Ritual. Part 11

Charlie weaved his way in between close-set oaks and tangles of thorn that were as vicious as rolls of barbed wire. At last he reached a low stone retaining wall from which he could see into the large cast-iron solarium which ran along the back of the house. He could see potted plants and old-fas.h.i.+oned cane furniture, and several white marble statues of naked children. Keeping his head down, he skirted the side of the house until he came within fifteen yards of a small door. The door was carved with wooden grapes and gargoyles and studded 112.

with black iron bolts. It was impossible to tell whether it was locked or not. If it were, Charlie would not only have to risk discovery by running across the open lawn towards it, but he would have to run back again, too. He crouched down behind the retaining wall and waited to see if there was anybody around, but apart from the wind and the agitated s.h.i.+vering of the trees, the house and its grounds were silent. No airplanes pa.s.sed overhead. No birds sang. The reflected clouds ran silently across the windows.

At last, glancing left and right, Charlie took hold of the top of the retaining wall, and prepared to heave himself up on to the upper lawn. But at the very instant he did so, the handle of the garden door rattled and turned, he ducked down just before it was opened wide. He pressed himself as close into the stones as he could, his heart beating, his face sweaty, and prayed that whoever was coming out of the garden door wouldn't come too close to the edge of the lawn and find him there. It was one thing to have driven openly into the front entrance of Le Reposoir; it was another to have deliberately breached their security and to be hiding like a would-be housebreaker in their private grounds.

He heard voices, and a noise that sounded like the squeak of badly oiled wheels. One voice was high and accented; the other was gruff, and plainly American. The high voice said, 'She should be allowed to sleep until the afternoon. You remember what it was like your first time.'

The gruff voice replied, 'I wish I could have my first time again.'

'It is the last time that you must look forward to now,' the high voice replied.

It sounded to Charlie as if the two speakers were moving around the side of the house and away from him. Their voices were accompanied by the persistent squeaking of wheels, as if they were pus.h.i.+ng something. Charlie hesitated for a moment, and then edged his way about ten yards to the right along the wall until he came to a large stone urn. The urn was felted with dark green moss, and a small toad sat on its plinth, watching Charlie with yellow expressionless eyes. Charlie slowly raised his head, using the urn for cover, and tried to catch a glimpse of the people who had come out of the garden door before they disappeared.

To begin with, they were out of his line of sight behind a triangular yew bush. But suddenly they appeared quite clearly between the bush and the corner of the house, and when Charlie saw them he s.h.i.+vered the way a small child s.h.i.+vers when a grown-up shouts at him. It was surprise, and fright, but most of all it was the incongruity of their appearance, like people out of a Breughel painting of lazars and cripples.

Leading the way was the small dwarf-like figure in the white hood whom Charlie had seen at the Iron Kettle, and outside the back door at Mrs Kemp's. It walked with a swinging lurch, like an ape, yet it was distinctly human. Behind this small figure came a three wheeled invalid carriage, a kind of a Bath chair in which a pale-faced woman was lying, her eyes open, her head back, staring at the sky. She was covered up to her neck in an off-white blanket, and there was a leather strap around her waist which looked as if it was supposed to prevent her from falling out.

The invalid carriage was being pushed by the black-cloaked woman whom Charlie recognized from his first intrusion into the grounds of Le Reposoir, the woman who might have been Mme Musette. Her hood had fallen back, revealing her face, and even from a distance Charlie could see that she was just as striking as before, a woman of almost unbelievable beauty. Yet - remembering what he had seen in his rear-view mirror as he had driven away from the house the first time - his eyes jumped at once to the steering bar of the invalid carriage, on which the woman's hands were resting. She was wearing black cotton gloves, but only one finger of each glove was actually 114.

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hooked over the bar. The remaining fingers were crumpled and obviously empty.

Charlie stared at this bizarre procession until it had disappeared from sight around the side of the house. Then he slowly slid down into a sitting position behind the retaining wall, oblivious to the green moss which smeared the back of his coat. He felt as if he had accidentally wandered into some extraordinary Victorian nightmare. Alice Through the Looking Gla.s.s with freaks and dwarves and beautiful women with no fingers. He wiped his face with his hands; he was wet with chilly sweat.

It was not only the weirdness of the procession that had frightened him. It was the conviction that he had recognized the pale-faced woman lying in the invalid carriage staring at the sky. Although he had glimpsed her for only two or three seconds, he could have sworn that it was Harriet Greene.

If it were Harriet Greene, though, what the h.e.l.l had they done to her? She looked almost as if she were dying.

Charlie waited for nearly a minute. Then he raised his head cautiously over the top of the wall to see if there was anybody else around. But the house and the lawns seemed to be deserted, and even though ravens were circling around the spires which rose above the house like monuments in a Victorian cemetery, they were silent, as if they knew that this was not the place to cry out.

Grunting with effort, after a working lifetime of four-course meals and not very much in the way of coherent exercise, Charlie climbed up the retaining wall and then crouched on the very edge of the lawn like a middle-aged backstop who refuses to admit that he is over the hill. The gra.s.s was bright and green and springy, and felt almost like short-cropped human hair. Charlie held his breath and listened - then made his way as quickly and as quietly as he could across the lawn to the garden door. By the time he reached it he was trembling with tension, but he took hold of the handle without hesitation 116.

and turned it. It had been left unlocked, and it swung open easily, without the slightest squeal. Charlie glanced behind him to make sure that he wasn't being watched, and then stepped inside.

CHAPTER NINE.

He found himself in a store room, which was gloomy but very dry. Rakes, hoes and edging-spades were hanging neatly on the walls and there were sacks of aromatic peat, of lawn-feed and rose fertilizer. Charlie edged between the sacks until he found another door on the far side of the room, a grey-painted steel door, with an automatic hinge to close it. He turned the handle, and to his relief this door wasn't locked either. He eased it open and put his head around it. On the other side there was a long oak-panelled corridor, very dark and smelling of polish, with mottled engravings all along the walls. Charlie stepped out of the store room and into the corridor, and then hesitated, wondering which direction he ought to take. If he went to the right, towards the front of the house, it would probably be easier to get his bearings. But if the Musettes were really holding Martin, it was unlikely that they would have hidden him in any of the princ.i.p.al rooms at the front.

He turned left, towards the back of the house. His fingers trailed along the stained oak panelling, as if he needed to touch the wall to keep his hold on reality. He glanced up at one or two of the old engravings. They were French, and they were all concerned with butchery. They showed the carca.s.ses of cattle and sheep, and serious-faced men with big moustaches and white ap.r.o.ns removing with large knives the aiguillettes and culottes and plats de cotes decouverts.

When he reached the end of the corridor he found himself at the foot of an oak staircase, which led steeply up towards a back landing. There was a large window overlooking the landing, which filled the stairwell with grey photographic light.

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Charlie guessed that this must have originally been used as the servants' staircase. He looked upward. There was the sound of someone vacuum cleaning in some far-off bedroom, but that was all. He began to climb the treads one at a time, holding on to the banisters.

He was halfway up the stairs when a voice said, 'Charlie?

He looked up in shock. Standing just above him, one elbow casually propped on the banister, was Velma, dressed in a linen kaftan so fine that it was almost transparent. She was smiling at him dreamily, as if nothing had happened between them at all; as if they were old chums who happened to have b.u.mped into each other on a quiet New England commuter train.

'They told me you didn't even exist,' said Charlie unsteadily.

'Who said I didn't even exist?' She wouldn't stop smiling.

'Those people at the Windsor. Bits, whatever his name was. The maitre d'. He denied point-blank that he'd ever seen you. When I said that you called him Bits, he laughed in my face.'

'I expect he did,' said Velma. 'I made it up.'

Charlie said tightly, 'Is Martin here?'

'Martin?'

'My son. Was that what you were doing - keeping me busy while Martin was being kidnapped?'

'Charlie,' said Velma, 'you're not making any sense.'

Charlie took a sharp, impatient breath. 'When I returned to my room at the Windsor after I'd spent the night with you, Martin was gone. There wasn't any trace of him at all. There wasn't any trace of you, either.'

'I left,' said Velma, with complete simplicity.

'Well, sure you did. In fact, the hotel porter said you'd never even been there. So did Bits, or whatever his name is. So what was I supposed to think?'

Velma teased up her hair with her fingers. 'This is private property, you know. You shouldn't be here.' 'I want to know if my son's here, that's all.'

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Velma suddenly stopped preening herself and stared at Charlie in amus.e.m.e.nt. 'How old did you say your son was? Fifteen?'

Charlie took three or four more steps up the staircase, until he was almost at the top. He was trying to be threatening but Velma didn't seem to be intimidated in the least. She cupped one hand over her left breast through the gauzy fabric of her gown, and lifted it slightly as if she was weighing it. Charlie had felt it for himself. He knew how soft and heavy it was.

'You said something about the Celestines this morning, didn't you?'

'Did I?' Velma asked him.

'You thought that I wanted to join them, didn't you? I mean - that's what goes on here, doesn't it? Meetings of the Celestines? You thought that I wanted to join, and that's why you kidnapped Martin.'

Velma stretched and yawned. 'You're going to get into serious trouble, you know, if M. Musette finds you here. M. Musette is very particular about trespa.s.sers. If it was legal, he'd shoot them dead. But of course he's too law-abiding to do that.' Charlie reached the top step. He was only three feet away from Velma now. He could smell her favourite perfume, Obsession, and he could see the crow's-feet around her eyes that last night had looked like experience and excitement, and which this morning looked like the first sign of advancing age. He could see her stiffened nipples through the linen of her gown. He didn't even know whether he liked her or despised her. He didn't even know what he thought about the Musettes. All he cared about was finding Martin, and if that meant being friendly to people he despised, then that is what he would do. He couldn't help thinking of Mrs Foss, and the serious way in which she had looked at him through her upswept eyegla.s.ses and said: 'The story most people used to tell was that they were taking stray children off the streets and fattening them up, so that they could eat them.'

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And he couldn't help thinking about his own response. '/ haven't heard anything like that since Hansel and Gretel.'

Charlie stood close beside Velma and touched her hair. 'Is Martin here?' he asked her gently. 'I'm his father, Velma. I'm responsible for what happens to him.'

'And do you love him?' she challenged.

'What do you think? He's my only child, my only son.'

'That doesn't mean anything at all. I was my father's only daughter, and he used to beat me up every day. Well, it felt like every day. He used to burn the soles of my feet with cigarettes.'

Charlie said, 'What are you trying to do? Are you trying to make me feel guilty, or what? Your childhood is nothing to do with me. I just want to know if Martin is here, that's all. I just want to know what the h.e.l.l is happening.'

Velma's eyes brightened. 'Come with me,' she said. 'You want to know what the h.e.l.l is happening? Well, let me show you.'

Charlie hesitated for a moment, but then he allowed Velma to take hold of his arm and lead him away from the landing and down a long, narrow corridor that was the twin of the corridor downstairs. Oak-panelled, dark, with only occasional windows to light up the framed engravings of abattoirs and butchery. One engraving showed a selection of butcher's knives, skinning knives, sticking knives, boning knives, cleavers and splitting saws. Another showed offal being sliced, liver, kidneys, hearts, and sweetbreads. Each engraving carried a caption in French.

'Are the Musettes at home?' Charlie asked, as they made their way along the corridor.

'What makes you ask that?'

'I saw some people in the garden. Somebody in a hood, like a dwarf; and a woman in a black cloak. The first time I came here, I got the impression that the woman in the black cloak was Mme Musette.'

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Velma glanced at him over her shoulder. 'Come and see this before you ask me any more questions.'

'They were wheeling a woman in an invalid carriage,' Charlie persisted. He reached out and took hold of Velma's arm and stopped her. 'Listen to me, will you? I knew the woman from before. At least, I thought I did. She used to work as a waitress at the Iron Kettle.'

Velma unexpectedly bent forward and kissed Charlie on the mouth. 'You really don't know what's going on, do you?'

Charlie said, 'Maybe you ought to tell me. I mean, you're obviously in it with them. You're obviously a part of it.'

'A part of what?' asked Velma, with an innocence that was plainly feigned, and intended to taunt him even more.

'This,' said Charlie. 'The Musettes. The Windsor Hotel. All of this. Martin disappearing. That G.o.dd.a.m.ned dwarf. The way that every single person I've met in the past two days has jumped like a jackrabbit whenever anybody mentions Le Reposoir. It's all tied together, and don't you try to kid me otherwise.'

Velma looked at Charlie for a very long time, and then turned her head away. He was conscious that her profile was very handsome, and that her b.r.e.a.s.t.s swelled up inside the thin linen of her gown in a way that provoked him, even now.

'I guess you could say they misjudged you,' she said.

'Who misjudged me?'

She gave him a smile as faint as a distant echo. 'They thought that you knew a whole lot more about the Celestines than you obviously did. M. Musette found out you were a restaurant inspector. I guess he must have thought that a restaurant inspector knew about the Celestines.'

'Well, as a matter of fact, I don't. Maybe I'm unusually ignorant or something. Mrs Foss back at the Iron Kettle gave me some kind of weird story about them; and that's why I came up here. I was worried about Martin.'

Somewhere deep in the building a heavy door slammed, and echoed. Velma said, 'We'd better hurry. Mme Musette will be looking for me in a minute.'

Charlie kept hold of her arm. 'First you have to tell me the truth about these Celestines.'

'Don't you understand? - I'm going to show you.'

Reluctantly, Charlie followed her further along the corridor. She pushed her way ahead of him through a swing fire door and crossed a wide hallway with a yellow-tinted skylight and a highly polished linoleum floor. On the other side of the hallway, there was a solid oak door with a varnished wooden s.h.i.+eld on it, emblazoned with a painting of a Papal crown, encircled by a halo.

Another door slammed, closer this time, and Charlie thought he could hear footsteps. 'They won't go totally ape, will they, if they find me here?' he asked Velma. He was beginning to feel seriously worried now. Velma didn't answer him, but pressed her finger against her lips and opened the door decorated with the Papal crown.

Beyond, there was another corridor, at least sixty feet long, dimly lit by small windows set into the doors which ran along either side. Velma beckoned Charlie to follow her, and she went from window to window, peering inside. The first three windows were covered by white cotton blinds. The fourth was uncovered, but the room inside was empty, except for a plain metal-framed bed and a white screen of the type used in hospitals.

'What the h.e.l.l is this?' Charlie demanded, but Velma suddenly touched his arm and indicated with a nod of her head that he should look into the fifth window.

At first, Charlie couldn't quite understand what he was supposed to see. The room was almost bare, and lit only by the pale uncompromising daylight. A young girl was sitting cross-legged on the floor at a three-quarter angle to the door, so that Charlie could just see her profile. He guessed that she was about fourteen or fifteen years old. Her dark hair was 122.

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bobbed, and she was dressed in the same kind of linen gown that Velma was wearing.

'I see a girl, that's all,' whispered Charlie.

'She's one of the new ones,' said Velma.

'One of the new what?'

'Devotees, that's what the Celestines call them.'

'Velma, I don't understand. I simply don't understand. You're going to have a spell it out for me.'

Velma smiled broadly and there was something about her smile which made Charlie feel uncomfortably cold. It was a lewd, coa.r.s.e smile; the smile of someone who has indulged every l.u.s.t that you can think of, and many more that you could never think of.

'Look at her feet,' she urged Charlie.

'Her feet? Charlie turned back to the window and peered at the girl more closely.

It was then he realized that the girl's feet were both mutilated. There was a heel, an arch, and that was all. The girl had no toes.

Charlie turned back to Velma and hissed, 'What? What is this all about?'

'It's exactly what it looks like,' she said. 'She hasn't any toes.'

'But why? Is this some kind of a nursing home or something?'

'Nursing home?' Velma laughed. 'Of course not."

'Then what happened to her feet?'

'She cut off her toes, of course.'

'What do you mean, "of course"? What kind of a state of mind do you have to be in to cut your own toes off?'

'Devotional,' said Velma, as if that explained everything.

'Devotional?' Charlie echoed. 'That doesn't look like devotion to me. That looks like a straightforward case of insanity.'