Caravan to Vaccares

Chapter 7

To the newcomer the Camargue does indeed appear to be an inhospitable wasteland, an empty wasteland, a desolation of enormous skies and limitless horizons, a flat and arid nothingness, a land long abandoned by life and left to linger and wither and die all summer long under a pitiless sun suspended in the washed-out steel-blue dome above. But if the newcomer remains long enough, he will find that first impressions, as they almost invariably do, give a false and misleading impression. It is, it is true, a harsh land and a bleak land, but one that is neither hostile nor dead, a land that is possessed of none of the uniformly dreadful lifelessness of a tropical desert or a Siberian tundra. There is water here, and no land is dead where water is: there are large lakes and small lakes and lakes that are no lakes at all but marshes sometimes no more than fetlock deep to a horse, others deep enough to drown a house. There are colours here, the ever-changing blues and greys of the wind-rippled waters, the faded yellows of the beds of marshes that line the étangs, the near-blackness of smooth-crowned cypresses, the dark green of windbreak pines, the startlingly bright green of occasional lush grazing pastures, strikingly vivid against the brown and harsh aridity of the tough sparse vegetation and salt-flats hard-baked under the sun that occupy so much the larger part of the land area. And, above all, there is life here: birds in great number, very occasional small groups of black cattle and, even more rarely, white horses: there are farms, too, and ranches, but these are set so far back from roads or so well concealed by windbreaks that the traveller rarely sees them. But one indisputable fact about the Camargue remains, one first impression that never changes, one that wholly justifies its time-and-time again description as being an endless plain: the Camargue is as featurelessly smooth and flat as a sun-warmed summer sea.

For Cecile, as the blue Citroën moved south between Arles and Saintes-Maries, the Camargue was nothing but an increasingly featureless desolation: her spirits became correspondingly increasingly depressed. Occasionally she glanced at Bowman but found no help there: he seemed relaxed, almost cheerful, and if the consideration of the recently spilled blood he had on his hands bore heavily on him he was concealing his feelings remarkably well. Probably, Cecile thought, he had forgotten all about it: the thought had made her feel more depressed than ever. She surveyed the bleak landscape again and turned to Bowman.

‘People live here?’

‘They live here, they love here, they die here. Let’s hope we won’t today. Die here, I mean.’

‘Oh, do be quiet. Where are all the cowboys I’ve heard of – the gardiens as you call them?’

‘In the pubs, I should imagine. This is fiesta day, remember – a holiday.’ He smiled at her. ‘I wish it was for us too.’

‘But your life is one long holiday. You said so.’

‘For us, I said.’

‘A pretty compliment.’ She looked at him consideringly. ‘Can you tell me, offhand, when you last had a holiday?’

‘Offhand, no.’

Cecile nodded, looked ahead again. Half a mile away, on the left-hand side of the road, was a fairly large group of buildings, some of them quite substantial.

‘Life at last,’ she said. ‘What’s that?’

‘A mas. A farm, more of a ranch. Also a bit of a dude ranch – living accommodation, restaurant, riding school. Mas de Lavignolle, they call it.’

‘You’ve been here before, then?’

‘All those holidays,’ Bowman said apologetically.

‘What else?’ She turned her attention to the scene ahead again, then suddenly leaned forward. Just beyond the farm was a windbreak of pines and just beyond that again there was coming into view a scene that showed that there could, indeed, be plenty of life in the Camargue. At least a score of caravans and perhaps a hundred cars were parked haphazardly on the hard-packed earth on the right-hand side of the road. On the left, in a field which was more dust than grass, there were lines of what appeared to be brightly coloured tents. Some of the tents were no more than striped awnings with, below them, trestle tables which, dependent on what was piled on them, acted as either bars or snack-bars. Other and smaller canvas-topped stalls were selling souvenirs or clothes or candy, while still others had been converted into shooting galleries, roulette stands and other games of chance. There were several hundred people milling around among the stalls, obviously enjoying and making the most of the amenities offered. Cecile turned to Bowman as he slowed to let people cross the road.

‘What’s all this, then?’

‘Obvious, isn’t it? A country fair. Arles isn’t the only place in the Camargue – some of the people hereabouts don’t even consider it as being part of the Camargue and act accordingly. Some communities prefer to provide their own diversions and amusements at fiesta time – the Mas de Lavignolle is one of them.’

‘My, my, we are well-informed, aren’t we?’ She looked ahead again and pointed to a large oval-shaped arena with its sides made, apparently, of mud and wattles.

‘What’s that? A corral?’

‘That,’ Bowman said, ‘is a genuine old-fashioned bull-ring where the main attraction of the afternoon will take place.’

She made a face. ‘Drive on.’

He drove on. After less than fifteen minutes, at the end of a long straight stretch of dusty road, he pulled the blue Citroën off the road and got out. Cecile looked at him enquiringly.

‘Two straight miles of road,’ he explained. ‘Gypsy caravans travel at thirty miles an hour. So, four minutes’ warning.’

‘And a panic-stricken Bowman can be on his way in less than fifteen seconds?’

‘Less. If I haven’t finished off the champagne, longer. But enough. Come. Lunch.’

Ten miles to the north, on the same road, a long convoy of gypsy caravans were heading south, raising an immense cloud of dust in their passing. The caravans, normally far from inhibited in the brightness and diversity of their colours, seemed now, in their striking contrast to the bleakness of the landscape around them, more gay and exotic than ever.

The leading, vehicle in the convoy, the yellow breakdown truck that had been pressed into the service of hauling Czerda’s caravan, was the only one that was completely dust-free. Czerda himself was driving, with Searl and El Brocador seated beside him. Czerda was looking at El Brocador with an expression on his face that came as close to admiration as his presently rather battered features were capable of expressing.

He said: ‘By heavens, El Brocador, I’d rather have you by my side than a dozen incompetent unfrocked priests.’

‘I am not a man of action,’ Searl protested. ‘I never have claimed to be.’

‘You’re supposed to have brains,’ Czerda said contemptuously. ‘What happened to them?’

‘We mustn’t be too hard on Searl,’ El Brocador said soothingly. ‘We all know he’s under great pressure, he’s not, as he says, a man of action and he doesn’t know Arles. I was born there, it is the back of my hand to me. I know every shop in Arles that sells gypsy costumes, fiesta costumes and gardien clothes. There are not so many as you might think. The men I picked to help me were all natives too. But I was the lucky one. First time, first shop – just the kind of shop Bowman would choose, a seedy old draper’s in a sidestreet.’

‘I hope, El Brocador, that you didn’t have to use too much – ah – persuasion?’ Czerda was almost arch about it and it didn’t become him at all.

‘If you mean violence, no. Those aren’t my methods, you know that, and besides I’m far too well known in Arles to try anything of the sort. Anyway, I didn’t have to, nobody would have to. I know Madame Bouvier, everyone knows her, she’d throw her own mother in the Rhône for ten francs. I gave her fifty.’ El Brocador grinned. ‘She couldn’t tell me enough fast enough.’

‘A blue and white polka-dotted shirt, white sombrero and black embroidered waistcoat.’ Czerda smiled in anticipation. ‘It’ll be easier than identifying a circus clown at a funeral.’

‘True, true. But first we must catch our hare.’

‘He’ll be there,’ Czerda said confidently. He jerked a thumb in the direction of the following caravans. ‘As long as they are here, he’ll be here. We all know that by this time. You just worry about your part, El Brocador.’

‘No worry there.’ El Brocador’s confidence matched Czerda’s own. ‘Everyone knows what mad Englishmen are like. Just another crazy idiot who tried to show off before the crowd. And dozens of witnesses will have seen him tear free from us in spite of all we could do to stop him.’

‘The bull will have specially sharpened horns? As we arranged?’

‘I have seen to it myself.’ El Brocador glanced at his watch. ‘Can we not make better time? You know I have an appointment in twenty minutes.’

‘Never fear,’ Czerda said. ‘We shall be in Mas de Lavignolle in ten minutes.’

At a discreet distance behind the settling dust the lime-green Rolls swept along in its customary majestic silence. The cabriolet hood was down, with Le Grand Duc sitting regally under the shade of a parasol which Lila held over him.

‘You slept well?’ she asked solicitously.

‘Sleep? I never sleep in the afternoons. I merely had my eyes closed. I have many things, far too many things, on my mind and I think better that way.’

‘Ah! I didn’t understand.’ The first quality one required in dealing with Le Grand Duc, she had learned, was diplomacy. She changed the subject rapidly. ‘Why are we following so few caravans when we’ve left so many behind in Arles?’

‘I told you, those are the ones I am interested in.’

‘But why–’

‘Hungarian and Rumanian gypsies are my special field.’ There was a finality about the way he spoke that effectively sealed off that particular line of discussion.

‘And Cecile. I’m worried about–’

‘Your friend Miss Dubois has already left and unless I am much mistaken–’ his tone left no room to doubt the impiety of any such thought – ‘she is also on this road and considerably ahead of us. She was, I must concede,’ he added reflectively, ‘attired in a very fetching Arlésienne fiesta dress.’

‘A gypsy dress, Charles.’

‘Arlésienne fiesta,’ Le Grand Duc said firmly. ‘I miss very little, my dear. Gypsy costume when you saw her, perhaps. But Arlésienne when she left.’

‘But why should she–’

‘How should I know?’

‘You saw her go?’

‘No.’

‘Then how–’

‘Our Carita here also misses very little. She left with, it seems, a shady-looking individual in gardien clothes. One wonders what happened to that other ruffian – Bowman, wasn’t it? Your friend appears to possess a unique talent for picking up undesirables.’

‘And me?’ Lila was suddenly tight-lipped.

‘Touché! I deserved that. Sorry, I did not intend to slight your friend.’ He gestured with a hand ahead and to the left where a long narrow line of water gleamed like burnished steel under the early afternoon sun. ‘And what is that, my dear?’

Lila glanced at it briefly. ‘I don’t know,’ she said huffily.

‘Le Grand Duc never apologizes twice.’

‘The sea?’

‘Journey’s end, my dear. Journey’s end for all the gypsies who have come hundreds, even thousands of miles from all over Europe. The Étang de Vaccarès.’

‘Étang?’

‘Lake. Lake Vaccarès. The most famous wildlife sanctuary in Western Europe.’

‘You do know a lot, Charles.’

‘Yes, I do,’ Le Grand Duc conceded.

Bowman packed up the remains of lunch in a wicker basket, disposed of what was left of a bottle of champagne and closed the boot of the car.

‘That was delightful,’ Cecile said. ‘And how very thoughtful of you.’

‘Don’t thank me, thank Czerda. He paid for it.’ Bowman looked north along the two-mile stretch of road. It was quite empty of traffic. ‘Well, back to Mas de Lavignolle. The caravans must have stopped at the fair. Heigh-Ho for the bullfight.’

‘But I hate bullfights.’

‘You won’t hate this one.’

He reversed the Citroën and drove back to Mas de Lavignolle. There seemed to be many fewer people there than there had been when they had passed through even although the number of cars and caravans had almost doubled, a discrepancy easily and immediately accounted for as soon as the Citroën had stopped by the sound of laughter and shouting and cheering coming from the nearby bullring. For the moment Bowman ignored the bullring: remaining seated in the car, he looked carefully around him. He did not have to look for long.

‘To nobody’s surprise,’ he announced, ‘Czerda and his missionary pals have turned up in force. At least, their caravans have, so one assumes that Czerda and company have also.’ He drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the steering wheel. ‘To nobody’s surprise, that is, except mine. Curious, curious. One wonders why?’

‘Why what?’ Cecile asked.

‘Why they’re here.’

‘What do you mean? You expected to find them here. That’s why you turned back, wasn’t it?’

‘I turned back because the time-factor, their delay in overtaking us, convinced me that they must have stopped somewhere and this seemed as likely a place as any. The point is that I would not have expected them to stop at all until they reached some of the lonely encampments on one of the étangs to the south where they could have the whole wide Camargue all to themselves. But instead they choose to stop here.’

He sat in silence and she said: ‘So?’

‘Remember I explained in some detail back in Arles just why I thought the gypsies were pulling out so quickly?’

‘I remember some of it. It was a bit confusing.’

‘Maybe I was confusing myself. Somewhere a flaw in the reasoning. My reasoning. But where?’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’

‘I don’t think I’m exaggerating my own importance,’ Bowman said slowly. ‘Not, at least, as far as they are concerned. I’m convinced they’re under pressure, under very heavy pressure, to kill me as quickly as humanly possible. When you’re engaged on a job of great urgency you don’t stop off and spend a peaceful summer’s afternoon watching a bullfight. You press on and with all speed. You entice Bowman to a lonely camp-site at the back of beyond where, because he’s the only person who’s not a member of your group, he can be detected and isolated with ease and disposed of at leisure. You do not stop at a fair-cum-bullfight where he would be but one among thousands of people, thereby making isolation impossible.’ Bowman paused. ‘Not, that is, unless you knew something that he didn’t know, and knew that you could isolate him even among that thousand. Do I make myself clear?’

‘This time I’m not confused.’ Her voice had dropped almost to a whisper. ‘You make yourself very clear. You’re as certain as can be that they’ll get you here. There’s only one thing you can do.’

‘Only one thing,’ Bowman agreed. He reached for the door handle. ‘I’ve got to go and find out for sure.’

‘Neil.’ She gripped his right wrist with surprising strength.

‘Well, at last. Couldn’t keep on calling me Mr Bowman in front of the kids, could you? Victorian.’

‘Neil.’ There was pleading in the green eyes, something close to desperation, and he felt suddenly ashamed of his flippancy. ‘Don’t go. Please, please, don’t go. Something dreadful is going to happen here. I know it.’ She ran the tip of her tongue over dry lips. ‘Drive away from here. Now. This moment. Please.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He forced himself to look away, her beseeching face would have weakened the resolution of an angel and he had no reason to regard himself as such. ‘I have to stay and it may as well be here. It may as well be here for a showdown there has to be, it’s inevitable, and I still think I stand a better chance here than I would on the shores of some lonely étang in the south.’

‘You said, “I have to stay”?’

‘Yes.’ He continued to look ahead. ‘There are four good reasons and they’re all in that green-and-white caravan.’ She made no reply and he went on: ‘Or just Tina alone, Tina and her flayed back. If anyone did that to you I’d kill him. I wouldn’t think about it, I’d just naturally kill him. Do you believe that?’

‘I think so.’ Her voice was very low. ‘No, I know you would.’

‘It could just as easily have been you.’ He altered his tone slightly and said: ‘Tell me, now, would you marry a man who ran away and left Tina?’

‘No, I would not.’ She spoke very matter-of-factly.

‘Ha!’ He altered his tone some more. ‘Am I to take it from that if I don’t run away and leave Tina–’ He broke off and looked at her. She was smiling at him but the green eyes were dim, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry and when she spoke it could have been a catch in her voice or the beginning of laughter.

‘You’re quite, quite hopeless,’ she said.

‘You’re repeating yourself.’ He opened the door. ‘I won’t be long.’

She opened her own door. ‘We won’t be long,’ she corrected him.

‘You’re not–’

‘I am. Protecting the little woman is all very nice but not when carried to extremes. What’s going to happen in the middle of a thousand people? Besides, you said yourself they can’t possibly recognize us.’

‘If they catch you with me–’

‘If they catch you, I won’t be there, because if they can’t recognize you then their only way of getting you is when you are doing something you shouldn’t be doing, like breaking into a caravan.’

‘In broad daylight? You think I’m insane?’

‘I’m not sure.’ She took his arm firmly. ‘One thing I am sure about. Remember what I said back in Aries? You’re stuck with me, mate.’

‘For life?’

‘We’ll see about that.’

Bowman blinked in surprise and peered at her closely. ‘You make me a very happy man,’ he said. ‘When I was a little boy and I wanted something and my mother said “We’ll see about that” I knew I’d always get it. All feminine minds work the same way, don’t they?’

She smiled at him serenely, quite unperturbed. ‘At the risk of repeating myself again, Neil Bowman, you’re a lot cleverer than you look.’

‘My mother used to say that too.’

They paid their admission money, climbed steps to the top of the arena. The terraces were comfortably full, colourfully crowded with hundreds of people, very few of whom could be accused of being drably dressed: gardiens and gypsies were there in about equal proportions, there was a sprinkling of Arlésiens in their fiesta best but most of the spectators were either tourists or local people.

Between the spectators and the sanded ring itself was an area four feet wide, running the entire circumference of the ring and separated from it by a wooden barrier four feet high: it was into this area, the callajon, that the razateur leapt for safety when things were going too badly for him.

In the centre of the ring a small but uncommonly vicious-looking black Camargue bull appeared bent upon the imminent destruction of a white-costumed figure who pirouetted and swerved and twisted and turned and closely but easily avoided the rushes of the increasingly maddened bull. The crowd clapped and shouted their approval.

‘Well!’ Cecile, wide-eyed and fascinated, her fears in temporary abeyance, was almost enjoying herself. ‘This is more like a bullfight!’

‘You’d rather see the colour of the man’s blood than the bull’s?’

‘Certainly. Well, I don’t know. He hasn’t even got a sword.’

‘Swords are for the Spanish corridas where the bull gets killed. This is the Provençal cours libre where nobody gets killed although the occasional razateur – the bullfighter – does get bent a bit. See that red button tied between the horns? He’s got to pull that off first. Then the two bits of string. Then the two white tassels tied near the tips of the horns.’

‘Isn’t it dangerous?’

‘It’s not a way of life I’d choose myself,’ Bowman admitted. He lifted his eyes from the programme note he held in his hand and looked thoughtfully at the ring.

‘Anything wrong?’ Cecile asked.

Bowman didn’t reply immediately. He was still looking at the ring where the white-clad razateur, moving in a tight circle with remarkable speed but with all the controlled grace of a ballet dancer, swerved to avoid the charging bull, leaned over at what appeared to be an impossible angle and deftly plucked away the red button secured between the bull’s horns, one of which appeared almost to brush the razateur’s chest.

‘Well, well,’ Bowman murmured. ‘So that’s El Brocador.’

‘El who?’

‘Brocador. The lad in the ring there.’

‘You know him?’

‘We haven’t been introduced. Good, isn’t he?’

El Brocador was more than good, he was brilliant. Timing his evasive movements with ice-cold judgment and executing them with an almost contemptuous ease, he continued to avoid the bull’s furious rushes with consummate skill: in four consecutive charges he plucked away the two strings that had supported the red button and the two white tassels that had been secured to the tips of the horns. After removing the last tassel and apparently unaware of the bull’s existence, he bowed deeply and gravely to the crowd, ran lightly to the barrier and vaulted gracefully into the safety of the callajon as the bull, now only scant feet behind, charged full tilt into the barrier, splintering the top plank. The crowd clapped and roared its approval.

But not all of them. There were four men who were not only refraining from enthusiastic applause, they weren’t even looking at the bullring. Bowman, who had himself spent very little time in watching the spectacle, had picked them out within two minutes of arriving on the terraces – Czerda, Ferenc, Searl and Masaine. They weren’t watching the bullring because they were too busy watching the crowd. Bowman turned to Cecile.

‘Disappointed?’

‘What?’

‘Very slow bull.’

‘Don’t be horrid. What on earth is this?’

Three clowns, dressed in their traditional baggy and garishly-coloured garments, with painted faces, large false noses and ridiculous pill-boxes perched on their heads, had appeared in the callajon. One carried an accordion which he started to play. His two companions, both managing to trip and fall flat on their faces in the process, climbed over the barrier into the ring and, when they had picked themselves up, proceeded to do a sailor’s hornpipe.

As they danced, the toril gate opened and a fresh bull appeared. Like its predecessor, it was a small black Camargue bull but what it lacked in inches it more than made up for in sheer bad temper for it had no sooner caught sight of the two dancing clowns than it lowered its head and charged. It went for each clown in turn but they, without in any way breaking step or losing the rhythm of the dance, glided and pirouetted to safety as if unaware of the bull’s existence: they were, obviously, razateurs of the highest order of experience.

Temporarily, the music stopped, but the bull didn’t: it charged one of the clowns who turned and ran for his life, screaming for help. The crowd shouted with laughter. The clown, momentarily incensed, stopped abruptly, shook his fist at them, looked over his shoulder, screamed again, ran, mistimed his leap for the barrier and brought up heavily against it, the bull only feet away. It seemed inevitable that he must be either impaled or crushed. Neither happened, but he did not escape entirely unscathed for when he miraculously broke clear it could be seen that his baggy trousers were hooked on to one of the bull’s horns. The clown, clad in white ankle-length underpants, continued his flight, still screaming for help, pursued by a now thoroughly infuriated bull who trailed the trousers along behind him. The crowd was convulsed.

The four gypsies weren’t. As before, they ignored the action in the bullring. But now they were no longer still. They had begun to move slowly through the crowd, all moving in a clockwise fashion, closely scanning the faces of all whom they passed by. And as closely as they observed others, Bowman observed them.

Down in the callajon the accordionist began to play ‘Tales from the Vienna Woods’. The two clowns came together and waltzed gravely in the centre of the ring. Inevitably, the bull charged the dancing couple. He was almost upon them when they waltzed apart from each other, each completing a single turn before joining up again immediately the bull’s headlong rush had carried him beyond them.

The crowd went wild. Cecile laughed to the extent that she had to use a handkerchief to dab the tears from her eyes. There was no trace of a smile on Bowman’s face: with Czerda not twenty feet away and heading straight for him, he didn’t feel like smiling.

‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ Cecile said.

‘Marvellous. Wait here.’

She was instantly serious, apprehensive. ‘Where are you–’

‘Trust me?’

‘Trust you.’

‘A white wedding. I won’t be long.’

Bowman moved leisurely away. He had to pass within a few feet of Czerda who was still scrutinizing everyone he went by with a thoroughness that lifted eyebrows and brought frowns. A few feet further on, close to the exit, he passed behind the politely clapping Chinese couple that he’d seen before in Arles. They were, he thought, a remarkably distinguished looking couple. As it was extremely unlikely that they had come all the way from China, they obviously must be European residents. He wondered idly what manner of occupation such a man would pursue in Europe, then dismissed the thought from his mind: there were other and more urgent matters to occupy his attention.

He circled the arena at the back, walked about two hundred yards south down the road, crossed it and made his way back north coming up at the back of Czerda’s caravans which were parked in two tight rows well back from the side of the road. The caravans appeared to be completely deserted. Certainly there was no apparent guard on Czerda’s caravan or on the green-and-white caravan, but on that afternoon he was interested in neither. The caravan he was interested in, as he was now certain it would be, did have a guard. On a stool on the top of the steps the gypsy Maca was sitting, beer-bottle in hand.

Bowman sauntered leisurely towards the caravan: as he approached Maca lowered his beer bottle, looked down at him and scowled warningly. Bowman ignored the scowl, approached even more closely, stopped and inspected both Maca and the caravan, taking his time about it. Maca made a contemptuous jerking movement with his thumb, unmistakably indicating that Bowman should be on his way. Bowman remained where he was.

‘Clear off!’ Maca ordered.

‘Gypsy swine,’ Bowman said pleasantly.

Maca, obviously doubting that he had heard aright, stared for a brief moment of incredulity, then his face contorted in rage as he shifted his grip to the neck of the bottle, rose and jumped down. But Bowman had moved even more quickly and he struck Maca very hard indeed even before the gypsy’s feet had reached the ground. The combined effect of the blow and his own momentum had a devastating effect on Maca: eyes unfocused, he staggered back dazedly. Bowman struck him again with equal force, caught the now unconscious man before he could fall, dragged him round to one side of the caravan, dropped him and pushed him out of sight of any casual passer-by.

Bowman glanced quickly around him. If anyone had seen the brief fracas he was taking care not to publicize the fact. Twice Bowman circled the caravan but there was no lurking watcher in the shadows, no hint of danger to be seen. He climbed the steps and entered the caravan. The rear, smaller portion of the caravan was empty. The door leading to the forward compartment was secured by two heavy bolts. Bowman slid back the bolts and passed inside.

For a moment his eyes were unable to penetrate the gloom. The curtains were drawn and very heavy curtains they were, too. Bowman drew them back.

At the front of the caravan was the three-tiered bunk he had observed when he peered in late the previous night: as before, three men lay on those bunks. Previously, that had been a matter of no significance: bunks are for sleeping in and one would have expected to find them occupied in the nighttime: one would not have expected to find them occupied in the early afternoon. But Bowman had known that he would find them occupied.

All three men were awake. They propped themselves up on their elbows, eyes, accustomed to deep gloom, blinking in the harsh light of the Camargue. Bowman advanced wordlessly, reached over the man in the lowermost bunk and picked up his right hand. The wrist belonging to that hand was manacled to a ring-bolt let into the front wall of the caravan. Bowman let his wrist fall and examined the man in the middle bunk: he was similarly secured. Bowman didn’t trouble to look at the wrist of the man on top. He stepped back and looked at them thoughtfully.

He said: ‘Count le Hobenaut, husband of Marie le Hobenaut, Mr Tangevec, husband of Sara Tangevec and the third name I do not know. Who are you, sir?’ This to the man in the bottom bunk, a middle-aged, greying and very distinguished looking person.

‘Daymel.’

‘You are Tina’s father?’

‘I am.’ The expression on his face was that of a man receiving his executioner and not his saviour. ‘Who in the name of God are you?’

‘Bowman. Neil Bowman. I’ve come to take you three gentlemen away.’

‘I don’t know who you are.’ This from the man in the middle bunk who didn’t seem any happier to see Bowman than Daymel had been. ‘I don’t care who you are. For God’s sake go away or you’ll be the death of us all.’

‘You are the Count le Hobenaut?’ The man nodded.

‘You heard about your brother-in-law? Alexandre?’

Le Hobenaut looked at him with an odd speculative desperation on his face, then said: ‘What about my brother-in-law?’

‘He’s dead. Czerda murdered him.’

‘What crazy talk is this? Alexandre? Dead? How can he be dead? Czerda promised us–’

‘You believed him?’

‘Of course. Czerda has everything to lose–’

‘You two believe him?’ Bowman asked. They nodded.

‘A man who trusts a killer is a fool. You are fools – all three of you. Alexandre is dead. I found his body. If you think he’s alive why don’t you ask Czerda if you can see him? Or you, Daymel. Why don’t you ask Czerda if you can see your daughter?’

‘She’s not – she’s–’

‘She’s not dead. Just half dead. They flayed her back. Why did they flay her back? Why did they kill Alexandre? Because they were both trying to tell someone something. What was it that they were trying to tell, gentlemen?’

‘I beg you, Bowman.’ Le Hobenaut’s distress was but one step removed from terror. ‘Leave us!’

‘Why are you so terrified for them? Why are they so terrified for you? And don’t tell me again to go for I’m not going until I know the answers.’

‘You’ll never know the answers now,’ Czerda said.