The Curse of Mont Saint Cloud

The Curse Of

Mont St Cloud

ANNA LORD

Book Nine

Watson & The Countess Series

Copyright © 2016 by Anna Lord

Melbourne, Australia

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any

form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information

storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations

embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are

used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is

purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Table of Contents

PART ONE

1 Moonraker

2 Mont Saint Cloud

3 Guillemots

4 Turtle or Tortoise?

5 Aeschylus

PART TWO

1 Une Sanz Pluis

2 Holigoste

3 Every Man For Himself

4 Cockles

5 Rogues’ Gallery

6 Dangerous Liaisons

7 Black Dog

8 Last Man Standing

9 Carte de Tendre

PART ONE

1

Moonraker

Undulates-asperatus.

Dr Watson wondered if the stiff young man in the heavy wool coat with the up-turned collar, desperately clutching the guard rail with both hands to avoid being blown overboard, might be addressing him. I beg your pardon?

Pile of plates.

I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.

I heard you discussing clouds just now with your travelling companion, the attractive young lady who has joined Captain Jack at the ship’s wheel, and I thought you might like to know the cloud formation you were looking at is called undulates-asperatus because it looks like a pile of plates.

Oh, yes, I see, muttered Dr Watson, relieved he wasn’t in the company of a nutter. The young man was older than he first appeared, probably in his thirties; and he could now see the clerical collar that was previously hidden from view.

Opium clippers tended to attract shady characters with dubious backgrounds fleeing something in a hurry. It wasn’t his preferred method of crossing the English Channel in winter, but he and Countess Volodymyrovna were anxious to get to Brittany before the weather turned for the worse. Gale-force winds were on their way and any delay might put them in the path of the storm.

So here he was, thoroughly rugged up against anything the Atlantic might throw at him, standing on the aft deck of Moonraker, a triple-masted, tall-sparred, square-rigged, sleek-hulled, clipper ship being towed out to sea, the same as all sailing ships since the demise of galley slaves. He was looking forward to getting out into the English Channel where the clipper would harness the wind with her massive skysails, set the moonrakers on the mast flapping, and give those studding sails on the boom a serious workout.

Moonraker was not the fastest of the trade ships sailing the seven seas. She was not a steel-hulled windjammer; the type that set most of the world speed records for trans-Atlantic crossings. But all clipper ships were built for speed. She had sailed the trade routes between Java, China, India and England. Tea, silk, spice, and opium had been her cargo, things that were small, light, and immensely profitable.

Unfortunately, the opening of the Suez Canal in 1869 meant she had had her heyday. Larger, iron, steam ships, not subject to the vagaries of the wind, had taken over the world’s oceans and the trade routes had shrunk considerably with the advent of modern steam power.

Moonraker had been forced to turn her hand to carrying immigrants to Australia and New Zealand. A new lease of life came from the California Gold Rush and the Melbourne Gold Fields, but that had gone by the wayside too. She now contented herself with ferrying passengers, mail, and provisions between the Channel Islands.

The fine-boned cleric with the soft-jaw was holding out a wool-gloved hand. Reverend Ogleby, he said.

Dr Watson shook the proffered hand, though not too robustly, introduced himself, and was pleased when the other didn’t appear to recognise his name. Are you on vacation? he pursued conversationally in order to pass the time. They had left Gosport in Hampshire a short while ago and were due to pick up another passenger in Yarmouth on the Isle of Wight and then two more in Poole before heading into the Channel.

Not any more. I have been spending the New Year with my mother and three sisters in Cornwall but I’m returning to Mont Saint Cloud. I have the parish there. I have been there almost ten months. I also serve most of the smaller islands in the Channel when weather permits, all the way to Groix. We’re all Christians aren’t we?

Mont Saint Cloud? Isn’t that the island with the old monastery on it?

Yes, that’s the one. It has quite a fascinating history. I’ve been delving into it, doing a bit of research in my spare time. I might write a book on it one day.

What sort of book?

How do you mean?

Fiction or non-fiction? History, mystery, romance?

The young man flushed a little, despite the cold wind. "Oh, I see what you mean. Well, gothic romances are all the fashion now, aren’t they? My three sisters cannot get enough of them. Castle of Otranto. Northanger Abbey. They are mad for them, especially Susan, the middle one. But I don’t have the imagination for that sort thing. I shall write a book of historical fact. That will be interesting enough if you ask me. Mont Saint Cloud is a remarkable place. The history of the place will speak for itself."

It’s owned by a recluse – is that right?

Professor Prospero, yes, he’s an absolute hermit. I have been there ten months and have only seen him twice. And both times we met by accident. I was out walking on the cliffs – there are some wonderful bird colonies – and I bumped into him by chance. He was polite enough, acknowledged me and asked if I had settled in all right and how I was finding the parish and all that, but I got the impression he was keen not to prolong the conversation. He didn’t invite me to take lunch or anything like that. I have never set foot inside the monastery and he’s never set foot inside the church. Not once in ten months. Not even for the Easter Sunday service and most people will go to that one.

Must be a devout atheist.

That’s what I thought at first but I later discovered he is obsessed with some mysterious codex. He has devoted the better part of his life to deciphering an old manuscript written in some strange script that has baffled all the best minds since its discovery during The Middle Ages. He spends every waking hour poring over the weird alphabet, trying to make head or tail of it, with no luck so far.

Sounds similar to the Rosetta Stone?

Exactly, but it has vellum pages and there’s only one language not three.

Have you seen it?

No. Not even his private secretary, a young woman by the name of Miss Bramley, has seen it. She’s devoted to the professor. She’s a decent sort; quite intelligent. I am of the opinion she is too young to be cooped up in an old monastery. There’s no company except for the servants. She comes to church every Sunday but she hurries straight back to the monastery as soon as the sermon concludes. I have tried to invite her to tea but the answer is always the same. She must get back to work.

And she has never seen the book either?

Codex. It’s referred to as a codex. Apparently not. The professor keeps it locked up in his study. According to the servants he lives in his study too. He had his bed moved in there about six years back. He takes all his meals there too.

Sounds like Merlin guarding a treasure. It must be fairly valuable.

Priceless. And I do not use that word lightly. I met a chap in Exeter and he seemed to know something about it. He was a don at Oxford; retired now. He said the codex was worth a king’s ransom. Every university in the land would like to get their hands on it. It’s the holy grail of the book world.

Codex, corrected the doctor.

"I beg your pardon?’

You said book world.

Oh, yes, of course, I meant codex world. Collectors of rare manuscripts have made astronomical offers to purchase it but they have all been turned down. The professor even rejects eye-watering sums just for a glimpse of it.

He must be extraordinarily wealthy.

Well, that’s the thing. He’s not really that rich. The monastery is magnificent architecturally speaking – a bit of Gothic, a bit of Romanesque - but it isn’t palatial. It’s not full of great art or museum pieces – not that I have seen it for myself, as I mentioned earlier, but servants will gossip. Monks didn’t live in regal splendour and neither does Professor Prospero. He has a handful of retainers – cook, scullery maid, laundress, a couple of housemaids, menservants for the heavy work and that sort of thing, just the essentials to keep the place habitable, but no butler or footman or chatelaine. Miss Bramley covers that role from what I gather. Most of the servants live in the village.

I didn’t realise the island had a village?

Yes, if you’ve been to Sark, well, it’s similar to that but on a much smaller scale. Two rocks protruding from the sea joined by a narrow causeway. The monastery is perched on the highest of the rocks, sheer cliffs all around and the surf crashing against them day and night. On the lesser rock there’s an old stone church with a jumble of fishermen’s cottages, eleven in all. That’s where my cottage lies, next door to the church. I’m cottage number eleven. The village is on the lee side and gets a bit of shelter from the Atlantic gales. The church doesn’t have a Norman-style steeple, thank goodness. It’s more Saxon with a squat perpendicular tower. It looks like it is hunkering down in the rocks.

I recall seeing a watercolour painting of the monastery once and there was a lighthouse in the background.

With pale blue eyes vividly sparkling, the young vicar began nodding his head enthusiastically, warming to his topic even more. Cloudy, that’s what the locals nicknamed it. The real name is the St Cloud Lighthouse named after St Cloud Bay where it sits at the end of a rocky finger called the Spit that juts out into the sea. How it was ever built I cannot imagine. You can only get on and off at low tide, otherwise you have to take a rowboat. Have you ever seen La Jument off the coast of Brittany where the titanic waves are as high as the lighthouse? It’s frightening during a storm.

Lighthouse-keeping is for brave and hardy souls, remarked Dr Watson affably in an effort to maintain rapport, though the colloquy was certainly one-sided. The doctor guessed that Reverend Ogleby had been starved of decent conversation whilst visiting his mother and nose-in-a-novel trio of sisters.

Indeed, the lighthouse-keeper, Rutledge, could be summed up that way. He lives inside the lighthouse with his son, Toby. There’s no Mrs Rutledge. It’s a primitive existence. The boy is fifteen but a bit strange. Not stupid, mind you, but there’s something not quite right about him. Some folks say he fell down the lighthouse steps and landed on his head when he was a wee lad, others claim he is a savant.

Savant? That’s a bit of an exaggeration surely?

I cannot rightly say. I don’t actually know what a savant is. I don’ believe I’ve ever met one. Toby doesn’t come to church and neither does Rutledge. I’m not surprised since it is not exactly a stroll across the sand for them. Anyway, I’ve bumped into the lad loads of times. He’s always out collecting bird’s eggs and feathers and bird skeletons. He has no sense of fear and can be seen scaling the cliffs in all weathers. He knows a lot about the bird life on the island. I think that’s why the locals call him a savant. He can tell you anything about seabirds, anything at all. But he’s painfully shy; cannot look you in the eye at all. Not shy in the normal sense of the word. He doesn’t blush and stammer. But he averts his gaze until such time as you ask him about seabirds and then he gushes on and on endlessly. He will step right up to you until he is barely six inches from your face to show you his latest find. It’s quite disconcerting. I put it down to an isolated upbringing and no maternal figure.

What happened to Mrs Rutledge?

Died in childbirth, apparently, and probably just as well. Rutledge is a rough cove. I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him. He killed a man once with a single blow. Knock-out punch, the locals call it. I would have called it manslaughter. But he avoided prison. The magistrate was informed the deceased had an aneurism and died from that.

Was that certified by a doctor?

No, it was Captain Jack who said it.

Our Captain Jack?

Yes, his word carries weight on the islands. Plus it was the middle of winter. If the magistrate cannot get to an island because of storms and such like he takes the word of the local doctor or a ship’s captain.

With sails unfurled, Moonraker had made short work of Spithead and was currently riding the Solent. She would reach the western tip of the Isle of Wight in no time at all.

Dr Watson decided to change the subject. Do you know who we’re picking up in Yarmouth?

Reverend Ogleby nodded in the affirmative. I had a chance to study the ship’s passenger list before you came aboard with your travelling companion. There’s only going to be six of us. In Yarmouth we’re picking up someone called Monsignor Mandragone. He’s going all the way to Nantes.

And in Poole?

Two nuns. Mother Superior and Sister Enid. They are from Poole Priory. They are going to Nantes as well. Perhaps there’s some sort of convocation there. I notice you and your companion are going to Loqmariaquer. It’s an amazing place. All those standing stones! Three thousand at last count! I spent a month in that part of the Brittany when I was a boy, staying with my godfather who was renting a house in Carnac for the summer. That’s what attracted me to this part of the world. When the parish of Mont Saint Cloud came up, well, I jumped at it. Some people might find it bleak but not me. I love the sea. There’s something about the sea that gets in a man’s blood. I have an uninterrupted view of St Cloud Bay and Cloudy from my kitchen window. You should see it some time. Oh, what am I saying? You won’t get to see it. I’m getting off at Groix and then completing the journey to Mont Saint Cloud as soon as I can get on a barque or sloop or lugger.

Dr Watson had almost had enough of the talkative Reverend Ogleby and thought it just as well he would not be visiting Mont Saint Cloud, although he had always thought it would be wonderful to explore the old monastery. He’d seen it for the first time in an amateurish watercolour set in a plain little frame that did it no favours. It graced Mrs Hudson’s private sitting room at the rear of 221B Baker Street. The housekeeper had picked it up cheaply in a church jumble sale and was quite proud of her purchase.

Over the years the watercolour had grown on him. He’d come to admire the melting colours – a gentle melange of blues and greys – and the silvery sea-light limning the monastery and the lighthouse. The subtle silvery blend reminded him of the bewitching blue-grey eyes of the Countess. She had inherited them from Sherlock; but not his sparse head of hair, thank goodness. Her luxurious chestnut mane she had got from her mother, Mrs Irene Adler.

He’d visited both Mont Saint-Michel in France and St Michael’s Mount in England and considered both visits as time well spent, but Mont Saint Cloud sounded less interesting. The setting was spectacular, of course, but there was no point going if the place was closed off to visitors.

From the reverend’s description of the village there didn’t seem to be an inn and the cottages were probably tiny. It didn’t sound very welcoming, not like Jersey and Guernsey. They had excellent hotels and boarding houses galore. And though the Cloudy lighthouse sounded like it might be worth having a look at, and he always enjoyed exploring a lighthouse, there was no point going if the accommodation was rough and the lighthouse-keeper a belligerent blighter. Better to steer clear of Mont Saint Cloud.

No point even thinking about it, really. They were going to Brittany and that was that. Something sinister was afoot and they didn’t have time for leisurely detours. That telegraphic message from Inspector de Guise sounded urgent, and as the French inspector was not a man given to hysterics or hyperbole, they had acquiesced and cut short their holiday in Sussex with Sherlock. Although, one could take only so much on the science of bee pollination and the doctor had reached that threshold three days ago.

He looked up to see if the pile of plates was still stacked up in the heavens when the Countess joined them.

We’re almost in Yarmouth, she said brightly, coming to rest by the handrail, smoothly docking herself between the doctor and the talkative reverend. I wonder who might be coming aboard to join us on Moonraker?

The reverend answered her question. A man by the name of Monsignor Mandragone. He’s going all the way to Nantes. I’m Reverend Ogden Ogleby…

As Dr Watson slipped away to light up his calabash in the privacy of his cabin he could hear the reverend beginning the same one-sided colloquy all over again. He wondered how long the Countess would last before cutting him off. She could not tolerate bores. What did she once say? There was only one thing worse than being pathetic and that was being boring. She’d give the reverend fifteen minutes of her valuable time, twenty at most, and then Ogleby would be undulating, aspirating and piling plates on his own.

Monsignor Mandragone came aboard in Yarmouth carrying a large valise and a small portfolio case. He was a swarthy man of about forty years, slender, of middle height, with the stiff, proper, respected bearing of an Italian churchman. His hair had receded and he kept it short so that you couldn’t tell that it had thinned as well as crept back. It made his forehead seem larger and gave him an intelligent and rather high-browed look. His beard and moustache were thick and dark, in keeping with his Mediterranean origins, but well-trimmed and in keeping with his overall well-groomed appearance. His clothes were not church clothes, no cassock or vestments; they were the sombre-hued winter garments of a prosperous layman who might have been a doctor or lawyer by profession.

Closer inspection revealed a longish nose, a wide mouth and shrewd dark eyes. He acknowledged his fellow passengers with a respectful nod of his head before going down below to his cabin to stow his bags.

An hour later, when they docked in Poole, Monsignor Mandragone had still not emerged.

Two nuns joined the list passengers.

Mother Superior and Sister Enid wore the recognisable habit of the Daughters of Charity, a Roman Catholic society founded by Saint Vincent de Paul. Theirs was the most distinctive nunnish garb of all, marked by an impractical white-winged wimple known as a cornette.

One of the nuns, presumably Mother Superior, was elderly but still quite limber. She managed the gangway without help despite her sixty plus years, and insisted on carrying her own carpet bag despite her small frame and the fact she needed to hang onto her cornette to stop it flying away. Her thin face looked a touch flushed from the fierce sea wind which had whipped some colour into her normally pale cheeks. Her mouth was stern and her little eyes had a rat-cunning sharpness to them as they darted over the deck and took in the measure of the crew and her fellow passengers.

The other nun, presumably Sister Enid, also desperately clinging to her cornette to stop it taking flight, was half the age of her superior. She had a pleasant, plump, pinkish face with a perpetually smiling countenance. Her eyes shone with expectancy and hope and love for her fellow creatures. She looked as strong as an ox, as mild as a lamb, and as friendly as a kitten.

A woman’s hair and clothes spoke volumes about her character but as the two nuns wore identical scrupulous black habits, offset by a white clerical collar, a flat white bib, wide white cuffs, and the astonishing, heavily starched, white-winged wimple, it was impossible to guess much about their personality or true nature.

Once Moonraker cleared the harbour they were at the mercy of the wind which buffeted the clipper ship and boosted the sails, but an opium clipper is in its element skimming the waves and they could feel the joy of every bounce.

Moonraker was not a luxurious sailing vessel and the simple fayre at lunch reinforced this truth for any passenger who may have been expecting more. It was a ploughman’s lunch with bread and cheese and pickles. The Countess made do with two cups of hot tea and a thick slice of Hinny, which was a simple, kneaded, spice cake studded with raisins, cooked in a large black frying pan. It was delicious served warm with clotted Cornish cream which Captain Jack had picked up in Poole.

Monsignor Mandragone failed to appear at lunch. Unlike his Mediterranean forebears who felt at home on the waves, he suffered from seasickness.

Mother Superior likewise failed to arrive for lunch. But Sister Enid was a chirpy soul who seemed to find a kindred spirit in the garrulous Reverend Ogleby. She had a hearty appetite and a hardy attitude to life’s vicissitudes. When the reverend started on the topic of his appointment to the parish of Mont Saint Cloud, Dr Watson decided it was time to make himself scarce.

They were halfway across the Channel when ominous black clouds began to bank up.

I wonder what Reverend Ogleby would call those? mused Dr Watson, studying the puffy harbingers with rising trepidation as frothy white-caps slapped the sleek wooden hull and sent salty sea-spray across the deck.

I’m not an expert nephologist, replied the Countess, trying to downplay a flutter of nerves, but they don’t look like undulates-asperatus.

Nimbus, said a voice behind them. It was Reverend Ogleby. I think we’re in for a rainstorm. I’d say it’s going to be a case of battening down the hatches before dinner.

It might just be a passing squall, suggested the doctor, refusing to bow to pessimism. Captain Jack is making good time and we might outrun it.

Reverend Ogleby gazed at the dark heavens and shook his head like some Old Testament prophet of doom. I’ve seen these sorts of thick grey clouds blow in plenty of times. Once they start banking up that’s it. It will bring some heavy rain down on our heads for sure. But Captain Jack is an experienced mariner and if anyone can ride out a rainstorm on the English Channel it is the captain of the Moonraker.

Dr Watson wondered how the Italian Monsignor would go in heaving seas. He’d already started chundering into a bucket before the wind even started to pick up. Mother Superior was also feeling unwell and had refused food. It was sad fact of life that most of the population suffered from motion sickness to some degree or other.

He didn’t have anything suitable in his medical bag but the doctor had spotted some angostura bitters and a bottle of gin in the bar, so he mixed up a batch of Pink Gin in a glass jug and had it ready for whoever