldn't you like me to wheel them back to the cowshed for you?"

  "Our sisters are used to hard labor, monsieur. Just leave everything as it is. You have done splendidly. A good solid wall. Come along now.” She waved him along the hall with her hand, like someone directing a flock of ducks.

  He picked up his tool bag and fell into step beside her.

  "I was wondering what happened to the young girl who brought my food yesterday,” he said. “I used to know her before she came here. I hope she didn't get into trouble for chatting with me. She was the soul of virtue, by the way."

  "To your regret, monsieur?"

  To his annoyance he blushed. “It seemed a shame for someone as young and pretty as that to shut herself away before she had a chance to experience life outside."

  "And what should she have experienced, monsieur? Should she have waited to discover heartbreak and betrayal? Should she discover that all men are, as you put it, fancy free?"

  "Not all men, Mother."

  "No? Did you not tell me yourself that you plan to see the world? If Marie were available to you, would you be prepared to give up that dream?"

  "She's not available, is she?"

  "I hope she sets her sights higher than a mere laborer such as yourself, monsieur."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that Marie left the convent this morning. She came to me and told me that she no longer felt she had the temperament to become a sister here. She is gone, monsieur."

  "Gone? Home? Back to Saint Denis?"

  "That I can't tell you."

  His heart soared momentarily. He'd find her and ... Then he paused. Did he really want her? At least it would be fun to find out.

  They crossed the courtyard and reached the pickup truck in the cowshed.

  "I will make sure that the gate is open for you, monsieur, and take my leave of you here. You will be sending me your bill?"

  "Yes, Mother."

  "Goodbye then, Monsieur Clement."

  "Goodbye, ma Mere."

  She was gone. He threw his bag into the back of his pickup truck. He was out of here, back to normal life. He'd find Marie easily enough. Why did Mother Superior think he wouldn't? Then the nagging uneasiness exploded in his head. Mother Superior had told him that nobody had left the order in one hundred and fifty years. Why had she let Marie go so easily? And why had she decided to brick up that old chapel now? And why had she insisted that he leave the extra bricks there?

  There was only one answer, one that sent his heart thumping. Marie was to be bricked up behind that wall. Maybe she was lying drugged at this moment. Maybe she was already dead. Either way, she would just disappear. And nobody would ever question her disappearance.

  Well, not if he could help it. He ran back across the courtyard. The green door was now locked. He started to run around the courtyard, trying one door after another. At last he found a window open and climbed through it, squeezing his hefty body through with difficulty. He had no idea where he was, but he sprinted down the hallway, his feet echoing alarmingly from the stone walls and slate floor. Another hallway, then another. He encountered no one and at last thought he recognized the room where he had spent the night. Just down the hall and around the corner and—

  The wall was there. The pile of bricks beside it untouched. He stood staring at it, his heart thumping and the cold sweat of panic trickling down his face. What should he do next? Think, Clement, think! He pounded one fist into the other. He couldn't actually go and accuse the mother superior. She'd never let him search the convent. And if he drove down to the village and alerted the police, they'd probably laugh at him. There was only one thing to do—he'd lie in wait and catch her in the act, or them in the act. It would take more than one of them to carry Marie all this way and shove her through the small opening. He looked around for somewhere to hide. The doors on either side were locked. He stood there undecided, trying to make his
brain think logically.

  Then he stiffened. It was the slightest of sounds, a mere whispering rustle, but it echoed within the vaulted walls of the chapel. She was in there already. And she wasn't dead yet. In a flash he was down on his stomach, attempting to squeeze his muscular body through the little opening. He wriggled through, his elbows scraping on the stone floor and stood uncertainly on the other side. It was very dark. That small square of light from the opening was rapidly swallowed in gloom so that the back of the chapel melted into blackness. His hand touched the wall for reassurance and then he began to move along the left-hand wall, his hand tracing the pillars and recesses for niches. It was cold and clammy to the touch.

  "Marie?” he dared to whisper. “Marie? Are you in here?"

  As his eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness he tried to see if anyone was on the floor. He came upon an altar rail, but the black lump beyond it proved to be only an ancient kneeler. It was impossible. He should go back for a flashlight...

  Then he heard the noise again—the slightest swish of moving fabric. As he turned to it, he was hit from behind and blackness overcame him.

  He came to gradually, like a diver surfacing from deep water. His head throbbed and he felt sick. It took him a while to remember where he was, before the cold reality of the stone beneath his cheek brought him to his knees. He must get out of here ... that was when he saw that the square of light from the little hole had shrunk. Before the opening had been almost two feet square. Now it was barely visible. His first reaction was that he had lain there for a long while and night was falling. Then he made his way to the hint of daylight, crawling on his hands and knees, and his hand encountered solid cold brick where the opening had been. Solid except for a couple of bricks at the top.

  He tried to catch his breath as he pushed against this new wall of brick. He couldn't have been in there that long. The mortar would still be wet and he was strong enough to...

  "There is little point in trying to do that, monsieur.” The voice on the other side was Mother Superior's. “We made the provision of buying some quick-drying mortar. It should have set nicely by now."

  He put his face to the opening and peered out. All he could see was the black fabric of her habit.

  "What in God's name are you doing?” he demanded. “Are you mad? What have I ever done to you?"

  "You lived, Monsieur Clement,” the cold voice said. “You lived and my child died."

  "What are you talking about? What child?"

  "The child of your father, monsieur. Your father—the sailor who wooed me when his ship docked in Bordeaux, who swore that he loved me. And I, innocent girl that I was, believed him. He sailed away before I discovered that I was with child. I did not wish to bring disgrace to my family, so I followed him to Canada, sure that he would do the right thing and marry me when he discovered the truth. Instead, I found that he already had a wife and a baby son of his own. You, monsieur. He denied ever knowing me. The shock was so great that I miscarried. After that I swore to have nothing more to do with men. I came to this place, but the desire for revenge gnawed at me."

  "Christians are supposed to forgive their enemies."

  "I know. I kept telling myself that, but it wouldn't go away. It was a blackness in my heart that never subsided. And then fate brought me my revenge on a platter. Some years later we needed some work done to our leaking roof and the handyman summoned was your father. Imagine what I felt when I saw him getting out of his truck. I served his dinner that night. He didn't even recognize me. I put rat poison in his coffee, and afterward I put him in one of the stone coffins in our crypt. His truck is now rusting with our farm equipment in the cowshed. Where your truck also rests, monsieur."

  "But am I to be punished for the sins of my father?” he demanded. “I did you no wrong."

  "As I said, you lived. You have had a chance to enjoy life, and I saw from my conversations with you, and from observing you with Marie, that you would turn out no better than your father was. You would woo some poor girl, then desert her as I was deserted. Better that such men be removed from the face of the earth before they can do their damage."

  "No,” he shouted. “You've got it wrong. I'm a decent guy. Don't do this. I beg you, don't do it! Let me out. I promise I'll go away from here and say nothing about all this if you only let me out. I promise. For God's sake! You of all people..."

  The sound became muffled as the last brick was put into place.

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  Copyright © 2005 by Rhys Bowen.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Tattersby and the Old Curiosity Shed by Neil Schofield

  I've been musing a lot recently. On Destiny, funnily enough. Destiny, Fate, Fortune, whatever you like to call it. My old dad couldn't be doing with it. As far as he was concerned, Destiny was a wild-eyed lunatic who lurked round corners waiting to play daft tricks on honest folk. “Harry,” he said to me more than once, because he wasn't bothered about repeating something if he thought it was worth it, “Harry lad, all Destiny does is play silly buggers."

  And he was right. Take me. When I was sixteen or thereabouts, to look at me, which not a lot of people did because I wasn't much to look at, you'd have said I was meant to be a philosopher-greengrocer like my dad, and to be the Son in Tattersby & Son, Fine Fruit and Veg.

  But no. As it turned out, I was meant for a life in the police force, to rise to the giddy heights of detective-inspector in a nondescript northern town. (Never mind which one. I'm not going to make a name up, they never sound right, and I'm not giving the real one, because I still have to live here.)

  But all that's reckoning without the silly-bugger factor. Because what I was really and truly destined for, apparently, was the giddy depths of ex-detective-inspector.

  The day all this business started was a Wednesday. I don't know why I mention that except we were talking about my old dad. He didn't have much time for Wednesdays either, I don't know why. He must have had his reasons.

  What happened on this Wednesday was that the doorbell rang. That doesn't sound very extraordinary, but it had been a long time since anyone had pushed that bell. When I opened up all I found was Eggy Edgworth, small-time burglar, sneak-thief, and copper's nark of this parish who didn't look much like Destiny. He didn't look much like anything. If you had to put a name to it, he resembled something you might find in a schoolboy's pocket, soft and squashy and covered in fluff.

  Eggy Edgworth grew up in a neighborhood and a family where the instinct to steal was absorbed with your mother's milk. Unhappily for Eggy, something went wrong in the genetic mix, so he turned out the wrong shape for the robber's trade, too fat, too short, and not quite vicious enough. This meant that at the age of thirty or so his career had already hit a number of setbacks, and he had to supplement his meager thieving revenue by informing on his peers. Curiously, on top of this Play-Doh body was perched the face of a ten-year-old choirboy, which had stood him in good stead before more than one magistrate.

  "How do, Mr. T.,” he said.

  "Get in here,” I said. “I don't want the whole road to see a convicted criminal on my doorstep chewing the fat."

  "Reformed convicted criminal, Mr. T.,” he said as I dragged him in, “going straight now. Well, straightish."

  I closed the door.

  "What is it, Eggy?” I said. “I've got things to do.” Lies.

  "Well, it's been a while,” he said, “and I was wondering how you were. You're still big, aren't you. Although, I think I liked you better with the mustache. Gave you a bit of authority, like."

  I looked at myself in the hall mirror. I've got a good face, though I say it as shouldn't, nice and square with a straight nose and honest blue eyes. And a full head of hair, which not everyone round here can say at forty-four.

  "I think I've got all the authority I need, thank you very much,” I said.

  "Ey,” Eggy said, looking round him, “they're nice, these houses inside, aren't they? I've nev
er been in one of these. Spacious, in't it? Pleasant volumes of light and air."

  "Don't get used to it,” I told him. “Come on,” and we went down the hall and into the sitting room.

  "Oh now,” he said, his little face all lighted up, and his little protruding baby blue eyes all dancing. “Oh now, this is nice, in't it? I like this, me. Minimalist. Stripped down. No frills. No—well, no comfort, really."

  I said nothing to that. I wasn't going to explain why there was nothing in the sitting room except one armchair, a television, sound system, and a wall of books. I'd known Eggy for a long time, but he didn't warrant that level of confidence. It was going to be one of those mornings, was it? Well if it was, I needed a cuppa.

  "Eggy, what do you want?” I said.

  "Only a lot of us were really cut up when you got the push."

  "I retired, Eggy. Try to remember that."

  "Right,” he said, “when you were retired. ‘Cos you was always fair with us. Bad tempered but fair. Fairly bad tempered."

  I went into the kitchen. I put the kettle on. It didn't take long to boil.

  He called out, “Lot of books you got, Mr. T. You read some of them?"

  "All of them,” I called back, “and leave them alone."

  Back in the sitting room, I gave him his tea. He'd pulled down a copy of The Maltese Falcon.

  "Interested in wildlife and that, are you?"

  "Put that back. And keep your fingers off. Now the rules are,” I said to him, “I drink my tea sitting down and you drink standing up, and you tell me why you're round here."

  "Right,” he said, “just the one chair you've got is it? But then, seeing as there's just you, I suppose it works out exactly right."

  He looked at me and hurried on.

  "Only, I've got a bit of a mystery on me hands. Extremely mysterious, as it happens. Someone's been stealing my tools. Or trying to, at any rate."

  "Right,” I said. “Stop right there. What tools?"